In My Time of Dying, In the Evening, In the Light

[Risk]

~ In My Time of Dying ~

Risk lay on his side, wrapped in his damp blanket, and drooled into the dirt as he stared at nothing. The shadows had lengthened and swallowed the woods, and no one had come for him. He reached out a paw and tapped his claws along the edge of the pool of blood on the ground. It had been cold for some time.

It was getting harder to breathe.

Someone must have finally noticed and cared enough- sticks snapped in the dark as someone moved through the trees. He made no attempt to get up. He could smell the fish, dried, but warmed by fire. From the toad's loot, then.

"Drew the short straw, eh," he wheezed.

"No. I just wanted to... to get away from the others," said Nyika. She settled down somewhere behind him and began building a fire. "And I brought your clothes, but they're not dry yet. And some fish for you to eat..."

"Don't want it."

"You don't like fish?"

"I like fish, I just don't want it." Risk grunted and groaned as he rolled over to face her. "You can eat it."

"Why don't you want it?"

"I just don't."

Nyika stared for a moment at something above him, squinting her good eye as it dashed back and forth.

"Is it because you got in a fight with a searat and he hit you with a fish and now eating fish reminds you of that?"

"No..."

"What are you...? Oh, neat." Her eye focused on him again. "Is it because you once fought a Whoomer and now fish remind you of Whoomers?"

"Ahh... no."

"Is it because you nearly drowned as a kit and-"

"Because I got a bleedin' hole in my guts! From gettin' stabbed near through with a bloody pine tree! Alright? You happy now?"

"No..." Nyika's eyes glistened. She hugged her knees. "Because you snapped at me..."

Risk's scowl melted into a buttery grin.  Sitting up made him cough and sputter, but he swallowed what came up, for her sake. He sidled around the fire to wrap an arm around her shoulders.

"Hey, hey, hey, rainy face! Hey, proud warrior. Let the sun come out, you big bad hordebeast. You know, kitten, we all have permission to make mistakes. It's called learnin'."

"You're not mad at me? For... what I said earlier?"

"Nah. You're alright, Nyika. It was still really bloody stupid, mind you."

"Istvan wants to kill you..."

Risk snorted. "Just him?"

"Mostly him. Captain Noonahootin wants to bring you back to Yew... Nessa said she wanted to kill you for other reasons, but that having you around might be better than not, if the moles or anything come back. Gashrock's worried about you, but Zevka says you just need time alone. Poko says you must've drank the whole lake if it takes this long to wee."

"Somethin' like that, hah." He tried not to look at the pool of blood. The fire only barely illuminated the edges of it. "How're you holdin' up?"

"Oh, everyone hates me. My arm hurts. I can barely see through my eye, and I'm tired of putting snow on it. I'm tired of being cold. I want to go home."

"You'll be fine."

He tousled her ears. She gave a yelp as he suddenly squeezed her nicked ear. He leaned in close, pinching it tight, until his nose was rubbing her cheek fur. He'd never gotten close enough to see it clearly before.

"What was that for!" She pulled away from him, ears clamping to her skull, paws cupped around them for protection.

"You've got a nick in your ear. Nickear. Nyika."

"You didn't have to grab it... or call me that..." Her eyes narrowed, and with a petty little mew, she zipped forward and poked a claw at his stomach wound. "Splitgut!"

The young wildcat flew backwards, flumping into the snow before Risk realised what he'd done. He scrambled on all fours to her side, grabbing at her shoulders to help her back up. She flailed at him, claws raking his cheek. He twisted his head back out of range and moved his paws to her wrists.

"Be still! I don't want to hurt you again."

There was a nasty sort of pop, and a screech: "My arm!" Risk let go, scooting back, his tail fluffing, his blanket sliding off his back. He grabbed it and wrapped it tightly around himself, before anyone else came. Hopefully they were far enough away not to draw any attention. He had to fix this.

"Nyika, hold still... Your arm's come out again. I can put it back."

"Don't touch me!" She hissed and spat. 

