{"sf1_id":2251315,"sf2_id":"AnKX0gv1","title":"Buried Beneath the City so Sweet","author":"Oliver_Hart","words":5166,"posted_at":"2025-05-10T21:15:53.000Z","tags":["Character Development","Crow","HMOFA","corvid"],"url":"https://fse.anthro.fr/stories/2251315-buried-beneath-the-city-so-sweet","original_url":"https://sofurry.com/s/AnKX0gv1","image_url":"https://cdn.sofurryfiles.com/submissions/thumbnails/6f/f5/6ff583ca-0753-4692-8349-8401a7238cb0","description":"Also lives on my website at [https://autononymous.io/authors-and-stories/oliver-hart/foxing/act-one-augury/buried-beneath-the-city-so-sweet/](https://autononymous.io/authors-and-stories/oliver-hart/foxing/act-one-augury/buried-beneath-the-city-so-sweet/)  \n  \n----  \n  \nElia takes a dive down below the city in search of Gullen, after failing to warn him of the dangerous anomaly he'd wandered into","content":"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=\\_UcMvgbwpfM\u0026list=PL9aXlzDRA49Rmp4y6Z9Si9dS2LvmTNY7S\u0026index=4  \n\\\u003eYou still get nightmares  \n\\\u003eIn fact, as the summer came and went?  \n\\\u003eAs your place in the world diminished to a small, sad little estate that you fit on your back…  \n\\\u003e…hanging onto home by a thread, life slipping between your anxious talons?  \n  \n\\\u003eThe nightmares got worse  \n\\\u003eAnd sometimes…  \n\\\u003e…sometimes you think you're caught up in one, and you don't know how to wake yourself up  \n  \n\\\u003eEvery feather on your body stands on edge, panic locking your body in place like old and rusted gears sticking together, straining to move past one another  \n\\\u003eTaking a near-headfirst dive into the sewer?  \n\\\u003eAbandoning the roundspark above to save your comrade instead?  \n\\\u003eMaybe you made a mistake?  \n\\\u003eYou make those quite often, as record shows. BIG mistakes, too  \n\\\u003eBecause maybe you not only killed Gullen  \n\\\u003eBut yourself as well  \n  \n\\\u003eYou take an experimental snort at the decrepit air  \n\\\u003eAll at once, a thick miasma of rot and sewage overwhelms your senses; an oily fog atop the faintest light that your eyes conjure from the dark…  \n\\\u003e…unreliable light, which you use as you navigate down the narrow corridors and retention ponds comprising city's bowels  \n\\\u003eYour heart accelerates in your chest. Adrenaline pumps like a firehose through your veins, rendering the sound of your heartbeat into a kick-drum playing in your brain  \n\\\u003eBAM  \n\\\u003eBAM  \n“Gullen!?\" you call out into the dark  \n  \n\\\u003eYou then caw once or twice, your signal echoing off the corridors and tunnel walls  \n\\\u003eYou wait for the response…  \n\\\u003eThe standard, coded, return 'caw!' from your kin, like a gift from the Ancestors  \n  \n\\\u003eNothing returns from the dark tunnels, save for the sounds of rats skittering around in the shadows.  \n  \n\\\u003eAncestors, you really lost him?  \n\\\u003eAbove your job of scout business is protecting the brothers and sisters you scout for!  \n\\\u003eThis is almost your worst failure yet. There's no way you can return to Ciril alone and not catch an execution  \n  \n\\\u003eAlmost  \n\\\u003eBecause inside of you, a seed of hope — long germinating in the folds of your heart — begins to sprout  \n  \n\\\u003eYou take off down the long stretch of sewer, eyes barely able to keep up with the darkness all around  \n\\\u003eThere's still time to stop this  \n\\\u003eThere has to be  \n\\\u003eYou never, ever stop your momentum, your pace quickening with the manic drums POUNDING in your skull  \n  \n\\\u003eBAM  \n\\\u003eBAM  \n\\\u003eA cautious glance over your shoulder confirms that nothing is behind you  \n\\\u003eYou can't help but feel  \n\\\u003eBAM  \n\\\u003eLike you're being hunted  \n\\\u003eBAM  \n  \n\\\u003eYou're not going to let this happen, not if you can help it  \n  \n“Gullen!? I'm here brother! Say something!