He floated in the oblivion, weightless, flying in the air and swimming in the sea all at once, his body turning to a soothing current and the own languid movement of his limbs. His violet fur swayed in the sunlight and was swept back by a night’s breeze, as all around him the echos of voices stirred and muttered. If he focused enough he could hear them individually and pick out their stories; a slave, a king, a hero, a traitor, a lost child, an old man with gnarled paws. They surrounded him and engulfed him as his body floated toward a greater goal, a shining light that warmed his fur and chilled his bones. Enlightenment. The serpent eating its tail. The beginning and the end. His eyes opened wide, ready to receive and-
He woke to Bon Temps tapping furiously at his face with his black paw. “Not…Not now.” He said but his voice came out cracked and weathered. The monkey doubled his efforts, hooting determinedly and tugging at the fur of his neck, jostling his head in the process. His eyes snapped open and in one fluid motion Dumois wheeled his body away, spilling pure yellow bile from his throat with a wet gag. “Fuck.” He croaked, drool dripping from his muzzle. He looked around his den blearily, attempting to focus his vision enough to make sense of his surroundings. His mind screamed that the place was familiar but it was muffled by the call of The Further. He took a rattling breath and attempted to stand, but only succeeded in falling forward into his own sick. His limbs trembled as they brought him to a low crouch, his back legs peddling forward and toppling him again. Behind him he heard a muffled yet gleeful shriek from his companion as he struggled like a calf soaked in afterbirth. “SHUT. UP!” He roared, unable to turn his head to glare at his companion while he focused on trying to stand. He splayed his forepaws far in front of him, his ribs and hips quivering from the effort of trying to position his back legs far apart enough for him to rise properly. He rose to his full- if not mediocre- height and ventured to move one paw in front of him, only to topple over yet again as his back leg moved involuntarily. This time the baboon laughed uninhibited earning a snarl and a flash of teeth that he nimbly fled from. Bon Temps stood at the mouth of his den, hooting gleefully and chittering excitedly. Damned monkey. The priest would skin him alive. If he could ever stand again.
It felt as though hours passed within the small den of volcanic rock, but eventually and with much crawling, Dumois was able to greet the sunlight yet again, his eyes sensitive to the harsh light. What day was it? Hell, what month was it? He had entered his den at the cusp of Winter and now as he heard the gleeful chirping of birds and the distant plumes of flowers in bloom his stomach clenched. Spring. It was Spring. He had spent all of winter in his den entrapped by the spirits that surrounded the blazing mountain. “Damn.”
Speaking Thinking Others
