Work Text:
Animal intelligence is a widely considered topic among any person with wit in Trench. To know an animal's intellect is to know how much danger one is in upon encountering it. The hunter is far safer in the presence of the hare than the mountain lion. The bandito, safer with the carrion bird as opposed to the pale horse.
What is often less considered however is animal empathy. An animal can be capable of cunning and cleverness, but can it recognize pain beyond opportunity? Can it love? Anyone in city will say no. Trash-dragons are but cruel pests who seek to clean the bones of the glorious and defile their holy purpose. It is an uncertain thing, the mind of an animal. Those untethered to the law of lies may better see that nature’s majesty sings many tunes. Be it the wilder fury of the hungry grizzly, or the playing kits in foxholes, Trench is limitless in its love.
What then, of the distant south? Trailing in the shadow of Dema’s concrete dread. A wild left untouched for many moons, untethered by expectation of all but nine, who can not even find the care to remember its call. A lone island, home to no man.
But residence to one, cast upon its raging shores.
He trails along the walls of a cave he now names home, though this is not his home…what other name can he give it? He is weary, that much is clear.
Brow pulled taut with stress, the man– Clancy, who gave not his name (though it is known by the island anyway)– drags himself into the open mouth of the cavern’s hull. He heaves tired breaths from his lungs, slumping down when he feels he has reached the threshold of safety. Shaking hands wrap pitifully around his midsection, shielding it from the bite of cool air. Blood seeps from his tattered shirt, dripping in three damning clawed stripes down his side. The isle is wild, a cage for the world's untempered truths, and she scorns that which would gaze upon them with half-lidded eyes. These lids which drew with tired effort now shut as Clancy concedes to the ebbing decline of adrenaline, the stink of inevitable death trailing off of him like a bad omen as sleep summons him ever closer to the end.
Rocks shift, drawing a flutter from his lashes as he struggles to determine if danger has followed him into his assumed sanctuary. His animal hind-brain quickly calms as a pure furred creature weasels its way from the opening, then another, and another. Clancy smiles wavily. “Neds…Hi.”
Ned, yes. This is the butchered name which was given to the wild who guide. Taken from some long winded title of a language long dead, shortened by the lazed hand of a student who can hardly remember the lessons on the matter. They hardly mind, for to be called anything at all with such warmth is a kindness they have not known since nine wayward minds first blasphemed upon their shores what, twenty five cycles ago? Is a surest blessing to them.
The creatures approach curiously, sniffing at the exception, marred now in the island's language of violence. He opens his arms, guiltily showcasing what shall surely be a gnarly scar. “Dont worry… I've h-hh…”
He pauses to catch his breath.
“I’ve heard it all from Torch…but a thousand times now. I didn’t know lions could live in such a place. Trench’s truth, I swear.” He speaks with a smile, always the performer. The keepers draw near, doting upon him gently. The wound is minor, though it bleeds angrily. Perhaps for all the angry red which he hides behind his eyes, rather than his tongue. Getting to work, the neds guide him further into their home, placing him by the fire. They lay out the materials for him, knowing their wider paws will be of no service to human skin.
Clancy nods, his gaze is distant in a battle between bloodloss and despair yet no less grateful. There is a clouded youth in the innocence of his mind, which is miles away from here. He works in silence, stitching the wounds with an aching slowness. Occasionally he stops, as though to drift elsewhere from his task. When he is done, his head lolls backwards to touch the cool stone of the wall. A watery smile slips across his face, beaming up lazily into nothingness. “Thank you…Torch. I’d probably be a goner without you, y'know?"
The neds stare. They make no noise for a long moment, glancing among themselves. Their wide eyes turn to one among them, the Elder. He stares at Clancy for a long while, an aged sadness marring his animal gaze. He was young when three of the descendant Nine made a voyage to the isle. To Voldsøy.
