Vengeance Quest

Chapter 13: Healing

“Any change?”

“Nay…none…”

“…Will he live?”

“I…do not know.”

Voices weaving through his mind, trickling through the void, echoing into emptiness, and fading once more into the constant black.

Music…a waterfall of silver notes, each a tremor of sound gleaming like a short-lived firefly on the surface of consciousness, fading in and out, out and in.

In the silent times, he drifted deeper into the void, drawn inexorably inward by an unknown force. And he dissolved moment by moment, spreading outward like a thinning mist, losing the idea of self with each passing second of darkness…

…but every time, the music reached him through the void. Glimmers of light and sound, calling…

He was…he was… something…someone… not just an unthinking entity in the night destined only to release his tenuous hold on self and relax into nothing. There was – he couldn’t quite grasp it. A memory, a thought…

who am I

The idea of identity… In his shattered mind, it was a difficult thing to grasp. And yet something within insisted it was urgent. Vital.

I am

and the music trickled on, whispering the answer in a language he didn’t know, couldn’t quite comprehend.

Who am… I…am…

kiern

It crashed through the fog of his being like a thunderclap, that one word, that one name, lightning flashing, illuminating for a brief instant…

…the music grew more clear. He could almost make out words…

I am Kiern.

The thought repeated itself over and over in his mind and he began to draw himself together, pull himself into solidity against the tug of the void. And all the while the music echoed around him, through him, within him…whispering, singing, calling, and he listened close, followed its silver threads, wanting to know, needing to understand…

“Autumn’s fire fell to brown
With chill an’ lonely winds
An’ still he stayed as leaves fell down
To his love’s prone form attend.

“No more come the grieving floods
To weep o’er spilléd blood
None to beg the silent Rhoan
To return to life alone.
So still he watches o’er his love
Faithful remaining with his love.

“Ice to spring to fall again
And still he waits till the world’s end
Till wind scattered Rhoan and his love
To rest among the stars above.

So still he watches o’er his love
Faithful remaining with his love.”

Heavy lids cracked open—slowly, oh so slowly, weighed down with anchors of sleep, creaking with the rust of time. Fog crept across his vision and he blinked, an eternal effort, clearing his vision.

A gray form sat bent over the gleaming strings of a delicate lute, expert paws moving unerring across the polished wood, drawing forth cascades of notes.

Who…?

Mind blanking, and he grasped at long-unused memory, at last remembering.

“…Stormsong.”

Voice creaking out, rusty from disuse, rasping against the silver of song.

The weasel’s paw slipped on the strings, back stiffening, a jarring strum jangling through the air. He twisted about in his seat, stared with mouth slightly agape. “Kiern…! Thou’rt awake!”

“What…”

“Hush.” Stormsong set his lute in its case with gentle care and rose, crossing to the cot where Kiern lay prone. He turned back the sheet, unbound a heavy bandage about the stoat’s shoulder, frowned down at what he saw. “This wound…” Shaking his head, he turned away, retrieved a brown jar from a nearby trunk. “It hath proved troublesome…refusing to close.”

Kiern turned his head slightly to watch Stormsong’s actions, wincing as his neck crackled from even that small movement. “How long…have I been out…? The Longclaws—what happened…is he…?”

The muscle along Stormsong’s jawline twitched, and there was a pause while he opened the jar and stirred the contents. “The Longclaws be unhurt,” he said, “thanks be to thee. Skyfire hath taken over thine duties whilst thou recovers. T’was thought…t’was thought perhaps thou wouldst not awaken.” The weasel crossed back to the cot, dipping a ceramic spoon in the jar and slathering it across Kiern’s wound.

”Hellsteeth…!” Fire lanced through the stoat’s body and he stiffened, and that movement sent pain flaring from his other wounds—his back, his leg… Darkness misted over his sight but he fought it, teeth gritted against unconsciousness. Can’t…go back to that…

He opened his eyes after an eternity, when the pain had subsided enough to think clearly, when the black fog finally cleared. Stormsong was binding a fresh bandage around Kiern’s shoulder, jaw clenched as tight as the stoat’s. He turned away once more after finishing. “Thine back and leg be healing more quickly…but thou shows pain when they be changed, too. I will change those wounds on the morrow.” A pause, remembering. “Thou hast been unconscious…near to half a season.”

”Half a…” Shock burst from Kiern’s lungs and died as the fire of it dissolved into coughing.

