[WP10] (Half Truth, Keep Yourself Alive)

[Scaramouche Fandango]

“Dear,” she paused, not wanting to say it. She’d taken to speaking her feelings, knowing that neither of the creatures who shared her living space would mind; if anything, they offered better advice than any of the kin she knew. Granted, this advice was subject to interpretation- but she found it a comfort nonetheless. However, that didn't make it any easier to actually start talking. She flopped down to the ground next to her caiman friend, hooves tucked back against her sides.

“Dear Weird Dog,” she said, restarting. The caiman blinked and looked sidelong at her kimeti companion. “Have you ever wanted something so bad you were willing to suffer for it? I’m still thinking about that buck we found, you know. That acha.” The caiman stared up at her, which she took as a sign the reptile remembered. “He was curled up in a ball when we found him; a miserable thing, piteous in every way. What kind of kin just... lays down like that in the middle of the swamp? No cover, half-in a puddle... it was like he wanted to die, but couldn't find an alligator big enough. And no, don't ask. I'm not going to let you eat an acha. You'd have a tummyache for days, yes you would, yesh yoooou would."

The caiman closed her eyes, accepting her friend's baby talk. It was normal for Half Truth to lose her powers of speech around her friends; Rhetorical Question, less so than Weird Dog. The caiman was used to this by now.

"Anyways, back to that stranger, because this is bothering me. He looked sick. Like, really sick. His eyes were rimmed with red, and he could barely stand. You saw me try to pull him up; his legs were... like a bunch of broken reeds. I tried yelling at him, but it was like he couldn't understand me. And... I dunno, I just don't get it. He felt like he'd been hurt badly, I mean physically. But there wasn't a scratch on him! There wasn’t a thing visually wrong with him; no broken bones, no telltale bulges at the joints or awkwardly on his ribs to indicate a fracture, no blood, no bite marks… nothing. I know what hurt looks like, but this… this was a whole new world of pain. He couldn’t even talk, not really. Kept babbling about his eyes and the desert. I don’t even know why anybody would want to go back to a desert. They sound disgusting. Sand and heat? No rain? Gross.” She knew the caiman would agree, being a creature attuned to the finer things in life, such as delicious fish, deep pools of water, and the feeling of a warm rain on your back. “What was I supposed to do? He wouldn’t move.” She sighed and rolled on her back, staring up at the sky.

Weird Dog shifted and crawled up on her friend’s stomach, hauling herself up to perch on the kimeti’s exposed underbelly with a quiet snort that said I would have eaten him. “I suppose you’re right- I should go back, keep an eye on him.” The caiman snorted again, expressing her confusion at her friend’s wrongness- that wasn't what I meant at all, hoofbeast!- and the doe looked up at her, nuzzling her sharp-toothed muzzle. “I can catch something for him and just leave it there, make sure he doesn’t hurt himself. I’m not going to bring him back here, it’s not like I care that some idiot’s gotten himself blinded and sickened on a pilgrimage to who-knows-where for who-knows-why, but he was pathetic. I’ve seen foals just out of the sac better-equipped to take care of themselves. It’s almost embarrassing.” The caiman swished her tail and rolled off of the kimeti, sensing that her friend was about to stand up. Sure enough, Half Truth rolled over and rose to her hooves, shaking the muck from her back. “You know, I shouldn’t say that. I mean, I’m going to tell him he was stupid, but for whatever reason, he really wanted to go back to the desert. That’s where they come from, right? He just… wanted to go home. Maybe see someone he loved. Maybe that’s worth getting hurt for.” She said it wistfully almost. “I… wish I had something like that. I’ve never felt that strongly about anything in my life. Except you guys, I mean,” she said at the caiman’s inquisitive stare. “Everything’s give and take, right- I give a little so that the world can’t take a lot. But… imagine the happiness that’s worth that pain. I’m almost… no. I am sorry he’s never going to see home again. Not gonna tell him that, though. He’s not gonna know I’ve gone all soft. No, I’ll just make sure nothing bad happens to him and make sure he gets something to eat. Then he goes on his way, soon as he’s able to walk more than a few feet. I'm not gonna nurse him back to health or anything, don't worry. Come on, Dog. Let’s get moving.”  

[Scaramouche Fandango]

There was a green blur and he didn’t care anymore. He remembered some shouting, but not what she’d said. He had tried to ask for help, but she looked… disgusted, maybe. He couldn’t really see, and he certainly didn’t blame her. If he could feel anything other than empty, he’d feel disgusted.

He’d felt the tugging in his heart; a deep yearning for the sun on his scales and the sand beneath his hooves. He’d come to the swamp as a child, wide-eyed and innocent, but he’d always wondered if it was the right choice. Now here he was, barely able to move because he’d tried to take that choice back.

The homesickness was a wasting disease, eating at him from the inside. Termites in his heart, gnawing and chewing and destroying, itching so much but with no way to scratch. He didn’t even really know which way home was; he’d stumbled along, aimed but aimless, wanting nothing more than to go home. It was funny, for so long, he’d thought of the swamp as home, but now, no, now he saw that the swamp was just where he lived. The desert was home. His hooves were meant for dancing on dunes; his horns meant to be reflected in the shimmering sweep of an oasis pool. He was never meant to be a creature of the bog, this fetid, murky land meant for mosquitoes. He was supposed to be a swift summer wind, a polished gem in the burning night. He was meant for brighter lands and songs of fire. He knew he’d gotten close- so close he could taste it. He’d reached the edge, felt the waters receding, saw something that wasn’t a moss-covered tree! He would make it! He’d taste the sun-baked air of home once more! His heart was pounding, a rush of ecstasy in his chest… but then the tempo got out of control. Not fast, but racing. Not excited, erratic. He felt a crack, a great crack, like something striking him in the face- and then darkness as his legs seized. Then the spasms began; the fire in his belly turned to roiling and raging. How could he? How could he even think of leaving? How foolish was he to think he could get away from the land he’d adopted, the land he barely remembered choosing? He’d spent his life running, and now here he was, sprawled on the ground like a fighter, punch-drunk and staggering.

He didn’t remember getting back to the swamp. He remembered collapsing twice, thrice, tears welling from his eyes. Why was he being punished? Was it such a crime to want to go home? Every step was fire, and it took longer and longer to lift his feet with each inch he progressed. Eventually, he swooned and could go no further, falling to his side in a shambling heap. Muck splashed against him, but he didn’t care. He struggled for breath, thinking of all he’d never get the chance to know. He would die here, and that would be it.

Then somebody hit him in the face with a fish. He blinked, once, twice. The green blur was back and shouting again. She’d… given him a fish. Angrily, but still, a gift. He reached out where he lay and took a bite, chewing slowly.

Perhaps… he wouldn’t die. Not yet. Not now.

He wouldn’t think about the eventual reality, that he would die in the swamp. First, he had to live in the swamp.

He’d make it. He’d survive. He would, in the end, keep himself alive.