She was not so unkind then, she was not so lonely. Until The First cut her out, secluded his people, and drove even the welcome green of Trench from the minds of the people. The Elder remembers them. Remembers he who sent the boy here to begin with, the sorrowful reaper with his greed stained kin. Their mothers gifts were stolen away, not given, and she swelled with betrayal and sorrow. Isolated and protected by the strait’s wrath. Never to be hurt again. Not ever.
The Elder stares, blinking once before turning and walking away. There is uncertainty among them, though he has not shunned the young prodigy, and so he may stay. In their silent contemplation, he has taken to mumbling to himself, in half drawn conversations with a phantom flame that does not exist. Clancy reaches absently to his right, pulling a ragged beanie over his head. He sighs, face scrunching with exhaustion as he settles. The wound on his nose seems to have finally healed over to a scar. His gaze slides to the neds, expression becoming more present as his mind recognizes them. “Hi.”
There is a childish joy sparkling in his eyes, drawn to light even despite the darkness which shackles and chokes his mind. He opens his arms, as though to invite them closer. Most turn away, no longer concerned with him now that he is away from death’s door. They have tasks to attend to among their camp. But one or two, the young who know not of the isle’s disdain, draw near. Curiosity pools in their bulbous eyes, felid smiles curved as they chitter and purr excitedly. They draw near, allowing his shaky hands to pet their silken pelts. Clancy smiles in turn, a little laugh bubbling from his lips as he plays with the soft fur. “You are like nothing I have ever seen. Even the stories Keons would tell when Nico let me stay with him are a cruel injustice to your nature. It must be lonely, knowing there's more but being stuck here. Hm? Well, when I get home… and we free the city… I will make sure to come back and visit, ok? Not a soul in Trench will be without knowledge of the neds.”
He laughs, a loud and excited noise which quickly bubbles to instability, halfway between a giggle and a sob. His lip quivers, the island’s loneliness settling into his bones like a gentle fog. The dam breaks slowly, tears trailing down his face as his hand shakes till he can no longer rake it through the creature’s fur without fear of scaring it away. The neds stand unsure for a moment, unfamiliar with such human vulnerability.
Long ago, before nine traitorous priests sealed away their love, the ned were keepers of the old ways. The religion, since hijacked, gave thanks to them and their peace in life. Port Vial was a welcome host to those seeking worship among the beauty of seclusion. Introspection and balance. The gentle truth of nature’s care. Of life and death. They knew how to be gentle, they knew how to show care, how to love. And for a long moment, that ancient knowledge bleeds from Her core into their primitive hearts, granting them hope of trust in this single broken boy. This boy, who knew only the cold hand of death, the wicked tongue of violence, and the enthralling sea of darkness. Who felt Trench’s gold light for but a moment, and yearned for more. Why too, could Voldsøy not grant him light in life?
Wounded animals, were they all. In the end, she could not show him the freedom he sought. But she would teach him other lessons, through her kin. She would tear him with a lion's claw, but mend him with gentle paws. And so they pressed in, this simple pair of young creatures. Wrapping Clancy in their blubbery arms and holding him close as he wept.
He held them firmly, yet without injury. Stroking their soft heads in a grounding pattern as they purred to him. Until eventually, all minds were stilled by the gentle lull of sleep. The neds cuddled close between his arms as Clancy slept. Propping him gently between them so he may sleep just as comfortably as them. Though his face was a mess with tear stained streaks, gentle rest graced his tired frame. For the first time in many moons, both he and the isle were enthralled in peace. Gentle snores (both human and animal alike), echoed through the cavern's length.
And as the sun dimmed and the time for supper arose, The Elder and his kin stared at the sleeping mound. He glanced upward, facing the shadow which was not there.
Clad in hunter green was he, the guide. The light of Trench’s love, with a cross over his heart. The Torchbearer. He grimaced, naught but pure affection gracing his honeyed eyes as he scooped up a blanket from the corner. With a gentle sigh he approached the bundle, swaddling them in a wool blanket.
For a long moment, he did not move, staring at the simple sight. Then he rose, turning to the elder and sharing silent words. And as he did, Clancy groaned in momentary wakefulness.
Only to find, there was nothing to grace his view save for he and his new home.