Rose screamed as heat seared her, the burning wood pinning her down and pressing close against her flank and shoulder and neck like some terrible demon lover. She flinched away from cracked, blackened wood inches from her face as she scrabbled against the weight of the limb and gasped air that reeked of burnt fur and scorched flesh. It flexed briefly, the branches, flensed of needles, dragging at the ground, but it refused to budge, driving red-hot points of pain into her skin. All she could do was heave uselessly against the burning wood.
Then there was a sharp crack, and talons grabbed her legs and hauled her out from under what was now two pieces of wood. She coughed, head swimming, trying to pull away from the hot iron pressing against her skin. “I was not too late,” someone said, with an odd hitch in their voice, and then hauled her onto a broad back. “Hold on, Rose.” The back began to move, and she clung to it dazedly as fire and wind whipped by.
The long, scorching ache along her right side grew, sending runners up to wrap around her throat, as if she were breathing fire itself. She hunched down against the jolting, flexing back she was on until the pain seemed to float off by itself, still there but separate from her, the sun come too close. In a vague, befuddled way she realized she was still moving, and that it would be better to veer further right.
She did. Cool, sweet air replaced the beating heat and smoky haze, but her mind remained as fuzzy as ever, barely able to do more than notice the passing terrain. But she did notice, eventually, that they were headed uphill, and she remembered from the Burn Days of her foalhood that fire moved faster uphill.
As if summoned by the thought, the roar and crackle of flames abruptly boomed louder, followed by a blast of furnace heat, and the back beneath her shivered and tensed. Rose nearly slid off as it surged forward, bounding up the slope and then seeming to float down the other side. Down was good. Valleys might remain untouched even in a good, pony-led burn.
“Then we shall stop here.” The movement ceased, and a moment later she was lowered down onto blessedly cool grass. On the wrong side, for the flank that most needed relief was facing the air, but she couldn’t find the strength to turn over. The sound of running water managed to cut through the background rumble of burning pines, and she blinked slowly as her vision began to clear. She took a breath, smelled burnt flesh, and coughed convulsively. Gérard’s head appeared above her, ears flat, eyes pinched in concern.
“I must smell like dinner,” she managed to croak, and his expression eased slightly.
“Certainly not. Pony meat has too delicate a flavor to cook,” he corrected her gently, his eyes smiling. “You have it raw, with a bit of salt.”
“Of course,” she said faintly, and he smoothed back a stray lock of her mane with his talon.
“I have to clean these burns, Rose,” he said. “It is going to hurt.”
It did.
But then he began spreading the unicorn-made burn cream over her and fraction by fraction the cool, soothing numbness relaxed her. At least until she thought about how much he’d had to use. Then she began shivering, body twitching in jerky, delayed shock.
“Be still, Rose,” he said, putting a forepaw on her brow, and she was. An apocalyptic glow silhouetted the edges of the little valley, blazing orange and black smoke pouring upward to mix with dark clouds that refused to rain. Every once in a while there was a distant crack, whether of thunder or of other trees meeting their end she couldn’t tell.
She felt a vague tugging as Gérard removed her saddlebags, tent, and bedroll, easing the one with the maps out from under her. She started to tilt her head to look at him, but thought better of it when the first slight movement pulled at her skin in odd and disconcerting ways. “What’re you doing?”
“Setting up camp. This seems to be as good a refuge as you suggested, and if the storm breaks it will do you no favors to be rained on. Tch. Of all things, how you thought to salvage the tent in that inferno...”
“Had to.” Her voice was still raw and coarse, and she had to swallow before going on, wondering when she’d said anything about the valley - more of a defile, really - being a refuge. “Ground’s too cold. And ’s enchanted. Keeps pests away.”
“I had wondered at the lack of insects,” Gérard mused, accompanied by the sounds of cloth. “But it did not seem important at the time.”
“Canteen?” She croaked, and he appeared above her again, holding his own.
“I used up all the water in yours,” he said. Her horn lit as she grasped it, thanking Celestia she didn’t need to use her hooves under the circumstances. The long, thin spout was meant for a beak but worked just as well for her muzzle, and she sucked greedily at the contents, cool and sweet and wet.
