Loman wandered the dense woods of the northern Seemandas alone, as he had been for a long time. A long-fingered bat, he traveled by foot, a peculiarity considering his species, but beyond any choice he had. Draped over his right shoulder was a dark green cloth covering his entire right side and drifting down to his waist. It marked where his wing once was, and hid the appalling scars memorializing its gruesome departure. Slung to his head was a similar cloth covering the same side of his face, where his eye and cheek had been brutalized in the same event that took his wing.

Though short, typical for a bat, his frame was remarkably stocky thanks to the accommodation his remaining muscles made for the absence of others. His left arm was a behemoth, bulging with veiny, striated muscle that tweaked and flexed with his every subtle move. It had grown strong with its many missions of carrying him up trees. The skin along the arm was pitch black, giving way to the dull grey of his velveteen body fur. His torso was equally ill-symmetric. His left peck was a solid brick sitting next to the flat one on his right. Everything else that fell below his abdomen was thick and admirably dense, quite unlike most bats.

Loman did not have the luxury of fitting in with other bats, as his deformed body made clear. Unable to take flight with his single, hole-ridden wing, he was relegated to the earth as a migrant. No colony would accept him, and the one he belonged to was missing. Not that it mattered terribly. He fed himself well enough on his own. 

He was headed north on the word of a big lake situated in the Seemandas forest, where the land gave way to chilly mountains and steep valleys. So far north into the tight population of giant trees that made the Seemandas famous, it hardly had a predator population to worry about, or any major group of beasts for that matter. It was isolated, stocked with fish and insects, and far away from where he came. That’s what mattered, and what made it worth the risk of taking the journey.

It was a daunting one for sure, with little to no landmarks guiding his way. The sentinel trees were all that he could guide himself by. Their grandiose trunks jutted from gnarled roots dipping into the dry, dusty earth. Towering high into the air, their canopies allowed only a sputtering of daylight to seep through in golden curtains. Animal life was sparse. Loman saw a few birds and squirrels traversing the sky and branches above him, but nothing else worth noting. It was quiet. Little to no noise could penetrate through the dense throng of tree trunks. It made him anxious at first. It seemed the perfect place to stalk someone undetected. Days into his journey unmolested, he decided he could relax. There were little to no threats in these parts. Still, he was too wise and experienced to let his guard down completely.

The day began to wane and the sheets of light seeping through the leaves turned into an oranged slant. He looked up and saw the clouds floating in the sky reflecting the now crimson light of the sun. It was time to retire to the treetops. In spite of his senses being inherently superior at night, he was defenseless on the ground from aerial attack, which mostly happened at night thanks to the owls. He lifted his head and aimed for the treetops.

“Keeeeeeeee-eeeeee-eeeeeeet,” he squeaked towards the canopy, his throat tightening into a vice. “Keeeeeee-eeeeeeet.” The shrill sound bounced off the branches of the tall trees and came back to him, perking his big bat-ears. Like a foggy mirror drying up, the image of the treetops formed in his mind. “Keeeeeeeee-eeeeeeeeeeet. Keeeeeeeeeeet.” With a good idea of what the canopy looked like, he approached the tree which was taller than the rest. It would afford him the best view of the journey ahead.

He looked up the intimidatingly broad trunk. Now came the hard part, climbing it. It was a task nature had in no way intended him for, giving him short legs and a membrane beneath his arm that very easily got snagged on things. Having only one arm did not help. Still, the past two years of climbing out of necessity had forged him into a tree-scaling machine. His fingers, thickened by a malleable plate of callous, excelled at latching to the most minute of holds. His feet, attached to short legs as they were, became avid grippers nigh prehensile as his paw. They too were hardened by callous, well initiated with the tough scrape of tree bark.

He scanned the tree’s trunk. It was scaled with thick plates of dark brown bark. It was not perfectly cylindrical, having broad grooves and bulging ridges going up its entire height. That helped. A trunk that was round and nothing else offered little to hold on to other than bark, which had a habit of breaking off. He walked up to the tree and inspected the bark. He grabbed a flake the size of his head and gave it a good tug. It stayed where it was, budging only a little. He pulled hard, leaning back with his whole body. The flake came off with a brisk snap leaving behind a ruddy-brown scar. That added effort meant the bark alone could probably hold him by itself if he needed it too. He hoped it remained that way towards the top.

He tossed the severed bark aside and took a deep breath. He gave a preparatory shake of his arm and a twist of his neck. Let’s go. He planted his feet on the craggly roots of the tree and grabbed a plate of bark above his head. He fidgeted his feet a bit, feeling out the best way to make his first leap. He was astride a thick ridge that ran up the entirety of the trunk. If he was lucky, this one would lead him to the top. He looked down and spotted two potential footholds. They would have to do.

One… Two… Three! He hopped up and clasped his nimble toes onto two plates. There was a shrill scraping noise as his razor sharp toe claws sank into the bark. His grip above his head tightened. The veins in his arms began to swell. He could feel the ominous sag of the bark beneath his digits, but it held firm. After only a second of having latched there, he began his arduous climb to the canopy.

Every muscle in his body was called upon to act, with most of the burden falling on his toes, fingers, and single arm. He was able to hug his arm around the roundish ridge and lodge his torso between it and the main body of the trunk. That added traction other than just his paw and feet. Virtually the entire front side of his body was dragged against the tree’s harsh skin. Even his neck experienced contact as he kept his chin locked to the tree. It wouldn’t be long before he was bleeding in some places. He made his way up inch by dreadful inch, grinding his body up the trunk the whole way. He could not dally too long in one spot, lest the bark snap beneath him. His feet and paws constantly groped for new footholds, of which there were mercifully many thanks to the plates of bark.

His breath beat through his nose, flaring his nostrils. His teeth were bared in a fierce snarl. Only a tenth of the way up the tree and his muscles began to burn. He learned not to block out or ignore the pain, but to embrace it, become one with it. Acknowledge it fully and grapple it head on. There was no way to mitigate it, let alone make it go away. Well... there was, but how long it worked depended on how high off the ground he was.

Halfway up the tree it felt like his toes and fingers were ready to tear off. The constant flexing and unflexing, digging them into those unforgiving crevices was like gripping a sea urchin. The act of pulling himself up was like razors on his finger joints. In the back of his mind, in spite of his desperate focus on climbing, he wished he still had his right wing. That would’ve made climbing so much easier. Hell, he wouldn’t even be climbing. He’d be hanging in those branches once he swooped up there with no effort.

He pushed those thoughts away. His flying days were over. No sense in dwelling on it. He had a tree to climb. The branches were getting close. Even with his poor eyesight he could begin making out individual leaves and twigs. He’d spotted the branch he would hang from already, and kept his eye latched to it. That was his goal. That would be his salvation from the pain. He kept climbing, rising with each lift of his legs and pull of his arm. The branch got closer and closer. His nose twitched as he actually began to sniff at what his mind imagined was the sweet aroma of relaxation. His muscles were on fire. He could feel blood slip down his abdomen and drip down his groin. The tips of his toes and fingers were nothing but lightning rods of pain.

His head reached the branch. He grew eye level with it, and finally could look over it. He could grab it if he wanted to, but he was not done. He had to get his shoulder over the branch. He couldn’t just latch on to it with his paw and pull himself up. As burly as his arm was, the strenuous climb had left it hot and shaky. There was no way it could pull him up on its own. He climbed some more, so agonisingly far from something so close, until finally his shoulders breached the highest point of the branch’s hilt. Problem was, it was on the opposite side of his arm, which meant he had to fling his arm over to it and latch it between his elbow. That was tricky. One slip, one missed catch, and he’d be reintroduced to the earth with a bone breaking slam. There was no time to waste. No hesitation.

