Chapter Text
Wheezing sound, raspy.
Cough. Another.
Claws scratch at them, their arms, weakly, teeth bared in a snarl, but not growling anymore. Only wheezing, quieter.
Stops, then.
They wait a little longer, maybe not so little, but they wait, to be sure, have been surprised before, but the creature doesn't move again. Dead.
They listen, look around, to be sure there is nothing else they would need to fight off or kill, before they wipe their nail clean on the creature's fur. They think maybe it would be disrespectful, if this was a person — is it? They are not sure always, no, but they think this is an animal — and maybe it would be either way, but they have nothing better to clean it with, and they know the metal gets damaged if not cleaned. Know from experience. Don't know how to fix.
They could find someone, they know there are people who could fix it, but they worry, they have nothing else, no other weapon and no proper claws or anything if they leave their nail with someone even for a little while–
This happens more than they would like. Does it to anyone, anything else, getting attacked for no reason? They did not do anything, not this time, not most times before, maybe sometimes by accident, not realizing, but they didn't mean to offend or scare or... they don't know. Not a frequent occurrence, no. But happens, consistently.
They do not want to risk confrontation without having their nail. And they risk it always, everywhere. Get too comfortable, relaxed, if nothing happens in a while, worse when they aren't expecting anything bad, they don't want to expect it, but.
Don't know what to change.
Nothing around them now, though, they think. If there was, maybe got scared and ran off. Some things startle when there are noises, like fighting. Makes sense.
Maybe they could make noises out in the wild, to keep things away, but they don't like it, no, prefer quiet.
But. Nothing attacking them now.
They set down their nail, keep it close, but out of the way now, and look at themself, then, assess that situation.
Hurts, a little bit, but in many places, combined together worse, but not too bad. For the most part. They have had worse.
Scratches, many, all over, most at their frontside, the creature tried to bite their neck, claw their chest, does not know it doesn't work. Not any more vulnerable than other parts of their body, the softer parts, their shell is sturdy, though not pleasant when they get hit; but damaging their limbs would be more effective, practical, in a fight. Badly injured neck is complicated — they worry about their mantle, but seems fine now, only small new cuts and scrapes at the edges, should be fine — annoying, but they can still move their limbs, wield their nail. If they cannot move their limbs they cannot attack, or defend, not really.
Better for them no one, nothing, seems to realize, but. They know. They know where others are vulnerable, they have to, of course they think about it, where they get hurt, too, and where it matters most.
Scratches are easily healed. They think it and — they have not seen another do it, not anything similar enough to recognize as the same, normal bugs, and others, heal slowly, complicated, use medicines and bandages, they did not even know what those were until they met a healer, for the first time — and there is glow, they feel tired and not, only a little bit but it passes soon, they feel better with the wounds gone. Don't notice the sensations on their body once the scratches close up and disappear.
They notice what doesn't heal, not properly. Still aches.
No no no.
They worried, and hoped that it was something less, something that would disappear. But they know now, when the creature attacked them, ambushed and surprised them, hit from the side first, then from behind when they tried to push it off, get distance, it bit them and screamed, and it got their mantle.
They sense part of it, injured, and slowly reach around to identify the damage. They can't see where it hurts most, only the parts with small cuts, only some of those are new, not likely to cause problems, even if they don't like it, don't like the marks that remain, why can they heal everything else that matters but not this.
They feel more, careful, find the parts where a segment got bent, torn, worse than little cuts, and they freeze.
Not the pain that bothers them, no.
The pain is temporary.
Again, they feel more, to ascertain — awkward to reach around their side, to try not to twist the injured segments of their mantle, make it worse, they do not want to make it worse — and they count two. Only, they could say, could have been more, but still more than they want. They want none of their mantle withering.
Seven segments gone, when these two wilt. There will be a gap just behind their left shoulder, just enough to notice, to feel, and for others to see and...
Only a small gap, they think, hope. Difficult to tell when they cannot see.
No sense, worrying now, but they worry, they worry there will be more, eventually too much to pretend nothing is missing, and–
No. Something else, something...
The creature. Lying down right there where they killed it and left the carcass.
Not a bug, that much they are sure of, but don't know what other things are, most people they meet are bugs, many wild things they see are some kind of bugs, different but looking similar sometimes.
This dead thing is similar to some creatures they have seen, but also not. No, never before one just like this.