\" you shriek as you tear through the sewers  \n\\\u003eYou race against the taunting sound of your own voice  \n\\\u003eAnd the speed of the drums escalating in your skull  \n\\\u003eYour rifle swings in your grasp, but it's useless without any ammo  \n\\\u003eBut your grip on it only tightens as your determination to never leave your weapon behind again only propels you forward  \n\\\u003eNo more  \n\\\u003eYou've made enough mistakes this evening  \n  \n\\\u003eThe stench is overpowers your senses, despite the lack of wet sewage  \n\\\u003eThese channels are too old to contain any waste  \n\\\u003eThey're weathered with age; in some places they've collapsed inwards, the city's bones crushing its bowels  \n\\\u003eBut the smell…  \n\\\u003eTHE SMELL  \n\\\u003eIMAGINE THE SMELL  \n\\\u003eThe smell remains as thick as morning mist, yet unseen. Its only record of existence is the odor that the years imprinted into the walls  \n\\\u003eLike an oil staining a surface sullying it  \n\\\u003eLike you  \n  \n\\\u003eThe weight of your hopelessness is heavy, like a millstone around your neck  \n\\\u003eIt feels like the remnants of the city above are about to give into the pull of gravity, collapsing in great dusty plumes, and crash down on top of you  \n\\\u003eYou hate tight spaces like this; you can't imagine what a bulky bird like Gullen is going through  \n\\\u003eYou skid to a stop and listen for a sign of life  \n\\\u003eYou'll take anything  \n\\\u003eA scream  \n\\\u003eA caw  \n\\\u003eA chirp, a whistle  \n\\\u003eSomething  \n\\\u003eSome record of Gullen's existence  \n\\\u003eYour heart pulses against your sensitive eardrums, wild with fear, the only other sound the hiss of air going in and out of your lungs  \n\\\u003eMore time spent running  \n\\\u003eNothing to show for it  \n\\\u003eYou can't keep this up, you know that, right?  \n\\\u003eYour chest heaves for air, muscles sloughed with lactic acid as you sprint around in the depths of the city  \n  \n“Brother?\" you say, jogging, body in agony, voice reduced to a pathetic whisper  \n\\\u003eYour voice echoes back at you like a Seminary-yard bully, taunting you with your own desperate words  \n\\\u003e\"Brother?\"  \n\\\u003eYour sad voice grows smaller  \n\\\u003eDiminishing as it carries your pleading  \n\\\u003eInto the dark  \n\\\u003eAnd then  \n\\\u003eSilence  \n  \n\\\u003eThe weight of gravity presses down hard on you  \n\\\u003eYou want to- no, NEED to sit down and catch your breath  \n\\\u003eAnd shouldn't you, after all your failures tonight?  \n\\\u003eFace it, Elia  \n\\\u003eYou're alone down here  \n\\\u003eJust as you were always meant to be  \n  \n\\\u003eAlone  \n  \n\\\u003eOf course, death is optional, but at this point you feel as though it's an inevitability rather than a choice you're given; like the leaves of the aspen trees that dot the forested city, bronzing over to gold, then orange, and eventually dying and molting, shedding their autumn colors for threadbare branches  \n\\\u003eThey have no choice  \n\\\u003eIt's nature  \n\\\u003eIt's yours to be a failure  \n\\\u003eA monster, too  \n\\\u003eMutant  \n\\\u003e'Freak'  \n\\\u003eDream walker  \n  \n\\\u003eThat thing — the fisher anomaly? It'll be back once it's done with Gullen  \n\\\u003eAs true as the Ancestors, it'll be back for you  \n\\\u003eYou slump against the wall, letting gravity and exhaustion guide your ass down  \n\\\u003eYou swipe away frustrated tears  \n“Feathering idiot I am!\" you yell through a sob  \n\\\u003eYour eyes squeeze shut, pulsing out tears  \n“I can't believe I let this happen to Gullen. He trusted me!\"  \n\\\u003eYou open your eyes again after some time, staring down the length of the sewer  \n\\\u003eThe channel pales over as your eyes adjust, your sensitive aperture painting moonlight over the dark  \n\\\u003eYou can see dead ahead of you, in the long-dry sewer channel  \n\\\u003eSomething resting in the dark  \n  \n\\\u003eYou approach, sniffling, brimming with self-hatred like a geyser waiting to erupt  \n\\\u003eWhen you bend down to pick up the object in the dark, you gasp  \n\\\u003eIt's a feather raven's feather  \n\\\u003eA black feather — longer than your arm  \n\\\u003eGullen's  \n  \n\\\u003eYour heart kicks itself into high gear when you look down the channel and see more feathers, like a breadcrumb trail, leading you into the dark  \n\\\u003eYour legs, once spent and sloughed full of lactic acid, churn once more  \n\\\u003eHope kindles in your heart, like stoking the embers of a fire  \n\\\u003eBut what's more immediate to you is not the strength of your hope, but the fragility of it — how, by now, it must be all but extinguished  \n\\\u003eEven now, you still feel you're too late  \n\\\u003eSometimes hope is a verb; something you practice, even if you don't believe  \n“GULLEN! I AM HERE, BROTHER!