"It was an accident! Don't move!" He pinned her down, stopping her from rolling away. Her back legs came up and booted him in the side of the head in quick jabs. He shut his eyes and focused on his paws, finding her dislocated arm. It was the one she wasn't using to claw his eyes out with. He gripped it and began twisting it, rotating it in its socket until- there! He shoved. Nyika whimpered. Her jaws were clamped tight around his tail- how had that happened? He maneuvered her arm back into its sling for her, and pried himself free. He only managed a few steps before stumbling and falling over face-first into his damp clothes.

They lay still for some time, panting and moaning in harmony.

Risk moved first, dragging himself back to Nyika. He sat up and put his paws under her arms, and she made little fuss as he pulled her upper body over his lap and cradled her head. He let his nose dip down into her neckfur, and slowly breathed in her scent with a sigh. He was going to miss this. Had.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"Me too. Does it hurt?"

"Which?"

Nyika placed a paw on the stain beginning to seep through the silk sash around Risk's stomach.

"No," he said, spitting blood into the dirt. "It tickles like ants carryin' feathers."

"Oh. That's interesting."

Risk waited a few seconds before looking down at her again. Reading her expression was as hard as one of Pyracantha's scripts. So, like the scripts, he decided not to bother trying.

"Of course it hurts."

"I meant, it's interesting that you joke about pain. You don't seem to be very bothered by it. Does it help you cope?"

"Nyika... anybeast ever tells you there's a trick to dealin' with pain... punch 'em in the eye an' ask them if it still works. Only thing I know about pain's how not to show it. Gets beasts too riled up. They think you're weak, they either worry too much or want to kill you faster. That's near to copin' as I can get."

"How often does it hurt?"

"Every bloody second. Like somebeast's pourin' Hotroot soup all through me, end to end."

"You should have died," she whispered. "They're holding it together, inside. Keeping you alive. All your ghosts- they want you to suffer."

Risk grinned. "They're that scared of me comin' to see 'em again, eh?"

"They don't fear you anymore."

"So they're just sick-minded b-" Risk bit his tongue. Not in front of her.

"What was that?" Her ears flicked forward.

"B...b...bogeybeasts?" He offered. He rubbed the back of his neck. "Ah, Nyika... I need to tell you somethin'... an' I ain't sure how to say it."

"It's okay," she said, affronted. "I'm not a kitten. I know swears."

"Aye. Your first word was a swear. Ah, actually, your first five... Look, I'm just gonna blurt it out, an' you don't have to believe me or nothin', but... I'm your pa."

Nyika's mouth twitched side to side, as if struggling not to smile.

"I kicked you pretty hard, didn't I?"

"Hard enough, don't make it any less true. I gave you up to the foxes, to Vera. There were assassins after us an'-"

"I think we need to get you back to the others." She struggled to sit up. "Zevka needs to look at you."

"I'm fine, just listen-"

"You're delusional, Cookie. You heard me talk about my family last night in the cave and you're just working that into what you want to believe."

"You never mentioned Margot."

Nyika's worried grin fell away. She scampered closer to the fire and began licking her injured arm. She was listening. Risk tried another name.

"Or... or, what was her name, the one with the limp? Beatrix."

"Auntie Beatrix..."

"An' you remember those twins you sometimes played with? Dank and Sere? An' their father, Hoc? Come around every summer for a week or two, when the caravan was in the southern end of the woods? They ever tell you stories about a ferret named Risk?"

"There's lots of stories about him... there's the songs..."

"Their stories were different than the songs. Newer."

Nyika stammered. "That's true..."

"I never came back with them, because I didn't want to see you grow up. You were so small- I carried you for so long, I didn't want to lose those memories, have 'em replaced by somethin' else that wasn't my... my little kitten."

Something in the woods cracked and scampered away- Risk ignored it. Someone had been listening, but he wasn't inclined, nor in any shape, to go chasing after them. Nyika's ears were low, and she stared unwinking into the fire, her iris small and still.

