~ Chapter 20: Wicked Hearts ~

Roland sighed, undoing the buttons on his jacket as he slid it from his shoulders. He licked his lips, tasting the dryness in his mouth and wondering if it were worth weathering Fantine's scorn for a nightcap. He hung his coat, looking over a shoulder to where his wife sat waiting in their bed.

Not tonight. He thought, closing the wardrobe door with a groan.

“You look tired." Fantine said, not unkindly, as he sat on the edge of their bed. A small oil lamp to her side was all that lit the room, a bundled sheet of papers clutched in her nimble paws. When the two had married, years ago, neither had been childish enough to entertain the thought of matrimony for love. Roland had been entangled with Claude, and Fantine was much too smart to even attempt trying to fool. They'd had sex as man and wife a total of seven times over the past twelve years, if only in attempt to produce an heir. Eventually both decided it wasn't worth the effort – legacy was worthless to the dead. Their marriage was one of practicality, but even so, Roland liked to imagine they had once been friends. If not lovers, then at least comrades in arms, allies unified against the violent wash of the court. They wanted the same things; peace for the kingdom, wealth, reputation.

Have we grown apart? He wondered, wanting to laugh. The idea of two people married only for political gain feeling the itch of their wedding bands was too much. He kept his head forward. Every day it feels more like we're enemies.

“Probably because I am tired." Roland said, after a lengthy pause. He was too exhausted for snark. Between appeasing Magister Baine and that wilting cock Audric, running around cleaning up after Claude's messes, and adhering to that spoiled shit Prince Halder's... commands... Roland was left with little to nothing for himself. Managing the war effort had become a kitchen filled to the brim with cooks, the War Council reduced more every day to but a puppet of the Inquisition, with Roland made the liaison (or pawn) that each party used to squabble.

“I've been keeping my ears to the ground." Fantine said, setting her papers to one side. “I thought you were done with Morgan." Normally when she uttered a statement like that, it would come loaded as a crossbow. And Roland couldn't blame her; the last time he and Claude had been 'together' it had nearly destroyed both their reputations; and in the cock-based society that was the Ferrin Union, if Roland went down he would most certainly drag Fantine with him. Tonight however, Fantine sounded only disappointed.

“I am." Roland replied, trying to keep the animosity from his words. “Unfortunately, recent events have... forced us to work in rather close proximity." He closed his eyes, recalling their argument in the courtyard a few weeks prior. His mind went from that, to Salem, pinned to the wall by his paw, an eye swelling up black. Guilt gurgled in the back of his throat.

In a way, it was really Claude's fault he'd hurt Salem. The snow leopard had worked him up, pushed his buttons. Then when he went to his office wanting only one drink, the younger fox simply wouldn't leave him alone. Some could even say Roland bore the least of the guilt, having been pushed to the edge. They wanted too much of him!

If only you believed that. He heard Salem again, apologising to him as Roland cried. Comforting the same person that hours earlier had beaten him near senseless. You bastard.

“He's dangerous."

“I know, dear." Roland said, squeezing the bridge of his nose. “I know it better than anyone else. But if Inquisitor Morgan is the most self-serving bastard in the Union, I must be the second. Maybe we deserve each other." He glanced over one shoulder, and for a moment he saw Fantine as she had been to him only a few years earlier. A kind friend, a cunning ally, a stalwart supporter.

I certainly deserve him more than I do you. He thought ruefully, wondering why the words stuck so sharp in his throat. She could have destroyed him ten times over the past decade, she was without a doubt more skilled at politics than he, and even if she weren't – she'd walked in on his little indiscretions more than enough times to let the rumours slip. That's all it would take, a tiny confirmation to ease the whispers, and Roland's reputation would come undone like a ball of twine. But while there was always chatter that Roland Estoc liked to bugger the charming lads, he had never once suspected it to come from his wife. It's the little things, that make a marriage work.

“No." She said simply. He let his head face forward again, sniffing.

“What went wrong?" He asked, meaning it rhetorically.

Fantine answered anyway. “Men. And I don't just mean those of us with pricks between their legs. I mean us, our society. The Triumvirate forged life and mind with our feral bones, and thought that would be enough. Our hearts are of darkness, and it's not from any vengeful god, or world eating menace."