When he finished setting up the tent, Gérard returned to claim his canteen and help her inside and onto her bedroll. She didn’t feel as weak as she had before but, even numbed, the swath of burn along her side and neck protested whenever she moved, and in ways that turned her stomach more than simple pain would. “How bad is it?” She asked quietly, before he could go back outside.
“You will live, Rose,” he said, turning to face her and holding her eyes with his. “It will leave you with quite a scar, and a story to tell your grandchildren. And it will make walking very uncomfortable for a time. But there is no need to fear.”
“Thank you,” she said, and closed her eyes.
She slept fitfully for a time, waking to the jostle of the tent sliding across the ground and the dull hammering of rain on cloth. She lit her horn and the movement stopped, Gérard stepping inside a few minutes later with water dripping from his beak. Aside from some smudges of soot in the fur and feathers around his ears he seemed to have escaped the fire relatively untouched. “How is it you aren’t burned?” She asked, dutifully using Alce for all but the last word.
“I am very, very fast. And you were somewhere I could get to without crossing the front myself. I would say it was luck, but with your talent I cannot be certain.”
“Oh,” she said, as the rumble of the rain increased to a roar. Only then did she realize that Gérard had been moving them up the slope. Away from valley bottom, and any possible flood. Her wits still felt like molasses, either from the burn or something in the cream. “Good.”
He settled in next to her and she let her horn flicker out, listening to the weather. “I begin to believe this land does not like us,” he said in the darkness.
She snorted a laugh, unable to muster more than that. “Don’t they have forest fires in Eyrie?”
“On occasion. But I have never been in one.”
“Oh, so this is your first time?” She grinned in the direction of his voice, finding some strange amusement in his inexperience.
“And, Aquila willing, my last,” he said fervently.
“Oh, it’s not so bad if it’s a proper controlled burn.” She yawned. “I used to map out the fire fronts back in Tacksburg. Had burns every two years or so.”
“I had not thought about what you would have done with your talent prior to the war,” Gérard admitted. “You are familiar with the frontier towns as well. You must have traveled most of your lands.”
“I guess I’ve been most places,” Rose mumbled. “Kinda like you.”
“I suspect you have had more time to appreciate the scenery.” His voice turned wry. “There is little time to admire even the Eyrie’s breathtaking views when you travel only at night, and stay only as long as you must.”
“Hm.” Her ears twitched against the bedroll as she focused on his words. “What were you doing fighting anyway? I thought it was called Aida’s Peace.”
“Tch.” Gérard was silent for a time. “It is true that there were no wars between clans, but the peace was a fragile thing. There were those who had to be protected, if it was to stand. Both their honor and their person.”
“And you did the protecting.”
“Aida needed someone who was absolutely loyal, but also willing to take the responsibility - and dishonor - from those who needed their standing preserved. Someone good enough at fighting to win without killing.” He sighed softly. “Perhaps if all gryphons held fast to true honor and virtue it would not have been necessary, but most of them were merely doing what they thought best.”
“Like Kree.” Even in her current state she couldn’t miss the parallels.
“Yes.”
Rose tried to grapple with the scope of what Gérard was talking about, and how it could extend over so many years. She knew she didn’t quite make it, but she did have an idea, especially after Scarlet’s tales of unicorn politics. Scarlet had escaped, but Gérard hadn’t.
“I’ve figured it out.” She yawned again, suddenly certain despite the exhaustion creeping into her. “You’re shaped like a pony.”
“Am I, then?” His voice was careful, fragile, as if he were fifty years older. Or a hundred.
“Mm. Everything you’ve done was for the good of all gryphons. For the community. Not for yourself.”
Her only reply was a soft click of a beak.
“And,” she added. “I don’t think you do it out of loyalty or duty. You do it out of love.”
This time there was no reply at all, and she very nearly had drifted back to sleep when his voice came. “I will think on it, Rose. I have learned to follow where you lead.”
The morning light showed the full extent of the damage. The burn cream covered a swath extending from her side up along her shoulder and onto her neck, the ointment turning into a kind of artificial scab to cover the burned flesh. It looked ugly and unpleasant, but she was just as glad that she couldn’t see what she looked like underneath it. The rest of her fur was alternately smudged, patchy, and singed, and half of the hair on her tail was gone.
