Falling

Who: Aamir
Where: in the forest near--very near-- Ashley's grave
When: some time after her burial

Allah in his mercy had provided fish, but that bounty did not excuse Aamir from the duty of checking his snares. He would not leave any rabbits he'd trapped to suffer needlessly. He pulled up the snares that were empty, coiled the wires around his wrist. Let the house mates learn moderation. Let them learn restraint. They did not need to eat meat every single day. No. He would hunt no more, not today.

Not for rabbits. Aamir bared his teeth in a grim smile. Caél might be checking his own traps right now. He could imagine the foul-mouthed kafir, that smug face of his. He wouldn't be so smug when the tables were turned: When he was the animal in the trap. Aamir crept through the forest. He took care, moving cautiously.

Here was the deadfall. He circled it, alert for any glimpse of Caél, any sound or sign that his enemy was near. Nothing. Here was the pit trap... Or here was where it ought to be. Aamir frowned. Someone had disturbed his handiwork. Someone-- Caél, no doubt-- had filled it in. Marked it. But why had he marked it? Why go to the trouble? To taunt him? Strange--now it looked like a grave. Aamir padded closer, footsteps nearly silent on the carpet of fallen leaves.

A startled yell escaped him as the ground gave way beneath his feet. He fell hard, nostrils filling with the smell of dirt, the scent of leaf mold, strong and musky. So dark. Walls of earth blocked out the forest light, dim and green, far above. He blinked dust out of his eyes, sneezed violently. A new smell assaulted him. Thick and cloying, all too familiar. He gagged, a reflex, impossible to suppress.

Aamir tried to collect himself. To get himself upright. He rose to his knees, put out his hands to steady himself, felt along the dirt walls of his prison. Something yielded to his touch--something moist and foul. Gradually, his eyes adjusted to the dim light, focused on what lay beneath the palms of his hands.

A low animal whine was torn from him, mingled fear, rage and disgust, acid burning his throat. He tried to scramble back. No room! He couldn't breathe, couldn't escape! Couldn't think... Aamir panicked. Flailing, scrabbling at the dirt, desperate. He lost his grip, fell back, one shoulder impacting against something that squelched and clung wetly.

The trees were casting long shadows across the forest floor by the time Aamir returned to his senses. He lay on solid ground, gulped fresh, untainted air. His throat was raw--he must have screamed, though he didn't remember. The memory of the corpse's mangled face, its vile touch against his bare skin, those were clear. He shuddered, then sat up and took stock.

His hands were scratched, bleeding, two fingernails nearly torn off. He must have clawed his way out of the pit. His hands trembled. His legs, too, when he stood: The aftermath of his stomach violently emptying itself. He was filthy. Covered in dirt, vomit, and worse. Somehow, he'd kept hold of his hunting bag. The knife he'd used to whittle pegs and slaughter rabbits was in it.

Aamir flicked it open, gripped it in his hand as fresh strength surged through his body. Fresh rage. At one point, stalking Caél had been entertaining. A game, almost. But no longer. Now, it was a matter of honor. Now it was serious. Deadly serious.