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Betony
The thorn had gone deep into Betony’s nearside forefoot. He'd thought he'd worked it loose: the puncture wound had bled well enough to suggest so. And yet, three days later, his foot still troubled him. It was warm to the touch, sore, and the wound oozed a foul smelling fluid. He ignored it as best he could - there were cowslips on the Frith-facing slope of the hill, siblings to wrestle with, and a bright-eyed doe he had his eyes on.
Sunset found him chewing pellets with Oxeye, a littermate, exchanging stories of their day. Oxeye tended to brag, so it came as quite a relief to hear another rabbit calling for him.
“...and she was very impressed by that, so I think-”
“I'm sorry, Oxeye. Someone's calling for me.”
“Oh, what? Well, don't keep them waiting,” Oxeye said, eyeing Betony’s sore foot with disdain. “Though I suppose you inevitably will.”
Don't listen to him, Betony, said the rabbit who’d called to him. And don't worry. It's not very far.
“Well that's a relief,” Betony said. He was limping quite badly, after all. “I don't-”
A few yards ahead, something rustled in the hedgerow. Betony startled to flight.
The homba followed.
Blackthorn
There were few rabbits who could beat Blackthorn in a fight. Holly, of course, maybe that young officer Thlayli, and the muscular Beechnut. In fact, the Threarah had often told Blackthorn that he reminded him of himself in his prime. There was no rabbit more admired, and many suspected that Blackthorn would one day succeed the Threarah as Sandleford’s Chief Rabbit. Blackthorn had never been one for false humility, and although he was in no hurry to lead the warren, the prospect of that mantle did not trouble him.
He was underground with his doe, off-duty, when it happened.
“-ke up, Blackthorn. Something’s wrong. Wake up!”
“Hmmm?”
“There's trouble!” Genthurayn was twitching in distress, half-tharn for no reason that Blackthorn could discern.
“What is it?”
“I don't know! Don't you feel it? Don't you hear it?”
There was a thrumming in the ground. A shriek. A rat, or a weasel? No matter. He was easily strong enough to fight it.
And then, something that shone with the silver gleam of Inlé carved through the burrow, and Genthurayn. Blackthorn felt the weight of the entire world crushing him into the dirt.
Strong enough? No, Blackthorn. No. This time, you are not.
Nangthlay
The burrows of the Neck Mark were as crowded as ever, but that had never stymied Nangthlay before. She prided herself on knowing every rabbit there by sight, if not by name. It helped, on the days when the tension became too much, when tempers flared and fights broke out. Those days came much more frequently, now.
And yet, Nangthlay was certain that the dark furred doe who rested beside her today was one she had never before met.
The strange doe was of an age with her. The hair on the scar on her neck had grown in white: clearly, she was no newcomer to the Mark. So, who was she?
A friend, the doe answered.
Further up the burrow, a rabbit thumped a warning. Owslafa coming. What would it be this time? Punishment for an imagined infraction? Mating, she was safe from, for a few weeks yet.
Two more does squeezed into Nangthlay and the strange doe’s hollow. There was a brief scuffle of teeth and claws when a third tried to join them; more fights would follow tonight, Nangthlay knew. When she kindled…
The choice is yours alone, the strange doe said. As it always has been.
Holly
He'd lived a good life, on the down. Longer than he’d had any right to, after everything that had happened at Sandleford and Efrafa and the long miles in between. But these days, there was an ache in his bones and it took longer to chase the night time chill from his limbs. Fah! He had grown old.
That amuses you?
“Of course it does. You know what they say about old, bold rabbits!”
His companion laughed dryly. Indeed. Though there is little need for such boldness here today.
“I should hope not!” Holly retorted. “No, let them grow fat and lazy for a few years. Can't say it's for me, that life, but I don't think I'll be around to see it.”
Oh? Are you going somewhere? Back to the life of the vagabond?
Holly gave his companion a level stare. “You mock me, Inlé-rah.”
Forgive me. It is rare that I am recognised.
Now it was Holly’s turn to laugh. “You forget how near you have been to me, so many, many times. How could I not recognise the constant companion of those darkest days, eh?”
How, indeed?
“So. When you're ready…?”
Side by side, the pair departed.
Rosehip
She'd had an idea for a new Shape a few days ago, and since then had been searching for the right materials. How best to represent it? Yew berries? A bramble? Perhaps- and this was truly novel- she might find a perfect length of wire, gleaming like the moon?
A shadow passed across her. Rosehip shuddered. Probably just a crow. The man and his gun usually kept them well away, but at worst they were just a nuisance that stole flayrah from them, not something to be afraid of.
There was nothing she or any other rabbit needed to fear. Not here.
And yet, those instincts lingered. It irked her, that she felt the need to stamp, or bolt, so often!
But you are a rabbit, are you not?
Rosehip heard nothing. She nibbled at a clump of fresh grass, then hopped a few yards further into the sunlight. What a glorious day it was!
Are you…not?
There were primroses in the next field, and early mushrooms. Perhaps she could make her Shape from those? The man and the rabbit, in the circle of wire.
You are…not.
When she left, the Black Rabbit did not feel any need to follow.