“Aye.” The healer bent over his lute case, closing and latching it securely. “A few days past…the Longclaws…suggested letting thee die.” Kiern couldn’t quite see Stormsong’s face, veiled as it was in shadow. “But I be the healer… and thou be awake now.”

A long silence from Kiern as he finally recovered from coughing. “In my state…I was just dead weight. Still am…and the Longclaws knows I would prefer death to living sleep.”

Muscles spasmed down Stormsong’s arm to his curled fist. “Aye. But thou’rt awake now. So ‘tis good I didst not let you die.”

More silence. Then, “…what was that song you were singing, just a while ago?”

“Ah.” A soft sad smile, barely visible in the dim light from outside as the healer moved to the door. “The Lay of Rhoan…it be a tragedy. An ancient song…” He nodded to Kiern, acknowledgement and farewell. “I must be leaving…Skyfire an’ the Longclaws shall be wanting to know you’ve awakened.”

“Wait…”

Stormsong paused beneath the tent flap, a lithe silhouette against the fires of the setting sun. “Aye, Kiern?”

“When the Longclaws said to let me die… did you truly think I would awaken?”

The weasel’s paw tightened on the pole holding up the entrance and his head bowed. “…Nay. But I was not certain…an’…” A deep breath. “Skyfire shall be here soon.”

The tent flap rustled with his passing, was lowered to block the sun, and Kiern stared up into the darkness, tangled in his thoughts.


"Kiern...?"

A familiar voice, soft and uncertain, pulling Kiern from his reverie. He turned his head and gaze to the tent entrance, slow and careful as every movement was stiff and aching. Barely had his eyes focused on the slender stoat before she drew in a sharp breath, reached his side in two swift strides, and threw her arms about his prone form.

"Kiern... seasons, I was so... I thought you... were going to--" and her voice choked on a dread sob "--die..."

He stiffened at her touch, stared at Skyfire's shaking body, at the back of her head on his bandaged chest. "Skyfire--what--" Shock blocked his throat and made it hard to force out words. He swallowed, managed to gather his composure. "Subcaptain."

The regained steel in Kiern's voice caused Starfire to stand immediately, face heating. "I--sorry, captain," she stammered. "I didn't mean--I'm sorry."

Kiern coughed, managed a nod. "I--understand, subcaptain." The barest hint of a smile, though inside confusion whirled. "You were concerned." Never has she done a thing like that! What--

"Concerned--" Skyfire stopped, swallowed her words. "Yes. Stormsong thought you'd never wake up. And the Longclaws--" Again she fell silent, bit down hard on her lower lip.

"Yes, subcaptain?"

His tone held the hint of command, and Skyfire drew in an unsteady breath, turned away with head bowed and paws clenched. "The Longclaws said to let you die. If it weren't for Stormsong..." She whirled on her captain, anger flaring red in brown eyes, paws curling tighter yet. "You saved his life! And he was just going to let you die! How--"

"Subcaptain!"

She glared but bit down on her lip again, turned away once more. Silence, and at last a grating "Why?"

"...He is my leader. It is my duty."

"Duty!" Her fists shook, teeth grinding in the darkness of the infirmary tent. "Because he saved your life. But you've saved his more than once, and this time you almost gave your own life for his! Haven't you repaid him enough?"

A long silence from Kiern, gaze shifting from the quivering stoat fem to the shadows of the tent ceiling. "I owe him more than my life," he said, voice quiet and steady. "He gave me a purpose. Command. Trust. Honor--"

"Honor?" That drew a sardonic laugh, and Kiern stared, shocked by the incongruity of that bitter sound from she who was normally anything but. "He taught you honor?"

"...aye."

Another dry laugh. "You don't see it, do you, Kiern? He's molded you since he found you, hasn't he. Taught you honor, duty, loyalty--so that you'd defend him at all costs, so he could trust you. He owns you. He's never been honorable in all his--"

"Enough!" Kiern refused to hear it. Would not listen to this ridiculousness. "You will not speak like that of the Longclaws, subcaptain."

That brought her to face him, glaring, fists clenching open and closed and open again, helpless fury. "Sir."

A deep breath, dissolving into hacking coughs. "You are right... about one thing," he said once he regained control of his lungs. "The Longclaws does own me. He owns my life, my loyalty, my blade. And I will hear no ill of him."