They have seen other things, covered in fur, massive wild creatures observed from distance, rarely anything else. They find signs, tracks or excretions or fur tangled in burrs or... so much. At least they think some of it is from creatures like these, they identify some signs of wild life correctly, have seen the creature that leaves the signs leave them, some are unknown. Guesses.
Long body and short limbs and sharp teeth, and a tail, like furred creatures often have. They do not know what it is, what these identifying traits belong to.
Doesn't matter much. It is dead.
Blood stains its belly where they cut it, deep into the body, that's where the vulnerable spots are. Strong colour against the pale fur.
Wild things often ignore them, leave them alone, or run away. Sensing something strange, like some people, but more often than people. They don't always know what, some bugs mention scent, or face — some think it is a mask, their shell, and that... makes it less complicated, but also more, depending — and sometimes there is no clear reason.
Wild things won't tell either way. They can only guess.
They leave the carcass on the side of the road and keep walking. Taking sidepaths now.
No use worrying, guessing, about what they cannot help.
It hurts, at first. They don't mind.
They do mind what comes after, the odd feeling, feeling like something is touching all the time, pointy and pressure and bad, somehow distant also, they try to smooth it out, feels like that part of their mantle is scrunched up, but it is not, and they hate it. Under their hands feels right but the segments feel like there is a thick rough fabric on top. Scratching, uncomfortable, feels like too much and not enough.
They only notice the patch against their one side and they hate the feeling, they try to move the segments, so they don't touch their back, but it feels wrong too, they notice the gap and it's worse when they push and pull everything aside, feels wrong where the mantle makes contact with the rest of them, stiff and too big and too present. Difficult to notice anything else, they scrape their feet on sharp rocks crossing a dried up river and don't realize there are small wounds until after, much later, don't realize they are injured the whole time before they sit down to rest and see the dark speckles in the air.
Worse, somehow, when it feels wet. Not much, but they notice because it is new, different. At their neck. They worry it will spread. Did once. Instead of one segment like they expected they lost three that time — could be they did not notice, maybe there was a wound they did not feel or see, but there was nothing else either, no sensations to disturb them before the wetness — and they worry enough now they try to feel if they can maybe remove these ones, to prevent the spreading, maybe, but it hurts, not yet loose. Not yet. Would probably only cause more damage, to do anything rash.
The feeling of wanting to does not go away, though.
They feel the roots constantly, to see if it has spread. It has not. But they keep checking, again and again. Their neck feels weirder in that spot because they keep touching.
Still worse somehow, when the feeling in their wilting mantle segments vanishes, completely gone. Feels better only to disappear completely, the sensations, they rarely pay attention to their body, rarely notice things, until they get hurt, or something else draws their attention, but the lacking, that something should be there but they cannot feel it, they notice everything else better then.
Better to be unaware, if this is what it takes.
After the feeling disappears, that part of the mantle changes.
Frayed, dry, no longer soft at all under their hands. Starting to break apart, and they cannot feel it, it's supposed to feel like something, anything.
They don't want to move. They don't want it to fall off, brittle and flaking when anything touches too much, moves too quickly, they remain still in a spot they found, away from the road but easy enough to get back quickly, and easy to defend.
They wait.
Can't do anything else. Tried healing, before. The first time, the second too. No use. They wait.
They wait in place until it is agonizing staying still — light comes and goes, normal bugs would not wait this long, they think. They don't focus on that. They watch the little things crawling in the dirt and moss move at their feet, they stand still long enough and there's always things crawling around, but never touching, maybe sensing something again — and they hear the soft rustle, not from leaves or grass or wild things nearby, but from themself, and they haven't moved still.
A part of them falls, shifting between the healthy segments of their mantle, touches their leg before it settles on the ground, and they feel the wound oozing.
Not supposed to be wet. No. They are only wet inside, deep inside, too far in, hurts hurts hurts when something breaks their body that much. Not like normal bugs and other things that bleed easily when there is a shallow cut only. Their small injuries don't bleed, not wet, is different. Another way they are strange.
They still bleed at their neck. It doesn't hurt, not really, but they still feel like it does, should, they don't know.
They wait until they feel the other piece fall off and they think they want it to hurt because that is easier, knowing what makes it feel the way it does, why it gets worse or better, knowing it will pass. Unlike this. Doesn't hurt like an injury does.
Doesn't hurt but is still worse somehow.
They run off.
***
Air is still. Humid and things, very small, sometimes something bigger, far enough to not see but close enough to hear, buzz around everywhere. All leave them alone though.