“Humph!” He swung himself to his right, twisted his torso, and flung his arm over to the branch. His feet left the trunk. For a brief moment, he was airborne. The knot of his bicep collided with the branch and scraped upwards as he began to fall. His forearm snapped down on the limb, and successfully stopped his descent. What it didn’t stop was him swinging forward from the momentum of his leap, threatening to bring his elbow around the branch and robbing him of his hold. He squeezed his arm together as tightly as he could, leaving his potential success or doom to chance and what little strength remained in his arm. His swing came to a stop, and his arm stayed. He looked like a child with his arm deep inside a cookie jar on a counter above his head.

“Whoo…” huffed, looking down at the much smaller looking ground beneath his feet. He flexed his toes out at the ground, as if trying to reach for it. In his flying days he barely minded heights. Now, in his climbing days, he had a deep respect for it. He kicked his leg up and wrapped it around the branch. He squirmed his way up on top and relaxed finally. He exhaled loudly, breathing deeply after what felt like hours. His winged arm drooped over the side lazily, feeling like a simmering wet noodle. He managed to flip onto his back. Bloody scrapes were stretched across his torso. There were streaks of red trailing beneath them, staining the fur of his crotch. His brawny chest rose and fell with each heaving breath. His limbs felt like weights, but they no longer burned with agony. He wanted badly just to dangle from that branch and fall asleep, but it would be a while before his feet would allow it. Besides, he still had the very top of the tree to reach. So instead he just lied there, staring up into the motley array of twigs and leaves bleeding through with the red stained sunlight.

I wish I could still fly. There was that thought again. He always tried to ignore it, to bury it down and forget about it. The agony of climbing actually helped him focus away from it. Each time, however, he found himself relaxing in the tree tops after a brutal climb, his subconscious would rear up that ugly reminder: I can’t fly anymore. I should’ve never volunteered.

“Puh!” he scoffed aloud to himself. He forced himself to sit up and climb up the rest of the branches. Nips of pain struck at his digits as he grabbed on, but that was welcome. It would distract him from that heathenous idea. Pain was good. It made him strong. Pain now spared him more in the future.

But you wouldn’t be feeling it if you could fly. He cringed. What would his father think if he knew his son held such thoughts? His brothers would mock him relentlessly. No woman would want to be with such a shameful man. No colony would tolerate such thinking.

No colony would tolerate a cripple either. He reached a higher branch and straddled it at its hilt. He was at the near-summit, sitting on the highest branch that would support his weight. He looked over the plateau of wavy green that stretched for infinity, not even stopping for the abrupt rise of mountains filtered over by an atmospheric blue. He was in an odd position for a bat. Normally he’d be dangling from the far edge of the branch, dozing in the wrap of his wings. Now would be the time he’d wake up, preparing to go on a morning excursion for fish. Instead he was slumped over the branch, his back to the tree, feet too exhausted to hold him, sleep deferred by the terrible ache gripping him all over.  

He looked down at his muscular torso and disgustingly venous arm. What bat looked like him? How many even knew what it was like to climb? He remembered how he and his brethren mocked squirrels, ornery, cowardly vermin who scattered at the slightest shift of wind. Now he envied them, able to climb trees so deftly. He envied everyone now: his brethren who could still fly, the squirrels that could climb, all of the animals who could run, leap, and frolic on the ground. He had no wing for flying, no frame for quick climbing, and no legs meant for running. He was forced to live a life nature had seemingly forbidden him, alone, and on the earth. All because he volunteered.

Loman sighed and batted the back of his head against the tree. He hated putting himself in such a dreadful mood. Those deprecating thoughts were so hard to push away when he wasn’t climbing. Sitting there, wallowing in his misery, they sunk into his psyche like water permeating into fertile soil. There was nothing else to think about or focus on, nothing to distract him. He didn’t feel like climbing anymore, not that there was anywhere to go. Inevitably, his mind went back to the day word had reached his colony of the Rothor intrusion on Faiti territory.

The colony of long-fingered bats he belonged to lived in caves situated in the territory claimed by the Faiti wolf tribe. Loman lived in the wetlands around the Gulf of Lions, a land dotted by caves where his colony and others made home. The Faiti wolves were the clan that held control over a great swathe of territory on that coastline. They reserved any and all prey that lived in that region and maintained populations through hunting. Water resources were very strictly theirs. Territory borders were scented and guarded with disciplined regularity. Any dispute, whether it be within their own clan or of another species’ origin, was dealt with accordingly. There was no tolerance towards breakdown of order.

Loman’s colony was spared much contact with the Faiti wolves. Bats kept to themselves, worried mostly about hunting and avoiding owls. Close to all flying animals kept themselves separate from those on the ground. Bats were universally regarded as unclean animals prone to thievery and rabies. They were avoided mostly, except when to be made a meal by the occasional owl.

Not that the bats minded much. Colonies were tight-knit groups consisting of many families. In Loman’s colony, pups often referred to older individuals outside of their family as ‘uncle’ and ‘aunt’. Blood ties were hardly needed to form tight bonds. Bats didn’t need interspecies relations to be whole, and they couldn’t have cared less what others thought. Nights were spent hunting for bugs and fishing. The end of the night had many people bragging about how many mosquitos or fish they caught. The less skillful were shared with, with an unspoken promise that if the person giving the food couldn’t catch any in the future, the one receiving would be obligated to return the favor. 

Loman was an adept flier. He hardly recounted nights spent borrowing food from others. He spent many free hours darting amongst tree branches, diving at the ground or water with suicidal speed only to pull out at the last second, skimming his feet against what he nearly smacked into. He loved fishing particularly. Patiently hanging above shallow streams, watching closely for a passing fish or crayfish had him in his element. His mind was clear, his focus sharp. The pounding excitement of the dive and the orgasmic triumph of chomping on a wriggling meal was beyond satisfying. He appreciated the activity more than most of his comrades.

With a happy life among the colony and little involvement with the affairs of other beasts, he was caught off guard when a representative of the Faiti showed up to their cave and requested volunteers. He was a small, skinny fellow, wearing the typical beaded sash and thong of his clan. Loman thought if they really wanted to recruit volunteers from his colony, they should’ve sent someone a bit more impressive. The wolf explained that there was a dispute between Faiti and the neighboring Rothor tribe. The Rothor wolves had repeatedly intruded on Faiti territory, killing and eating deer that did not belong to them. Skirmishes broke out, and soon a council was held between the two packs. The Rothor explained that their deer population had depleted thanks to a disease that was running rampant, not only killing off deer but rendering their corpses unsalvageable. They demanded access to Faiti deer or else the intrusions would continue. Faiti refused. Negotiations broke down. War was declared. Now the Faiti was preparing for the oncoming war by recruiting every able-bodied beast to fight the oncoming battle for their territory. They successfully persuaded the deer to help them, or at least, not interfere on behalf of the Rothor. They reasoned that because of their food shortage, the Rothor would hunt them down relentlessly, driven mad by hunger. Little to no thought would be given to the deer population. The deer reluctantly agreed to not meddle, although they offered no help for the wolves who killed them regularly.