"The Captain asked you if your mother died givin' birth," he said. "She didn't. I was there, Nyika. I... she didn't die givin' birth. She never gave birth. The nick in your ear..." He found his knife among his clothes and held it up to her. "It was an accident. But I got you out. Only... you didn't make it. Your mother didn't die, Nyika- you did."

"I didn't die," she whispered. "I didn't die."

"Only a few seconds. I don't know how... your heart stopped beatin', but I kept pushin' on it, givin' you air, an' somehow it started again."

"And my mother?"

"She was... she was dead long before... She never saw you. It was just me there. Me, an' then you. An' that's the way it was, until I had to give you up. To protect you. Vera must've told you somethin'. I told her not to tell you my name- didn't want you havin' that over your head so young. But she must've said somethin'."

"No, she didn't. But I knew... she had something she wanted to say. Who were you both protecting me from?"

"Ah... your father..."

"So... you?"

"No, see- your mother's husband. She was, ah, not entirely true to him- or, or so he thought. An' he... I was told to follow her an'..." Risk coughed again, and the fit went on for a while. He clutched his stomach and sat on his haunches before hacking out something that looked more like it belonged in the Captain's stomach. "Ugh... where was I?"

"'Follow her and'..."

"An' kill them both, aye."

"Did you?"

Risk sighed. He looked straight into Nyika's eyes, shut his own, and nodded. She slapped him, her claws again raking his cheek. He smiled, savouring the sting.

"I've been waitin' for that one for sixteen years..."

~ In the Evening ~

When he opened his eyes, she was gone. He turned his knife over in his paws, touching the blade to his chest now and again. The cold metal stimulated something, gave his lungs the extra energy they needed to draw full breaths.

It wasn't right. A lifetime of spilling blood, yet he had seldom lost so much as he had now. Revenge had never been neglected. What was he to do now, chop down every pine tree on the mountain? Or burn them- yes, and melt all the snow as well.

"Ah... Freya- do I finish the job?"

The knife rose from his chest to his neck. Satisfaction was lost on foliage. It was right that something breathing be given the honour- and never could it be said Risk the Cutter had not taken revenge against those who wronged him, even himself.

Except...

"That'd be the coward's way out, Yellowbelly."

Gashrock came out of the darkness and sat down across from him with a bag in her lap. She held her paws and tail up against the fire. Risk lowered the knife.

"Gashy... So who was it ran off? Poko?"

"You keep a lot of secrets, Cookie. All that true, what you said?"

"Aye. She's the one I told you about. My little Nickear."

"Gonna comp-licate the nare-uh-tive, innit."

Risk shrugged. "You don't have to put it in."

Gashrock threw a few more twigs onto the fire, and tossed him the bag. "Thought you might want your stuff. Saw Nyika only brought your clothes. Don't think there's any comin' back for you, you know... after what them Yew lot were sayin'."

"Aye, I figured as much. It ain't her fault. Zevka must've told her... Don't go trustin' that marten too much, Gash."

There wasn't much in the bag. Just the rat skin, which no one had wanted to hang up and which was beginning to smell a little funny, various rocks and knicknacks from his pockets, a ribbon that had fallen off Desdemona's dress, and the jar of candy. Risk rubbed the ribbon against his nose. It had lost her scent.

"So what are you gonna do, Cookie?"

"I don't got much choice. I got a plan, but you ain't gonna like it."

The rat shrugged. "If I ain't gonna like it, what're you tellin' me about it for?" Risk gave her a lopsided scowl and a squint. She tapped her chin. "I reckon there's enough things tryin' to kill us it could be made to look like an accident. Poko could distract the owl long enough to get you close to Istvan-"

"Oaw! I ain't killin' them!"

"Oh. So what, then?"

"Well, I was thinkin' the opposite. No! No, not myself. But, you see, every good ballad's about somethin', right? I mean, the really good ones. The ones beasts sing when they ain't drunk. Heroes, Gashy. Good ballads are about heroes. An' that's just somethin' I've never really been. I always thought dyin' in bed was the way to go... old an' grey an' incontinent. Well, be as it may, I ain't gonna last long enough for that. So I figure, second or third best..."

