The first person I saw in the midst of today's fog, or, at least, the first person to approach me, was Ourania. She was badly hurt, it looked like. There were wounds all over her...I walked her to a tree to help her get her mask on...And I walked her to a slab halfway back. I hoped she'd stay there; she could barely move...And I didn't want to lose one friend in defense of another. To my relief, I never saw her enter the field of battle, even though she watched from nearby. That's fine, though, since she was safe.

I?...I may not have been in the best shape, but my one attribute in a battle is my endurance. I'll manage. I went out to take a place by Dag's side to defend him.
I confided in Verve, since she was there... That I was still afraid. Afraid that, even though I'd tried and struggled in spite of myself... I was still scared. These battles, this struggle...It all made me sick, with the wrongness of it all. Being necessary isn't the same as being right... Or is that the words of a perennial coward?

The battle seemed much more relaxed than last time...Or maybe, because the timing was different, the different people producing a different flow of battle. Oh, there were times I, too, had to battle intensely, moments where the front line couldn't manage it, and the creatures would come leaping, fangs bared, out of the fog. They were foglike themselves, at once clear and indistinct; shape, to them, was just another way to attack, another way to give rise to fear. But just as often, the fighting would be so far away that I didn't even know if there was fighting going on -- it was all indistinct running, hoofbeats like distant thunder. I was awed by them, those fiery waves that raged like tsunamis, the frothy tide of allies roaring in.
During breaks, I'd check people; friends like Saosin or Verve for certain, and for the people I didn't know, I'd pick people who I hadn't seen checked by somebody else, as many of them as I felt I could. I never felt like I had much time before the next of them would arise, but often, I had longer than I thought, waiting with the group. Most of them reported to be fine, or at least, hanging on as well. I was too weary to run, even, but I said I was fine. I was good to keep going -- no, I had to keep going. Dag was fighting, too, with all his strength. I have never been a good friend...but what sort of friend would I be if I didn't match that effort, to keep him alive?

Afterwards, as everyone dispersed, I stayed by Dag's body, while I could. I tried to think of something to say, to bring his mind back home to us. Some story, some gossip, some words of encouragement or praise...
Pathetic as I was, all I could manage was a few mangled haiku. Will I show them to anyone else? ...Hm. If I get Dag's approval of them...Then I'll write them down. If I don't...Then they'll be my farewells for him, since they could do no good.

We quite cluttered him, I think; sometimes, a fellow might need some space. I'm sorry about that.

It seems that, before I arrive next, things will be over... I'm relieved. If I never have to lay antler or hoof on another living being, it'll be too soon. I do not wish to fight again (though...I may take a flower-spar, sometimes.)
All I can do now is rest and pray...


***
At a Later Hour
***

Others will, their hearts captivated by the memory, remember the battles; the glory of the standing line, the rise of the hooves of the defending circle...
...The pause as the last of them considered his options, totally still. I apologized to him, at least. He didn't understand it...Maybe he didn't even hear it, it was so insignificant. But I nuzzled him, and said that it was my regret that we had to meet like this, that hopefully, one day, he and I could meet and be friends. We didn't have to fight, after all. Even if he couldn't make sense of it...Maybe even if...I'm the only one who saw him there...
That's OK. I said what I wanted to say...And maybe it will reach them somehow, someday. No one need remember that, until it's ready to be remembered.

I? I will remember my friend rising to his feet, fire in his eyes. His charge will be someone else's care -- in the rush and chaos of bodies, it's all indistinct to me...
But after that...
I'll always remember it, the way we all gathered around, and he greeted us one by one -- old friends, new friends, strangers...
Even if I had never seen him before, I would remember it always. Worn and battlescarred, his eyes gentle and kind...He looked like a king, a regal champion in blues and reds. That is what I will remember, the champion with his kind eyes, bowing to his retainers. I felt like the whiteness of the world became not just fog, but in my head -- everything outside of the scene was vague and unimportant, and the whole world was funnelled into that point. That...will be burned into my memory for all eternity.

That's my feelings as a poet, anyway. If I can grasp that moment in a poem, I'll be proud of myself. I immediately had to nuzzle him; I was so happy and so relieved! It was all I could do to give him space to say his other hellos...At least until I was struck by the poetry of the moment.
After that, he went to go get a drink...But I think many of us were still in war-charge mode, so it ended up being a stampede to the pond. It felt so over-dramatic, I had to laugh (Dag, I noticed, also laughed when he noticed the crowd behind him). In the water...I think many of our wounds were healed, or at least just long enough for a dance to celebrate our victory. I'm no warrior, but even with my legs stiff and scraped, I'm a good dancer.

Then he had a few more greetings...And he returned to the hill and to Cry, his healer, to sit and rest... As those of us who gathered dwindled...I smiled. This is what I love best, instead of this war and strife: sitting by a tired friend, watching the peaceful movement of his breath... Like the drifting of the fog over the land.


((Seed's been pretty prolific this weekend. There should be a major event/crisis every weekend; it's great for the inspiration!))