They circle a tree, the roots, once against the ground, now this section is lift up into air like a wall, because the tree fell, at some point in the past. Long enough has passed that things grow on top of the trunk, what used to be its side, the tree's. Now the roots, used to go down and sideways, raised high up, they see the patterns those make and grew in differently, better, against light. Not covered by dead foliage and other things on the ground.
Further the tree is broken, fell against rocks and the trunk shattered and snapped on impact and the top of the tree lies at a different angle from the rest.
They don't care much about the dead tree, rotting, not as much as the things growing on it.
Near the base, the roots, there is more moss than anywhere else close, and small mushrooms growing on the moss. Small enough to have caps smaller than the scales on a cone from a tree with pointy hard leaves — this tree also had those, they recognize the shell of the trunk, the texture and more. There are also cones around, and more trees like it, most still alive.
The mushrooms are pale, not as pale as their shell, nothing they've seen is as pale, with little grooves like stripes down from the centres. Pointy caps, thin long stems, some growing in little groups, but not touching, and some alone.
Some have ragged edges, less bright, older, they think, like wings of butterflies they see sometimes. And others. Marked by time.
Similar to the frayed pieces of their mantle, too.
Don't like to think.
They feel it, sometimes. Air moves in a certain way, in the right, wrong, direction, and they feel it at their back, their side; did not before. Bothers them that it is on one side. More segments lost on that side, and now it is noticeable. Sometimes.
Often they can ignore it, though, and they are glad, yes, that it was not worse.
Air is still now. Easier to ignore.
They do and focus on other things.
Many things growing in the moss other than the tiny pale mushrooms, but what is most interesting is the moss.
It has layers, formed from parts like leaves, no, like the things that cover the bodies of the usually-flying not-bug creatures — not always at flight, usually capable of flight — that they only saw up close some time ago, saw a dead one, first time seeing what those are like — first time seeing properly; all previous ones have been also dead, but far more deteriorated, only easily identifiable from the pointy, angular mouthparts — and they thought it was fur before. No, similar sometimes, but different.
Ferns grow in a shape, pattern, similar to this also.
They have seen a kind of moss close, but not the same, was at a different place, with different nature. Was it? Probably was. Not here, they have never been at this exact place, but they know the settlements they can find when they follow the strange long hill that is nearby and the river and the ravine after that; they see the big hill close to the villages and towns from all the way here when they are somewhere high. When they visited they came from a different direction, and went around this place.
Did they see the moss anywhere the last time? Not sure. They do not think so. There are more, different mosses, but this is new, interesting. They feel it and it is a little wet, and so so soft under their fingers.
Soft like–
They leave the moss be. Have to find something else, something not soft or frayed. Somewhere to go.
They look at the rocks the tree fell against, and look up that hill, and consider the terrain. Dryer soil, more rocks and dirt than decaying plant matter. Less things grow.
They go that way.
***
They intersect a big road at a point. See others, bugs, maybe multiple groups, making way somewhere away from the place they know. Another, smaller group, travels in the opposite direction, and they meet, almost; they are approaching the road, in sight, no trees or else to cover, and the bugs see them.
They have seen similar ones jump, with the strong, long, legs. Very good at jumping. Probably not efficient for travel, though. Takes much energy, yes?
A small one, sitting near the front of a carriage, first of two, second is more like a small building with wheels, points in their direction and waves a hand after. A bigger one, one of many, says something, they think, too far to hear, but looks like that one talks to the small one. Both look their way. More of them notice too.
They stop walking. Not sure what the bugs want. Wait.
The first big one waves also.
They hesitate, unsure, but raise their hand. They see it sometimes, moving raised limb like that, side-by-side, sometimes meeting, sometimes leaving, so many emotions and words associated, they are not sure what it means, too many different circumstances to consider. A greeting, yes, but not all greetings are the same, and they have not been able to categorize this one properly.
They try copying things, gestures, actions, sometimes; but usually only if they are sure, not wanting to do the wrong thing by accident, like they have sometimes.
The small bug sees and raises both hands and waves more, saying things, yelling almost, they can make out some sounds but it isn't familiar, not entirely, different words from what they remember from this area.
They wave their hand a little more.
Two of the big ones wave back, the one beside the small one, and another that walks beside the creature pulling the carriage.
This was... is good, fine, probably, but they still are not any more sure than they were prior.
They lower their hand down.
The small one keeps talking and waving sometimes as the bugs move past where they would cross the road.
They step forward again.