\" you call out, following the trail of feathers through the sewer tunnels  \n\\\u003eThe sound of your wrapped talons scraping off centuries old concrete  \n\\\u003eThe relentless kick drum of your heartbeat, making its way to your skull  \n\\\u003eAnd the silence  \n  \n\\\u003eThis is a nightmare  \n\\\u003eTHIS is a nightmare  \n\\\u003eYour foot sloshes into something  \nThere's some kind of viscous fluid in the channel now, making the ground wet down here  \n\\\u003eYour talons splash into the moisture — collected rainwater, blood, urine — could be anything. You don't care  \n\\\u003eWhat matters is finding Gullen, which is the one thing you can't do  \n\\\u003eThis trail of feathers must go for miles  \n\\\u003eAncestors, you were supposed to be good at this sort of thing  \n\\\u003eLoose, un-preened feathers tear off your body as you tear down the channel, talons plunging into the muck as you dump the last droplets of adrenaline you have into your synapses  \n\\\u003eAs you run, your keen eyes pick up on more than just the smoothed contours and industrial geometry of the sewers  \n\\\u003eIt's the claw marks etched into the walls; the deep gouges left by desperate prey, carved into concrete that catch your attention  \n  \n\\\u003eAncestors, this whole hallways is scarred up — on all sides, too  \n\\\u003eYou hate to say it, but at least you know you're probably on the right path  \n\\\u003eSome of these could be Gullen's, even  \n  \n\\\u003eA trail of feathers continues to materialize on the floor  \n\\\u003eWhether by luck or Ancestor's grace, these feathers — jostled loose in the violence of the drag — are your one lead to finding Gullen  \n\\\u003eYou guide yourself with these feathers; almost like Gullen tried to leave you a map and-  \n\\\u003eYou look down, just for a second, at your gloved talons  \n\\\u003eElia?  \n\\\u003eWhere are your maps?  \n\\\u003eAnd the demon's journal you never finished reading?  \n\\\u003eYou…  \n\\\u003eYou had the maps tucked under your arms so you could carry your rifle-  \n\\\u003e…  \n\\\u003eYou didn't, did you?  \n  \n\\\u003eYou throw a desperate glance behind you, staring into the maw of darkness like looking down the throat of a harvester  \n\\\u003eYou did  \n\\\u003eYou lost 'em  \n\\\u003eNo leafs of stiff paper to guide you back to the entrance lay behind you  \n\\\u003eJust Gullen's feathers  \n\\\u003eAnd darkness like a wall  \n\\\u003eThe urge to stop, throw yourself to the floor, and quit, thunders through you  \n\\\u003eWhy not just close your eyes and sit down for awhile?  \n\\\u003eYou almost succumb to that bitter weakness within you, like a bum leg, forcing you to limp through every aspect of life  \n\\\u003eBut, if nothing else, you're a runner — metaphorically, and literally  \n\\\u003eYou keep your momentum  \n“There'll be time to call myself a feathering idiot after I find Gullen,\"  \nyou assure yourself  \n\\\u003eNot that it matters what happens when you DO find him. He's probably already dead, and you will be too  \n\\\u003eAnd that SMELL  \n\\\u003eAncestors, it's rank down here, where the walls and floor seem to give way and widen up  \n\\\u003eWhat is up ahead, anyway? Are you still going the right way?  \n\\\u003eYou look down to make sure you're still on the right path, scanning for feathers  \n  \n\\\u003eYou're so busy looking down that you almost don't see the ledge up ahead  \n\\\u003eYou finally see it at the last moment, with one talon hanging off the edge  \n\\\u003eJust a fraction of a second too late  \n\\\u003eA sheer drop materializes in front of you where the trail of feathers stops, your eyes still reeling in an attempt to parse the expanse of open, unmapped darkness before you  \n  \n\\\u003eWith a squawk, you plummet twelve black feet into the bottom of a sewage retention pond — dry now, but once filled to the brim with waste and refuse  \n\\\u003eWhen you land, you do not land with any grace or composure; instead, you land on your back, your messenger bag beneath you  \n\\\u003eFortunately, your bag is filled with notes, papers, journals, and lascivious drawings, which somewhat cushioned your fall  \n  \n\\\u003e\"Sister!? Is that you?