Love As It Was Made to Be: 7.
Mar. 24th, 2012 09:15 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
clare_dragonflyJourney woke suddenly. For a moment he did not know where he was, the angle of the light disorienting him; then he recognized the small body beside him, and the thin mattress he was lying on. The fire was low, and it was still full dark outside the windows, so he could see nothing outside of its soft circle of light. Hemlock and Cicatrix were still asleep. What had woken him?
Then he heard it again—a panicked bleat. The sheep pen was far enough away that the sound was muffled and soft, but as he had not heard any sounds from out there all evening, he knew the bleat had to be loud indeed to penetrate.
Swiftly, and as silently as he could, he rose from the mattress and went to the door to fetch his war hammer. He did not know the room well enough to find the back door in the dark, so he simply went out the front. It was nearly as dark out there, most of the stars blotted out by the trees above, so he trailed his hand along the wall of the house as he crept around. The bleating of the sheep, louder now, helped guide him.
As he came around the house to the cleared portion of land, the light seemed to burst suddenly onto the scene to illuminate it. He could clearly see the sheep, huddled in one corner and trying to get past each other, farther away from the thing that stalked them.
He could also see the huge cat, sleek and deadly, eyes and teeth gleaming in the moonlight and paws creeping silently around the pen in search of a way in.
He took a deep breath. The blood seemed to rush to his head, pounding in his ears. His vision blurred, then sharpened, to just the cat. His heart howled to him to rush toward the beast, to protect his charges. For if it could not reach the sheep, what would it do but try the house next?
His reason, however, overruled his heart, and he knew that the way to defeat the animal would be to prevent it from seeing him. So he froze at the corner of the house, motionless in the starlight, as the cat stalked slowly around, until its lashing tail was what faced him.
Then he charged, running as softly as he could toward the cat, bringing his hammer up in a high arc, swallowing the warrior’s shout that threatened to erupt out of him. He brought the dull head of the hammer down, as hard as he could, on the beast’s head.
Unfortunately, it had heard him coming and begun to swing around while he was still running. His blow merely glanced off its side, and while he saw its fur ripple, it did not appear injured. It leapt for him.
Journey jumped backwards and out of the way, swinging his hammer right to left at the same time, but this time he hit only air; the cat was much faster than he had calculated. He spun around, trying to keep face-to-face with the beast. He shifted the hammer around in his hand and swung at the creature again. He was still missing the head, but the sharp side of the hammer raked at the cat’s leg, bringing up a line of blood.
That, however, seemed only to anger it. It raked back at him with one huge paw, and impossibly sharp claws that had been concealed in the heavy pads scored his leg. He cried out for the first time, stumbling back without thought to which direction was best. There were lines of fire running across his calf, followed by boiling water that he knew, dimly, to be his own blood. This did not hurt as much as his transformation had, but it still hurt a great deal.
He swung with the hammer again, not really directing his movements, and felt it connect, though he had somehow gotten the hammer turned around and had only struck it with the dull end. That was his last conscious thought for several moments, as the cat leapt.
Journey fell heavily to the ground, the beast atop him, swinging half-wildly with his weapon as he attempted to fend it off. Killing it was still at the back of his mind, but all he could do was try to stop it from killing him first. He gained several more deep scratches, and felt what he was sure was its teeth on his neck before it suddenly stiffened and fell limp over him.
He must have passed out for a moment, because the next thing he knew the cat was being lifted off him and the witch’s already-familiar small, dry hands were helping him to his feet. He was covered in blood, and so was the cat, a crossbow quarrel sticking out from its left eye. He looked at the shepherd and his wife, who were carrying the cat’s heavy body to the house, and saw the crossbow hanging from the wife’s belt.
“What were you thinking?” Cicatrix asked, sounding so much like Journey’s mother that he laughed helplessly.
“I had to protect us,” he replied, surprised to find his voice shaking.
She sighed. “You should have woken the rest of us.”
He shook his head, noting that they were following the others towards the house. “It’s my job.”
“It’s not your job to do it alone.” Her voice was sharp. Neither of them said anything else until she had him inside and sat him in a chair by the fire, which had been built up so that the whole room was illuminated again. Hemlock was sitting up in the bed, blinking in the light.
While Cicatrix was tending to his wounds, the shepherd and his wife both gave Journey similar versions of the short lecture the witch had given him. Journey felt foolish for not realizing they had some way to protect themselves and their stock, so he said nothing.