“Just us." Roland finished. It felt dramatic, but they were living in dramatic times. “We've been locked in this war so long I don't even know what started it. Evil Astmoor, I suppose, wanting more share of the stew than we think they deserve. But who's to say it wasn't us? Who's to say anything at all? I don't care. I just want it to end."

“It will, soon. One way or another."

“I hope so." Roland blinked, and found there were tears in his eyes.

     “If I might..." Fantine began. Her voice was so soft tonight, so gentle. Where had this side of her gone? How had he lost it to the steely and unyielding woman he met with in the daylight? “I think you should send Salem away. Back to Ustric perhaps, to his family, under the guise he is your delegate or some such."

Roland stood. He had to. All he could think of was his paw tight around the young fox's neck. They came as a short torrent. Images, flashes. Of Salem comforting him. Of a bloody nose. A black eye. Roland made a man just like his brother. Like their father. Why? Why did he do that? He was just so angry that, at Claude, why couldn't Salem have left him alone? His anger laid with Claude, but if he hit him again the snow leopard would probably stab him.

“No, I need Salem to stay here." He snapped, trying to wall off the memories. The guilt was acid in his mouth, sour on his teeth. “I need... to... I need his help."

I need to make it right. To fix what I did.

“Roland." Fantine sighed. “I understand that... he's important to you. But the whole court is talking about your secret mission for the Prince. Nobody knows what it is, but they all speculate. Baine and Audric are furious with you, and if you think they don't know he matters to you..."

“I'll protect him." Roland said, turning back, scowling. “I'll keep him safe, away from them."

Fantine was sitting at the edge of the bed now, leaning forward from the same place Roland had sat a moment earlier. Her paw glanced against his own, and he ripped his arm away.

“Don't." He hissed, turning, fingers twisting into a point. “You don't understand."

“Alright." Fantine said. Roland caught himself, realised his other paw was a fist, that his teeth were bared. He quickly smoothed his hackles down, undoing the knot of his fist.

“I'm sorry, I'm only... tired. I'm very tired. I'll think about it, alright?"

“I am only trying to help." Fantine replied. “We should go to sleep. You're exhausted."

Roland thought that the best idea he'd ever heard. He waited for Fantine to shuffle back to her side of the large bed, then lifted the sheets, meaning to slide on in. As soon as he made to move however, a quick, panicked knock sounded at the door.

“Fucking hells." He groaned. “I can't do this now."

“I could send them away?" Fantine offered, and Roland shook his head.

“No, if it's this late it must be important." He dropped the sheets and went down the hall to the front door. He undid the latch, and swung it open to reveal Claude Morgan, dressed in his Inquisitor blacks, a grim expression on his face.

“No." Roland said. His eyes hurt, his chest hurt, everything ached. “I can't deal with you now."

“Too fucking bad." Claude replied. “Get dressed."

“Claude, damn it - enough with the cloak and dagger. What the hell do you want? It's past midnight."

The snow leopard crossed his arms, pursing his lips. “A few hours ago some of our men who escaped the Astmoor prison camp outside Niverron reached the city gates. They brought a prisoner."

“And you want me?" Roland blanched. “I'm not a torturer, can't this be a report tomorrow?"

Claude came forward suddenly, pushing himself right into the doorway, whiskers twitching. “He was Nurjan's clerk. And he delivered reports of a large wolf killing seven of their men, accompanied by an otter with a small pup."

Roland's chest seized. He had been avoiding Orianna of late, afraid he would somehow let slip that their plan had killed her baby. “So... Breeze, and your Artificer..."

“Are alive. At least they were." Claude's eyes flashed, and he grinned with white fangs. “And there's more. This is a prisoner that could truly turn the tide."

Roland felt ecstatic. He'd long consigned himself to the thought Breeze and Abigail laid dead in some ditch. The thought of them walking into Niverron only for it be crushed by Nurjan's army had seemed too bleak an outcome to be anything else. He nodded hurriedly,

“I'll get my coat."

~ X ~

The pit stunk of sweat and rust. Breeze rolled his shoulder, aware of Erasmus glaring at him. He tried to give a smile, but it came more as a grimace.

