His Bones had always been his. Dried and cracked though they had been - and broken, once, healed all wrong - they had pushed him along. Up and down went his legs, his heels pressing firmly to the Earth. They both shuddered to feel it. They both cried in agony at the separation, brief though it may be with his long stride.
His Bile was acrid. It was his own, made by him, yet it began in the stomach of another, torn by his teeth. Every scrap of food pressed upon him by Eater, swirling in his Belly, bubbling out and up the back of his throat. At any other time, this may be a detriment. Yet it coated his innards so thoroughly that he could hardly feel the
Black Smoke, the smarting Sparks, doused the Fire before it could -
His Blood was his Mother's. He had drunk deep of it, below the Stones of the earth. It sang below his skin, purple and silver and bright, bright Red, bursting from his Eyes, boiling away from the heat as soon as it touches his unruined skin. It unfurled through his veins, filling his great limbs, pulsing through his muscles, drawing his Meat over his Bones so that he may Run, Run, Run -
He hadn't the Air. He struggled to pull it into his Lungs, but it flicked away almost as soon as he drew it in. Sounds were tunneled, muffled. There was nothing about him but Burning. He was Aware of frantic blood; hooves beating around him, the lone Elk and Moose and Deer knowing that he knew the way in one massive flock about him, dull and horrible silent save for their panting fear. There were Crows about him, also silent, beaks gaping. Some could no longer fly, but drooped wearily on the backs of the herd, tongues flickering frantically.
The rest were black shadows, flickering in and out, staying low to avoid the smoke and the embers; and there was a lone white shape among them.
The animals beat against him, they fled with him, they pounded against his skull
save us, save us, fix it fix it fix it
and he knew, he
knew, because he could
taste it, because the wise wolves who swiftly padded the perimeter with their noses to the ground smelled the Sweat and the Burnt Bones and screamed
man, man, man And then there was - Cold - Frosted fingers down his Spine.
And he knew.
With the flick of a pen.
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He has stopped running, and he could not remember when. He knows only that he has stopped, because he cannot make this noise while he is
Running.
He cannot Sing as he Runs.
It begins as a low moan, and it lifts to the bugle that the Elks make, and even as they mill about him in confusion they answer him, lowing, mingling, gathering to him, staring at him, daring to not - quite - touch him. The wolves lift their heads to choke out in their own voices; the crows whisper and racket. Whatever gathers that can speak, will speak, does speak, even as Catch's voice lifts. Ragged, at first, but then it smooths -
And another voice joins.
And another.
And there are three voices, together, in harmony, a Tenor and a Bass, a woman's Soprano, all emerging from the same throat, pounding together with the riotous Animals' call. It crept upward, and upward, above the roar of Flame - above the howl of ruined trees -
______________________
A man and a Raven might hear it first, before the Town ever would. It does not sound of natural make; a low howl, at first, an effect of the fire, some new or horrible effect of the Fire's flames. But it does not disappear, the way a falling tree-giant might, or a pocket of trapped beasts shrieking as they are devoured.
No.
This
Sings, it howls, low and mournful and full of static. It clatters in the manner of a mechanic, clicks insect-wise. It creaks, and groans, and the whole World spins ever and ever upwards, as if the crank in one's chest seems to be turned ever and ever tighter until it
Snaps.
An almost physical force, soft yet fierce, a push of cool air that is only hard enough to ruffle the hair.
_________________________
He leaves them to recover. They are exhausted beyond all reasoning, laying where they stand among the vast expanse of little white flowers. Even the wolves cannot raise their heads, hindquarters sagging to the fresh and green ground, the crows scattered and sleeping like children's toys.
But there is one who comes with him, the white crow, her feet and thumb's claws dug into his mane, eyes still bright. As they forged back into the flames, she hid against his stone-cool skin, feeling the impact of his hooves against the ember-thick ground. Tendrils crept against her, gentle, familiar. It soothed irritated membranes, cleared fluid-filled lungs, drained blisters and toughened skin and feathers.
Find the Queen, he said, and sent her flying forth.
His World-eating strides took him towards another path entire.