There was an ironic cruelty in Audric Renner’s death. Years of his life dedicated to the grander scheme, sleepless nights, the stress of political, territorial, emotional battles mauled scars into his body; none of that had ever bothered him. No, he thrived in it, needed it, needed the purpose he found in the structure of protection. The discipline of it. It took up his every waking moment so there could never be any room for that.

That thing, that cruel, beautiful thing that tied one soul to another. Renner spent nights thinking it was sick. A curse, even. Not often, not always, but when a nightmare of his mother prickled its way into the fleeting minutes of sleep he allowed himself, the decline of his father, or the glimpse of his aunt’s family and the aftermath of what divine creation suggested was love, he thought it was cruel.

Cruel of the Star Mother to create each of them as unfinished. A final piece of them somewhere else, waiting for completion. Waiting for him. He’d spent years telling himself he could be enough on his own. His body could be enough as a shield, his teeth could be enough as a sword, his presence could be enough to weather what the others couldn’t. So why, why after all these years, did it snap into him like a switch across his back when he’d hunkered down to wait out a century storm?

Why, after all these years, was it so fierce an emotion that it drove him out squinting into the rain and bracing against the headwind? Just a look, that’s all he needed, to quell this force that knocked the breath from his lungs. Like putting his eyes on her would be enough for him to ease the sudden, gut cinching ache that he was too far. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen her. Reka. He’d shadowed the girl for years, helped her train, made quiet passes past her den at night to make sure the scent of her was fresh enough.

Evergreens. Sweet fruit. The crisp of winter morning.

It had been easy to excuse those actions as his duty to the pack; after all, he made his rounds to check on the others too. But now, it seemed so obvious. The tug. The way his eyes scanned the pack until they landed on her before he felt at ease enough to settle and converse. How he’d gravitate toward her. Soften his coarse voice for her.

Fuck, it made so much sense.

—

Not now.

Now, it was black all over. Pinpointed light, somewhere above him. Maybe that’s why it felt so ironic. It was suffocating. The impact. Is this what the Star Mother intended when half of her creation found its missing piece?

And was his death her way of punishing him for turning away from it?

The earth had swallowed him. Entirely. Rolled him beneath silt and mud and roots, crushed him beneath uprooted boulders and stuffed his gut and lungs full of mud. It chewed him up and carried him away in the pit of a landslide.

Far from home, far from anywhere.

Far from her.

—

The first thing he slowly became aware of was heat. Not from his body, not against his skin, no, that was cold. Thick, crushing cold— everywhere, the back of his head, crowded up against his belly, encasing his legs. Twisting his tired, sore spine and holding him there in that cold, cold grip.

The heat came from higher. Past his chest that could hardly draw in a breath, past his scarred throat where his pulse was a racket against his wet skin. His face. His face felt as though it were its own sun. Magma hot, throbbing.

Renner, half buried beneath cold mud and jagged, broken underbrush, let out a low confused sound. He tried to move and couldn’t. He tried to call out, and couldn’t do that either. He tried to compartmentalize next, assess the fucking mess he was in.

When he tried to peel his tacky eyelids apart, that was when he recognized pressure. Pressure like teeth in his scruff, like dozens of young wolves looking to him for direction, like thorns in his throat. As adrenaline bled from his face to join the black pulpy mess of blood and mud caked beneath his cheek, that pressure gave way to pain. And pain gave way, briefly, to clarity as one eye blinked through the grit and caught sight of splintered, jagged pine.

There was a fucking branch embedded in what used to be his right eye.

SKILL: HEALER (1/5)

---

The storm had long since drowned out any sense of time.

Minutes. Hours. Esmé could not have said.

The valley had become a thing of noise and motion. The river howled somewhere beyond the trees, swollen and furious beneath the relentless rain. Mud slid beneath her paws with every careful step, carrying broken branches and uprooted brush downhill toward the water's waiting maw.

She had almost missed him.

A dark shape tangled amongst the wreckage left behind by the landslide. At first glance he looked dead. At a second glance, unfortunately for him, he wasn't.

Esmé altered course immediately.

No hesitation or panic in her stride. Just a quiet shift in direction as her focus narrowed entirely upon the body half-consumed by both mud and debris.

Adult male. Large, larger than her with extensive trauma. Potential crush injuries and possible hypothermia. Conscious, but barely.

The mental list formed automatically.

By the time she reached him, the physician had already slipped into the familiar detached clarity that emergencies demanded. Emotions could be sorted later, patients came first.

She stepped carefully over a splintered root and lowered herself beside him.

Don't move. Her voice was level and firm, but not unkind. It was simply non-negotiable.

Only then did she begin assessing the damage.

The smell hit her first.

Blood, wet earth, and freshly torn flesh.

Her gaze lowered to followed the source.

For perhaps the first time in several minutes, Esmé stopped.

Oh.

Well.

That was unfortunate.

A pine branch protruded from what used to be his right eye.

She stared at it for exactly one heartbeat before continuing her examination.

The eye was gone, that much was obvious. There was no salvaging it. More importantly, however, the branch appeared to be stemming some of the bleeding by virtue of still being embedded in his skull.

Removing it here would be idiotic. So she wouldn't.

Her attention drifted elsewhere as thoughts gathered in her mind.

Shallow breathing and a rapid pulse showed signs of shock and a possible concussion. Blood loss was highly probitable with potential internal injuries. He was also pinned beneath debris. One side of his body appeared twisted awkwardly beneath the mud.

Not good. Not immediately fatal, but certainly not good.

The fact he was awake at all was either fortunate or deeply inconvenient depending on how cooperative he intended to be.

One pale ear flicked as she studied him.

Then, finally, her gaze settled on his remaining eye.

Well.

A brief pause.

You are currently impaled, buried, concussed, and halfway to becoming part of the landscape.

Esmé carefully began clearing smaller branches and loose debris from around his shoulders and neck, taking care not to shift the larger weight trapping him.

Please do not talk.

Another branch was nudged aside as mud clung to her forelegs as she worked and rain dripped steadily from her ears.

And despite the horrific state he had been found in, Esmé's expression remained frustratingly calm. As though wolves arrived with branches through their skulls every day.

You are alive. She stated, lowering her head slightly and checking his pupils through the mud and rain. For the moment, let's try to keep it that way.

---