“I'll be fine." He said, and the otter glanced away. The wolf put a paw to his abdomen, checking the wound Estrion had given him on the boat. Only a few weeks, yet it felt years. It still had stitches, but it looked a hell of a lot better than it did a few days ago. Several nights spent in Gohdren had done him good; a decent bed, a competent weirmother, a warm otter to lay with. He didn't yet know how to feel about him and Erasmus, but at least the otter hadn't run from him.

He turned about, surveying the room. It was dark and dim, some basement sequestered beneath a tavern. The roof was wood, but everything else was grime-slick brick. It was a spacious square of a den, with a sunken and literal pit dead in the middle. The big tiger crime lord, Solomon, stood to one side with his cane clutched in two paws. The one called Crowe (a patchy fox) stood at the opposite, the two men staring one another down. All around drunken thugs drank and bet, yelling and calling, here to bear witness to the deal being made.

If Breeze won, Solomon would get them to Estrion and Richeleau. If he lost... Erasmus and Fenton might be brutally killed.

Lucky I won't lose. He thought, trying to prod at the part of his mind where the Witchborn lurked. If only he believed his own lies. Any man can die in any fight. You know it. Slaugh always said the thing that would get you killed was believing your own legend.

“If this goes bad." He muttered to Fenton. “You do everything to get Ras out of here. Forget about Abigail, forget about all of this. Go to some place far, like Scarden, and hide."

“I'll try, Breezy." The Doberman muttered, itching his neck. “But I don't like the look'a these fellas."

Breeze grabbed his shoulder, squeezing. “Get him out."

Fenton nodded. “I'll try. But maybe you try not to die too, huh?"

Breeze shrugged.

“There he is." Erasmus said, stepping to Breeze's side. On the opposite side of the pit stood a thick wolf, as tall and wide as Breeze himself, his fur a deep red. Thick scars ran up along his muzzle, and he was missing two fingers of one paw, and a whole ear. Some chunk of his upper lip had been cut away, and even with his mouth fully closed you could see his fangs.

Like Breeze, Nail wore only a loose pair of cloth breeches barely reaching past his knees, secured around his waist with a rope. His upper body was weathered, but riddled with muscle and callous. He was as nasty as Breeze remembered.

“Shit." Breeze said, letting out a breath. “Really thought I killed him the first time." It was Nail alright. Breeze had fought him in a duel nearly six years earlier, had taken his face and ground it into the rocks. The thing he left in the mud that day had been a twitching corpse, must have taken an army of weirmothers to bring him back.

“Looks like you nearly did." Fenton whistled. Breeze tried to smile again, and failed. He barely remembered the fight, all he remembered was Slaugh congratulating him afterward. Those years were such a blur.

“He looks really tough, Breeze." Erasmus whispered.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence." Breeze replied.

“Be careful."

“I beat him before, remember that. I ain't a smart man Ras, never was the keenest knife in the shed. I'm a brute, blunt and heavy, always have been. I'm a hammer. And you know what they say," The wolf stepped right up to the edge of the pit. He caught Nail's eyes, and the big red wolf opened them in shock – he hadn't expected the real Witchborn either. “When all you've got is a hammer, everything looks like a nail."

“Yeah, right." Fenton hissed. “After you rip his damn face off we'll start up an acting troupe, you can do the comedy."

Solomon started, raising his paws and bringing a lull to the room. Friends clamped their paws down on their drunken friends' maws, people were shushed, and all eyes turned toward the muddy pit beneath them.

“Friends, enemies." The tiger cried. “Here we 'ave a right old-fashioned way of doin' things! Two men in a pit, winner takes all... or at least, some." A polite chuckle. “Now in the north, each man brings a weapon to the pit, each of his choosing. Down here in the civilised country, we're workmen, we use our paws and sweat to build lives fit for livin'!" A cheer rippled out in the den, drunks would cheer for anything. “And tonight, we've been blessed with a warrior whose name I can't stop m'self fuckin' laughing at!" And he held up a small craftsmans hammer, a squat length of wood with a blunt strip of metal on the end. “My champion is somewhat famous in the northwest. Made a bit of a name for 'imself. Tonight, me and my associate Mister Crowe here will be puttin' the proverbial nail in our shared coffin." Solomon paused to chuckle. “Decidin' the fate of those pubs you're all so bloody fond of!" Another cheer went up, this one louder.