The family was kind enough to let the three of them stay another night, while Journey’s wounds closed enough that he could walk. They gave him plenty of hot mead, and there was cat meat for supper.
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Then he heard it again—a panicked bleat. The sheep pen was far enough away that the sound was muffled and soft, but as he had not heard any sounds from out there all evening, he knew the bleat had to be loud indeed to penetrate.
Swiftly, and as silently as he could, he rose from the mattress and went to the door to fetch his war hammer. He did not know the room well enough to find the back door in the dark, so he simply went out the front. It was nearly as dark out there, most of the stars blotted out by the trees above, so he trailed his hand along the wall of the house as he crept around. The bleating of the sheep, louder now, helped guide him.
As he came around the house to the cleared portion of land, the light seemed to burst suddenly onto the scene to illuminate it. He could clearly see the sheep, huddled in one corner and trying to get past each other, farther away from the thing that stalked them.
He could also see the huge cat, sleek and deadly, eyes and teeth gleaming in the moonlight and paws creeping silently around the pen in search of a way in.
He took a deep breath. The blood seemed to rush to his head, pounding in his ears. His vision blurred, then sharpened, to just the cat. His heart howled to him to rush toward the beast, to protect his charges. For if it could not reach the sheep, what would it do but try the house next?
His reason, however, overruled his heart, and he knew that the way to defeat the animal would be to prevent it from seeing him. So he froze at the corner of the house, motionless in the starlight, as the cat stalked slowly around, until its lashing tail was what faced him.
Then he charged, running as softly as he could toward the cat, bringing his hammer up in a high arc, swallowing the warrior’s shout that threatened to erupt out of him. He brought the dull head of the hammer down, as hard as he could, on the beast’s head.
Unfortunately, it had heard him coming and begun to swing around while he was still running. His blow merely glanced off its side, and while he saw its fur ripple, it did not appear injured. It leapt for him.
Journey jumped backwards and out of the way, swinging his hammer right to left at the same time, but this time he hit only air; the cat was much faster than he had calculated. He spun around, trying to keep face-to-face with the beast. He shifted the hammer around in his hand and swung at the creature again. He was still missing the head, but the sharp side of the hammer raked at the cat’s leg, bringing up a line of blood.
That, however, seemed only to anger it. It raked back at him with one huge paw, and impossibly sharp claws that had been concealed in the heavy pads scored his leg. He cried out for the first time, stumbling back without thought to which direction was best. There were lines of fire running across his calf, followed by boiling water that he knew, dimly, to be his own blood. This did not hurt as much as his transformation had, but it still hurt a great deal.
He swung with the hammer again, not really directing his movements, and felt it connect, though he had somehow gotten the hammer turned around and had only struck it with the dull end. That was his last conscious thought for several moments, as the cat leapt.
Journey fell heavily to the ground, the beast atop him, swinging half-wildly with his weapon as he attempted to fend it off. Killing it was still at the back of his mind, but all he could do was try to stop it from killing him first. He gained several more deep scratches, and felt what he was sure was its teeth on his neck before it suddenly stiffened and fell limp over him.
He must have passed out for a moment, because the next thing he knew the cat was being lifted off him and the witch’s already-familiar small, dry hands were helping him to his feet. He was covered in blood, and so was the cat, a crossbow quarrel sticking out from its left eye. He looked at the shepherd and his wife, who were carrying the cat’s heavy body to the house, and saw the crossbow hanging from the wife’s belt.
“What were you thinking?” Cicatrix asked, sounding so much like Journey’s mother that he laughed helplessly.
“I had to protect us,” he replied, surprised to find his voice shaking.
She sighed. “You should have woken the rest of us.”
He shook his head, noting that they were following the others towards the house. “It’s my job.”
“It’s not your job to do it alone.” Her voice was sharp. Neither of them said anything else until she had him inside and sat him in a chair by the fire, which had been built up so that the whole room was illuminated again. Hemlock was sitting up in the bed, blinking in the light.
While Cicatrix was tending to his wounds, the shepherd and his wife both gave Journey similar versions of the short lecture the witch had given him. Journey felt foolish for not realizing they had some way to protect themselves and their stock, so he said nothing.
The family was kind enough to let the three of them stay another night, while Journey’s wounds closed enough that he could walk. They gave him plenty of hot mead, and there was cat meat for supper.
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Date: 2012-05-12 08:29 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-05-12 04:06 pm (UTC)