Other beasts offered their assistance, others not. Loman’s colony saw little reason to give their help. They rarely interacted with wolves, or any other land beast for that matter. What would the Rothor do that was any different? Why risk lives fighting to keep a status quo no different from the one that would replace it? There were some of them hungry for adventure, Loman included. He imagined dogfighting in the air, swooping down on unsuspecting wolves and clawing their eyes out, becoming death from above. The elders warned of such fantasies. It was never worth killing, let alone dying, for such reckless, unnecessary conflicts. Loman and his brethren hardly listened. It sounded fun. Besides, what were they doing that was this important? Hunting, yes, but they did that everyday. Fighting a war wouldn’t get too much in the way of that anyway.

Loman and three of his pals flew to the Faiti camp one night and volunteered. The wolves were surprisingly welcoming and grateful. Loman was introduced to their alpha, an elderly she-wolf sporting sagged, graying fur but an undeniably athletic build. The way she bedecked herself in fabulous garb and surrounded herself with mountainous guards was intimidating. It was an honor to meet her.

Loman and his pals were on night reconnaissance along with all of the other bats who volunteered. They flew the Faiti border back and forth all night long, stopping only to feed on the occasional bug. It was boring, for the most part. He got to connect with bats of different species. He traded rumors with those who speculated as to what was going to happen next.

“They’ll attack tomorrow.”

“I don’t think it’ll be that soon.”

“It could be anytime. Tonight, tomorrow, a week from now.”

“I don’t think it’s gonna happen. I heard they’re starving. There’s no way they’d be stupid enough to fight all of us. We’d tear them to shreds.”

No matter when or if Loman thought they would strike, he was deeply confident in the Faiti’s fighting ability. They’d successfully recruited so many volunteers from such a wide variety of animals. They even convinced the deer, who loathed them, into not interfering. What chance did the Rothor have? He’d never even seen one of their wolves, or any animal that may have been in league with them. They were nothing but hungry, desperate cretins on the verge of starvation who resorted to stealing from the Faiti. Now they would regret it. There’d be a big fight, the Faiti would win, and Loman would return to his colony with his pals and have a helluva story to tell.

All fantasies of that happening shattered the moment word of the Rothor attack came crashing in. A long-eared bat came panting and heaving up to the border. There was a look of terror on his face. Loman didn’t recognize him from any of the bats he’d encountered during recon. He crashed to the earth, panting and sweating. Loman and the other bats circled around him.

“They’re here!” he shouted.

“Where are they?” someone asked. The border had been quiet all night. How could they have snuck through? There couldn’t have been that many in so fast.

“At the camp! Attacking the Faiti camp!” 

Loman felt an icy claw of dread rip into his heart.

“How?”

“The north…” he said. “They snuck in from the north.”

None of the Faiti knew it, but immediately following the declaration of war, the Rothor struck a pact with the Suul tribe of the north. Rothor was allowed access through their territory in exchange for partial claim over any prey the Rothor acquired in their victory. Not a single animal was guarding that border. Nobody anticipated the Suul betrayal. It was erroneously assumed the Rothor were on bitter terms with them, and that any attempts at a deal, no matter what for, would’ve been pointless. What hadn’t been taken in account was the Suul’s hatred of the Faiti, on par with the Rothor’s. When their offer came, they saw it as an ideal opportunity, one in which they would win in both outcomes. If the Rothor won, that was one less rival to worry about along with more prey. If the Faiti won, the Rothor would be severely weakened and no longer be a threat. The Faiti would have little choice but to answer the Suul betrayal with continued war, one they would have little chance of winning thanks to being weakened. The Suul were well prepared for either outcome, although they much preferred the Rothor winning and doing all of the work for them.

By the time Loman and the others made it to the Faiti camp, a massacre was in full swing. Flying towards the slaughter, the wails of agony and suffering faded into Loman’s ears in a terrible crescendo. Bright fires glowed beneath the treetops, dashing the forest with pulsing shadows of trees, huts, and running wolves. People were shouting, screaming, bleeding, and dying. Bleating above the screams and crackling flames were the war shouts of the Rothor, having their way with the defenseless animals. Loman saw them for the first time. Yes, they looked mad with hunger, but they were not at all weak.

The Rothor wolves were huge. Lumbering warriors swollen with muscle. Their fur was striped in war paint and splattered with Faiti blood. Male and female warriors fought alongside each other, clawing and gnashing their teeth. When they weren’t closing their awful jaws around the throat of a screeching wolf, they were running about hunting for more victims, lighting fires to more huts, or dragging screaming women for their own personal conquest.

Many of the bats immediately turned around and bolted. It was over. There was nothing they could do. Loman, and a few brave other souls, did no such thing. They made a beeline for the ravaged camp and dove at the attackers. Loman, nor any of the other bats, were ever trained in the art of air-to-ground attack. Loman was good at diving, but never at something that could fight back. There was no time to worry about it now. He dove headfirst into the maelstrom and aimed for the nearest Rothor. He darted in at a steep angle straight for the back of the wolf’s head. He stretched his wings out, buffing his speed as he stretched his feet claws out at the wolf’s scalp. His feet clenched around his cranium and scraped inwards as Loman flapped his wings frantically to regain altitude. It left the unsuspecting Rothor bleeding heavily from several deep gashes that ran vertically up his head and scalp. Loman made it back up, looking down at the wolf who held his bleeding head and doubled over in pain. He felt a flash of pride, happy to have wreaked some vengeance.

Immediately the wolves noticed the bats’ attack and turned their focus above. It was a moonless night, leaving only the countless stars sprinkled across the sky to make silhouettes of their airborne attackers. Loman and the squadron of bats did the best they could harassing their opponents. They swooped and dove on them, reaching out their talons to slice open an artery or sever a finger. The Rothor were nimble enough to dodge such maneuvers, but it was more than enough to distract them from pillaging the camp.

That’s all we have to do, Loman realized. Distract them. Keep them away from the Faiti. Just long enough for reinforcements to arrive. So they spent that next half-hour repeating their diving and slashing, praying that the wolves would keep their eyes on the sky and not on the Faiti they had savaged. It worked. The Rothor fell into a tight circle, back to back, claws at the ready to swipe at any oncoming bats. Loman circled them, ready to dive on any wolf who dared step out from the safety of their collective. Soon his comrades were flapping a ring around them, trapping them. All that had to happen now was for the rest of the beasts recruited to show up and evict these bastards once and for all.

Loman heard hope on the horizon. There were wings flapping in the distance, headed straight for them. Loman stopped circling and hovered in the air. “They’re coming!” he announced. “Help’s here!” The rest of the bats turned their heads to see the arriving reinforcements. There were a dozen of them, speeding towards the camp in a strict formation. Loman thought for a moment that they were the bats from earlier who had deserted. Thank God. Maybe they’ll make up for their cowardice. But these bats were coming from the north. When the bats scrammed at the sight of the massacre at camp, they spread out in about every direction but north, since that’s what was in front of them. Those bats were all different species too. The bats headed for Loman now all looked uniform in size and design.

They did not slow down. They did not dive down at the Rothor. The bat at point, who Loman noticed was a huge greater noctule bat, as they all were, locked eyes with him and accelerated. Loman didn’t move from where he was. He was processing who these bats were when the one coming at him straightened up, kicked out his legs, and slammed into Loman’s ribcage.