A silent snarl from Skyfire; she shook her head. "No, you won't, will you? No matter how much you see and are told--you won't believe it. Won't hear it." She forced back a growl. "I'll obey your orders, captain. I'll speak nothing more of the Longclaws to you." A salute, sharp and yet somehow sarcastic, and she whirled out of the tent.

Kiern grimaced, forced his tense and aching body to relax, and tried his best not to think on Skyfire's angry words.



"Captain Kiern."

The commanding voice pulled Kiern from the depths of sleep with a groan as consciousness brought renewed awareness of half-healed wounds. Sleep-blurred eyes focused blearily on a tall figure whose dark fur blended into the dark of the tent--

"Sir!"

Gasped out in shock and Kiern tried to rise, bring up his paw for a salute, seized up in pain instead and collapsed back, coughing.

"At ease, captain." Was that concern in the wolverine's voice? "Do not wound yourself more."

Kiern gritted his teeth tight against the flaring pain from his shoulder, his back, his leg-- A deep breath to settle the coughs, and at last he regained his voice. "...yes sir."

The Longclaws stepped forward, intense gaze raking over Kiern's depleted form. "So. Stormsong was right in keeping you alive."

Another cough. "...Perhaps... but I'm afraid you may have to wait a while before I can be of service again..." Kiern shook his head a little. "Is Skyfire commanding the Nightclaws effectively?"

A nod from Nightdeath. "Aye. Not as well as you, but well enough." A pause. "I will be pleased when you are healed enough to command again."

"...I see." Kiern looked dubiously at his bandaged body. "And if I don't recover fully?"

Silence. Then, finally, "I hope you will have some use. Training younglings, perhaps." A dry chuckle at the horrified expression that transformed Kiern's face. "If not... you may always leave the Nighthunt."

"Truly?" Mild surprise colored Kiern's tone. "With as much as I know of the Nighthunt?"

White fangs gleamed in a thin smile, barely visible in the dim light. "You know what you would have to do in that case, captain." The Longclaw's paw dropped to Kiern's uninjured shoulder, applied a mild pressure that may have been reassurance and may have been warning--or both. "I do hope for your full recovery."

A farewell nod, and the Longclaws stepped out of the tent with silence grace. Kiern leaned his head back, exhaled a long tense breath, and let his troubled mind drift back into unconsciousness.


Gentle paws on his injured shoulder stirred Kiern to wakefulness, to flickering candlelight, to the sight of a grey head bent over his shoulder. Stormsong was cleaning the wound with a soft wet cloth, his gaze oddly tender.

Kiern’s brow furrowed for a moment, confused, and then he broke the silence. “Is it healing?”

Stormsong started, glanced sideways at the stoat, back at the shoulder. “There be some infection… I think thee be over the worst of it, though.” He wrung the cloth out over a bowl, submerged it in a second bowl, and returned the dripping cloth to Kiern’s shoulder again, the damp cool against the inflamed wound.

“…Will it heal? Enough to return to my duties?”

The rare note of anxiety in Kiern’s voice gave Stormsong pause; his gray gaze scrutinized the Nightclaws captain. “This be of much importance to thee?

A nod, edging on panic. “Very. I do not want to work with younglings!”

That provoked a rare laugh from the weasel, musical as his speech, and a smile that momentarily banished the shadows from his face. “I think thou may recover—but it shall require much labor.”

“Nothing wrong with that.” Kiern shook his head. “It isn’t sa if I’m unused to that.”

Stormsong’s smile quirked at one edge. “This be not the sort of labor thou’rt accustomed to, Kiern. It be tedious an’ painful.”

A shrug, then a wince as that motion burned over his shoulder. “Can’t be worse than this.”

Stormsong just shook his head with a knowing smile and began rewrapping Kiern’s shoulder.



“That doesn’t look difficult,” Kiern said, dubious as he watched Stormsong’s arms swing in gradually widening circles out from his sides.

Weeks had passed since that conversation in the infirmary tent, and Kiern had finally healed enough to limp outside to begin Stormsong’s rehabilitation regimen.

That same secret grin flicked across Stormsong’s face. “Then thou shall have no trouble, shall the? Try.”

Kiern shrugged—he could finally do that without it hurting!—and lifted his arms straight out from his sides. “So… small circles, right…?” A nod from the Nighteyes captain and Kiern started moving his arms in forward circles. “Not hard…” This is supposed to be labor?

