Mael flees through the woods, and finds an unlikely rescuer....

In the sparkling sunshine and the trees – he ran. Jumping and dodging, Mael tried to escape his pursuer. Faster. Faster! To lose himself in the underbrush.

Grunts and a frustrated groan pierced the afternoon's quiet. Two large boars pursued the young lynx.

Not a distance runner! Mael turned abruptly and ducked into a large stand of bushes. His slender feline form slipped between the dense growths of thin branches. He held a paw over his muzzle, his tense whiskers escaping and bending around his fingers. Quiet.

He closed his eyes, concentrating. Mael needed to remain hidden. He might be far enough away to escape the boars' notice. Hopefully, he was downwind enough that the poorly-sighted furs would not scent him out.

He had escaped the dangerous pits. The mud and the grime were behind him. He must get away. Otherwise, he would be tortured or even executed as an "example" to the other laborers.

Laborers - more like slaves.

Like many others, he had escaped his war-torn land and reached these cold shores. This foreign land. Now those who had escaped death by war, found death by labor. His species, the Eurasian lynx was well adapted to the cold here.

Adapted. Unlike some of the others. With his eyes closed, Mael could see their faces. Frozen by death and by cold... smeared with the grime of their work. No one left. No one he knew. Only nameless faces, already dead, even as they still worked.

He would not go back to that. He could not. Everyone he'd ever known was either dead or likely dead.

Mael held his muzzle tightly again as the boar guard smacked his spear at nearby undergrowth. Can't let the boar smell lynx breath.

"Anything?" called a distant voice.

"Nothing" grunted the nearby boar to himself. "No!" he called louder to the other boar.

He was even closer than Mael had thought. Not good.... One shift of the wind and he would smell a young lynx in hiding.

The dense undergrowth rustled nearby as the nearest boar thrashed over to his companion. "It's impossible! Too thick here."

It was harder to hear them, but Mael allowed himself to breathe. His eyes flicked open. Mushroom, right in front of him. So hungry... but you could never trust a mushroom. His hearing was heightened with fear bringing in the faint conversation clearly.

An agreeing grunt, came before the boar's answer. "I'll call in the Hound in for this. He'll track down the beast in no time."

"If he escapes, it will be our hides Macha puts over his fire."

Mael looked up slowly, making sure not to move the thin branches around him. He could see the two boars.

Long, dark hairs, thin over tough bodies. They were not to be taken lightly. Boars were fierce, and they wouldn't back down once angered.

"So we get the little bastard before the master comes in tomorrow. There's time. All the slaves are weak, he can't go far."

The nasty pig was right. Mael was weakened. It had taken more than he had to give to even get this far. He ached with fatigue.

The two boars moved off, grumbling. Their long spears catching on branches as they went. Weapons of intimidation and oppression more than practical fighting tools.

Mael slumped in exhaustion. No. If he went to sleep, he might never wake up. It was difficult to care.

He dragged himself up with his blistered paws. He wove and sagged through the bushes. The forest was dense above and around him. He'd never seen such a dense. Everything was damp and the light was dimming as the late afternoon sun failed to pass the leaves.

He stumbled away, managing to not head back to the slave camp he'd just left.

His people and others had fled from the growing wars that broke out. The weather of the last few years had been very bad for crops and livestock. Any clan stronger than another had been out for blood. Seeking food and resources when there was little to spare.

This land had seemed a paradise of peace.

...For the first two days.

Then the refugees had been captured and given a choice: work your way to freedom, or get sent back to where you came from.

Everyone had agreed to work. Become "laborers".

But, to keep them separate from the locals, they'd collared them. A heavy, bronze collar rested on Mael's shoulders. They had been there a while, attested to by the areas on his shoulders, rubbed down to the skin. Sores that never fully healed lay under the collar.

Besides the collars, they had found that while they were "paid," it was not enough to cover the meager food and shelter they were provided. A laborer would never become free. They had become slaves. Bound servants who would never walk among free furs again. Collared servants to Macha, the lizard lord.

The collar that was dragging him down. Slowing him. But he could not remove it. There was no way.

His footsteps dragged on. Slowly. Painfully on sore feet. Calluses on the footpaws could only give so much protection.

Mael heard a distant sound. Pursuit?

No. Water.

He needed to drink. He needed to eat, He needed rest. One out of the three would be a start.

A distant shriek.

But it was some little feral, crying its last moments in the jaws of a predator.

Mael shuddered and tread heavily to the water. It was cooling on his pained footpaws. He drank deeply. It made him even colder in the growing gloom, but it was needed anyway.

