Hey Everyone!

I'm new here, but I love what I've read so far! I have never shared my own fan-fiction before, but I will give it a try. I'd love feedback, as I am looking to improve! Thanks! Bear the Flame!

A Spark of Hope

By A. R. Befus (Bearer of the Flame)

The scenes replayed over and over in his mind as he was carried through the air. He could still see the surprised faces on the enslaved rabbits faces when the army crashed into the prison camp. Soldiers from different citadels fought savagely, despite the short-given notice by the prince. Wilfred fought hard, trying to remain close to the prince. But to no avail. He fought hard. Smalls heart raced, his adrenalin rushed, his thoughts on one goal: Find Whittle Longtreader. But the forces he fought, there would be little chance; if none at all remained. The shocked wolves and raptors recovered quickly and charged head on, cutting off many soldiers. Smalls realized that this would be futile. No, it wasn’t without worth. He was doing this for dear Heather and Picket, who was like a brother. He couldn’t let them down. A sudden screech sent chills running down his spine and more raptors fell upon them from on high. He scowled and pressed on. He fought tirelessly, slicing through one wolf and the next. But it was too much. He was cut off from his host; the host that should be in Kingston! Then, a blow. He stopped and looked down, finding a bloody wound in his middle. Already the pain came, a shock; tumbling and terrible. He coughed, the wolves before him sneered at his agony. Gruff hands grabbed him and hauled him away. He didn’t resist. He knew that he would die. The wound, this wound that he received in a desperate attempt to free Heather and Picket’s father, was mortal. He smiled sadly, the pain washing over him like a cloak. He would die… alone.

The cool, dank atmosphere was distant, but persistent. The wound throbbed, a dull reminder of his folly. When he was partially conscious, he felt a gruff, almost scaly hand lift his head and he felt a cool, mossy flavoured liquid slip down his throat. Then his head was lowered again and he would fade back into the peace of darkness. But while he was unconscious, he found himself in a strange tunnel, and he could think clearly, without the pain of his wound to bother him. He thought back to the events after his injury and how he was flown away by a bird of some sort. He remembered that the talons gripped him tightly, but he faintly remembered that he felt nothing. Physically and emotionally. Forests below rolled away, a river occasionally weaving in and out of the natural canvas. Now as he thought back to it, he was puzzled. Why did they carry me away, when I am as good as dead? Where did they take me? He asked himself. No answer came. He felt himself fade again, his vision darkened and he almost felt himself awake. But the scenes returned and he recollected that the talons had suddenly let go of him and he fell through the air for a few, long seconds before he hit the ground. He winced at the memory, but realized that he hadn’t felt anything when he hit the ground. Smalls forced his eyes open in the vision and found himself on some platform, high and frightening. Then, another blow came. But it wasn’t from a weapon. The talons had kicked him, and he felt himself falling as he replayed the scene.

Down. Farther still.

Though nothing had made sense, he distantly felt a change in location. And light. The bright light of daytime had faded and was replaced by darkness, filled with moisture and humidity. It was dark, gloomy, and cool. At last, he felt himself land on something solid. It hurt, but it began to feel normal. The wound in his middle throbbed painfully and even as he revisited the scene, he could feel the pain steadily return. He came painfully awake, his vision becoming blurred and disoriented. He looked up and saw the opening from where he fell how ever long ago. The light that poured in was fading. Smalls started to close his eyes, trying to make sense of what happened. What was happening. I am injured, and dying. I am in a strange cave, and … I am alone. He looked at the high above opening once more just as the light disappeared and he fell into darkness.