“Continue.”

A resigned exhale from Kiern and he kept windmilling his arms. And gradually, incredibly, the muscles started to burn. His injured shoulder began its twinging complaint. Why in the world…? It made no sense that his arm would hurt from this!

A puzzled, frustrated growl and Kiern continued windmilling, trying to work past the nonsensical pain, focusing more and more inward as his arms gained weight, turned to lead, as his shoulder became a constant fire spreading outward…

”KIERN!”

The shout broke through his concentration as a paw grabbed his wrists, forced them motionless. He blinked, gaze focusing on the concerned face inches from his own.

“…Stormsong?” Somehow confused, wondering at the worry in the gray gaze that verged on panic.

“I called thine name… told thee ‘enough’—did ye not hear me?”

Kiern shook his head, slow and uncertain. “No… I heard nothing.”

“Nothing!” Stormsong stared for a long moment, shook his head, then seemed to realize that he still held Kiern’s wrists and he dropped them as if they were scalding brands, jumping back a length. “Thou…” He turned away, paced a few steps, stopped himself. “Kiern. Did that not hurt thee?”

Kiern looked down at his arms, shaking from exertion; at his shoulder, fluid oozing through the bandage, pain oozing across his torso. “…Aye… but that makes no sense! Something as little as that…”

“Nay.” An exasperated sigh from the healer. “Thou hast not used thine muscles for a long while. They have turned weak, deteriorated, turned flaccid. An’ now you push them too far; canst thou see thine shoulder is opened from the work?”

A slow nod. “Aye… but…”

“Everything in moderation, Kiern. Thou knowest this, aye?” Kiern nodded, and Stormsong continued. “I will give thee exercises such as this. Thou must do them as many times a day as I tell thee, an’ only as many times as I tell thee. This… circle thine arms thirty times forward, thirty times back, twice a day. As for the others…”

Kiern listened closely to the bard as he explained and demonstrated the different exercises, finally settling down from his earlier agitation.


Days turned into weeks turned into months, with Kiern exercising regularly and Stormsong monitoring his progress. His wounds healed at last; his muscles began to strengthen; stiff scars began to relax and stretch with application of yet another of Stormsong’s salves.

“How does it look?” Kiern asked, craning his neck to peer at his bared shoulder.

Stormsong’s paw prodded at the healed-over wound. “Any pain?”

“None.”

“Hm.” Stormsong rested his paws on either side of the shoulder. “Lift your arm.” Kiern obliged, muscles and bone shifting in response.

Footsteps sounded outside the tent, and a ginger-red head poked through the flap.”Stormsong, have you found—oh, Kiern, didn’t know ya were in here.”

Kiern tensed beneath Stormsong’s paws and Astarte’s stare. “Darkmoon,” he grated.

That usual seductive smirk crept across her face, and she let her smoldering gaze roam over Kiern’s bare torso. “Looks like yer getting’ fit again, hm?”

“What do you want?” Kiern asked, paw spasming into a fist.

“Oh, spare a little politeness, captain.” Astarte flowed into the tent, never really taking her eyes off Kiern’s half-bare form. “I haven’t seen you in ages…” Her gaze flicked to Kiern’s shoulder and the gray paws that still rested there, almost possessively. “Making progress, bard?”

The weasel bristled. “What meanest thou?”

Her smirk broadened, but she changed the subject. “Did y’find those herbs I asked for, Stormsong?”

He glared for a moment, paws tightening almost painfully on Kiern’s shoulder before releasing. “Aye,” he forced out, whirling to a trunk and pulling out a ceramic jar. He thrust it at Astarte, who took it with one paw and a knowing grin.

“Thanks, healer.” The grin quirked up at one corner. “Best of luck.”

The gray weasel glowered at the tent flap for several long moments after Astarte’s exit, interrupted only by Kiern’s hesitant touch on his shoulder.

“What was so bad about what she said?” the stoat asked, feeling all too in the dark. Wasn’t she just asking about the progress with his recovery?

Stormsong scrutinized Kiern, finally shook his head with a sad smile. “…It be nothing, Kiern,” he said, soft and regretful. “Nothing at all…”



Kiern hefted the wooden saber, tested its balance and weight. "This one ought to do," he murmured, mostly to himself.

"For thee... aye," Stormsong agreed after a moment. "But thou must take care..."

