The War for Eventyr

8 | Blood Does Stain

It was only one more life. One more sacrifice for the greater good.

Blood doesn't stain crimson fur.

The soil thundered beneath his paws. He bounded toward the den, fueled by thoughtless determination. Soon it was in his sight, and so was the shimmer of red fur in the moonlight.

He locked his eyes on his brother, slowing his feet to a trot. Jakob lay asleep in front of the burrow, alone and unaware. His fur rippled slightly in the wind's icy breath.

Colborn stopped. He chewed on the inside of his jowls. He couldn't do this, could he? But the longer he waited, the harder it would be. If he took his life while he slept, Jakob probably wouldn't even scream.

It would be the easiest way. Quick and quiet. Blind and painless. For both of them.

Blood doesn't stain crimson fur.

He approached on silent paws. Colborn held his breath steady, keeping his breathing in check. But he wished to the twinkling stars that his brother would grow restless. That a pebble might appear beneath his step––skitter across the ground and wake him. If only he'd just flick an ear.

Jakob would turn to him, eyes widened in surprise. He'd wonder why his brother was sneaking up to him in the darkness, with the same emotionless visage he had when Colborn gave him the scars along his side.

Colborn would wrap his neck around him. He'd breathe in the tod's earthy scent. And he'd say that everything would be okay.

There were no rocks in his path. Colborn abandoned the fallacy with a jerk of his muzzle, and he trudged onward. There was no other way.

He wanted to kill his father, but Colborn wasn't sure he'd win the fight. Not against the jarl, and not against his skulk.

His father ruled with iron claws; he used strong and cruel methods to enforce his rules. The foxes of Muspell regularly witnessed him violate and murder his own just because he had deemed them weak.

What would they do if they realized that his image was fallible––that the jarl was just as much a fox as they were? He wasn't some indestructible creature of death and fire, but living, breathing flesh. He was a body that could be torn to shreds, even by the claws of his own kit.

If the fear they'd relied on for so long collapsed, would they all vie for the throne with their own bloody fangs?

Colborn had to do this right, had to make his father proud and follow the crumbling laws of the ages and be given the right to lead before the crowds of cheering, blood-thirsty foxes. Then the former jarl would have no say with what his rule. He'd have no choice if his son disbanded the army. He wouldn't be able to lift a paw when Colborn called for peace, not conquest, and showed the Flameborn that there was another way.

And that would be the greatest revenge: never having to take a life again.

Colborn lowered his body to the ground. He crept closer to his brother's back. Jakob's chest rose and fell with a slow, gentle rhythm. His coal-colored paws twitched in the air, his throat vibrating with every sleep-uttered yip.

Maybe he was practicing his hunting skills. Catching a puffin to please his father. To make Colborn proud.

The tod swallowed. He blinked back the flood.

Blood doesn't stain crimson fur.

Colborn closed his eyes and leaped forward. His claws collided with a mound of flesh and fur, and with an instinct he wished he didn't have, he blindly reached for his brother's throat. Darkness kept him from seeing the fear in Jakob's eyes, but it didn't keep him from hearing the choked squeak.