Bearclaw Valley mesmeric revelation

she went to look for you—

you. you. you. you. you. you.

fever rolls across her mind like a summer storm, lightning searing down in bursts of agony. splits her head; she cannot move without inducing more pain. she lays upon her side, cool soil a blessing against her heaving ribs, her sunken belly.

you you you you you you

she opens her eyes. the earthen roof of a den meets her gaze. 

she closes her eyes. the bucks clash their antlers together, the impact accompanied by ripples of color.

it's all red. fleshy pink to dark crimson, blood under a cold moonless winter's sky.

she reeks. rather, her shoulder reeks. whatever has been done to try and heal her wound has not gone far enough, and now she is lost in the heated nightmares of infection.

and not even her mommy here to take her to her midnight breast.

you you you you you you—

Avicus vomits, the self-inflicted wound of accusation boomeranging through her mind. remnants of rabbit spatter across the ground—she can't even keep her customary pound of flesh down.

backdated to the 21st

His friend was back, but Ashlar was hesitant to approach at first.  She was sick.  Baba would have known what to do but the silver-gilded youth was not his father.  He had never been able to learn the secrets of plants and of healing, too distracted by butterflies and the songs on the wind.

Butterflies wouldn't heal her.  Songs could heal some ills, but not the ones she bore. Still, it was more than nothing, and after a lot of hesitating Ashlar slunk towards the place where Avicus rested.

When he reached it he paused to listen, then gave a low yip of cautious and quiet greeting.  He didn't know if she was awake, wanted company, or anything.  He didn't know if she counted him friend, but that didn't change his own definition.

through the miasma of sickness and woe, Avicus turns her gaze upward. the yip catches her attention at the tail end of her retching, when the worst of it had passed. she lets out a chuff of her own, forcing sound up a ragged, sour throat.

it's the young man with whom she's hunted a time or two. he is quiet, and she doesn't mind his company—even if he was lousy at chasing squirrels.

normally, she is okay with being alone with her thoughts.

but her thoughts are incessant now, self-deprecating, dark, twisted things, dragging her lower than she already is and feels. she is tired of wallowing in filth both literal and metaphorical. she needs a friend.

so she waits.

He could smell the sick and hear her.  His ears tucked back, but he didn't balk from it when she invited him in.  If she was sick, that was all the more reason for a friend to come and help!  He might not know how to fix her but there were other things he could do.

He crept in quietly and let out a soft whine.  The air was heavy with the stink of fever and old blood.  He wasn't sure if she'd prefer to go to the open air or remain and he felt a little stupid asking.  Should she leave?

Baba would know.

He progressed towards her indecisively, crouching when he got close and keeping his tail tucked, entire demeanor submissive.  He was there to help, and if she didn't want to leave, then he'd at least get rid of some of the mess before he remained as company.

she stares at him. he's dark in the dim light, his yellow eyes like twin lanterns in the gloaming. her gaze follows their movement, slowly, sluggishly. 

she misses the open air. the den is hot and fetid, the stuff of nightmares. to stand, though, is impossible; to run, even more so. she can barely lift her head.

hungry, Avicus remarks, and it's not a question this time but a hollow statement of fact. her stomach gurgles—more, more! but everything she eats comes right back up.

pathetic. she is pathetic. she looks at Ashlar, then noses at her wound—it's been poulticed but underneath the herbal smell is the odor of decay.

bear, she mutters, teeth gleaming as her lips curl back.

He wished he could remember anything at all about what baba would give him when he was sick.  She looked worse up close and it bothered him that he knew of no way to help.  There was a glimmer of an idea, but the boy wasn't sure how well in practice it would work.  When mama was feeling sick with birth, sometimes baba had gotten her different food, even with the plants.  He didn't know the plants but he did remember the food.

Okay.  He answered quietly.  His eyes were drawn to the wound and he winced, but didn't stare.  He was still a little hesitant, but she'd never spoken to him before, and he felt a little more sure now that he had a request to follow up on.  He was a friend enough to invite in and to ask for help.  That bolstered the earthen youth.  The fact that she'd faced a bear who was not a friend, not like the one he'd encountered, and survived... Ashlar could hardly believe it.  He certainly couldn't imagine it, and it turned him cold inside just thinking about facing one himself.  She seemed unfazed.

Before he left, he took the majority of the sick out of the den with him and buried it.  Then he made for the stream.  Fishing in the snow and ice would be cold business but Ashlar knew that fish could be kinder on the stomach from his father's quiet teachings.  Maybe Avicus would have an easier time keeping it down.