He rested by the stream for several minutes. No. He needed to continue.

The Hound would come.

None of the slaves even knew if he had a name. The Hound. Even the thought of the word made Mael shiver. He was some hound who had seen years of war and strife some said. Others said he'd had his tongue cut out by the lizard masters, punishment for a witty tongue.

Whatever the case, he never said a word. Not within any slave's hearing at least.

The Hound just glared around him. Even his eyes carried a deadly silence. Occasionally, he would request a slave be brought to him. The slave would vanish as if they had never existed.

Mael might become the same way. He hauled himself up to his footpaws and walked his way through the stream. Upstream.

Wash it away. Cover the tracks. Cover the scent.

Somehow, his weary mind held onto that.... Cover it. Cover himself.

Something smelly ahead. It was filthy and reeked.

Mael was rolling in it, only focused on the thoughts of "cover it...cover myself". He finally realized it was the large carcass of a feral deer.

Eagerly, his muzzle sank towards the mess. One bite - and he coughed it out.

It was too far gone. The healthy flesh and tissue had paled and grayed with age in the damp forest. Whatever he ate, would only make him sicker... weaker.

He still tried to nip at a few of the "better-looking" spots. So hungry. Surely there was something?

He got some of it down, fighting the smell. Hopefully it wouldn't make him ill.

A faint sound in the distance. It melded with the trickle of water as Mael lay back, trying to relax. Something... something was coming!

A distant bay. A hound. Several hounds.

The Hound.

He was on his trail.

And here he was, relaxing his footpaws.

He jumped up, fear again driving him, and took off up the stream.

The stream branched and he chose randomly, hurtling on legs too weary to run. Legs too tense with fear to collapse.

Branches along the bank grabbed at the rags on his back. Rags filthy with sweat and mining muck. Rags made even filthier from the dead deer.

In the distance, baying hounds. Feral hounds handled by the Hound himself. A killer, set into every inch of his wicked being.

It started to rain.

"Again?" Mael faintly wailed between gasping breaths.

Lynxes are better than some feline species at managing distances, but at heart, they are all short-distance sprinters. Paired with his weariness and months of poor living conditions, he was nearing exhaustion.

The stream branched again, and the rain fell steadily.

Mael was a Eurasian lynx. A species accustomed to the cold, but he was soon drenched in the rains. So much for a scent cover from the carcass.

Running. But it wasn't running. He stumbled awkwardly through the water. His vision wavered.

Which branch of the stream had he taken? Mael could not remember.

He stumbled onwards, then he bumped into something and fell.

Oops! Make that bumped into someone.

A fur stood there? In the stream?

Mael's vision wobbled. The Hound! He swatted a paw weakly, crying out in fear.

A terrible sound escaped the fur.

And Mael's tenuous grasp on consciousness left.


***


Dragging. Mael woke to his heels dragging through the mud.

"Noo-ooo!" he yowled and struggled.

"Hold still, will you?!" said an exasperated voice. "Uugh!"

Mael was dropped to the mud and the rotting leaves. It squished around him, melding with his fur.

"Don't kill me!" begged Mael. He scrabbled helplessly in the mud, but made no progress away.

"Damn it, boy! I'm not going to kill you!" said the fur in the dreary light. "I'm taking you home with me. Unless you'd rather die out here in the rain."

Mael shuddered. The Hound was going to eat him?! "Don't eat me, Hound!" he begged shamelessly.

"Hound? I'm not a hound. Can't you tell? ...Well, maybe you can't in this light."

Not the Hound? Mael was too exhausted to think clearly. What did that mean?

"Come with me, boy. I'll get you fixed up."

Mael slumped to the ground in exhaustion. He was awake, but barely conscious as a grumbling fur again dragged him though the mud.


***


A dish clunked down across the room. A warm bed. Dry. Mael slowly woke.

"Mom?" he mumbled rubbing closed eyes. "I had a terrible nightmare. I thought I'd never wake. We were slaves, and it was so cold...."

"No dream from the looks of it, boy," some fur grumbled.

Mael's eyes snapped open. He wanted to die.

It had all been true.

The slaves, the mining pits. The overseers. The Hound, even the lizard masters. The deaths.

"Here, some broth."

Mael's eyes finally focused.

An old stag with an enormous rack of antlers stood frowning at him. He had a reddish coat and grayer neckfur. Red deer, a large species.

Mael blinked in fatigued shock. "How...?" he started. "Where...?"