A grimace. "I know, I know. Not at my best form yet." He took a few testing swings with the practice sword. "I feel fine."

"Thou may not feel as thou truly are, but thou'rt not fully fit. Thou may find thy body be weak an' slow."

Kiern shrugged. "We'll see, won't we?" He started toward the practice yard.

"Ah - Kiern..."

He stopped, shot a questioning look at the healer. "What is it?"

Stormsong motioned behind him, toward a grove of trees beyond the camp. "There be a clearing, yonder - Skyfire be waiting there."

"...and why not in the practice yard?"

A somewhat sheepish laugh. "Ah... well. Thou do not be in... excellent form, an'... well--thou needst thine command's respect, aye?"

Kiern stared at the weasel, who averted his gaze as if to deflect the expected outburst. "Are you saying that Skyfire might defeat me?"

"Well..." That nervous laugh again. "It be possible..."

"She's never bested me in practice!" Kiern burst out. "She's good, very good, but--hellsteeth, Stormsong,do you really believe I've deteriorated that much?"

Stormsong swallowed, turned, and started for the grove. "'Tis better to be safe, wouldst thou not agree?"

"I--" Kiern let out a disbelieving exhalation, threw his hands in the air in surrender, and followed.


The clearing wasn't large, but it was large enough to spar in. Kiern's gaze narrowed as he realized it was empty. "Where's Skyfire?"

"Behind yon oak," Stormsong said, motioning to a large oak right next to them.

Skyfire stumbled into sight with a mock pout forming on her russet face. "Seasons, Stormsong--do you miss anything?"

He brushed that aside with a shrug, glanced at Kiern. "Be something wrong, Kiern?"

The stoat captain stood stiff and indignant, focused on Skyfire's practice sword. "It's padded," he managed at last, almost choking on the words.

"...aye," Stormsong said. "Thine body be not yet healed enough to withstand--"

"Right, right..." A growl, and Kiern and his wounded pride stalked to the clearing's center. "If I win this, Skyfire takes off the padding."

Skyfire and Stormsong exchanged glances, and Stormsong nodded very slightly. "Agreed."

Skyfire drew a deep breath, made her way to the deeply insulted Kiern. "We're just trying to be cautious..." she ventured.

"Just prepare yourself." Kiern drew into a fighting stance.

A soft sigh from Skyfire and she followed suit, usual awkwardness fading with the counterbalance of the padded rapier. A long silence, a salute from both stoats, and then they clashed. A flurry of blades, wood on cloth, testing and trying and then breaking apart. Skyfire frowned a little, swordpoint weaving like a cobra waiting to strike. Kiern's jaw tightened as he silently evaluated his body. Slowed reactions... less power and motion... but I'm not going to lose this! A silent snarl and he went on the offensive, pressing hard, thrust and slice and feint, forcing Skyfire back several steps. Have to end this quick before I tire out...

Skyfire parried his thrust, batted aside the saber and closed in before Kiern could fully recover. He barely got his blade in place to block, thrown a bit off balance and onto the defensive. His shoulder twinged in protest and warning, and Kiern's visage grew grimer still. His efforts redoubled but he was tiring, his body unused to such stress after months of forced rest. Parry, block, thrust--

--and a sharp stab in his side, the padded blade crashing into his stomach hard enough to bruise. "Hellsteeth--" Kiern bit down on his words, backed away, forced a salute. "Well done," he managed, defeat bitter on his tongue.

Skyfire nodded and returned the salute. "You haven't lost your skills."

A wry grimace. "But my body isn't up to performing them." A sigh and he turned to Stormsong. "I'm--sorry," he said, forcing out the concession. "You--were right."

The weasel shrugged. "Well. 'Tis a matter of experience." He nodded to Kiern and Skyfire. "I be returning to mine command. Rest, and if thou wishest, spar more--but if thine wounds be hurting much, cease," Stormsong added, gaze levelled at Kiern. "Thou might make it worse, that way."

Kiern sighed and nodded. "Very well."

"Fare the well, then." A slight bow, and Stormsong melted into the forest like a wraith.

Silence, exceptfor the hesitant call of birds growing more and more confident with extended quiet. Kiern lowered himself to the ground, massaging his shoulder with one paw and his leg with the other. Skyfire plopped down next to him on the thick grass.

"Feeling all right?" Skyfire asked.

