Blackfoot Forest What Did You Mean When You Said It's Destructive

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What Daighre liked the most, he had decided, about the forest he was in, was just how quiet and still it was. No hag of a mother to yell and nip at him to behave, smarten up. No bastard of a father to stare at him and sigh. But the best part—he was pretty sure—was how there were no nobodies to bother him. No friendly faces to run up to him and bark and wag their tails and ask his name. No pebbles that mistakenly believed they were the rivers instead of the rocks at the bottom of the stream.

It might have been the only peace and quiet he had ever known.

A shame it had taken a thorough ass beating and days of growing infection for him to finally be able to realize that.

He huffed.

Walked—dragged, stumbled—into the darkness beneath the tree. And with all the grace once could manage when wracked with an infection, fever, and chills, slumped to the ground. First onto his haunches, and then onto his stomach.

It was quiet, cold, and dark beneath the heavy cover of pine branches, and the dirt beneath his paws even colder, but Daighre felt like he was burning up. His body shivered and ached.