Some time stretched, but after a while he had managed to wrestle a middling catch from the icy stream.  Ashlar shook himself, then plowed his way back to the cave where she resided, laying the offering down and shivering while he waited to see if it was acceptable.  His ears were slung forward in anticipation, though his head was somewhat bowed.

okay. it's simple. she likes this one. he doesn't have the torrent of words that so many others do, and if she knew he did, she might well shy away. he has the sense to keep quiet, to only use speech when necessary. for that, she is grateful.

she's resigned herself to being left alone, still grateful at least for the mess being cleared, when the entrance to her den darkens once more. her lips round in a surprise 'o' at his return—rather, what his return brings. a fresh-caught fish, smelling of the creek. 

Avicus turns her gaze to his, hoping the thankfulness in her eyes outweighs her silence.

she eats, slowly, carefully, as if a bite too big might turn her stomach once more. and she is still ravenous when she's taken half of the fish, but she knows from trial and error and vomitus that she will barely manage to keep this meager portion down. instead, she pushes it toward the young man, her nose numb against the chilly flesh.

it is, perhaps, the only time she will ever willingly share food. name? she asks, a little hesitant, remembering that her father had made such an inquiry of wolves as she realizes she doesn't have his.

He was thrilled when she seemed to appreciate what he'd brought, and he smiled and wriggled briefly before settling down and letting her eat.  He could have said something to broken the silence, and he found himself inexplicably tempted to begin humming, but he held back.  Maybe after.

He looked at the fish when she offered the rest to him with clear surprise, but he was hungry.  He hadn't managed to catch anything for himself, and he'd planned on going back after to do it!  Ashlar didn't feel okay making her wait for him when she was obviously hungry and he could go whenever.  Maybe she wasn't as hungry as he thought, or the fish wasn't very good.  Except she did seem pleased by it, and with mixed apprehension and thankfulness, he edged forward to take it and eat the rest.

He'd bring more later?  Yes, he decided that now.

He froze with surprise when she asked his name.  Ashlar hadn't even realized he didn't know hers!  There was something so heavily quiet about her that any time he thought to speak, he felt like he was interrupting something important, no matter what he might say.  

Ashlar.  Umm, what's yours?  He asked, only pausing a second between giving his and asking for hers.

Ash-lar, she repeats, drawing the name out into two syllables. she gives him a hard, studious stare, as if fastening his face into her memory accompanied by the word. after a moment, she's satisfied, and pauses for a heartbeat. Avicus, she finally says.

is it the first time she's said it aloud? it must be. she has heard it only once or twice. she is more fond of her father's 'blood flower,' but those are two words that share names with other things;

Avicus shares her name with no creature, no object. and Ashlar's name is similarly unique.

she rests her head upon her outstretched paws, regarding him lazily, coolly. it's nice to have something to know him by, although it's not as if she would use the name very often. still, she feels as if they have a newfound understanding—a connection she shares perhaps only with her parents.

Her name suited her, Ashlar decided, turning it over.  It was short and abrupt, like a bark, and it gave a sense of the look she always seemed to wear.  Some strange mix of both disregard and wanting impatience.

I'm glad you are back.  He'd thought about saying a number of things, but the quiet seemed right.  Ashlar drew heavy assumptions, at all times, of what he knew, and like his father he used those to wrap himself and fit where he was needed.  She was sick, hurt, and likely had even less patience now.  If he wanted to stay, he would need to make himself useful as company, not tiring.  He could think of no stories she'd want to hear, but maybe, if he learned more about her.  Then he could be better.

The quiet words were all he had that he felt needed said, and after that he lapsed into quiet, still except for the slow and quiet brush of his tail against the earth behind him.

the sentiment is much like her father's, and for the briefest of moments, she let her mouth relax into a small smile. me too, she responds, and contentment falls around her like her mother's embrace. warm, soft. she is fevered, true, but she is beginning to give in once more to the haze, the constant pull of sleep.

eventually, her eyelids droop so far that all that remains of her gaze is two indigo slits. then they fade, too, as she takes a deep inhale and then lets it out at the very edge of sleep, her ribs easing into it. the nightmares would come, eventually, but for now, all is peaceful.

and Ashlar would get no verbal thanks, nor goodnight—but it is only because she doesn't know quite how to say it.

Ashlar would slip away eventually but for now the boy stayed, listening as sleep seemed to come.  If something happened or changed, he'd be there, and while he could not do much he could perhaps help in some way.   Even if it meant calling for others.

He let the contentment of the nearness of her wash over him and lowered his head, but did not quite sleep.  Ashlar had grown used to being alone in the months since leaving home but it did not suit him. This was better, and he felt nothing short of grateful right now.