But he didn’t only dream of his most recent adventure. He often found himself at Halfwind, where things had really begun to roll. He began his work at Cloud Mountain, but here was where the plans were put in motion. He had been announced and made the leader of the Cause, the heir of all Natalia. He and his council planned for everything. From the war with Morbin to matters of friends and family. Family. It was a hard concept. Wilfred of course was a fatherly figure, protecting him with his life since the death of his father. His mother went into hiding as well as Emma, just a baby at the time. His older siblings remained in the Great Wood and became prisoners to the villain. But other than that, he was and felt alone. Before he could think more on the subject, he found himself walking through a maze of brambles and briars, the winter air cool and close. He moved along through the seemingly confused and jumbled maze, looking for someone. He had a purpose to this mission. He stopped short and looked. A white doe stood with a notch in her right ear, her back to the prince, standing in silent deliberation. Her thoughts held her captive, memories and tasks masking her sight so that she didn’t notice the quiet surrounding her. Smalls hesitated, but then called out, “Heather.” The doe turned and met his gaze. He smiled and began to approach her. Her silver, lovely eyes beheld an earnest thought that seemed to paralyze her. But she returned the smile and bowed, that peculiar look having vanished. Smalls enjoyed this walk with Heather, and he smiled in his unconscious state at the memory. It was brief, but sweet. Even the matters of war didn’t stop him from seeing her. She seemed… what? A light? Of course! She had become his friend as soon as they were introduced… that is of course, after their ordeal in Seven Mounds where they alternated being unconscious and not.

Besides the Cause and the hoped-for Mended Wood, Smalls desired for her good and benefit.

He frowned; the memory faded from view and was replaced by only darkness for him to search. He realized that he was fighting for his people, to give them a home. To give them hope. The Mended Wood. But as he processed this information, he realized that he thought of Heather when he thought about the desired results for the Cause. Does she know that I loved her at Halfwind? Before then? Did she know that I wanted to marry her after the wars? Even in the dark, he felt tears escape his closed eyes. Tears of regret. He wanted to fight for the good of rabbitkind. For Heather. But in doing so, he was caught at a crossroads. The crossroads of Heather and Picket’s loss of their family. Picket had told him that it would be betrayal. Betrayal if he didn’t try.

“Heather would-“ He began, but stopped. Those words cut Smalls. There would be no turning back. “Heather would what?” He asked, though it pained him. The next thing Picket said was betrayal. That was all it took. Smalls would do anything for Heather, anything at all. But he also had to learn to be a king; listen to wise council, make good decisions. But now, he lay wounded and close to death in a dark cave, his decision to listen to Picket’s plea had cost lives… and now his.

Do I regret trying to save Whittle? Trying to reunite the Longtreader family? He asked himself. The answer came instantly. Of course not! I was only trying to help Picket and Heather… but I didn’t help them. Or anyone. I chose to be stubborn and refused to continue on to Kingston. Soldiers died because I tried to keep a promise- an undoubtably foolish one. Now, we are weakened against Morbin, Emma will be thrust into the position of leadership, and… Heather. Where is she now? The tears came and woke him. They were hot, and a sliver of comfort. But he wouldn’t find comfort. Not at the thought of him leaving the world and Cause this way, having strained their forces and made such a foolish decision. The thought that he had no idea how Heather was doing. Where she was. If she was well. Would she ever learn about his death? He coughed and became alert of the pain he felt. His wound was bleeding again, and he gritted his teeth against the pain. The pain of this wound that was robbing his life. The pain that he wouldn’t see Heather again.

“Take care of her, Picket.” He groaned to himself as he fell back into oblivion.

Smalls sensed the slithery presence even when he was semi-conscious. The presence that held up his head and made him drink. As soon as the hand would lower his head back onto the moss, he would fade back into darkness, trying to forget his actions and situation. If I am to die, why does it take so long?

But after days of this confused and fuzzy activity- at least, he thought it was days- he felt something different. Hope.

The next time he was made to drink, the hands were gentle and comforting… and not clammy. He wanted to open his eyes, try to make sense of what was happening, but he didn’t. He didn’t want to arouse a hope that probably wasn’t there. He was injured, dumped into a strange cave, and hardly surviving… besides the scaly being that kept making him drink now and then. What’s the point? Smalls felt confused as to what was happening. But then, the dreams that continued to pester him. He clenched his jaw against the pain and his thoughts, trying to shut them out and find solitude in the darkness. At last, he found respite.