“Fuck's sake, get it on with." Breeze hissed. He'd always hated the build-up and drama of a duel.

“My champion will be the one hammerin' it in." Solomon said, as his other paw lifted a curved sickle. “While Master Crowe has gone an' informed me his champion would care for somethin' with a little more finesse. I say they can decide for 'em fuckin' selves!" And he tossed both of the tools into the mud at the bottom of the pit. He waited a spell, then looked around.

“YOU ALL WANTING SOME FUCKING BLOOD?!" He screamed, spit flying from his lips. A huge roar went up, deafening in the small space. Beside him, Breeze could taste Erasmus's nerves. The otter was practically shaking, his soothing no doubt picking up on all the tension and rage of the room.

“Shut your striped trap, Solomon!" Crowe called, his voice nasally and keen. “You mad fucks get in there already! I'm tired of waitin'!" And he threw a paw up. Breeze glanced to Solomon, who nodded.

“You heard 'im Witchborn."

“Be safe." Erasmus whispered, as Breeze stepped away. His stomach was in knots, tightly wound, paws shaking. He dropped off the lip and fell into the mud, bare feet squelching as they crushed the filth. The hammer laid to his right, a few feet away. The sickle was nearer. Rules dictated they could go for the weapon after the fight was called. Breeze stood, watching as Nail dropped in on the other side.

“Thought I killed you already!" Breeze cried.

“I don't die easy." Nail snapped back, snarling. Now they were in the pit, the roar of the crowd had drowned away, left up above. It was difficult to hear much of anything, the sheer walls bouncing their own sounds around.

Breeze stood, knees bent, paws hanging open by his sides. In the north they'd have a moment to declare themselves, to list their names and why they got 'em, and to say who they was fighting for. Tonight was, like most things in the south, only a poor imitation of that.

“Enough fuckin' delays!" Crowe called, slapping his paws together. “FIGHT ALREADY!"

Breeze blinked, and Nail shuffled forward, feet squelching in the mud. Each of them was glancing side-eyed at the fallen weapons, almost invisible in the muck, tantalising. To lean over and grab one would be a huge exposure, and neither man was ready to make for it.

Nail made a short feint forward, and Breeze didn't rise. His breath was coming in short gasps. This was the part where his memory would usually go wonky, where things would fade away as the Witchborn revelled in the pain and finality of it all.

Where are you? Breeze wondered, feeling nothing.

Nail attacked. He didn't go for either weapon, instead rushing head on. Breeze put his paws up as Nail crashed into him, stumbling back as the red wolf tried to get a grip of his fur. They grappled, slipping in the mud, growling and barking, hackles on each of their necks raised.

Breeze had heard stories before. When non-fighting people imagined duels, especially northern duels, they pictured a righteous exchanging of blows. Partner A would punch, then partner B would duck or weave or block, and counter punch. They'd make quips and dance back and forth, a glamorous exchange of intellect and strategy. Real fights were mostly two men trying to out-hug each other. It was messy, bloody, painful. There was no dance, no elegance, just two animals trying to get the better of the other.

Breeze felt his toes skid in the dirt, and then Nail's knee was in his gut, the blow landing too close to his stab wound. Stitches tore and pain lanced through Breeze's side, and he couldn't help the shrill whine from escaping. Nail grinned. Breeze twisted away from the follow up, instead catching it on the side of his hip.

With a growl, the wolf pulled an arm free and punched Nail twice in the gut. It was like hitting a sack of potatoes, with slight give but mostly firmness. Breeze hissed as two fingers and a thumb latched around his jaw, forcing his head up, teeth snapping toward his throat. Breeze grabbed back at him, throwing their weight to the side, slamming them both side-on into the brick wall.

A huge chorus of cheers erupted.

~ X ~

Erasmus was going to be sick. He knelt at the edge of the pit, Breeze and Nail caught in a big snarling blue and red mess right below him. He couldn't understand why the sickle and hammer had been left untouched, but the two seemed to be doing a good enough job of killing one another already. He'd cried as Nail landed a hit on Breeze's wound, nearly shitting himself when the red wolf's jaws snapped inches close to his wolf's throat.