It was like landing stomach-first on an upright pole from a 20 foot fall. The air rushed out of his lungs and out his maw with an audible “puh!!” He folded like paper as he heard and felt the brittle snap of his ribs cracking like twigs. The noctule bat completely dwarfed him with a beastly wingspan and a weight that outdid him three-fold. His talons stabbed deep into his abdomen, leaving behind several bloody gouges. Loman plummeted to the earth in a spiral, comet-tails of blood trailing in front of him as he went.

He hit the ground with a heavy thwack, landing on his tailbone. His head whipped back and was slammed hard, deafening him with a loud ring. Through the dull hum of his ringing ears he heard the triumphant howls of the Rothor. Help had arrived. Looking up he saw the oncoming noctule bats crash into his circling comrades and scatter them like roaches. High pitched screams echoed in the air as they were ripped to shreds by their infinitely stronger opponents. A few got away. The rest had their limbs ripped from their bodies and their necks snapped.

The sight of this new slaughter was blocked when Loman felt a crushing weight pile on him. Claws sank into his shoulders, pinning him. His scream of pain was cut short when his face was raked by claws, ripping open his cheek and popping his eye out of his socket. Blood gouted out and into his mouth, rendering his scream into an awful gurgle. His attacker latched their jaws around the side of his face and shook him wildly, whipping his head to and fro. Loman felt the vertebrae in his neck popping with each jerk, ready to snap. He heard the crackly grit of teeth scraping on his skull. He felt the muscles of his face flex and twitch as they were forcibly exposed to the cool night air. Hot blood poured down his neck and shoulder, pooling underneath his back and seeping into his fur. He still tried to scream, but it was muffled by the snarling canine maw latched onto his face.

The wolf let go, only to grab his flimsy right wing and chomp it right below the shoulder, underneath the armpit. Now Loman could scream. Bloody spittle bubbled out of his throat as white-hot agony drilled into his arm, twitching it into an epileptic fit. He tried punching with his left, but all it could hit was a wall of dense muscle padded by thick, soft fur. The wolf chewed and tore with his claws and teeth, slicing through every individual sinew and vein. Loman was run through with a spear of agony as his nerves, wiry like wet yarn, were cut through by claw or tooth. Finally his humerus snapped with a wet sktchh! and his arm bent at a jagged angle. The feeling in his arm was replaced by a sudden void of cold. The wolf bit him on the bicep and tore through the membrane still connecting it to his torso with their claw. His wing sliced open like a screen mesh run through with a knife, and Loman no longer had a right wing. The wolf sat up on their knees and roared triumphantly into the sky, Loman’s severed wing latched in their jaws. The rest of the Rothor answered in kind, filling the night with blood curdling shrieks of victory. The noctule bats squealed their own song of joy, having dispatched their pathetic opponents. The Rothor regrouped and resumed their awful task of killing and rape, setting out to hunt for any Faiti who managed to escape.

Loman was motionless, lying in a slowly growing pool of his own blood. His right eye was yanked out of his socket, held only by the stalk. It was appallingly round and white against the gory backdrop of his face. His right arm was a pointy stump, jutting with shredded muscle and white bone. Nearby was the severed limb, spat out onto the ground, rejected and cold, looking more like a table scrap than a tool used for flying. He was perfectly conscious, staring up at the sky with his only functioning eye, half closed under a swollen lid. His shallow breathing bubbled the blood flooding in his mouth and squirted red snot from his shattered nose. As the pain fluttered away slowly, leaving in its wake a creeping chill, his mind could only think of one thing, one word.

Volunteer… Volunteered.

With that word, once a source of pride, now so laden with regret and taboo, floating in his head like a falling ember, Loman fell unconscious, his one eye still looking up into the starry sky.

*	*	*

Loman didn’t remember the first time he woke up. He came out of his coma wrapped up tight in white cloth, head to toe, looking like a corpse ready for mummification. When he came to, he immediately began a violent fit. He bounced and screamed on the bed of leaves he lay on, flinging his one arm around like a spiked flail. With each sharp jerk, pain ripped through his ruined body, worsening his epic tantrum. The wolf was back, straddling him, raking his claws back and forth across his chest, chewing at his throat and face. His mouth was kept shut by bandages and sutures, rendering his screams a muffled howl. In his mind, it was the wolf’s jaws clamped on his face, chewing his face into pulp.

He heard the frantic cries of alarm followed by pleas of help. 

“He’s awake!”

“Hold him down!”

“Grab his legs, dammit!”

Now there were more wolves, pinning his limbs down so their comrade could continue flaying his skin with their claws.

“We’ll be here all night…”

“Where’s the Melit sage?  Somebody get the Melit sage!”

“I got it!”

One of the wolves let go of his legs. That gave him the opportunity to lash out with it, flexing his feet claws and whipping it at his attackers. He felt it slice through flesh.

“OW! Goddammit, you stupid, fucking, winged rat! We’re helping you!”

His rogue leg was pinned down. He thrashed and bounced, howling into his bandages. The agony was everywhere, in every direction, in the deepest parts of his body. He felt his barely mended bones creaking in his body as he thrashed about.

“He’ll fucking kill himself. WHERE’S THAT MELIT GODDAMMIT!?”

“Here!” shouted a voice, and soon Loman was smothered by a fistful of dry leaves. He tried twisting his head away, but the wolves held it firm. Two thumbs shoved wads of some brittle, earthy substance directly into his nose. Blowing what air remained in his lungs yielded no results. He was forced to inhale the acrid aroma fully.

He screamed again, and tried once more, but suddenly found his strength leaving him. “Hhhnnnnhhhgggghhhh…” The pain was leaving slowly, like a blanket sliding off the edge of a bed.

“There we go, big guy. Get back to sleep.”

No! If I go to sleep they’ll eat me! I DON’T WANNA DIE!

“That’s right sweetheart. Just relax.”

No! How can I relax? I’ll die…

“Shhhhhhhhh.”

I’ll die…

“That oughta do it. Damn! Fucker scratched me good! Fucking rat…”

Die… Volunteer…

The blanket of pain fell, and Loman went back to sleep.

The next several days had Loman fighting a severe battle against infection and rampant fever. He muttered incoherently, lost in the frothing limbo between coma and consciousness. Sometimes the wolves came back, sometimes they left him alone. He would be circling the phalanx of Rothor and protecting the Faiti one moment, and helplessly watch as the camp was pillaged and burned the next. He remembered the days where he’d fly around hunting for bugs, just before reliving when his ribs were smashed by that noctule bat. He was trapped in a constant flux of polarized memories exaggerated by his fever-addled brain. He was bathed in sweat. He was more bone than bat, shrinking as what little weight he had drained from his small frame. He was tormented by the dreadful phantom pain, snaps of agony where there was once a proud wing. Any attempt at moving the nonexistent arm rewarded him with a fit of suffering.

He was not in it alone. He was semi-aware of the dabs of cold, wet cloth on his forehead, accompanied by the soft coos of encouragement.

“Hang in there, big guy. You’re a hero. Don’t die on us.”

“You’re a real hero. Braver than any man I’ve ever met. You can do it, baby. I know you can. Be strong.”

“I swear to the fucking gods if you die on me I’m gonna be so fucking pissed. You sliced the fuck out of me. You better fucking live, ‘cause you owe me big time.”

“I’m here. I’m here. Everything’s gonna be alright. I’m not gonna leave you. You’re OK. You’re OK. Nothing bad’s gonna happen to you. I won’t let it. You’re safe now.”

Loman twitched at the gossamer purr of that voice. He tried calling out to it, struggling through his sewn lips. “Momma...? Momma...?”