"Right, but how are you gonna find a dozen female ferrets and a stoat all the way out here?"

"Ah... right, well. Hm. Fourth best."

"I don't know I heard you say what that was."

"That's because I ain't never thought about it until today. Somethin' the owl said to me..." 

Risk took his knife and began etching something into the wooden lid of the candy jar. Gashrock watched him in silence. He paused and looked up at her, frowning.

"Mind if you come take a look at this? I ain't sure..."

Gashrock obliged. She took the jar from him and studied what he'd done.

"Well, first off, 'Eon' ain't a word."

"That's 'For'. I wasn't sure how many lines go this way off the first one."

"Ah. Well, your R's gone all long in the tooth, too. So, what, you don't know how to spell Zevka?"

"No, Nyika."

"Your N is sideways. Looks like a Z. I can-"

"No, I want to do it."

"Alright. Nyika. Nyika... Hm. Nyika. Nnnnngyah-aye-kah, or summat. N, You got that. Now, the ngyah... ummm... let's just move to I, that's a line with a dot. A, that's two lines goin' like this." Gashrock tipped her paws together. "With a line between. And a K, that's a line with a sort of A-shape comin' out the side... yeah, near as makes n'matter. And I reckon another A. Oh, well... that's a V, er. Nah, it's fine, Cookie."

"An' how do you spell 'An''?"

"And with a D or An as in 'an apple'?"

"I don't know! It's for Nyika an' Poko."

"Alright. Another A- try to get it upright this time, like that, aye. And N... oh... Not O, D! It's like a half-O with a line. I just- nevermind. Poko, then? That's easy. P-o-k-o. So a P is like... sort of a D, but not really... the half-O is smaller an'... alright, you got this." 

Risk proudly held up the jar and admired his first written sentence.

Eon Zi∀ʞ∀ AzƢ ƥoʞo

"Looks good, Cookie. So what's your plan?"

Risk told her. Gashrock nodded.

"One more verse for the ballad," she said. "It'll be a good one, Cookie. You'll be proud of it."

"I reckon I will be. You best get goin' now. I want to be alone for a bit, got things I need to tend to. Come back in a while."

Gashrock nodded again and left him. Risk took the branches of several trees and began pruning them, making crooked javelins. He hardened just one tip in the fire- there was not time to treat the others, or even do the one properly.

With the sticks that were not cut out (oh, that was a clever one) for the job, he built a spit and hung his clothes to finish drying. He debated on wearing the moleskin cloak, or the fresh rat pelt, and though he appreciated the poetic justice of the moleskin, he doubted anyone would appreciate being saddled with the rat pelt, nor would they know exactly how to keep it clean and preserved. So the rat pelt it was.

He slung it over his shoulders, tied the arms off around his neck, and folded the cloak on the ground beside the fire. He placed his knit cap and knife down over it, and stole a few candies before placing the jar between them. He shut his eyes as he savoured them all at once- one peppermint, one caramel, and one black liquorice, because even candy makers had hatred in their hearts. He spent the next few minutes taking those out of the jar, so nobeast else would suffer. It was probably the most considerate thing he had ever done.

He could hear Gashrock returning now, this time making some noise to alert him, and not wishing to say goodbye, he stole away into the night with his javelins, the bundle tied with Desdemona's ribbon.

He could barely see in the dark. Twilight had come and gone, leaving him nearly blind, until the light of the group's fire began to filter through the trees. He slowed his pace, to catch his breath and keep his steps silent as he circled around them.

He nearly walked straight into Noonahootin. The owl, even with his wounds, was a dangerous predator, and had landed in silence. He barred the path with his wings spread wide.

"And where do you think you're sneaking off to, so ill-dressed, 'Cookie'?"

Risk didn't raise his head to meet the owl's eyes. "I don't want any trouble, Captain."

"No beast does. That does not mean they do not deserve some, once in a while."

"I'm not comin' back."

