Moonspear [Trespassing] Faded to grey

The latch of Lyra's teeth came in the form not of pressure and the pierce of skin, but of a heavy tug. His own weight buckled from the force pulling him away, and he slipped his paw outward and away from where he kept Clay tucked beneath his chest, to keep himself steady from collapse. His brother's voice had met him in the quietest breath, and the treble of his whisper spurred Merrit to grasp onto a dangerous resolve.

His pleas seemed to have quieted Hydra, yet her silence came more threatening than the menace of her bite. And when she spoke, her words rippled with no assurance of what would happen to Clay if he obeyed.

So Merrit found himself at the branching of a road. If he disobeyed the Queen, he knew he would find no mercy from her. His insubordination would be met with the glint of fangs, the same he'd witnessed once already. He wished to think she still would find his life worthy to spare. They were companions in their hunt for Blackhead, after all. They were allies, through a Sovereign, binding word. Yet in complete truth, he did not know if this act would mar any standing he held with her. If perhaps his defiance would mark him as a traitor, and so decide that he too would die, alongside his brother.

But if he rose, he would surely suffer punishment, perhaps less severe. A demotion of rank - as if rank mattered at all. A battering of wounds, discipline, for the way he had already defied her. But if he rose, then what of Clay. His brother seemed to quick, but Hydra was cunning, a trained warrior. Merrit believed Clay was strong, but he was no match for her. Even Merrit wasn't.

Each course of action led to his punishment, and the risk of Clay's death. Merrit would take the punishment, Merrit would take his own death, but he would make sure that Clay would escape, that his brother would live.

Strategizing cost him seconds, long enough for another to descend through Hydra's wake. Dirge carried himself with a composure Merrit found himself latching onto, seeking to drink from the calmness he exuded, rather than the rippling anger of the Queen. But his heartbeat still raced. His mouth felt parched. His body remained tense with the adrenaline for what could happen. Ready to shield his brother again, or ready to fight.


"My brother," Merrit turned to the King of the Spear, and prayed Dirge would speak reason along with him, "He has trespassed, but he is hurt, and disoriented. Please, have mercy this once, let me escort him out, and help him there," as he spoke, he lifted ever slightly. A moment of subconscious trust, betraying the hope he held that Hydra and Dirge would not harm the boy, but would grant him safe passage from the mountain. He did not think of what choice his reposturing would give his brother; Merrit hardly gave his motions much thought at all. The paw he'd shifted to balance himself after Lyra's attack remained at a jutting angle away from Clay's body, and while his weight eased from the embrace with which he'd shielded the boy, Clay still remained safely tucked beneath him, and still safely guarded.

Guarded, but no longer restrained.