"Aye." Kiern stretched, reaching out to his toes, back to the tree he sat against, out to the side.

More silence, as the sun warmed their black-clad forms. "How fares the Nightclaws?"

"Not badly..." Skyfire frowned a little. "Some trouble with that one rat--Skenla--playing males off each other and so there's been a few fights..."

"Hm." Kiern plucked a blade of grass, twirled it in his paw. "Did you talk to her about it?"

"Not yet."

He nodded. "Send her to me when we're done--I should probably get back to managing my own command." A wry smile twisted across his face. "Any other difficulties?"

Skyfire shook her head. "No. Everything's pretty much normal, though I intensified the guard on the Longclaws after the attack."

"Good..." Kiern stretched again, pulled himself to his footpaws. "Another round?"

"You're sure you're up to it?" She grinned a little. "Stormsong would have my hide if I let you push yourself too hard."

He chuckled. "True. But I'm all right. Let's go." He slid into a fighting stance, and they clashed once more.



They sparred a few more times, Kiern's body protesting at the stress but slowly adjusting, and though he didn't win a match, he did come close. He left the grove satisfied with his progress despite his aching muscles.

The rat Skella entered his orderly tent not long after. Kiern spent a good deal of time delving into her story and then ordering her to cease from her games. She didn't seem too happy as she left--though that may have been due in part to his ignoring her flirtations and none-too-subtle attempts at manipulation.

After dealing with a few more matters of his command, catching up on changes and paperwork, he let out a long sigh, plugged closed the inkwell, and leaned back in his chair. He stretched his cramped paws, massaged his shoulder, and finally rose to his footpaws.

Need some air... His stomach gurgled, and a wry smile flitted across his face. And a meal!

Kiern ducked through the tent flap and straightened, back crackling, casting his gaze to the reddening sky, the sun glowing soft on the horizon, day giving way to glimmering night. Letting his sight and soul take in the dark green of firs, velvet blue twilight, a scattering of stars, the first gleams of golden fireflies. A deep breath of cleansing air, and at last he headed for the mess tent, refreshed.

The sun had faded fuly by the time Kiern headed back to his tent, stomach bribed to silence. The Great Dipper and the Archer gazed down at him through a film of clouds, shimmering around the crescent frown of moon. The stoat paid little attention to his surroundings, gaze tilted to the stars as his footpaws carried him through the mess of tents and campfires and bedrolls.

"...about Kiern?"

His name spoken soft in familiar tones, jerked his attention to earth and reality. He glanced about, confused.

"I do not know..."

Stormsong's voice... and the earlier one had been Skyfire. What...?

He followed the voices to a tent--Stormsong's tent. His conscience tugged at him, tried to pull him towards his own tent. Shouldn't listen in-- but his curiosity was louder, and stronger, and anchored him next to Stormsong's tent.

"He's oblivious... and it's probably useless anyway..."

A soft laugh, sad and dry. "Aye. The Longclaws taught him many things... yet never much of love." Stormsong's musical voice.

"Except love for the Longclaws." Skyfire, sounding almost bitter.

"Aye. Aye..." A sigh. "I think there be no room in his heart to love more than one beast at a time. When he does something... or believes something... 'tis with all his heart."

"And the Longclaws raised and trained Kiern to be totally loyal to him." Skyfire growled, and then her anger faded to sadness. "And... that's the only kind of love he knows..."

A silence in the tent, and Kiern grew more and more uncomfortable, hackles lifting the slightest bit. Is that really how they see me? and then the indignation twisted into discomforting introspection. ...are they right...?

Latches clicked, and a rustling of cloth indicated motion. A few moments later, the silver notes of a lute trickled from the tent, a longing and troubled air edged with sadnses. Stormsong played uninterrupted for a time, until finally Skyfire's voice broke in over the gentle strains.

"Do you think... Is there any way I can..." She faltered, the music filling the silence, and then it all came out in a rush-- "show-Kiern-how-I-feel? About... him?"

Kiern stiffened in shock. She... what... I... He pressed his paws to suddenly throbbing temples. WHAT?!

Stormsong's paws stumbled over the strings, a jarring chord cutting through the air before he could recover. The melody rseumed, shifted to a discomforting pondering air. "Thou... wouldst ask me for advice on matters such as these?"

"...aye... You're one of the more--thoughtful beasts I know."