“Shh,” hushed that angelic voice. “Momma’s here. Momma’s got you. Go to sleep, little baby.”

“Momma.”

“Shhhh.”

“Momma.”

“Shhhhhhhhhhhhhh.”

“Momma…”

The next few days were spent in a merciful deep sleep. His fever faded. His bandages were replaced and his sutures redone. He vaguely recalled the bitter milk he was force fed, spitting it up the first few times it was offered.

“Drink baby, you gotta drink. You don’t wanna starve to death.”

Beneath the pain he could feel the sharp crunch of hunger growing in his gut. With no other choice, he finally willed himself to take the milk. His jaws were in no condition to chew anything, and wouldn’t be for some time. He grew used to it, and slowly his hunger faded away.

His first concrete memory after his mauling was uneventful at best. He woke up in the morning, the first time he’d ever done so in his nocturnal life. It was quiet, with only the occasional shuffle of feet to break the silence. His one eye, one of the only parts of his head uncovered by bandages, twitched into focus. The sun splashed his retina, painfully restricting his pupil. Very slowly the light eased into a clearer image, that of a leafy canopy far above his head, softly mottling the morning sunlight drenching the forest floor. He darted his eye around, unable to see anything beyond his peripherals. His neck was incredibly stiff. He looked left. There was an empty bed of leaves neatly laid out on the ground next to him. Beyond it were more beds. In some of them were beasts, their chests rising and falling as they slept soundly. Closest to him was a goat, strapped in white bandages stained with soft red splotches. A few of the other beasts, he noticed, were missing limbs. He irked his head over to his right. Oddly, he couldn’t see much until his face was turned all of the way. Then he remembered. His eye was gone, ripped out by that wolf. He was jerked by the onrush of that awful memory. He cringed hard, both at reliving his mauling, and the pain he felt in his abdomen.

That damn noctule bat. The Suul. Fucking traitors. He gulped. He knew very well that his arm was gone, but an evil hope lingered, telling him that it wasn’t as bad as he remembered. The arm was gone, but enough membrane was intact to keep him flying. He took a deep breath and looked down at his right side.

Nothing. There was no arm or wing to speak of. All there was was a sheet of snow white bandage clinging to his torso down from his waist all the way to his shoulder. There was no bulge marking where his limb was beneath it. It was just a straight vertical line top to bottom. There was nothing left to even move. The socket was totally empty. The membrane was gone. There was no salvaging any of it.

It was gone.

It was all gone.

An anvil of grief landed on his chest, crushing him. His face contorted, quivering his lip. He looked back up into the sunny canopy, so bright and clear. It suddenly went hazy, warping and shimmering as he saw it. He sobbed once, as the tears welling in his eyes began to seep down his face. He sobbed again, remembering those who died so terribly. He sobbed another time, feeling so pathetic, worthless, like a cripple. He sobbed some more, and some more, and some more, weeping in earnest as he lay on that cot, alone.

* 	*	*

Loman was discovered not too long after he awoke. The tears were out of his system. His eyes were terribly red and his cheeks puffy. He was glad that his injuries could disguise his misery as pain, not sadness. He heard footsteps and hushed voices.

“How are we feeling?”

“Alright. Little sore. Still can’t feel my leg.”

“Little sore is better than where we started. Is your leg numb where it was before or can you feel some more?”

“Hang on. I think I can feel some more. If I jab it hard enough I can kinda feel it in my bones.”

“That’s good. If it doesn’t get any better we… Well…”

“You’ll cut it off, I know. Don’t spare me the harsh details. I figured this would happen.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I can manage with just one leg. I’m alive, at least.”

“Glad you see it that way. Try to stay awake. Don’t get too lethargic.”

“You got it. Thanks.”

Loman heard the footsteps come towards him. The silhouette of a canine head appeared above him, eclipsing the shiny canopy above him. He tried making eye contact, but couldn’t focus enough to make out a face.

“Oh! Look who’s awake, and alive for that matter.”

“H-... H-...” Loman tried to say ‘hi’, but the side of his mouth was still sewn shut. “Huhhh…”

“Hello back. You’re lucky to be alive. You must’ve pleased some spirit, ‘cause you were messed up real bad. We put everything into trying to keep you alive, my winged friend. Er, half-winged friend.” Even in his battered state, Loman managed an eye roll. “I have to give it to you. You’re a hell of a fighter. See this?” He flexed his arm, showing off the lump of his bicep. Loman could hardly see it, but he faintly made out a long, stitched-up cut running vertically up his arm. “You did that, nicked me good.”

“Uhm serrhy,” Loman mumbled.

“You better be. Just do me a favor and don’t die on us. Lot of people worked hard to keep you alive, and I’m one of them. Alright?”

“Awhraght.”

“Good. Get some rest. Breakfast will be here shortly.”

The canine left him alone, moving on to the next wounded animal and checking on them. Loman tried sitting up, but was too weak to lift his head much further than his chest. He could only lie there, eavesdropping on the conversation the canine had with the other patients. Breakfast arrived eventually. It was more milk. Although he had little to no memory of actually drinking it, his body had grown so sick of it that he grimaced once the smell of it hit his nostrils. He felt heavy footsteps approach him and settle down just above his head. Two very delicate paws grabbed his head and lifted it up onto a cushioned lap. He was greeted by a massive eclipse of a woman’s bosom, shadowing half of his face.

“Mmm,” he muttered. “Hehlo.”

“Oh!” chirped a surprised voice. The woman leaned back and saw that he was awake. She was a cow, plump and stout with a brown coat splotted with the occasional white splash. “Well hello there! You’re awake! How are we feeling?”

“Lihk shiht.” he groaned.

“Oh, hush. We’ll have you feeling nice n’ spry in no time darlin’. What’s your name?”

“Lohmin.”

“Well, Lome, let Miss Tildie give you her milk this morning. Be a good boy and open your mouth.”

Loman’s eyes widened. Your milk? She lowered a bucket towards his lips, carefully tilting the rim at him. He was assaulted with the acrid odor of her motherly product. He twisted his head away, whimpering.

“Now, now,” she said impatiently. “I didn’t spend all morning making this batch for you to act all fussy. You don’t wanna starve and shrivel up some more than you already have, do you? Look at you. You need your strength, sweetheart.”

She was right. Loman hardly had the energy to sit up, or lift his arm. He could feel his bones aching against the ground through his body. He sighed and turned his face to the bucket.

“There we go,” Tildie purred. “Now we’re being nice.” She touched the rim to his lips and poured. A splash of milk flooded his mouth and into his nostrils. The bitter taste made him sputter and his nose snort, but he powered through and swallowed as much as he was allowed. He felt deeply uncomfortable drinking another animal’s milk, but he knew that rejection of this matronly gift would be both incredibly disrespectful and stupid. He needed food. Any refusal on the basis of pride would leave him dead. So he drank, murring softly as he felt the bliss of warm liquid filling his belly. She took the bucket from him and laid his head back down. He almost felt disappointed that he couldn’t have more.

“Thahnkoo,” he said.

“You’re welcome, darlin’. You rest up easy.” She wiped the milk sopped into his face hairs with her thumb and got up to feed someone else.