\" Gullen squawks, near to bursting with joy somewhere in the dark  \n\\\u003eYour eyes adjust to the absence of light, turning black veils of shadow to milky-white pools of half-light  \n\\\u003eThe pit you're in lightens  \n\\\u003eBroken industrial concrete, shards of metal line its surface. And one more thing:  \n\\\u003eBones  \n\\\u003eA monstrous infinity of bones — long cracked and picked clean — bristle in your artificial light. So many that you're afraid to move lest you disturb them  \n\\\u003eAnd clothes — little fragments of a person's life still uneaten  \n\\\u003eA lottttt of old demon uniforms, from what you can tell. Most of them are half-digested and regurgitated  \n  \n\\\u003e\"Sister!? I can-cannot see! Where are you!\"  \n\\\u003eGullen's voice drags your eyes up, towards the ceiling, and you look up  \n\\\u003eThe bird hangs suspended from the ceiling by his feet, dangling like fly strung up in a spider's web  \n\\\u003eTwo of those pale arms hold Gullen upside down — one for each foot  \n\\\u003eAnother arm snakes in from behind and makes a lunge for Gullen's throat  \n\\\u003eThe raven's snaps the arm out of the air just in time, using his talons to hold off the fisher anomaly  \n\\\u003e\"Sister! I cannot hold back this beast for much longer!\" he shrieks. “Help me!\"  \n  \n\\\u003eHe looks like he's been fighting against strangulation for a while now. Feathers drift off his body as he thrashes, upside down  \n\\\u003eYour eyes trace the massive pale arms down to their source  \n\\\u003eOhhhh, disgusting…  \n\\\u003eAt the base of the retention pod sits a huge, slavering mouth, several feet wide  \n\\\u003eNo face  \n\\\u003eNo eyes, no nose  \n\\\u003eJust a human's mouth — one with cracked pink lips, never replenished over the centuries it's lived down here  \n\\\u003eThe fisher anomaly flexes and groans with hunger, its length almost five feet across, fixed into a huge crack in the ground  \n\\\u003eSharp, hungry breaths huff out of lungs unseen, buried several feet beneath ancient concrete and dirt  \n\\\u003eThe razor-sharp fangs that line the fisher anomaly's mouth separate meat from bone, but you get the sense that it can't take in a whole raven who refuses to be strangled  \n\\\u003eAt least, not while the raven is fighting so hard  \n\\\u003eHence the need to strangle its prey  \n\\\u003eThe anomaly's four pale arms shoot from out of its trembling throat, like snakes slicked over in pale-blue visca from your missed shot  \n  \n“I am here, brother!\" you call, standing, panicking, already lost as to what you even can do here. “J-Just keep fighting! I'll try to get you loose!\"  \n\\\u003ePanic floods your senses  \n\\\u003eYour heartbeat pounds in your temples  \n\\\u003eNo ammo  \n\\\u003eNo plan  \n\\\u003eWhat were you think-  \n  \n\\\u003eA rush of air hits your ears before you feel it against your feathers  \n\\\u003eOn instinct, you duck down onto one knee, into the bones and torn clothes, your gloved hands at the back of your neck like a shield  \n\\\u003eIn one vicious sweep, a free pale arm glides right over your head, loosing feathers on your body like a sweep of leaves in the autumn wind  \n  \n\\\u003eAncestors that was close  \n\\\u003eYou turn around to see the arm scour the retention pond, tossing up handfuls of old bones and clothes in its search for the source of your voice  \n\\\u003eOkay  \n\\\u003eOkay  \n  \n\\\u003eA plan condenses in your mind  \n\\\u003eGullen is blind down here in the dark  \n\\\u003eThe fisher anomaly has no eyes, so it's also blind  \n\\\u003e…  \n\\\u003eYou're the only one who can see!  \n\\\u003eYou spread your weight across your talons, making yourself level across her body  \n\\\u003eAnd slowly, one foot after another, you make your way towards the mouth of fisher anomaly  \n\\\u003eOld bones and torn clothes litter the floor, like little landmines of disquiet which you're careful to step around  \n\\\u003eAll the while, the anomaly's free hand roams, scouring through brittle bone for a small bird  \n\\\u003eAnd when you get to this thing's mouth what are you going to do?  \n\\\u003eYou have your knife at your hip, talons if you have to  \n  \n\\\u003eAnd the flare pistol?  \n\\\u003eAlways loaded  \n  \n\\\u003eWith your head down, eyes glued to the floor, you move with as much silence as possible, inching close to the fisher anomaly's mouth, you can see its teeth — yellowed from age — glisten against the pale light  \n\\\u003eYou lift one of your wrapped talons to take a closer step  \n\\\u003eYou hear a sickening retching sound above  \n  \n\\\u003eYour heart stops  \n\\\u003eYou turn your gaze up and keep moving by mistake, distracted-  \n  \n\\\u003eGullen must have lost his wrestling match  \n\\\u003eYou watch, helpless and shaking, as the greasy hand of the fisher anomaly tightens around the swallow of Gullen's throat  \n  \n\\\u003e-You accidentally give a solid kick to a dried femur, taking a clumsy step forward  \n\\\u003eThe femur clatters into the darkness, the old bones rattling like landmines of disquiet  \n\\\u003eIn a snap you see an arm speeding in your direction, failing wildly through the air  \n\\\u003eThere's a hollow swoosh of air as the arm lashes out at you  \n\\\u003eYou squawk in a sudden panic and drop, hard, onto your belly  \n\\\u003eThe arm sweeps over you, sending a current of stale, stinky air rushing over you  \n\\\u003eBut you don't stop — you roll left, onto old bone and discarded clothing, as the fisher anomaly's cloying hand reaches down again, this time drilling hard into the space you once occupied  \n\\\u003eYou stand quickly and quietly, heart pounding against the hollow of your ribcage louder than gunshot  \n\\\u003eBAM  \n\\\u003eBAM  \n\\\u003eBAM  \n\\\u003eYou draw a few hollow, exasperated breaths as you desperately try to get air into your lungs without making any sound  \n\\\u003eTime is not on your side. You need a plan, and you need it NOW  \n\\\u003eYou look towards Gullen again, still locked in a battle with one arm as he has the life choked out of him  \n\\\u003eYour eyes, equipped for the dim, notice something about this arm  \n\\\u003eIt's covered in visca  \n\\\u003eFrom earlier, when you tried to shoot it?  \n\\\u003e…And missed?  \n\\\u003ePraise the Ancestors, you missed! You missed, and you covered the beast with beautiful, slippery, flammable visca  \n\\\u003eYou shuck your gloves with a sharp flick of the elbow and dig into your pockets  \n\\\u003eWhat pocket was it in?  \n\\\u003eYou scramble, scratch, search, and pat every pocket you can  \n\\\u003eFeathers, you can't find it-  \n  \n\\\u003eThe WHAP of your gloves hitting the concrete draws the free hand to you with whip-like force  \n\\\u003eThis time though, the arm passes in low, and though you manage to jump backwards, landing on your tail feathers…  \n\\\u003e…the hand of the fisher anomaly — cold, wet, and strong — wraps around your leg  \n\\\u003eYou shriek in terror, still trying to find the flare pistol  \n\\\u003eWait  \n\\\u003eDUMMY  \n\\\u003eIt's on your hip  \n\\\u003eYour free talon grasps around the handle of your flare pistol, right as the fisher anomaly reels you towards its slavering mouth  \n\\\u003eYou caw in pain as the anomaly drags you through piles of jagged old bones, concrete, and twisted metal  \n  \n\\\u003eYou try to keep your hands on the flare gun as you twist and thrash to break free  \n\\\u003eWith a shaky draw you lift the flare gun squint, pointed towards a spot on the fisher anomaly's arm around Gullen that looks especially wet with visca  \n\\\u003eThis is it  \n\\\u003eNow or never  \n\\\u003eNo way you miss twice, right?  \n\\\u003eYour fingers curls around the trigger, and-  \n\\\u003eBefore you can squeeze the trigger, you're hoisted high, high into the air  \n\\\u003eA shocked chirp escapes you as your world goes upside down  \n\\\u003eYour bag slips from your shoulders and falls to the ground spewing a few odd drawings or notes  \n  \n\\\u003eOh feathers  \n  \n\\\u003eGullen, suspended next to you, lets out a retched choking sound as he finally goes limp after losing his battle  \n“Gullen!\" you call, as if your voice could bring him back to consciousness. “Keep fighting! I'm going to try to get us free!