Much later, he felt something- or someone – cleaning his wounds. Why bother? He thought to himself. After a while, he felt the being back away and collapse. More confusion. What- he began, but stopped. Perhaps there was hope? But for what? If he did survive, what could he do? Would it be too late for him to join the fight for the Mending? He groaned to himself and greeted the senseless black once again.

Smalls dreamed. He found himself in a cave, moist and filled with moss. It felt and looked foggy, his lungs beginning to panic and plead for fresh air. But he could sense someone else was there, besides the slithering being that was out of sight. Someone is here. He walked in the dream, searching the edges of the rock. He felt that he had to find that person, whoever they might be. In the dim darkness, he found nothing. Puzzled he straightened up and examined his surroundings. In the middle of the cavern, he saw the form of a white rabbit. He began to cross the space but stopped halfway. His heart stopped and sorrow swelled throughout his being unlike anything he had ever before felt.

“No-“ He protested, “It can’t be!” He rubbed his face. “It’s just a dream… it’s just a-“ but he stopped. It was a dream, but even as the dream disappeared, a growing dread continued to swarm.

He groaned as he felt himself laid somewhat roughly on the ground. This time, the ground felt even more wet, more so then the place he had been previously resting. He had no idea why he was moved, but he let himself be carried and laid elsewhere. He felt more of the vegetable flavoured water trickle down his throat, and a strange voice muttered in the silence that seemed so distant.

“At last it has been cracked… Not around but through… digging…” He spoke this confusing message obviously to someone else, but it seemed intriguing in an odd way. Smalls breathed in deeply and welcomed the peace of sleep. He slept for a while, until his mind began to put things together. His eyes opened wide and he sprang up suddenly. He winced, anticipating his wound to return a blow of pain. But none came. As his eyes adjusted to the scant light, he looked down at his wound. His jaw dropped.

It was whole and healed! Thoughts pieced together, sense finally coming. He blinked, trying to make sense of the miracle. He suddenly stopped and straightened, looking around the cavern. His blood froze. “No.” He muttered, running to the middle of the cavern. There, in the middle of the vast cave, lay a white rabbit doe. Unconscious she lay, blood escaping a fatal wound in her middle.

Heather.

Smalls knelt beside her and tenderly touched her face. Her expression was peaceful but sad. Her hands were stained with blood and her satchel sat a ways away, its flap still open. He immediately understood. She had somehow been brought here, injured, and using the last of her strength and conscious moments, treated his wounds.

“Oh, Heather.” He murmured softly, shaking his head as tears came. He pressed his ear to her chest and listened.

Her heart was still beating.

Smalls looked around and noticed a clay bowl near to where her satchel sat. He stood and crossed to where the items sat and gathered both before heading back to where Heather laid. He set down the satchel and looked around, trying to find a source of water. He heard it dripping somewhere and followed the sound. He eventually came across a pool and dipped the bowl inside. Taking a sip, he found the taste familiar: Mossy like. Perhaps this was the water he had been drinking while he lay between death and life. He drank the remainder of the draught and dipped it again, this time for Heather. He returned to where she laid and knelt again, raising her head gently.

“Heather,” He said, “drink this…” He lifted the bowl to her lips and she drank a little. Her ears twitched at his voice and as he lowered her head, a slight smile replaced the frown that she had been wearing before. He smiled as tears flooded his eyes.

He watched her for a while, paying the most careful attention to her breathing. His gaze wandered to the wound and he felt anger rising.

“Who would do this to you?” He asked, reaching for her satchel. He noticed that she had tried to staunch the bleeding, but the bandages had done little, if nothing at all. As he looked into the satchel at the bandages, utensils, and ointments, he felt something hanging around his neck. He looked down and found the Green Ember. His eyes filled again as he touched the glowing green of the gem.

“Dear Heather,” He murmured. Smalls tucked it underneath his shirt and set to work on her wound. Thankfully, he and Wilfred both knew how to care for wounds. But Heather’s was the most severe he had ever seen. He began to worry that… no! “That can’t happen!” He promised himself, the small flicker of hope waning at the thought. But his own injury was deadly… what did she use? He grimaced as he cleaned the wound and bound it. He then returned everything back to the satchel and sat back, sighing.

