Ross didn’t know how he’d made it this far from the Glen.
Events following his scrap with that fucking Brotherhood bitch had conglomerated into some vague, nonspecific span of time, the details of which he couldn’t recall even if he tried. He could recall more sensory memories—the pounding of his paws against earth as they carried him away, the pounding in his head where his eye had been bitten into, threatening to split his skull which each sharp, distinct throb. He remembered running into trees more than once, and tripping through snow-dusted undergrowth, to go falling over his own paws before struggling to rise to them again.
Though he’d picked up the hare the girl had thrown at him, he’d abandoned it long ago on the fringes of the forest. He couldn’t hold a bunny and hope to suck in air, and when it came down to it, he thought maybe the latter was a bit more important in ensuring his survival.
It was with parted jaws and gasps that he stumbled—quite literally—upon a river.
Crystals clung to the water’s edge. A thin sheet of ice stretched from this bank to the next, but beneath it, he could see movement. A stream flowed below, and instinct compelled him to break the crust so he might wash his wounds. The thought of being swept away in the lower current or freezing didn’t even enter his mind.
But he couldn’t make it into the water.
A pace from the shore, he collapsed onto his left side, leaving his shredded eye socket to point skyward. His chest continued to fall and rise in panicked intervals, sending fresh sears of pain through his aching, bruised ribs. His facial wounds still had yet to stop bleeding, and now that he was prone, he was left to focus on the warm, sticky fluid creeping down his face, thick and slow as molasses but nowhere as sweet.
With the river rushing only tail-lengths from his nose, as if taunting him, he flitted in and out of consciousness.
Oct 05, 2017 12:33 AM
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