As Loman rested, he tried regaining the mobility in his joints. He constantly turned his head back and forth. He flexed his fingers and toes, bending and unbending his elbow. Sitting up was the most difficult task. He could lift his head, touching his chin to his collar, but rising his upper back off the ground proved an impossibility. He was too weak, and his fractured ribs would respond with stabs of pain. So he continued a regimen on flexing and twisting, looking like a man in the grips of hallucinogenic trip

He was interrupted by a new visitor, a short Chamois who knelt next to him, smiling proudly. His face was white, striped by two black bars that ran across his eyes and down to his mouth. He had a pair of horns growing from his head that appeared to be shaved down halfway into a nub. He had a ruggedly structured face and a typical caprine beard that hung several inches down from his chiseled chin. His horizontal pupils sat in brilliantly orange irides that dazzled even in the eclipsed sunlight they sat in. “Looks like you’re awake, and already trying to get out of here. Tildie says your name is Lome.”

“Lohmin,” he corrected.

“Logan?”

“Lohmin. Loh-min.”

“Lodin. Got it. Well you had us worried for a while there. You were minced up bad when we found you. Just about everyone took you for dead.” Might’ve been for the better, Loman lamented. “You’re lucky Artie gave you a closer look and saw that you were still ticking. We patched you up best we could and here you are. You gave Artie a pretty good scratch. You’re definitely a soldier.”

“Ahm suhrry abaght dat.”

“Don’t worry about it. He’s tough. He’s our muscle around here. He’s handled a helluva lot worse than you. We’re all just happy to see you’re alive.”

“Me too.” Am I, though? I’m a one-winged cripple. I’ll never fly again. You may as well have let me bleed to death.

“Good. My name’s Leonard. We’re a travelling healing group that takes care of beasts across the lands we trek through. We were making our way through these parts when we heard about the war that was about to kick up between those two wolf clans. Looks like you got caught up in it yourself.” 

Caught up in it... I volunteered. There was that word again, so nasty and vile. It put a pit in his stomach. Loman scowled and looked away from Leonard, feeling too ashamed and unworthy of his care and attention. I should’ve died.

“I know it’s hard.” Leonard said solemnly. “I don’t know what it’s like to be in your position, but I’ve seen countless beasts who have. The ones who made it through and survived long after all had one thing in common: the will to survive, to overcome their terrible injuries and live. The ones who sulked and wallowed in their misery didn’t last long. I’ve seen them wither away into nothing. It’s alright to be sad, depressed even. What’s not alright is to let it control you. Don’t push it away or ignore it. Embrace it. Face it like a real beast. Don’t let what me and my friends did to keep you alive go to waste.”

Loman’s scowl softened. He couldn’t help but feel guilty. Shouldn’t he be grateful? He was, a little, but that didn’t help the fact that he couldn’t fly anymore. What was a bat that couldn’t fly, or a fish that couldn’t swim? Nothing but a grounded beast denied the freedom nature had intended. Artie said he had pleased some spirit who kept him alive. It was everything for Loman not to curse it. 

None of that was any reason to be angry at Leonard or the others. They were only doing what they thought was right. Loman thought it was folly, going around and helping others you didn’t know and didn’t help you in return. He wasn’t family to them. How was he supposed to repay them? No matter. He was alive now. He could go see his colony. That’s if they accept me.

“You’ll do fine,” Leonard assured him. “Have you met Tetha?”

Loman shook his head.

“You’ll like her. She’s a bat too. She’ll help you get moving again and get you out of those bandages. Sooner the better. Once everyone here is fit to leave, we’ll be doing the same. Think you can do that?”

“Mmhmm.”

“Good. Get some rest. You can keep doing those exercises, but don’t hurt yourself. If something hurts to move, don’t.” Leonard left him, and Loman resumed his stretches.

It wasn’t long before he was visited by Tetha. He was asleep, breaking from his exercises when he was politely awakened by some soft taps to the nose.

“Hellooooo. Anyone home?” asked a sweet voice.

Loman creaked his eye open and saw the bizarre outline of a head topped by two enormous half-ovals. His vision cleared and he was greeted by the smile of a long-eared bat kneeling over him. She was a short, delicate thing. She was leucistic, featuring snow-white fur and obsidian black eyes. Her ears were magnificently large. Towering above her head, they were two translucent dishes webbed through with pink, wiry veins. Loman worried that if a breeze rolled in it would catch in her lobes and blow her away. Her face was softly fashioned, harsh only in her chiroptine nose, which Loman found stunning.

“There you are! How are we feeling today? Lodin, is it?”

“Lohmin.”

“Loman?”

“Yihss!” he insisted with sharp nods. “Lohmin!”

“Loman. I bet that’s hard to get across with your bum mouth.”

“Mmhmm.”

“Well, Loman, I’m Tetha. I’m gonna try and help you get moving again the best I can. I know that might seem impossible right now, but if we try hard enough we’ll have you walking in no time.” Great. Don’t think you could get me flying anytime soon, though, he thought bitterly. “Now, let’s take a look at you and see how things are healing. We have to remove those bandages to get a good look, and that might hurt.” He gave a sigh of apprehension. “I know it sucks. Don’t be afraid to make some noise if you start hurting real bad. That’s not what I’m trying to do. It’ll be uncomfortable, for sure, but I’m confident we didn’t botch the bandaging so that it would hurt. Are you ready?”

He took a deep breath. I don’t have much of a choice, do I? He nodded.

“Alright. Let’s do this.” She leaned forward and lifted his head. She took the end of the bandage at the very top of his head and very slowly began to unravel it, circling her paw around his cranium. It was easy at first. He hardly felt anything. Then the bottom layer was removed, revealing his skin, and things got complicated. Flesh seldomly free the past several days was now exposed to the crisp open air. He flinched as the cloth was stripped away from his clingy skin. He squinted his eye and bore it as best he could. His empty eye hole was unveiled. He hissed as he experienced air seeping into his open socket for the very first time. Decades-long hidden parts of his body were now being forced into exposure. His mouth, at least what wasn’t sewn shut, twisted into a snarl.

“I know, I know.” Tetha acknowledged. She leaned her face close to his and gave him a once-over. She didn’t show any alarm at his condition, although anyone else would’ve. Loman’s face was an absolute wreck. A wallop of skin had been peeled off of his face stretching from his right cheek all the way to his temple. Replacing it was a deep red scab cracked in several places. His right cheek was nearly gone entirely, showing off the gloss of his sharp teeth and tongue. What was left of it was sewn together, looking like two globules of clay mushed together and tied with string. Deep claw marks ran through much of his face. They too were held together by stitches. In spite of the horror show, it was an incredible improvement over how it had been.

“Well, you’re healing nicely. That’s the good news.” Tetha said confidently. “Looks like everything’s scarring up like it should. I bet Leonard’s pretty proud of himself. Now, let’s cover this back up.” She made delicate work of replacing his bandages. She went slow around his tender wounds, careful not to elicit any painful reactions from him. He took it in stride, not making a noise or flinching. She put his head back down. “Ok,” she huffed. “Now, here comes the hard part. The anxiety was clear on Loman’s one eye. She made a sorry look and caressed his cheek. “I know, baby. I’m here. I’m gonna get you through it. You’re a tough guy. I know you can do it. I’m gonna go as easy as I can. Do you trust me?”

Fuck no. I hardly know you. Why are you doing this to me? This is torture. He wanted to say all of that, but looking up at that heavenly face so contorted with empathy, he could do nothing but nod in submission.

“Alright. Here we go.” She reached forward for the bandages wrapped around his torso. His eyes followed with dread as her claw extended from her finger and sliced through the top layer of white cloth. She lifted one strip and cut through it. The dry rip noise made him jerk. She went down lace by lace, until the top layer was loose. She pulled it off of him and repeated with the next layer. His breathing escalated. He could feel the needle point of her claw inch closer and closer to his vulnerable flesh. He imagined her scraping it down his wound in a sudden flash of violence. She did no such thing, severing each strip as gingerly as she would hold a butterfly.