At some point he had grabbed Fenton's paw, and the two stood there squeezing one another.

“Shit." Erasmus gasped, as Nail seemed to get the upper paw, worming his grip around Breeze's midsection and throwing him toward the middle. Breeze went, stumbled, tripped and went over, crashing down on his side. He tried to scramble up but Nail kicked him across the jaw. Erasmus saw blood. He tried to focus his soothing on Breeze, tried to pull away at his pain and tiredness, but there was so much chaos and noise in the room he couldn't concentrate.

“No, please," He whined.

It had only just started; it couldn't be over already.

~ X ~

Breeze's jaw throbbed, adrenalin flooding his system, eyes and mind locked solely on Nail. The red wolf went for a second kick, and this time Breeze caught his ankle with both paws, rolling forward and levering on the red wolf, another screaming cheer erupting from the crowd.

Nail's choices were to go down on his back, or have his knee-joint snap in two. He went down.

Nail flopped on his back and Breeze was scrambling over him in a flash, Nail flailing with his feet and fists and Breeze copping the scratches and blows best he could. He forced a big paw over Nail's face, grinding his head into the mud. The red wolf's claws were floundering, and Breeze used his free fist to hammer down on Nail's good ear, feeling a bit of give. He gave it another hit, bashing down. Nail squealed, and then Breeze felt claws near his wound. He tried to protect it, and lost his grip on the wolf's muzzle. Two of Nail's claws tore into the scar, ricocheting echoes of pain sent throughout Breeze's body.

Where the fuck are you? All he could think. He was too conscious, too himself.

He held his arms up to protect his head as Nail elbowed him, a red blur of snarling anger and hatred. Breeze went down on one knee, pushing himself up even as Nail scrambled to get the better of him. He could barely tell where anything was. He felt teeth dig into the back of his neck and shook himself like a feral. His paws were splayed and Nail wasn't letting go, one arm wrapped around his midsection and tugging up, pulling back right over the stab wound. Breeze felt himself whine and jerked forward, a small chunk of flesh tearing from his neck.

~ X ~

     Breeze was on all fours, paws in the mud, blood gushing from his bite wound. Nail was on him, riding his back.

Nail was winning.

“Fuck, fuck." Ras muttered, as he saw the red wolf's paw reach to one side. The otter's chest went ice cold as Nail lifted the sickle, raising it up and slamming the point down into Breeze's left paw. He heard a scream and Breeze rolled, crushing Nail beneath his back and then kicking out, struggling to get away. Both the wolves were painted brown, stained thick with their coats of mud and gore.

Erasmus tried to focus. Tried to imagine the sharp pain of a paw, using the wound like a focal point, tried pulling on it. He was terrified of accidentally easing Nail's agony, of soothing the red wolf and causing Breeze's loss. He couldn't take all of the wolf's pain away, but maybe he could give him an edge.

But it was so hard to concentrate. All the screaming people, the excitement and fear and tension of the basement bashing in on his senses.

It was too much.

~ X ~

Breeze kicked at Nail and scrambled away, stumbling to his feet and backing up. Nail picked himself up, still clutching the sickle, blood dripping down his face. Breeze's gut felt hot and untouchable, gore and mud sprayed across his front. He tried to remember where the hammer was, not wanting to look away and give Nail an opening.

His paw was bleeding, fingers sticky, pain throbbing up his whole arm. When the sickle came free it had torn a long strip of flesh with it, there was no telling the damage, but he could still move his fingers, so that was something.

He tried to remember how Nail lost the first time, found he couldn't. There was nothing there. A total blank.

He tried letting the pain wash over him, tried to summon the Witchborn to his mind.

The one fucking time I need you. He thought, baring his teeth. He skidded back as Nail threw a wide slash out toward him. I'm just gonna have to kill him myself.

Nail came, cut after cut, every other one just scraping Breeze's shoulders and arms. He went too wide, and Breeze came in, pushing them both back, turning, twisting, crashing again into the brick wall. He had a paw around Nail's throat, and his other punched the wolf in the eyes. Nail's free paw was on Breeze's face, fingers gouging, but he kept himself close anyway, trying to trap the red wolf's sickle-arm. He went for another punch, but Nail got the sickle free and swung the tip clean into Breeze's thigh. He cried out, his grip going slack. Nail twisted and Breeze punched the brick, pain bouncing back up along his arm. He stumbled back, and Nail ripped the sickle free, blood and pain going with it.