The stag frowned, "You tell me. I was hurrying home in the rain, and you ran into me as I crossed the little bridge."

Mael groaned, remembering the wet rain and running into the Hound. No... into this fur? "I ran into you?" he whispered.

The red stag snorted. "Almost took away the rest of my years too. You reeked like a dead thing and swung your paws at me!"

Mael shivered. "Sorry, I thought you were... the Hound."

"Who?"

If the stag had never heard of the Hound, then it was best not to tell him.

Mael instead shrugged. "I should go..." he mumbled.

"Oh no you don't, little idiot!" he huffed. "Drink this first and then sleep before you kill yourself in this rain!"

Mael took the worn wooden cup offered him. Warm soup. Vegetable, but it was food. Warmth streamed into him.

"Youngsters these days," grumbled the stag. "Whatever came over you to run around in weather like this?"

Mael shrugged. Couldn't the stag see he had a slave's collar on? Mael looked up, out of the cup of life-bringing soup.

The stag watched him. Sort of. His eyes were clouded and he held a long staff in his hoof.

"Are you blind?" Mael asked softly.

"What a question! Out of the mouth of babes!" He sat down near the bed. "I can see... some anyway.... Well, I couldn't even tell what species you were until we were almost to my cabin. Too dark. Then I got a sniff of you."

Mael looked around. A warm and comfortable cabin, but tiny. Really there was only room for one. One bed. Mael was in it.

"I'm sorry!" Mael weakly apologized. "I'm in your bed!"

The stag sighed and pushed Mael's struggling form back into the bed. "Fine, fine. Just get better. I don't want your death on my hands.... I don't even know if I would have helped you if I'd known you were... a predator."

Mael sank into the bed, putting the cup aside. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

Even among furs, there was still a wide division between the predator and prey species. Only in forced situations, like in the slave pits, would they mingle.

"You can't help what you are.... I guess." The stag shrugged, "You're still a kit or something aren't you?"

Mael sighed, "Yes, sir. I'm 14 this year."

"Fine. Where are your parents, then? I'll find a way to contact them to get you."

"I... uh...."

"Well? You're not a runaway are you? ...Hard enough to survive these days without leaving too early."

"No.... I...." Mael sighed, he'd find out soon anyway. He fumbled with his slave collar. "I'm a slave from the mining pits.... I ran away from there."

"Oh?" the stag looked a little stunned. "I had heard rumors.... I thought.... It's a good ways from here though.... And your parents?" he asked leaning forward.

"My parents.... I don't know. I'm sorry, I really don't." Mael babbled. "We came ashore and it was great. But then we were all slaves. The lizards were pleased with Mom and Dad. We Eurasian lynxes are strong. They got sent off to... more difficult jobs. Dangerous jobs. I don't know where. I was sent to the pits until I get older. If I survive that long." Mael took a deep breath, "I escaped and I don't want to go back! Please don't send me back, Mr. Stag! Please?"

The stag leaned back and blinked, "You don't have anywhere but back to the pits?"

"No.... Just please don't send me back! I'll leave as soon as I can! You won't have to worry."

The stag shook his large set of antlers. "Look, kid. I'm not about to send any youngling to some slave pit. No matter what species.... No matter what predators have done in the past...." he trailed off.

Mael watched, unable to bear the burden of hope.

The stag grimaced, "Fine! You stay until you're better, then you leave."

Mael nodded. But when stag squinted his eyes uncertainly he replied firmly, "Yes. Thank you! Thank you so much, Mr. Stag!"

The stag huffed, "I have a name, you know. Call me Finn."

"Okay," Mael said humbly. "Um... Mr. Finn?"

"Just Finn."

"Finn? Thank you again for helping me... I'm sorry I," he yawned, "I'm sorry I...."

"Just go to sleep, little one. I don't mind sleeping in the chair." A dim figure leaned over Mael. tucking in a blanket, "You're safe here. Sleep."


***


A blanket was thrown over him. Then another one. Mael woke when the pressure of several blankets piled on him.

Under the smothering blankets, he struggled weakly. The stag, Finn had changed his mind and had decided to kill him?!

"Shh! Be quiet! Someone's coming! Might be looking for you." Finn's urgent whisper reached the panicking lynx, and he stilled beneath the weight.

Seconds passed.

Mael could hear Finn moving around the cabin.

There was pounding on the door.

"What!" griped Finn, loudly. "What possible business could you have with me at this hour?"

"Open up! We're looking for a dangerous fugitive in the area! Have you seen anyone suspicious?"