The saddlebag that had protected at least part of her flank was a charred mess. She dug through it, heart sinking, and found that the sad remnants of Goldy’s journal and Sky’s sketchbook were completely ruined, ash flaking away even under the most delicate magical touch. The other bag was intact, and so were the precious maps, along with the even more precious remaining mementos.
She ached, all over but mostly under the scab, but it wasn’t the stabbing, searing pain of the night before. At least, until she tried to move and strands of white agony shot through her shoulder. The spells were still there, faintly woven into the protective shell the cream had formed, but the complete anaesthetic was gone.
So was Gérard. It didn’t much surprise her that the gryphon wasn’t there, since it seemed to be well into mid-morning, and he probably never had managed to get a meal before the fire came through. She gritted her teeth and, favoring her bad shoulder, hauled herself outside to take care of certain necessities.
The air outside smelled like wet charcoal more than anything. Though the little valley the tent stood in was still green and lush, the pines standing around them had scorched and blackened trunks and a few remaining sprigs of needles. Besides the occasional sigh of wind through bare branches and the tiny trickle of the brook, there were no sounds at all. Even the insects were silent in the aftermath of the fire.
After she had been outside for some time, sitting in the slice of sunlight that angled onto the ground next to the tent, Gérard appeared noiselessly over the lip of the defile. She started to raise a hoof to wave, but stopped as her body protested, settling for a smile instead as he limped down to wash his beak in the brook. Then he splashed across it and over to her, cocking his head.
“The magic in that cream made my claws itch, but I do not imagine it was enough to heal overnight.”
“No.” She followed him with her eyes. Turning her head hurt too much. “I can barely move, actually. But it’s better than it was before.”
“Good,” he said, and meant it. “Your food was burnt. I do not know what plants you can eat, but I did find berries while I was out.” He unlimbered his own saddlebags and opened one to reveal a sizeable stash of blueberries and blackberries.
“Thank you!” Her eyes widened at the largesse, and she wondered where he’d managed to find anything intact out there. She brought the berries to her mouth, savoring the sweet juice as Gérard poked his beak into the tent.
“When you are finished, Rose, I think we should break camp. I know you cannot walk yet, but I can carry you a fair distance. Some progress would be better than none.”
She winced at the thought, but he was right. “Just let me update my maps. And...take care of Goldy and Sky’s things.”
“Of course, Rose.” He withdrew the saddlebags for her, putting them down on the grass beside her and then settling down himself, half-spreading his wings in the sunlight. She took another hasty mouthful of berries and then withdrew the maps. Their line of travel in the escape from the fire went more north than west, and she was glad she’d been conscious when Gérard had carried her. She hated losing track of where she was.
The symbols shifted as she added in the little valley, as well as the icon for forest fires, as well as updating as much of the landscape as she could remember. It was a comforting ritual. Then she regarded the charred and ruined saddlebag and the papers inside, searching for any words she could give her dead friends.
“I’ll remember you,” she promised them, and piled a few loose rocks into a small cairn around the remnants and murmured a short prayer to Celestia. Only then did she slowly and carefully turn her head to take down the tent.
Being carried was actually not so painful as she had feared. Gérard had a smooth, almost silky gait when he wasn’t running, even with his limp, and though it didn’t actually help the dull ache of her burn, neither did it stir it into blinding agony. She could imagine, on occasion, that she was almost ready to walk. Then she would move her leg or her neck and the illusion would be dispelled.
“You said that the magic in that cream made your claws itch?” She decided to focus on something else. “Most non-unicorn ponies can’t tell when something’s enchanted.”
“Gryphons can. Though magic is rare enough for us.”
“It is? Do you have something like unicorns?”
“No.” Gérard was silent for a moment. “Aida wears a suit of bronze armor. It is called ‘We Endure.’ It was made by some poor fishergryph, pressed into service in a time of great need, when the clan needed armor more than fish. It was ugly and, in truth, ill-made, but it was worn by the son of the clan head. By the time the conflict was over, that son was the clan head. It has been worn, since then, by every leader of clan Skytalon. It is still ugly, and still ill-made. But I have seen it turn dragonfire.”