His legs were shaking. If he went down again, he might not get up.

Nail was unrelenting, and Breeze tried to dodge the cuts, running out of room to retreat, his arms already covered with shallow scrapes. Every time he got close, Nail managed to scurry away, breaking free of his hold, getting more cuts and nicks in.

He was panting, where was that hammer?

~ X ~

“He's gonna die." Erasmus shook his head. Breeze looked so weak down there, so small. Nail was battered and bruised, his face a bloody mess, but Breeze seemed so much worse off. His thigh had a deep cut in it and he was limping, slower than before. His arms were lined like a chopping block, blood dripping from the ends of his fingers, from his face, from his stomach, from everywhere. If he didn't win soon, he was likely to pass out.

Erasmus had to help.

But he couldn't focus, couldn't think.

Could only watch.

~ X ~

“Kill you myself," Breeze gasped, only because he no longer had the energy to think. The words were lost to the jeering crowd. He was going down, and Erasmus would die with him. Nail had fought him before, there would be no gloating, no evil quip that allowed Breeze to gain the upper hand.

Nail came in, feinting another slash but then spear-tackling Breeze's mid-section. Breeze felt himself lifted up, soar briefly, and then come crashing down, the wind stolen from his lungs as Nail crushed him from above. He went to stab down and Breeze caught his wrist with two paws, the sickle point only inches from his chest.

“No." He growled. “No!"

“Yes," Nail snarled, throwing his weight onto his paws. The sickle dipped forward, the tip slowly pushing in right below Breeze's clavicle. He screamed, couldn't help it. Then he went slack. The strength vanished from his arms and Nail drove the end in, the curved blade hot agony as it rended Breeze's flesh.

Nail wasn't expecting the fault, and he fell forward, losing his momentum. Breeze closed his teeth over the front of Nail's muzzle, dragging back and pulling skin and fur with him. Nail howled, pulling back and up by reflex, and Breeze punched him in the throat, stunning him enough so he could worm his paws to Nail's chest. He shoved Nail off and the wolf rolled. Instead of getting away, and with the sickle still half-buried in his chest, Breeze rolled after him, latching onto Nail from behind. He put his paw on the back of the red wolf's head and slammed it down into the mud.

Once. Twice. Three times. Nail, making a kind of dazed mewling sound, tried to shake free, but Breeze had the superior position. Nail was on his stomach, Breeze crushing him from above.

The red wolf tried to crawl away and Breeze got a grip around his neck, pulling him back, twisting around so he was on his arse, Nail held like a child between his legs. The sickle burned, still half-buried in Breeze's chest, but there would be time to pull it free when the bastard was done.

“Die, you fucking die." Breeze hissed, pulling his arm back across Nail's throat, trying to choke him out. The red wolf spluttered, paws flailing, legs kicking. “Die."

~ X ~

Erasmus lunged forward in excitement, nearly tripping into the pit itself as hope surged in his gut. Breeze was behind the red wolf, his legs wrapped around Nail's waist, big arms crushing his throat. Nail was trying to punch and slap at Breeze's calves, but it was useless. His breaths were short, he looked panicked.

“Die, just die!" Erasmus cried, tears in his eyes and paws bundled into fists.

Nail reached up and his paw found the grip of the sickle, still stuck into Breeze at that awkward angle. No, please. Please don't. Nail tore it free and hefted it, bring it down and bringing the inside of that wicked round edge right onto Breeze's kneecap. Breeze's grip went slack and he screamed, Nail see-sawing the blade back and forth. They were filthy, the room was filled with screaming.

Erasmus kept trying to focus. He tried, did everything he could. Every time Breeze got in control, Nail managed to get free. It was exhausting, the constant back-and-forth, over and over.

Please, just stop, just stop.

It wasn't enough.

~ X ~

Breeze could hardly think. All he felt was his knee. The cap was split, blood everywhere. He couldn't move his foot properly, it was numb already, he was cold. His arms faltered and Nail wiggled free. They kept going back and forth, over and over.

