He fell for a moment, stretched into an eternity.
Fire burned up his shoulder, down his arm to his numb fingers still outstretched towards the cliff looming further and further away. He couldn’t draw in breath, his body paralyzed, a thousand nerves screaming agony in unison as adrenaline coursed through his veins. The edges of his vision greyed, focusing to a pinpoint of that cliff-
The cold of the water drove the frozen air out of his lungs, only to rush into his throat when he finally screamed. Choking, he kicked and flailed in instinctive panic before instinct took over, water churning with red froth. His right shoulder wouldn’t move, his arm numb to the hand, but his other hand broke free of the water, clawing as he kicked until his head broke the surface. His first breath was gurgled, half-water half-air vomiting from his mouth as he coughed and sucked in a desperate breath.
The cold of the water stole the warmth from his body, even as it sent a bolt of clarity into his shock-addled mind. His eyes rolled, searching, before he saw a flurry of movement. Alphel, too, flailed in the current, one wing furiously flapping as she tried to right herself. His body burned, froze, but he forced it to swim towards her. Yet he could barely keep his head above the surface with only one arm, and his strength was fading swiftly from the cold and the- he didn’t stop to think about all the dark, ink-like stains coloring the water around him.
With a hissed apology, he took her foot in his teeth, ignoring her furious screeching, the pain of her beak savaging his head, ripping the circlet from his brow. His gaze locked on the shore, every single thought in his mind bent to a single task; swim.
It took hours.
It took minutes.
It took seconds.
It took almost all he had to claw the rocky silt of the shallows with his good hand. It took so much to drag himself onto the shore, shivering violently enough that he felt one of Alphel’s toes break between his teeth from his jaw locking shut. He released her, gasping for breath, body alternating between hot and cold, pain and numbness. He couldn’t wait to catch his breath. He had been shot before, knew when he lost a lot of blood. Knew the dangers of cold water, made frigid by the end of late-spring melt from the mountains. He had to move.
He looked to Alphel, relief flooding him to see she still breathed, though she hardly moved. He pushed himself to his knees, seeing the arrow half-way through her wing. He swallowed, fingers brushing over her feathers, and he nearly fainted to feel the arrowhead cleanly through.
“Forgive me, mello nia.”
He broke the shaft with his hand, pulling it out, holding her down with his knees as she began to flail. After a moment to grit his teeth against his own pain, he pulled out the other half, picking her up in his arm to cradle her close to his chest.
It took him several attempts to get to his feet, the mud and silt sliding away from him. He refused to put Alphel down, whispering Songs of healing under his breath, trying to stop her blood flow. His blood flow. But healing was not his strength, he had killed too much and had been exposed to too much violence.
Eventually, he managed to get his feet under him, swaying drunkenly on legs too unsteady and weak. Yet, he grit his teeth, willed his body to move. Step by halting step, he staggered up the bank, driving on by his will alone. He needed to get someplace he could get himself and Alphel warm; the night was chilly, and the water soaking him and her alike was still far, far too cold.
He had just made it into the brush, when he heard the first, cruel horn sound.