“That’s incredible.” Rose was not at all a powerful unicorn, not like Scarlet, and had never studied truly advanced spellcraft. But she knew that an enchantment that could block dragonfire took more than just history and hope. At least for ponies.
“It seems only natural to me.” He skirted a stand of trees that still had wisps of smoke wafting from it. There was nearly no understory left at all, and the ease of traveling the bare forest floor did much to offset her extra weight on Gérard’s back. “It is unicorn magic that I think is strange.”
“It’s very straightforward, though.” She reverted back to Equestrian entirely, not quite able to figure out what she wanted to say in Alce. “A spell is a certain structure of magic, and always the same one. Casting a spell is just making that structure. There’s nothing special about a spell, really. Certainly not like your magic.”
Gérard’s ears flicked backward, and then forward again. “I would not say it has to do with being special. It is simply what we require of ourselves. Competence, integrity, loyalty. Our works strive as we do and become better for it.
“That...makes a lot of sense, actually.” From all that Gérard had said of gryphons, it was hard to imagine them casually weaving spells like unicorns did. “Are all your magics from history?”
“Not all.” He tilted his head briefly to glance back at her. “When I was a hatchling, there was a weaver in our clan. She was a very good weaver, and her ropes and rugs were beyond compare. But once a year, for the winter feast, she would make a fishing net, and gift it to the poorest family of the clan. Such a net would never tangle or snag on the bottom, and always find fish, even in the worst years.”
“That’s a lot different than unicorn magic.” And it made her understand why Gérard had found her magic so upsetting at first. If for gryphons magic was the ultimate end of all their striving, every unicorn being able to cast at least some spells was incomprehensible.
“Yes.” His tone agreed with both what she said and what she thought. “I fear no gryphon would ever be able to truly accept that difference. It is too much a part of us.”
“But you accept it. Don’t you?”
“Tch.” Gérard made a soft feline noise, something not quite a laugh. “You have pointed out yourself I am not quite a gryphon.”
Rose swallowed. She felt that she should have been happy about the admission, but instead it seemed a small, sad thing. One more surrender.
“I do not mean to alarm you, Rose,” he added in pure Alce. “But we are being stalked.”
“By what?” All the other thoughts flew from her head.
“I do not know. There are three of them, two flanking and one downwind.” His ears swiveled as he halted, his head moving in sharp jerks. “Is there cover nearby?”
“Just trees.”
His beak clicked. “Then find us a clear space. I need the room to maneuver.”
She blinked, but looked around, gritting her teeth against the protests of her neck. “To your right. About a hundred feet.”
He turned and loped off through the trees as she tried to get a glimpse of what might be chasing them. But there was nothing except for the stillness and silence of the burned forest. What had seemed peaceful turned sinister as Gérard halted in the middle of an ashy clearing and dipped his shoulder for her to slide off. She hissed slightly as the impact jarred her burn, but stayed silent otherwise, not wanting to distract Gérard from his tracking.
“One is moving upwind. Meant to flush us toward the others.” Rose blinked. But of course Gérard was familiar with hunting tactics.
He sniffed the air, which was suddenly split by a noise halfway between a roar and a screech, echoing through the trees. At the same moment, Rose smelled smoke. “Firewolves,” she whispered.
His head snapped toward her. “You know what these are? All I smell is smoke.”
“I’ve only heard of it. Timberwolves - forest spirits - are like their home. Green in summer, bare in winter. And after a fire, they burn. And they’re slightly larger than me,” she added belatedly.
“Tch. Perhaps I can draw them off. They would be easier to deal with one at a time.”
“No, they’re hunting me,” Rose said, realizing it even as she said it. “I’m the one that’s burned.”
“Then stay where you are.”
She laughed softly. “Do you think I would run?”
“No, I do not,” he said, and she realized he wasn’t talking about her wounds at all. Then the first firewolf stepped into the clearing and he turned to face it.