The owl took his time to respond.

"That may be for the best. Do answer my question, however. Where are you off to?"

"I'm not leavin' this mountain." Risk put a paw over his bloodstained silk girdle. "That's all you need to know."

"That is not enough, Mr. Cutter. You are under my care as much as the rest, if not more so. You are my responsab-"

"If I see Prosecutes, I'll tell him how proud his old pa is."

Noonahootin lowered his wings. Risk passed him by without incident.

~ In the Light ~

The trek back to the fallen tree was grueling. Risk sputtered and coughed constantly, and wished he had taken time to appreciate Nyika's fire as much as he had her warmth. He was doing this for her as much as for himself, if not more. There was not to be a beast on this plane of existence who had tried to harm her and gotten away with it. Zevka had learned her lesson, but those who dealt in death were to be paid in death. That was always the order of things. He had not forgotten his debts, but he had others to collect first.

They'd killed everyone he knew or cared about. They'd killed Des. They'd tried to kill Nyika and Poko. They were killing him. They were due.

It was perhaps by sheer luck that he found the tree in his current state. His footpaws were numb from the cold and his whole body rattled, as if there were nothing between his bones and the frozen shell of his skin. He found the hole and crawled into it with great care. What little light the night sky gave was soon gone.

Risk ambled down the tunnel, rubbing against the walls as much as possible. Greenfleck had found mud somewhere- it would serve as warmth as much as camouflage. His fur would shine like gold if the moles had any light.

And they did have light, didn't they? He'd seen the flash, back in the cave. A trick of his old eyes, he'd thought, but the others had seen it too. So he'd decided it was a curious flicker of their fire, some reflection off someone's blade or other. Not so, after all. He should have smelled them. Were it not for the toad, he would not have attempted to sleep with pine nettles in his nose, and he would have known...

The tunnel was blocked. Of course it was.

Risk put his javelins aside, lay on his back and dug. An awkward position, but not half as painful as the other way. He was just happy it was not snow this time. The soil was loose, though as he cleared a Risk-shaped hole, he began to encounter larger stones. It was a shoddy rush job on their part, and there was nothing he couldn't move aside. He slithered through without room to spare and reached back for the javelins.

With whisker and nose he navigated his way down the tunnel. The scent of toad and moles diverged- he followed the moles'. The toad would have kept himself hidden, stayed out of the main thoroughfares. Things gradually became firmer. He was heading the right way, toward the heart of the mountain. His free paw brushed the walls, once in a while encountering open air, and a draft from the room would ruffle his fur. He seldom stayed long to explore these places, which he reasoned were barracks of a sort, all filled with rough beds. Either abandoned homes, or the army was out.

There! Unmistakable- alcohol. He followed his oldest instinct, sought out the friend who always welcomed him back. It was guarded, but they fled at his coming. No matter, there would be little time for sneaking after this. The room was packed with supplies, all the scavenge he and the Captain should have found, piles of clothes, sacks of food. It didn't pass through the ferret's mind to try to bring this back to the tree for the others. He rooted around in the piles blindly, sorting more with his nose than his paws. He focused on the smell of sulfur, and found a small box of matches. With this light, he crafted himself a torch, and filled a bag with the most inflammable liquors he could recognise. He guzzled a cheap bottle of whiskey and roared into the crook of his arm as it burned its way down his throat and through his stomach. The stain on his silk sash spread further.

Now he was ready.

He took his arsenal back to the tunnels and jogged on, his torch showing the way. Let them see and smell him, he had no need to sneak any more. Let them come. Let them run.

Sure enough he heard the rumblings of their voices, always growing distant, retreating from him. Here and there a tunnel would suddenly be closed off with an earth-rattling slam of debris, leaving only a dusty residue in the air. He was being diverted, and he knew it. He doubled back, taking a corridor he'd previously passed by. The alarm could only be spread so fast- he just had to be faster. There couldn't be very many junctions... could there?

The scent of fresh bread slunk into his sinuses like a street thief taking refuge in an alley. Perfect. Things were going his way again. From here on out, it would only get Riskier.

