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The fox’s paws thudded harshly against the earth. Pine-needles and bits of dark soil were thrown up by her movement as she disturbed the forest's pristine carpet. Behind her, the horrible baying of bloodthirsty dogs and the squealing of hard-ridden horses tore at the trees. No matter how hard she ran, no matter how difficult her path was in an attempt to waylay them, the sound never diminished, curling towards her with midnight claws ripe for strangulation. The only light to lead the way was the full, illuminating rays of the pumpkin-yellow moon. It was powerful tonight, and no canopy could hinder it. For that, the fox was grateful.
She moved across the land as if she had carved it from her very claws; like water on rocks. She sprang over arching moss-covered roots and snaked her way under fallen logs. With every step she felt the fuel of the red-hot adrenaline—like liquid fire streaming through her whole body—lesson just a little bit. She panted noisily, uncaring of grace, and her breath was in tune with the brutal pace of her heart ramming itself against her ribcage. Even so, even as her body was screaming in protest, she refused to acknowledge the exhaustion creeping into her bones.
A mist tinted yellow by the moonlight’s hue had settled over the floor of the forest, and if the fox wasn’t running for her life she would almost stop to admire its unusual quality. There was something different hanging heavy in the air. She swore she could sense luminous figures wafting in and out of her periphery, their vulpine existence so rapid the fox wasn’t entirely sure they had been there at all. They were those before her, who weren’t as lucky as her—or perhaps not as ceaseless.
The sounds of the cruel symphony had steadily grown closer, her breath grown more ragged, but still the fox did not turn. She could hear the individual hoofbeats of the horses. She stared forward unblinkingly; it was almost like she could feel the moist breath of the hounds on her hind legs, aci dic drops of saliva staining the forest’s floor in a raging pursuit they did not understand–the hounds only knew what their masters ordered them, and they are nothing but loyal.
She would know. She had seen it, time and time again, from friends and strangers alike—had almost expected to see the rivers run a permanent carmine at one time, surprised when they didn’t. For a quick moment she wondered why she even tried, but she quickly cast those dark thoughts from her mind. No, she would see to it that she would become that hunter's bane. She would be the one to haunt their thoughts, the one to get away. To do good all those that couldn't.
The fox spurred herself on with newfound determination. The spire-like trees seemed to bend towards her like they were ushering her on towards a specific path. The mist grew heavier. Soon the fox could hear the unique roar of rushing water quickly approaching. Up ahead, the land vanished into a sudden drop, and a weathered log hung precariously off the edge, dipping towards the water below like a curled finger.
Fatigue threatened to take over and turn her sure-footedness deadly, and sensing an escape, she banked towards the log, nearly slipping in the process. The symphony swelled, percussion and woodwind and string rising to meet each other in a fiery embrace. A snap of jaws that closed on empty air. A yelp and paws losing their balance. A human’s shout and a horse whinnying in sudden movement. It all clashed against the fox, who felt the cool spray of the waterfall even before she stepped paw onto the slick log.
With the moon at her back and death on her heels, the fox leaped from the log. She was weightless, and her muscles rang out from the temporary relief. She had mere seconds to register the icy water rushing up to meet her. She heard rather than saw the screeching halt of the dogs and horses, the excitement and frustration of their clipped barks. There would be no resolution to this symphony tonight. She plunged into the water’s depths. The shock of it was, however, a welcome one, and the fox couldn’t find herself to care in her fear-addled state.
She re-emerged and latched onto a floating branch. She allowed the water to carry her away, holding on to the last bit of strength she would need to pull herself out of the slow-churning currents. Above her, the golden orb that was the Huntsman’s Moon hung steady and sure in the deepening sky. There were no stars to accompany it, but its gentle light was enough for the fox. For it was a reminder that she would live another day.