\"  \n\\\u003eNo response  \n\\\u003eYour then pulled away from Gullen, lowered, left to dangle above the mouth of the fisher anomaly, its maw slavering with hunger…  \n\\\u003e…as it lowers you ever closer  \n\\\u003eAnd right as you start to thrash, bristling with life, is when the fisher anomaly uses its now free hand to cut short your effort  \n\\\u003eYou bend and thrash around trying to avoid the appendage now shooting towards you  \n\\\u003eYou dodge it once with a harde shake to the right, but you don't think you cak keep this up  \n\\\u003eDesperately searching for visca, you aim the pistol again, but it's hard when you're upside down trying to dodge what is effectively a tentacle  \n\\\u003eIt's no use, isn't it?  \n  \n\\\u003eThe fisher anomaly finds its target at last  \n\\\u003eYou feel a wet hand cinch around your throat, squeezing the blood and air from your neck  \n\\\u003eInstantly, air becomes a sorely needed commodity  \n\\\u003eOn instinct, you go for a panicked gasp  \n\\\u003eYou can't get any air  \n\\\u003eYOU CAN'T GET ANY AIR  \n  \n\\\u003eWith just seconds of consciousness remaining, you can no longer afford to hesitate or wait for a clear shot, like praying for rain on a cloudless day  \n  \n\\\u003eYour finger squeezes around the trigger  \n  \n\\\u003eAlways loaded?  \n  \n\\\u003eYour arm trembles; your vision clouds over, and you're forced to squint just to maintain some degree of clarity  \n\\\u003eThe pressure in your temples is immense; you feel like your head is about to pop, like an overfilled balloon  \n\\\u003eBAM  \n\\\u003eAll you hear is a slow, steady drum  \n\\\u003eBAM  \n\\\u003eAnd you're afraid to even look over at Gullen and see his sorry state  \n\\\u003eBAM  \n\\\u003eThe fisher anomaly tightens its hand around your throat and draws you down to its mouth, awaiting your unconsciousness  \n\\\u003eBAM  \n\\\u003eThe last of your breath hisses out of you in a panicked shriek that never leaves your throat  \n\\\u003eThe flare pistol feels slippery and fragile in your shaky hands, like you no longer have the composure to use it  \n\\\u003eIt takes every ounce of what you have left in you, all the adrenaline in your body, to keep your flare pistol steady as you train the weapon on your target, undulating like a snake:  \n\\\u003eThe arms covered in visca  \n  \n\\\u003eYour sight narrows, with unconsciousness a few seconds behind  \n\\\u003eThis is it  \n\\\u003eNow or never  \n\\\u003eNo way you miss twice, right?  \n  \n\\\u003eA wet arm swings into your sights for a second…  \n\\\u003eAnd blackness overtakes you  \n  \n\\\u003eYou're not even sure you're conscious when you pull the trigger  \n\\\u003eThe last thing you remember is the sound of a hollow KA-CHUNK  \n\\\u003eFollowed then by a sharp, brittle hiss that swells in your ears like a swarm of locusts  \n\\\u003eThen,  \n\\\u003eWhat you most remember is the feeling of peace for once; no longer a slave of anxiety, trauma, tragedy  \n\\\u003eBut, instead, light, like a mote of dust in a sunbeam, carelessly drifting through your cabin windows on a sunny afternoon in late spring  \n\\\u003eLike you're floating  \n\\\u003eIn the tongue of your kin, the phrase is, eset merkas, translated in English to 'I am called to the sky'  \n  \n\\\u003eHowever  \n\\\u003eYou, Elia Longfeather, are not called to the sky today  \n\\\u003ePurgatory still has you chained  \n\\\u003eWhen you come back to consciousness, you and Gullen are in free fall together  \n\\\u003eYour eyes blink open and-  \n\\\u003eBAM!  \n\\\u003eYou smash into a pile of bones, your messenger bag no longer able to cushion your fall like last time  \n\\\u003eSharp pain roars in your body as you lay there, stunned by the impact and time spent flirting with unconsciousness  \n\\\u003eGullen, maybe the lucky one, lands in a heap next to you  \n  \n\\\u003eThe room brightens with phosphorescent red as your flare's primary fuel source sizzles in the corner of the retention pond  \n\\\u003eYou… you missed?  \n\\\u003eBut-  \n\\\u003eA flaming arm — dripping with molten visca and burnt flesh — comes hurtling right at you as the fisher anomaly thrashes in a wild panic  \n\\\u003eYou make the dodge again by rolling yourself on top of Gullen, sprawled out across his chest to protect him  \n\\\u003eGullen, however, does not stir at your touch  \n  \n\\\u003eThe room stinks of acrid, burnt flesh, a nauseating scent of fat put to the alchemical torch  \n\\\u003eWithout vocal chords, the fisher anomaly can only groan as the fire spreads down the length of its one arm  \n\\\u003eThe other three arms flail around and attempt to smother the fire, to brush away the visca and stop the inevitability  \n\\\u003eIt's no use  \n\\\u003eOne-by-one the arms go up in flames, each one like a demon put to the stake, flesh purified by heat  \n\\\u003eBut you're not paying attention to the anomaly's death throes  \n\\\u003eYou can only watch over Gullen, eyes dazzled with brilliant flare light  \n  \n\\\u003eThe fisher anomaly retracts its arms into its mouth, which slams shut — an attempt to smother the fire  \n\\\u003eIt doesn't work  \n\\\u003eThe visca spreads to its throat, and the fisher anomaly's greasy maw catches from within as it spews jets of flame from its mouth  \n  \n\\\u003ePerhaps you didn't miss  \n\\\u003eAs the fisher anomaly burns from inside out, you turn your focus onto your comrade  \n“Brother, the day is ours,\" you say as you give him a light shake by the shoulder  \n\\\u003eYou pause and wait with anxious breath for, waiting for Gullen's eyes to spring back open with lucidity  \n\\\u003eHe remains still  \n“Brother?\" you say, nerves ratcheting up in your chest  \n\\\u003eYou undo a bit of his armor — down his breast — and put your ear to his chest  \n\\\u003eYou're no healer or sage, but you can hear well, even for a crow  \n\\\u003eThe faint tick of Gullen's heart registers in your ears like a struggling clock  \n\\\u003eYou could explode with joy  \n\\\u003eIt's maybe the best sound you've heard in your life until this point  \n\\\u003eThe metronome of another's heartbeat  \n  \n\\\u003eAs if on cue, moments later Gullen's eyes flutter open, bright like gold haycoins  \n\\\u003e\"Elia?\" he says as his unsteady eyes dart around in his skull  \n\\\u003eHe raises a weak arm to shield his eyes from the flare's diminished strobe  \n\\\u003eYou grip his shoulders with your un-gloved talons  \n“Brother!\" you shout, almost too excited to contain. “I am here, brother! And that thing is gone, hopefully still burning to death.\"  \n\\\u003eHis shock flows into you like a sudden riptide of emotion  \n\\\u003eInstincts tells you to let go of Gullen; you tell instincts that you're better off sticking your hand into the breakfast fire again  \n\\\u003eSo you hang on, anchored to him, scared that in an instant he'll keel over and leave you  \n\\\u003eAlone  \n\\\u003eWith all your faults  \n  \n\\\u003eWith Ancestor's grace, Gullen's shock washes out of him, leaving him awake, albeit exhausted  \n“Praise the Ancestors, you've returned to us!\" you say, excite-  \n\\\u003e-he rolls onto his hands and knees and retches  \n\\\u003eAfter a few moments of puking, his breath steadies,  \n\\\u003eAnd with your help, he stands up, wiping his beak with the back of his palsm  \n\\\u003e\"You're… you're unbelievable,\" he says, still gathering himself, talon against his temple, “A crow with the heart of a raven is a rare thing, Elia. I cannot believe we are both still alive.\"  \n\\\u003eA tired smile breaks across your face  \n“I-It was pure luck, honestly,\" you say back bashfully  \n\\\u003e\"If it was luck, it was good luck. You saved me. Thank you, sister. You and I almost ended up like these bones here, but it is by your hand that we still draw breath,\" he says as he kicks at a leg bone with a gentle nudge. “The flare was nice work, by the way. I feel like I'm at a harvest festival, except underground.\"  \n“You don't mean the fireworks they always put on during the festivals?\" you say as you look around  \n\\\u003eThe shadows of the discarded bones seem to grow fifty feet tall in the phosphine light, their outlines dancing with the wane of the flare's fuel source  \n\\\u003e\"The fireworks,\" Gullen says in a longing voice — one drifting backwards in time to memories of harvest festivals among the trees, fireworks bursting in the sky, rich with color  \n\\\u003eYou feel immeasurably small compared to the shadow of yourself, like your authentic self stands twelve-feet tall down here, and you're just a little girl wandering somewhere she shouldn't be  \n\\\u003eThe fisher anomaly seethes and groans as thick clouds of smoke billow out of its maw, accompanied by the occasional tendril of flame when it opens its pained mouth  \n  \n“Come on,\" you say as you nudge Gullen at the back with your elbow. “You would have done the same for me, right?