The timberwolf she’d seen once, at a distance, had been made of sprouting branches and roots and had green-glowing eyes set deep in woody sockets. This one was made of charred black embers, flaring and dying in a shifting pattern of angry heat. Its eyes, too, were orange, with the hunger of unrestrained fire behind them. It called again, its terrible voice clawing at the air, and the other two answered.
Gérard roared back.
It was loud and deep and wild, vibrating up through her hooves and jolting down her spine. She’d never heard that kind of noise from him, or from anything, and it was powerful enough to stop the firewolf at the edge of the clearing. Then it snarled at him and stepped into the clearing, circling inward, head held low.
The second one appeared at the edge of her vision, and she turned her head carefully to catch the third emerging from behind a cluster of trunks. They were bigger than she remembered, though she’d only seen the one, and with the three of them she had no idea how Gérard intended to defend her.
He didn’t. Instead, he attacked, bounding forward at the first of the three in a sudden explosion of motion. The firewolf rounded on him, snarling and snapping, but it was far too slow. Gérard vaulted into the air, his talons flashing out to dig into the firewolf’s head, but only for a moment as one rear paw kicked straight through its neck. There was a crunching, splintering sound and a puff of sparks as he hurled the head away on a roll, digging into the ashy ground and sprinting back toward her. Behind him, the body collapsed into a jumbled pyre.
The other two were closing on her. She gritted her teeth against a new throb of pain, her burn flaring in response to the flickering embers of the firewolf’s eyes. Gérard hurtled past and smashed into a second firewolf, tearing it to flinders before the heat of its body could so much as scorch him.
The third came on. It would have been close, even as fast as Gérard was, but Rose had no intention of simply watching and hoping. She lofted her canteen and hurled its contents in the face of the onrushing firewolf.
There was a hiss and a burst of steam, and the spirit froze for an instant, whether in shock or pain or confusion she couldn’t tell. But it stopped long enough for Gérard to get there, and then it was all over. He limped away from the smouldering pile of wood to join her at the center of the clearing, puffing only slightly.
“That was good thinking, Rose.”
“I didn’t know if it’d work,” she admitted. “I still don’t know if I did more than just surprise it.”
“Surprise is a weapon, and it was sufficient.”
“I suppose it was.” She smiled, but it faded soon enough. “We should leave before they reassemble themselves.”
He snorted. “Forest spirits. I should have considered they would come back.” Then he shook his head. “No, Rose. They are hunters, and I understand that much. Wait.”
She nodded uneasily. If Gérard thought thought he could accomplish something, she was willing to see it through. He stood next to her, his head swiveling as he watched the three piles of burned wood, waiting for one to move. The one closest to them twitched, shivered, lifted up again into a wolflike shape, and the moment its eyes ignited again Gérard snarled in its face.
It snarled back and danced away a few steps, swinging its head left and right. Then it called once more, the noise tearing at her ears even as it pulled the other two firewolves back together. They trotted over warily, circling Gérard and Rose to join the first one, growling.
Gérard roared again, even louder than before, making the ground seem to shake and driving the trio back another few paces. They growled at him and he planted himself in front of her, snapping and growling. Then, bemused, she watched them turn and trot off back into the woods.
“Did you just...talk to them?”
“In a way.” Gérard offered her his shoulder, and she gripped it as he hauled her onto his back again. “I let them know we are not prey. And since we are not, they will not hunt us.”
“That...makes sense.” That sounded simple enough, but Gérard was used to thinking in terms of predator and prey. She was not. Gérard clearly didn’t think of her as prey anymore, but he had once. Presumably, all of gryphonkind saw ponies as prey, and she didn’t think winning the war would change that. He’d said before that the most dangerous prey was also the most worthy and enticing. For someone like Kree, ponies would only become more tempting.
Yet she’d made the transition somehow. And it wasn’t solely Gérard’s perception of her. He seemed confident that she would be able to garner the same respect from the other gryphons, albeit with his support, so it was at least as much her doing as his. It was a path she had taken.
And it wasn’t something ponies could simply demand from gryphons. That would be like asking them not to fly, or breathe. For the war to truly end gryphons would have to stop seeing ponies as prey, and that was something that could only be earned.