Dirty Paws [Warriors]

T H R E E

SNOW COATED SKELETON TREE'S PELT.

He was dreaming; he was sure of it. Even if the onset of autumn had begun to bring colder, longer nights to the mountains, snow didn't fall this thick this early in the year. But it didn't feel like a dream— the wind chilled him to his bones, freezing the air between his ribs, so convincingly that he'd been convinced of its authenticity. Even breathing brought him pain in temperatures this cold. Had his lungs frosted over, too?

A flicker of movement in the corner of his eye brought him crashing down from his thoughts. Whirling, he spotted Evening Sky at the edge of the clearing, watching him, her head tilted to the left. Skeleton Tree hadn't even heard her footsteps, even in snow this tightly packed. Something was wrong. This seemed almost... unnatural.

And then he spotted it. Despite the snowfall, Evening Sky's pelt was free of frost. Not even a single snowflake clung to the tips of her fur, even though they had nearly buried his paws already. In fact, her skin seemed to pulse with heat; the bright ginger spots scattered across her back shimmered like an inferno. A soul of fire. Those were the words Crow Talon had used to describe her less than a week ago, when she'd openly defied Feather Fall. A heart filled with anger. Now, as the air glowed around her, his words seemed more literal than figurative.

When she stepped towards him, flowers bloomed between her toes. They were white, delicate, with petals like gossamer and centers like the winter sky. If Skeleton Tree hadn't known better, he would have thought they were continuations of the snow itself. But when he looked at them, scarlet blood dripped off their silver leaves, staining Evening Sky's fur.

He flinched back, drawing his tail around himself. The ice that had gathered on his back and in the space between his shoulder blades cascaded along his flanks, disturbed by the sudden movement. The world suddenly didn't seem so cold. All pretense of winter was consumed by the heat radiating from within Evening's body and the bloodstained flowers blooming around her feet. He preferred the cold. It was far better than the fear that gathered like a stone in his chest, weighing his heart down until it seemed to stop.

She was walking towards him now, her movements graceful, the flowers darkening with every glance he dared to direct at them. Her fur sparkled with light, but her beauty was only skin deep. Skeleton Tree scrambled away, his back paws struggling to find purchase on the slick ice.

"Get away from me," he hissed, the fur along the back of his neck standing up as she got ever closer.

Evening Sky ignored him.

She glided forward. Her paws were wings. She was ethereal, a ghost; she was his demise.

Her paws didn't make a single sound.

Skeleton Tree couldn't move couldn't move couldn't move couldn't move—

And then, she was upon him. Her muzzle pressed into his fur, his skin boiling where her nose touched his bare flesh. Her shoulders shook. She was crying. He felt her tears running down his flank. Why?

When she looked at him, tear tracks glistened on her cheeks, shining like crystals as her fiery light illuminated them from underneath. But they weren't her eyes.

They were the eyes of a wolf, gold and burning.

A devilish smile twisted her lips, and she lunged forward, grasping Skeleton Tree's throat in between her fangs. They were dagger-sharp, too sharp to be a cat's, too long to be a fox's. His blood poured out in warm rivulets over his skin. He was paralyzed, even as he thrashed, his mouth open and screaming for air. He couldn't breathe. His throat hurt like he'd breathed in hellfire.

She was a predator, and he had fallen for her trap.

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The world of snow and fire fell away, consumed by the black spots that devoured his peripheral vision. He couldn't see, couldn't shout. He was falling. Wind coursed through his fur, and the abyss beneath him called with a thousand chorusing voices. "Let us in, let us in, let us in!" they sang, beautiful but eerie— the song of the winter wind.

He snarled, gritting his teeth and pinning his ears against his head. He would do anything but let them in, because he was convinced that submission meant the death of who he was. It felt like they were already stealing his soul. They'd taken his voice, his sight, his memories... and his name.

There was an empty hole, echoing and inky black, where his heart should be. He didn't feel a thing there, didn't feel anything else in his chest but spreading, burgeoning coldness. Had they stolen his organs, too? Had they made him nothing but a lifeless, meaningless shell?

They hadn't stolen his nerves. Pain sparked like lightning bolts between his eyes— or, rather, where his eyes should be. A feeling of panic, pure and tasting like iron, settled over him as he realized nothing filled his eye sockets but icy wind and settling dust. For the first time in what seemed like centuries, he screamed.

They hadn't stolen his voice, after all. Just his words. He couldn't decide if that was better or worse.

Even as the yowl faded, he felt his tongue disappearing. It was barely painful, as if he was breaking down into smaller and smaller pieces, like he was dissolving into the whispering air. It was... pleasant, he supposed. He welcomed the feeling. Words had never been his friends anyways. To be free of them was a blessing.

He smiled, even as his lips knitted themselves together. He felt happy, even though the sirens had stolen his heart.

Their song had turned discordant, disruptive; it ruptured his eardrums even as they dissipated. He didn't care. He was theirs now. Why had he even tried to resist?

Their voices sounded less like the wind's gentle music and more like voices. He remembered their owners vaguely, their names tugging at the edges of his mind. He ignored them.

"Beware the winter's touch. You never know who it might steal next..."

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1016 words
11/2017