"Dangerous?" Finn managed to sound fairly senile. "No.... No one dangerous."

"O-pen the door!" demanded a second voice. More pounding at the door.

Mael shivered under the blankets.

The door opened.

No.

Mael wanted to flee, but instead froze. Too scared to move.

Finn... could he be trusted at all?

"Step back! I'm not about to let some strange fur in my house! What is this urgent business? It's barely dawn!"

"Sorry, sir. We're searching for a dangerous fugitive. We need to take a look around."

"Oh, no you don't" said Finn, his voice dropping threateningly. "This is -my- house. I'm not letting any fur in without my say!"

"Then let us in?"

"...No."

The strange voice outside growled, "What you got in there, old-timer?"

"Does it look like my cabin has room for two?!"

There was a low response.

"If you look over my shoulder, I'm sure you can see everything in there. I think I would notice if some fur was hiding here!"

I heard furs shifting. Some fur snuffled, sampling the air.

"Ugh! What is that smell?!"

"So rude! I'm cooking down some dyes for my trade. Morning's the best time you know.... Would you like to see some of my wares? I make stained woodwork here. Bowls, cups, plates. ...No you still can't some in. My space! Mine!"

A fur coughed and choked, "No! Never mind!" The fur's voice moved away, "You haven't seen anyone? Anyone dangerous? He's a deadly predator. Killed already they say...."

"Nope. Should I let someone know if I do?"

"Just let the magistrate know... somehow. Macha.... Ugh.... egad.... I'm gonna be sick!" the voice faded in the distance, gagging.

Mael trembled in relief under the hot blankets.

"He's gone. Pathetic excuse for furs. Violence written all over them. I don't have to see clearly to tell that!"

Mael whimpered under the blankets.

"Let me get those blankets. I had to put on so many so there would be no sign of you. No one questions an old fur's need for warmth at night."

Mael sobbed in relief as the last blanket came off his head. He reached up and unthinkingly grabbed the stag's neck.

"Wha?!" the big male started in alarm. Slowly, he relaxed into the hug.

Mael clung to the herbivore's neck, nosing into the fur at his shoulder and shuddering with deep sobs. Then he coughed and dropped his arms as he coughed more.

"Oh! Hold on! I need to get that thing off the stove!"

"What is that, really?" Mael asked, gasping for air as Finn swung the door in the dawn light to air out the cabin.

The red deer stag smiled, and his face suddenly lightened and seemed younger. Less severe. "Just something I keep ready for unwanted visitors. It's so quick to take effect, too."

"Thanks," Mael managed before he sank into oblivion again.

The big stag above him sighed. "What am I thinking taking in a brat like this?"


***


Mael quickly recovered. Finn grumbled about the power of youth as he finally managed to work the trick lock on Mael's bronze collar. When Mael felt he had recovered enough to... manage, he told the stag that he felt strong enough to go.

"No, no, no. You're still too weak to leave." The stag was very firm.

Mael stayed longer. He ate what the stag ate, insisting that fur lynxes were different than feral lynxes and could survive on any food available. He had told Finn that they had never gotten meat in the pits either. "Too much rich food makes for a lazy slave," Mael had imitated the boars.

Finn had just shrugged.

After several nights, Mael insisted that old stag bones should rest in the bed, and a young lynx could sleep in the single chair.

Time passed. Mael recovered. He managed to occasionally catch small feral creatures to supplement his diet. Each time he suggested leaving, Finn insisted he needed help with his work that day.

Eventually, Mael stopped asking and the two fell into a companionable rhythm. Mael learned the old stag's trade. He became well-skilled in wood-carving and staining. Mael even learned how to carve designs in the wood, at Finn's careful direction. The old red deer had adapted well to having such poor sight and could easily review Mael's designs through his hoofed fingers.

When the weather got colder, they shared the bed. Nothing strange. By then they had simply become accustomed to each other in the tiny cabin and needed to sleep.

Mael never asked to stay, and Finn never offered him a place. Neither of them brought up Mael's leaving.

Days.... Weeks.... Months.... And eventually even a few years.

Customers and traders visited the strange pair in the woods. They sought the unique woodwork Finn could offer and simply saw an aging stag and his young apprentice. They often seemed impressed the two could even live together, given their species types.

Mael's days were peaceful. He worked with Finn, he ate with Finn. Mael grew strong, as a young lynx should, even as Finn's eyes grew worse. The grumpy stag became more cheerful as his loneliness was alleviated.

Days on end passed. In peace.