They came to the final layer. His heart was pounding. She wasted no time, immediately starting after finishing the last. She unraveled the first lace, and peeled away the cloth sticking to his skin. His face wrinkled into a tight scrunch as what should’ve been the root of his arm was slapped by open air. His missing arm wavered in and out of his perception like a flickering image on a TV struggling for reception. Every return of feeling, no matter how brief, was like plunging his arm deep into a pit of used needles.

“Ffffffffffffffffffffrrrrrggggggggggggggggggggggghhhhhhh-!” he squirted through his grinding teeth. She ignored him, slicing through each successive strip as steadily as she could. His arm haunted his nerves like a vengeful poltergeist, not relenting its attack even when the bandages were gone. She smoothly cleared his wounded side of all cloth, and the worst of the process was complete.

He didn’t dare look. He put all of his strength into turning his head away so he couldn’t look. His eye was wide in an almost rabid terror as he pleaded to every god and spirit who would listen to prevent him from seeing the tragedy that was his missing wing. He knew that his already fragile psyche would be shattered if he so much as glanced at his wounds. Tears flowed freely. He whimpered and sobbed. The corner of his lips stretched into a mournful frown. Don’t let me see it. Don’t let me see it. Please. Oh gods, please. I don’t wanna see it. 

“Almost done!” Tetha told him. “Everything looks how it should. Let’s get you wrapped up. Artie!” Artie, who had been waiting nearby, hustled over and helped with covering Loman back up. Artie lifted and rolled Loman’s torso as Tetha winded each strap beneath and around his body. The agonising jolts of phantom pain began to finally subside once he was fully encased in cloth. He gradually stopped whimpering, grateful to be back in the warm swaddle. “There we go. There we go. It’s all over.” Tetha cooed.

Don’t fucking patonise me, Loman wanted to snap, but he wouldn’t have fooled anyone. He was balling his eyes out, feeling just about as threatening as a wet noodle.

“Damn, you’re tough,” Artie said admiringly. “I would’ve lost my mind.”

Who says I haven’t? Loman thought.

“Alright thanks Artie.” Tetha said, wiping sweat off her brow.

“No problem. You hang in there, warrior.”

Loman grunted in response. Artie left them, and Tetha kneeled back down next to Loman.

“I’m gonna let you rest for an hour or two to let you cool down. I know that was rough, but I’m afraid we’re going to have to do that every day as long as you’re here. It’ll get easier, trust me.”

He wasn’t sure if he could.

“You get some more rest. I’ll be back to see how well you’re moving.” She walked away, leaving him alone in a half-stupor. The pain loomed outside of his arm, far away like a malignant energy held back only by a rusty chain link fence. Any moment the softened chains would snap, and the suffering would envelope him like a surging wave. He remembered what Leonard said. Embrace it. Face it. Loman took a deep breath and prepared for that oncoming wave. He stared stoically into the mottled canopy. Don’t let it crush you, he told himself. Don’t let it control you. Face it. Embrace it.

When Tetha came back an hour later she found him staring at the sky like a soldier at attention. “Loman?”

He blinked back to reality. “Hey.”

“Hey. Feeling better?”

“Muhch bettah.” Talking, in spite of the heavy impediment, felt good. He decided he should speak more, lest he forget the sound of his own voice.

“Good! Now we’re gonna see what parts of you can still move and what needs help. We don’t think anything’s too beat up to move, but we want to be sure. Any part of you you can’t feel?”

Loman wiggled his toes and fingers. “Mm-mm. Everrthin’s movin’.”

“Good! Can you sit up?”

That was the rub. Loman grunted as he tried lifting his head and chest off the ground. Even with the added push of his arm he couldn’t get far. He plopped back down and shook his head.

“That’s Ok,” she told him. “We’ll work on that together.” She knelt down and placed her paws under his shoulder blades. “On the count of three. One, two, three!” She gently lifted him as he tried again. Together, with some groans of effort, they got him upright. “Whoo! There we go! How’s that?”

It was liberating. His head was upright for the first time in days. He felt lightheaded, but that was a welcome sensation. He could turn his head around fully. He flexed his neck around in all directions. His back was freed from the constant oppression of the ground.

“Dis feels greht.” he said, smiling broadly for the first time in ages. Tetha saw it and beamed brightly.

“Good! Look at you!” she chirped. She gently wiped his back of leaves.

He looked at his legs. They were shriveled nearly to the bone. He touched them with his arm, marveling at how thin they felt. His arm too was unsettlingly paltry.

“You’ll get those back in shape eventually.” she said. “We just gotta feed you and exercise you. Think you can stand up?” He shrugged. “Let’s give it a try.”

 She grabbed his arm and stood up. He got his feet underneath him and pushed. Immediately his legs protested. His tiny thighs bulged like they were lifting an anvil. Tetha did most of the work, pulling him straight up. He hardly got to enjoy the freedom of standing when his legs started to wobble and give out. He toppled over to his right. For a terrifying moment he thought he would collapse on top of his stump.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! I got ya.” Tetha pulled him straight and eased him back into sitting. “It’s Ok. We’ll try again some time. For now, just try sitting up on your own. Don’t lie on your back all day. Keep doing those stretching exercises I see you doing. Be active.”

He nodded. For the first time he felt a warm feeling simmer in his chest. It was hope, hope that he could make it. “Ok.”

“Good.” she said. She booped him on the nose, and left.

He was left there with surprise written on his face, and a tinge of blush rising in his cheeks. Did she just…? He quickly shook it off and tried to forget about it. There were more important things to worry about.

He did as he was told and stayed active. He stretched his head and limbs as often as he could. He even tried sitting up on his own, something he eventually achieved after several, struggling attempts. He found joy in the small things: being able to feed himself, interacting with the other patients, getting a better look at his surroundings. It helped him forget his grievous condition, although his mind did inevitably stumble back onto that awful fact.

The next day he and Tetha worked on standing up. He got good at getting on his feet. It was staying there that posed the greatest challenge. His legs shook at an almost comical level. The earth felt like it was swaying beneath him. Tetha had to hold his paw the whole time. He eventually graduated to standing on his own. He took his first steps, and was soon walking circles around the camp. He gained the admiration of the helpers and patients, although many of them were too embittered by their own wounds to offer any congratulations. He didn’t blame them. When patients left, they were given a brief goodbye from each of the healers. Occasionally, Loman would wake up in the morning and see a cot that had emptied overnight. He noticed that the bloodied goat he saw when he woke up the first time was missing. He knew what that meant, and tried to not think about it. For the rest of the day, he and everyone else remained quiet.

His stay at the camp surpassed a week. Tetha was removing his bandages when he finally gained the courage to look at his wounds. It was bad, very bad. The entire side of his torso had been shaved. His fur was slowly growing back, creating a soft grey shadow across his brown skin. Running vertically down the soft plain was a sutured scar. It came all the way down to his waist and up to his shoulder stump. That was where his wing membrane had been. The gory crown to his disfigurement was the swollen pucker of his shoulder. It was a nasty pit of brown flesh mushed together by a wirey assortment of threads. It looked like the mouth of a wormy demon puckered into itself.