The sickle was still in his knee. It was all Breeze could think of. Had to get it out. Had to get it out.

He reached down and tore it free, throwing it as hard as he could. He gasped, the pain easing ever so slightly, the sharp heat of the blade replaced with a strong dull ache.

Wait. Breeze thought, looking to one side. Why the fuck did he throw it away?

Nail was on him then, punching his face. Again and again. He saw white. Only white. Couldn't think. The red wolf was so heavy. He was on his back, paws in the muck, struggling to find something, anything. He'd used a rock to kill someone back in the north, maybe that could work here. A rock? Down here?

He couldn't find anything. Nail's two paws closed around his throat.

~ X ~

Erasmus was choking. His throat felt tight, and his leg ached. He collapsed to one knee, holding onto his neck. He'd never soothed someone as they were dying before. He found him too late. Breeze couldn't focus, he'd lost too much blood, taken too much damage.

Ras couldn't feel his own foot. There was no point soothing Breeze if he was dying.

He was trying anyway.

“No, no." Erasmus closed his eyes and saw Nail above him, snarling and snapping, pink spit dribbling down his face. “Please don't." He hissed, not even looking to the fight.

He tried to soothe Breeze.

“Don't leave me,"

~ X ~

Breeze felt his paw close around something in the filth. The pain in his leg was gone, but he still couldn't breathe. He was kicking, panicking, he couldn't stop them. His fingers latched around something smooth, squat.

A handle.

The hammer. The handle of the hammer.

He tried to lift it up, to hit Nail, to do anything. It was too heavy. There was no Witchborn here, and he was nothing without that.

Just Breeze, ready to get strangled to death. He was seizing, chest burning, ready to pop. He needed to breathe, couldn't breathe.

His last thought was of Ras. Standing there, watching him die. Of Abigail, being used to buy Richeleau's freedom. He thought of the otter, lying in his arms, holding him close, saying words like love and after. Talking about the future.

Breeze had never been one for the future.

~ X ~

Erasmus was ready to pass out. He'd never felt this much pain before. But he had Breeze. He found him in the mess of emotion. He just had to keep taking it. If he took enough Breeze would win.

It wasn't real, wasn't real, wasn't real.

He let out a choking gasp, mouth flooded with saliva.

~ X ~

Breeze felt a surge of energy coarse through him. A lift. A second of clarity. All he needed. Squeezing the hammer grip, he brought it up in a broad arc, smashing it right across Nail's leering jaw. The lower half of his face went askew while the top only flinched, hinges made of bone coming unattached from the force. His paws went slack and then he went over.

Breeze rolled to the side, pulling on his bruised throat, gasping, retching onto the mud. His throat was burning, everything was on fire. His leg throbbed, almost too much to even think of. The pain was back.

He looked back. Nail was on his knees, clutching his swinging jaw. He glanced up, teeth loose in his skull as Breeze's hammer caught him again. He fell over, on his back. Breeze was on top of him. Nail raised a paw and Breeze smashed it into the mud.

Felt finger bones crunch.

Still wheezing, Breeze put a paw tight around Nail's throat, holding him steady. The red wolf had no fight left. Nail gurgled beneath him, eyes wide. Breeze raised the hammer, paused.

The fight was won. Gone. Nail wasn't doing anything, just lying there, staring up. He couldn't speak now, but his eyes pleaded mercy.

Breeze lifted the hammer a little higher, bit his own lip. His body was barely holding itself together. He thought of Erasmus and Abigail. Thought of them just standing there. Ras would probably spare him. The fight was to the death, or until one could no longer go on. Nail had a crushed paw and an annihilated jaw. He wasn't getting up. Breeze had won.

What would Erasmus do?

What would the Witchborn do?

Breeze held firm another moment.

You won. He thought. It's over.

But he'd thought that before. And here he was again. The fucking cycle never ended.

What happened to 'be better'?

He brought the hammer down. The top of Nail's head shattered wetly, and Breeze did it again. He smashed the skull into nothing, over and over, panting, growling, spitting, cursing the dead man.

Finally, he stopped.

The fight den was silent. Nail laid beneath him, the tips of his fingers twitching as the only last signs of life, his head nothing but mangled red pulp.

“I won." He wheezed, throwing the hammer aside.

Then he collapsed.