Then suddenly they were behind him, whispering, closing in. He took a bottle and smashed it on the ground, then lit it. He saw them flinch and shield their eyes with their arms. He kept going.

The kitchens were empty. He trashed them as best he could, burning sacks of grain and anything else remotely dry. Smoke began to obscure the low ceiling and clog his lungs. He reveled in the heat, laughed and spat blood, choked and fell to his knees, blinded by tears. No, no, not yet- not like this. He picked himself up and trudged on.

The moles were waiting for him in the dining hall. He caught a few orders, thought he heard the word "flank"- but with moles, who knew? He didn't give them time to organize further. He set the sack of bottles alight and whirled about, flinging it into their ranks. Lumps of fire rolled between the trestle tables, others racing off down corridors.

One came at him, claws swinging, head burning. Risk dropped the torch and readied his javelins, slipping the ribbon off the bundle with a quick tug, letting the extra ones clatter to the ground. He got it in the neck, and the flimsy weapon snapped. He gouged the other end into the mole's eye. It had only scratched him once before it fell, silent and bright. He retrieved the ribbon and wrapped it around his wrist.

He looked up at the remaining few who were still standing, and grinned, holding his arms wide.

"Well? Do you really wanna... risk it?"

They ran. He grabbed his weapons followed. It was a bottleneck strategy. Three in a row, they blocked the way, waiting for him. He didn't stop. A slingstone clipped his ear, another shredded his cheek, a third cracked a rib. He tackled the two to the right, transferring the javelins in each of his paws to their chests, his size making up for his weapons' weakness. The third latched onto his back, and he slammed it into the wall before reaching back to grab the greasy, velvety fur of its neck and drag it off him. His fists made short work of the mole's face.

There were three more. They rushed him, clobbering with clubs, keeping him pinned down. The moles were no fighters, but farming and tunneling had given them strength, if not accuracy. He couldn't breathe and his back was quickly numbed by the blows. He reached out, feeling for ankles, pulled one down and began biting his way up. A broken bottle found its way into his paws, and he sliced and jabbed until the warmth seeped up to his neck and shoulder. The bottle cracked in his grip. The two bludgeoning him stopped and tried to haul him off- they merely succeeded in helping him to his footpaws. With his paw full of glass, he turned on them and dealt twice as many blows as they had given him.

With six dead and dying moles for company, Risk finally sat down. He wept like a kit, unable to cradle anything- everything hurt. Everything was bleeding.

The tunnel faded from sight- not to black, but to a foggy grey that pulsed with whiteness with his heartbeat, until eventually it stopped and the whiteness grew and grew and became everything.

"Risk..."

"Des? Des... that you...?"

She was tugging on his wrist.

"Get up... Wake up, pa..."

"Nyika... Leave me alone, I'm tired now. Let go, let me go..."

"My proud warrior, my big bad hordebeast..."

"Freya...? No. No, it should be Des. It was her I..."

"Risk...! Wake up!"

With a grunt he leaned forward, grabbing at the ribbon as it trailed out of his claws. He reached forward and wrapped his paw around a neck. Thin, weak- an adolescent mole. It gurgled and flailed at his arm. A distant chatter of voices suddenly stopped, and a stifled shriek echoed down the corridors. Risk pushed himself off from the wall, getting on top of the mole. His other paw came around to help, the glass shredding the remains of his flesh and digging into the mole's trachea. He lifted, and pushed, slamming the head into the floor until long after the struggling stopped.

He let go. And then he awoke.

The pain had not stopped, the bleeding had not stopped, but he was alive. That was the requirement.

He stood up, after a few tries. He couldn't see, he could barely make sense of which direction gravity was in. He couldn't tell if he was breathing or drowning. It didn't matter. His good paw had found itself a club to wield, and the glass shards embedded in his other fist crinkled as he flexed it.

There were still so many moles left. Too many for him to leave behind.

He limped into the darkness as far as the darkness would let him.