Later, he refilled the bowl and lifted her head gently. “Heather, for me; drink.” He whispered. She did, but never opened her eyes. How weak was she? How long had she been laying here while he recovered? Smalls shook his head and watched her rest. Her eyes, those pure silver eyes; they didn’t open. Would they ever? He tightened his jaw and looked up. Her ear with the notch. He smiled sadly. He remembered the day Wilfred bound her ear on their way to Decker’s landing. Wilfred had told her that her hearing would be fine, but the slit would always be there. A reminder of the hardships she had endured.

“It is a mark of distinction. It in no way diminishes your beauty.” He had told her. He remembered how Picket stiffened out of the corner of his eye. He chuckled softly to himself. “My brother, where are you now? And how is Emma, and everyone else?” He asked quietly.

The third time he replenished the bowl for Heather, he realized that she would undoubtably need a tonic of some sort. What tonic had she used for him? Did she still have some? Smalls hoped she did. She needed it. And soon!

“Drink again, Heather.” He said, raising her head and cradling her in his arms. She drank, and he set the bowl down. Then he grasped her hand and squeezed it.

“Which one, Heather? Which one did you give me? The one in the small battered purse, or the larger one you have more of? Squeeze my hand if it’s the small vial in the old purse. Heather, please!” He begged. A sob chocked him, and the tears came again. “Please, Heather!” He whispered. Her hand twitched slightly, and she gave his hand a weak squeeze. His eyes widened and he gently laid her down again. He dug in her satchel and found the old patchy purse. He could hardly open it, his hands shook as he fumbled with it. He finally withdrew the vial and removed the lid.

Smalls carefully peeled back the bandages and poured a few drops into the ghastly injury. Then he poured the remaining tonic into her mouth. And he waited. The small, spark of hope that seemed so faint, began to grow.

He must have dozed off. He jolted awake and looked up. The small opening high above let in a little bit of sunlight. At least it was still daytime. Smalls looked down at Heather and found her still resting. A smile was on her lips, a sweet dream obviously giving her serenity. He picked up the bowl and returned to the pool where he refilled it, drank deeply, and drained the bowls contents. Then he bent and filled it again. As he headed back to the place where she rested, Smalls prayed.

“Please wake up! You have given me hope; don’t take it away again!” He sat down beside her and tilted her head up. “Again, my dear; drink.” He asked. Her whiskers twitched and she held her head up, drinking the liquid eagerly. Then he lowered her head again and set the bowl down, excitement building. Was she getting better? She had held her head up herself to drink the water, even if it was only for a second of two. And she drank the water with some energy. Surely that meant something! He closed his eyes, hoping. Praying.

“Are we alive?” A familiar, sweet voice asked. Smalls eyes flew open. “Heather!” He cried. He cupped her face gently and watched her intently. “Yes, we’re alive!” He assured, his heart starting to race. Her eyes were still closed, but her ears moved towards his voice. An almost fearful smile appeared on her face. Smalls watched her eagerly, his hope building. Could this be real? Is this actually happening? She opened her eyes at last. Those beautiful eyes met his. He was certain that she could read the love and relief that overwhelmed him. She sat up, studying his face, almost as if she expected him to fade away. He smiled.

Heather returned the smile, inhaled, and began to laugh. That sweet laughter that captivated his attention echoed and brought tears to his eyes. Smalls joined in and laughed, then wrapped her tight in his arms. She buried her face in his neck and laughed; he felt her hot tears on his fur. His own tears ran down his face, dampening his fur. But he didn’t care. The love of his life was alive and well. And so was he. He held her close, not daring to let her go. She melted into his embrace, her laughter fading into sobs of gratitude. He smiled despite his tears.

Heather’s alive; I am alive. There is hope. It was faint, but has grown! Oh, dear Heather!

“We’re alive!”

The End