Mi Coraz?n Perdido en Ti

[Bellona Littlebrush]

"Your first look crossed the desert
Into my soul."


Bell stared after the speck in the dark sky long after she knew it was impossible to distinguish it among the canopy of scattered lights and empty space. She stood for hours as those lights pirouetted slowly above her head, never stopping -- like a warrior going through her warm-up exercises; the movements so ingrained she did not have to think from one to the next, and so she did not pause. A few of the woodlanders still awake passed by, some asking questions, other just staring. The dormouse merely grunted and they all moved on.

Damask.

The horizon had begun to brighten when Bell felt a peculiar shudder travel through her body. She jerked, and then clutched at her throat, feeling it tighten, followed by her chest. It came again and her nose began to clog as she stumbled hurriedly into a nearby hut.

The dormouse gasped as she slammed the door shut, and then they started: tears. Not terrified, angry, wretched tears that burned her cheeks with shame, but thick, heartsick, powerful tears that wracked her body and reminded her just how much it had hurt with Freyr.

He's gone. Not dead, but gone to find a better world where battle and backstabbing and 'beautiful' maids with despicable souls  weren't everyday occurrences. Damask was safe, then. Safe? Bell wondered, incredulous. She tried to hold back a sob and found it hurt more than letting it out. In a desert filled with mythical diseases and sandstorms and lizards and vermin and Fates know what else? I should've gone with him!

It occurred to Bell then, as she cried, slamming a fist into the side of the hut that any creatures outside and listening must think she had lost her mind.

I can't have gone. The tears were letting up a little. She could think more clearly, more logically, more like a soldier should. These creatures and the Oasis need me. Northern Mossflower needed her, too. What had happened there? Everybeast in my platoon is dead. I can't go back without something to show for it.

Brimming with excuses, Littlebrush? The dormouse heaved a sigh and rubbed at the tracks that had formed down her face. Everybeast needs somebeast. A commander needs soldiers, a minstrel his audience, a wife her husband, and a friend... These creatures need me. Damask needs somebeast else. Somebeast I can never be.

A fresh wave of emotion hit her, but it was easier to hold back the pain this time. Damask had gone, had left her because she was less important than a stupid vermin wench. If she had just known earlier, she could have ended his ridiculous infatuation with that strum?

I sound like Sailpaw. Who was Bellona Littlebrush to talk about 'proper' lovers? But Freyr wasn't evil or a vermin! She bit her lip so hard it bled, the metallic tang of blood so much like the iron of her blade. Why did he have to be...? Freyr was -- but Damask!

"Curse you, bird," she whispered, choking back a moan. "Why'd you have to be like him?" And yet, Damask was nothing like Freyr, because he would not have left her, would not have loved somebeast more -- especially not a maleficent marten.

That's the difference between a lover and a friend, Bells, Freyr's  voice murmured.

That was what it came down to, then. Damask was her comrade, her friend, and she had never wanted him as a husband. It had been nice, though, to pretend that for one shining moment her lover had reached across the grave to touch her again. And because of that, she'd been able to find the will to fight again. Certainly, she'd always wanted to protect 'the others', but Damask had been Damask -- a friend and confidant to smile and die for, not just live for.

"And I'll have that again," Bell consoled herself, breathing deeply and wiping the last of the tears away. He's not dead and I'll find him again. In the meanwhile, there were creatures who needed her guidance and a fox to send to Hellgates.

She stood firmly and walked to the door of the hut, then stopped.

It was funny to think, looking back, that everything had begun because of the robin. Damascinous Argevian the Minstrel had delighted the creatures of Martin's Shadow with his songs and poems when he had flown by their camp one day. He had annoyed the dormouse then with his antics, but she watched his shows and threw in a few trinkets as he came more and more frequently. She even began looking forward to his visits, though she never let on, except for one day when he had finished his act, and she had approached:

"Tell me, Sir Robin," Bell began, "do you play only to woodland audiences?"

"My dear lady," the puffed up popinjay scoffed, "I play to all who enjoy entertainment!"

"Interesting."

Then came the request for his services as a spy. She began to know him better as she prepared him, explaining what information they wanted, and in that time, he had impressed her with his quick wit and affable humor.

But on his first mission, Damask had failed, had let the enemy catch them unawares. The dormouse had wanted to pluck his feathers from his body and burn them one by one, but she could not hold onto her anger in the face of his slumped wings and downcast eyes. She was a soldier, he was a simple minstrel.

So, Bell had made excuses for him and led him into the desert. She had watched him save her life by acting the idiot, and had been amazed at the transformation from 'that spy' to 'my comrade'.

It had started with Damask and now everything had come down to Damask. By hurting the robin, Matukhana had unwittingly turned the matter personal. Bell might have been inclined to leave the vermin to their ship and wash her paws of the affair, but that Chickenhound had wounded her comrade. However, what Matukhana had begun with a fractured wing, had become a split face, had become a dead recruit. The next logical progression in this private little war, then, was mass murder, and Bell fully intended to have Matukhana alive and witnessing the death of each of his crew.

But the wee foxer willnae care, a voice that sounded suspiciously like Sailpaw warned.

Oh, he'll care, Bell assured herself as she opened the door to the hut and strode out. The red sun bleeding over the horizon to the east signaled the new morning and her resolve. Time to find Sagaru. Not because the lives of his crew are important. He'll care because I'm breaking his tin soldiers.

And to think, the dormouse mused, allowing the mad grin for just a moment, all because I love that stupid bird...and hate him, so very, very much.