\"  \n\\\u003eThe flare and sizzles, lonesome and loud  \n\\\u003eGullen turns to look at you, his posture rigid and proud; the face of a man who believes fervently in his cause  \n\\\u003e\"I would,\" he says, eyes narrowed to slits as he stares at you  \n\\\u003e\"I'd do the same for any of our kin. It pains me already to think my weakness almost cost you your life tonight,\" he throws a glance to the side, embarrassed  \n\\\u003eWellll  \n\\\u003eLet's not talk about how you misread the map and lied about it  \n\\\u003eGaps in your understanding of the demon's language show… sometimes  \n\\\u003eYou opt for a truce  \n“Think not of it, Gullen. I'm just glad that thing didn't get to finish choking the life out of you.\"  \n\\\u003eGullen feels around his throat with a delicate touch  \n\\\u003eYou can see the angry marks pressed into his feathers — right around the collarbone, where the angry lines are the deepest  \n\\\u003e\"It nearly did. I don't know how long I was out for; all I remember was this tremendous pressure in my skull. I… I did not even feel the terror that comes with death. I felt…strange… peaceful, like I was being lifted out of this rank sewer and into the sky.\"  \n\\\u003e\"Next thing I know I see you, and the feeling of someone kicking my head in,\" he says with a slight chuckle. “But that was not you kicking me.\"  \n\\\u003eYou smile back  \n“C'mon Gullen, your skull is so thick there's no way you'd feel it if I kicked your head,\" you joke  \n\\\u003eGullen smiles at that  \n  \n\\\u003eYou and Gullen pick at the piles of bones for your things — ammunition, notes from your tossed bag, and rations  \n\\\u003eGullen helps by grabbing some of your notes off the pond-floor  \n\\\u003e\"Your skin,\" Gullen says, eyes narrowing as he reads your work “Is like a canvas; stretched across bone and corded muscl-\"  \n\\\u003eYou snap your poem — a poem you remember writing about a demon you once saw on patrol — out of Gullen's hands  \n\\\u003eShame burns hot on your face  \n“T-that is just a n-note about-\"  \n\\\u003eGullen cuts you off  \n\\\u003e\"I figured you were a poet, but a lover, too?\" he smirks. “There is a bird in Ciril you pine for?\"  \n\\\u003eYou stare at him, wide-eyed with shock  \n\\\u003eHe thinks this is about one of your kin?  \n  \n\\\u003eA bird?  \n\\\u003eSure  \n  \n“I… yes. There is,\" you say, turning your back to Gullen as you stuff your bag full of poems and drawings  \n\\\u003e\"Who? Maybe I know them!\" Gullen says, peaking over your shoulder at your 'art'  \n\\\u003eYour blush only grows stronger as you clasp your bag shut  \n\\\u003e\"I- I cannot say. He is a crow of incredible beauty and skill, though.\"  \n\\\u003eBleh  \n\\\u003eThat's not your type  \n\\\u003e…Actually, what is your type?  \n\\\u003eGullen only nods and smirks harder, like he now knows your 'secret'  \n\\\u003e\"Do not fret, sister. Even if you are a little haywild, I will not tell.\"  \n“I will tell you when we return to Ciril. I think you know him,\" you reply with a lie, hoping to end this conversation  \n\\\u003eIt's bad enough he saw your poetry  \n\\\u003eHopefully he never sees the drawings  \n\\\u003eEventually, the two of you climb the nearby service ladder out of the pit  \n  \n\\\u003e\"Do you know where you're going?\" Gullen asks as the two of you set off down the tunnels  \n\\\u003eThis time, however, you'll try honesty  \n“No,\" you say with a hesitant sigh. “Not anymore. Not since I went off to find you.\"  \n\\\u003eGullen doesn't seem to mind  \n\\\u003e\"It is alright. What say we take the first exit we find and see where the Ancestors led us?\"  \n“It'll be good to smell fresh air again,\" you say, agreeing  \n  \n\\\u003eWhen you find a way out of the sewers, the first thing you hear is birdsong","series":{"name":"Foxing","previous":"https://fse.anthro.fr/stories/2246901-the-windmills-of-your-mind.json","next":"https://fse.anthro.fr/stories/2256403-service-foxes-and-you.json"}}