Tetha watched him from the corner of her eyes as she dressed him, ready for a burst of tears or a fit of angry grief. He betrayed no emotion, however. He rested his head back down and gave it a stretch. It was difficult looking at the side of your body opposite to where you had only one eye. He smacked his lips nonchalantly. Oh well.

It was the next day when he was resting in his makeshift cot, sipping on a cup of Miss Tildie’s milk while he watched Artie help a patient. He eyed the wolf thoughtfully, wondering to himself. While he had been moping about himself, Loman had almost forgotten about the Faiti. What happened to them? How many got away? Did the Rothor take over? What about the other volunteers? Or any of the other animals? Most importantly, how was his colony? Artie finished up with the patient and got up to leave when Loman called him over. 

“What’s the matter?” Artie asked.

“Nothing, I have a question.” Loman told him.

“Is it important?” the wolf asked, folding his stocky arms. Artie was short, but what he lacked in stature he made up for in raw muscle.

“To me it is.”

“Then what is it?”

Loman took a deep sip from his cup, swigging the last of the milk. “What happened, to the Faiti that is? How are things in the territory? What did the Rothor do?”

The smart aleck, tough guy facade Artie always held on to cracked as his usual scowl sagged into a frown. That alone filled Loman with dread. Artie looked around to see if anyone was nearby. Not seeing anyone too close, he sat down.

“It’s not good, Loman.” he lamented. “Not good at all.” He told Loman everything he knew. He only heard stories out of his patients’ mouths, so he didn’t take everything he heard for certain. Still, much of what he did hear was repeated and confirmed by others, much to his chagrin.

The Rothor tribe managed to sneak their way into the Faiti territory and reached the den before any of the animals knew what was going on. So many were crammed along the border with the Rothor that they couldn’t react in time. Virtually everyone in camp was killed, the nurse mothers, the children, the elderly, and most devastatingly, the Alpha. The very few who managed to escape did so thanks to Loman and the other bats’ timely intervention, although that lasted only as long as the noctule bats had allowed it to. The Faiti reinforcements came in piecemeal. The Rothor waited, ambushing each group that came close to camp. The Faiti stood no chance. Their desperation to save the den led them straight into their demise. None of them had any idea what was waiting for them until it was too late. When the night was over, all organized Faiti resistance was effectively annihilated. The Rothor set out to cleanse any of those who remained. The woman and girl cubs were subjugated and claimed. Faiti men, boy cubs, and the elderly were all culled. In a matter of days the Faiti were a tribe only in name. What little survivors there were made haste out of the territory.

The deer suffered as well. The Rothor went savage, slaying them by the dozens in an orgy of violence that decimated the population. Artie himself said he heard the wails of agony from a good distance away. It was unknown how many deer survived and if the herds would recover.

All of the other beasts swore their allegiance to the Rothor. Any beast marked by the Faiti as a subordinate was killed outright. If a beast was accused of harboring sympathies for the defeated Faiti, they too met death. Many past feuds flared up again now that the Faiti were absent to enforce peace. Several clans of different species erupted in their own battles. As far as Artie knew, those were still ongoing.

Loman listened grimly. He felt a flutter of hope when he heard that his actions at the den massacre might have saved some lives, but that quickly extinguished under the awful news of the Rothor reprisals. He wrenched his paws at the thought of those involved with the Faiti being murdered. Fear gripped at his heart. I helped them. What if the Rothor come looking for me? What if they go to the colony? Surely his colony could get away. They were bats, not defenseless land animals. They could fly away, sticking their tongues out at the barbaric Rothor.

But the noctules. They were in league with them. Would they attack us? Are they that territorial? Loman stared into his cup where a film of bubbly white milk sat at the bottom. 

Artie saw the distant look in his eye and felt some concern. “Here, let me take that.” He took Loman’s cup. Loman just kept staring ahead, his one eye unblinking.

Loman’s bandages were removed for the final time the next day. The last patients were beginning to become mobile, and the camp readied to depart. Loman couldn’t stop rubbing his paw over his grisly scar. He was oddly pleased by the bizarre sensation of touching where his wing would be. There was the occasional zap of pain, but never enough to make him stop. He was getting himself used to the vacancy. He juggled stones with his left paw. He lifted heavy objects. He walked circles around the camp throughout the day. Sometimes he ventured deep into the forest where it was quiet. He would become aware of the steady breeze between the trees, like the forest was a singular, breathing organism. The air grazed his wound. It was only a few days ago that he would be whimpering in extreme discomfort. Now he paid it no mind. Indeed, he savored the wandering wind caressing his disfigured flesh.

He returned to camp. The helpers were busying themselves with the few remaining patients. One Lynx was preparing to have his leg amputated. It had been numb since his arrival, and Leonard gave him the grim news that it had to go. He took it in stride, having expected it. Still, Loman sensed his anxiety. There was no Melit herb left; they’d run out days ago. He would have to go through it fully conscious. Loman didn’t want to be around when that happened.

He saw Tetha doting over the unfortunate Lynx alongside Leonard. She had a solemn look on her face. She rubbed the Lynx’s shoulder as Leonard explained how the procedure would be carried out. The past few days she had given little attention to Loman. He successfully started walking on his own and his bandages became redundant. He no longer needed her help, so she turned it elsewhere. Now she was the Lynx’s emotional support. He needed it more than Loman did.

As he watched from afar, he felt a bitterness seep into him, twisting his lips into a scowl. What was the problem? Nobody was doing anything wrong. Nobody was offending him. What was this? The Lynx cracked a joke, and Tetha laughed. Loman shook his head and scoffed to himself. It was nothing.

Leonard informed him that once the Lynx’s leg was amputated and he was adjusted, the camp would depart. He estimated that it would be in four days.

“What do I do until then?” Loman asked.

“Keep exercising. Be active. You should learn how to hunt sometime. I’m afraid you won’t have access to Miss Tildie’s delicious milk once you leave.” he said with a snort.

Loman could definitely go without that sour liquid he’d been living off of, but he would certainly miss the lovely cow who made it. Miss Tildie was a sweet woman who treated her patients like children. She fed them everyday, but tolerated no misbehaviour. When she talked to him, Loman felt like an innocent child, something he wished he could be again. But he knew that was foolish. His innocence was dead, just like his arm.

“How am I supposed to hunt? I can’t fly.”

Leonard shrugged. “I’m afraid I can’t help you there. I will tell you this: Think outside of what you think bats are capable of. Escape your niche. I don’t know everything your kind does to eat, but I know it isn’t the only way you can.”

Loman didn’t know if that was helpful or not. “What about my stitches?”

“I’m afraid you aren’t totally done healing, so they need to stay for a few more days. You can’t leave them forever, or else your skin will grow around it and trap it in there. Trust me when I say that you don’t want that to happen. You can wait here for the next few days. We’ll give it one more look and see if it’s ready. If it’s not, you’ll have to remove it on your own.”

“Can I do that?”

“Easily. All you have to do is snip each little thread and pull them out. It might seem tough but it’s easy once you get the hang of it. You’ve got sharp claws. You shouldn’t have any issues with it.”

“How do I know when it’s ready?”

“The skin will start fusing together, leaving nothing behind but scar tissue. Looking at you, I think that should be in the next three to five days. Once you see no physical divide between your wound and see nothing but scar tissue, it’s time to go.”

“Thanks, Leonard.”

“You’re welcome, Loman.”

Leonard walked away. He was the last person Loman gave thanks to. That night, when everyone was asleep, Loman got up from his cot and left the camp for good. He never looked back.