"Yet not experienced in matters of love."

A pause. "Not at all?"

"...well. There was one, once..."

"Once? ...What happened to her?"

The notes grew harsh, bitter, pained. "The one I loved--died. Killed for being...as we were." The music stopped, and Stormsong drew in a shaky breath. "Then... I found the Nighthunt."

"Stormsong..." Aching sympathy in Skyfire's voice. "I..."

Them usic resumed, cutting off her words, quick and cheery--froced cheer, painful cheer. Like the laugh of a deadbeast... "It matters not," Stormsong said. "It be past, now."

Silence, and the tension in the melody slowly faded out with its speed, settled into wandering contemplation. "Is there any that you care for now?"

A long rest in the song, the strings stilling to silence, then resuming, soft and sad. "...aye. One. Yet... it will never be."

"Why not...?"

A quiet sigh, barely audible through the thick tentcloth. "Because it can never be known... that I love that one. And that one shall never... can never... love me..."

Kiern stepped away in silence, masked by the plaintive strains of Stormsong's lute. He'd heard enough... more than enough, and the opened hearts of the twobeasts in the tent was something he didn't feel he should be privaleged to see. To listen anymore--indeed, to have listened as much as he had--was something of a violation...

He let out a long exhalation as he made his way back to his own tent, the implications of what he'd just heard stewing uneasily in his mind.



Kiern woke to dawn with a heavy grown. He ached in places he didn't know had muscles, places he'd never known existed. Or had forgotten--there had to be a time when his limbs were this flaccid, when he was younger and untrained--but he couldn't recall ever feeling this sensation... this leaden ache...

A knock on the wooden tentpole. Kiern stifled another painful groan as he rolled out of his bedroll and pulled on his breeches. "Who is it?"

"Stormsong."

"Come on in," Kiern said, splashing water from a basin onto his tired face.

He turned to see the gray weasel holding a steaming mug, watching Kiern with a strangely intense look on his face, though he looked away when he realized Kiern was watching him watch Kiern. He thrust out the mug. "For thy muscles. T'will aid to dull thy pain."

For a moment, Kiern was tempted to deny any soreness, to refuse the offer of painkiller, but as he straightened from toweling off his face, his back and legs whined their burning protest. He took the mug. "Thank you," he said, grimacing as he brought it to his lips in expectation of bitter medicine.

But his browse rose as the sweet taste of honeyed tea met his tongue instead. "This is truly medicine?"

Stormsong nodded. "'Tis tea infused with herbs for the dulling of pain. T'will make thee tired, a little... Dost thou mind?"

"...No," Kiern said at last, after weighing the idea of mild sleepiness with the other option of leaden ache. "Not a bit." He sipped at the hot drink, letting its warmth seep through his bones. "I can still spar today?"

The weasel frowned, looked Kiern up and down, brow furrowing in thought. "...Nay. 'Tis best not to push thy body too far."

"When, then?"

A moment of thought. "Tomorrow, I believe. If all goes well, then thou shalt exercise thy bladeskills every other day."

"And what am I supposed to do till then?"

"Thou hath patterns thou practices, aye? With thy sword?" A nod from Kiern. "Then practice thine exercises. And care for thy command."

Kiern let out a long breath, drained the last of the herbal tea. He handed the empty mug to the healer. "Thank you," he said again.

Stormsong inclined his head in silent acknowledgment. "Fare thee well." A whisper of cloth as he ducked out of the tent, and Kiern turned to his pack for the remainder of his uniform.



Weeks crawled by, and slowly--too slowly for Kiern's impatience--his muscles reformed under a steady regimen of exercise, his reflexes sharpening, everything returning towards normal. Far from it as of yet, but... edging that way.

And now that he was watching for it, he noticed signs in Skyfire's actions and words of her feelings for him. In the way her gaze lingered, in how her face glowed at the sight of him, in the sidelong glances and the bit off sentences and the occasional sad wistful look.

Kiern didn't know how to react. Didn't know what he should do or could do. How did one go about dealing with these sort of things? With Astarte it was easy--he simply rejected her too-blatant advances. But Skyfire... there was nothing to reject. And... did he really want to...?

Yes, he told himself firmly. Your job leaves no room for romance. It might be distracting. Might detract from my ability to protect the Longclaws. Yet that niggling doubt persisted, and he walked through each day trying to make peace with the emotional battle within.