Post by ᴛᴜᴇsᴅᴀʏ on Mar 25, 2017 13:47:11 GMT -5
1884 Words
She finds the body before the crows do. It lies half covered by overgrown bracken, riddled with thorns and hidden from the bright fingers of sunlight that pierce the forest canopy. The small form has yet to adopt the pungent reek of death, but Kiona recoils all the same, a shiver racing through her.
No cat deserves to die and be cast aside so carelessly, of course, but the limp body looks no bigger than that of a kit recently parted from its mother’s side. Kiona thinks of her sons, vibrant and boundless, kicking up pine needles and loose earth as they scuffle with their father in the evenings. Then she pictures them hidden in the overgrowth, slit from chin to tail and left for the carrion-feeders to devour, and nearly retches before turning her back on the bracken.
The body remains unburied, and by sunhigh, the crows feast.
“Bear, please trust me.” Kiona presses her nose against her mate’s cheek. He sighs, ruffling her fur, and returns the gesture.
“Cats die every day. Is this one worth moving our family?” he asks, his voice soft. Nearby, their sons rest in a pile, Coal with his nose tucked neatly into his tail as Clay lies atop him, limbs akimbo. Kiona glances their way and feels her will waver. They are so young still, vulnerable and trusting. Bear’s concern is well-founded; to uproot them from all they’ve known might harden their tender hearts.
But if they end up like the kit in the forest, Kiona could never forgive herself. “It is,” she says without looking away from her children. “It’s worth it.” And even when Bear waits for further explanation, she offers none, instead watching the steady rise and fall of her sons’ flanks. Their breath is precious, more so than their mother can put into words. She simply knows she must protect it.
“I don’t want to leave,” Clay whines, head-butting Bear’s flank. He is the spitting image of his father, ruddy brown and broad of stance, with green eyes that shimmer at the slightest hint of mischief. His brother, though, is silent, padding in his mother’s footsteps. As Bear gently flicks Clay with his tail to chide him, Kiona pauses to lick the top of Coal’s head.
“I’m sorry we have to go,” she whispers, “but I promise it will be better for you.” He looks at her unblinkingly as she speaks, something uneasy in his amber eyes. Kiona can see herself reflected in them, and dips her head again to lick his ears. “I promise,” she repeats.
“I believe you.” And Coal says nothing more, though he takes up walking at her side, a slim shadow pledged to her and her alone. Kiona knows then that they are inseparable, the truest expression of love, of family, and that she has made the right choice in moving her family out of their little forest home. Her sons will be safe.
Time after time, the small family traipses from one shelter to the next, seeking permanent safety. Everywhere they stop, Kiona is unsatisfied by one detail or another, and in the name of her sons’ well-being, she continues on, sometimes alone. Her pelt is useful after dark; it carries no markings, and should she stand in shadow, only her glowing amber eyes can be seen. As such, while her mate and sons rest one night, she slips into the forest to scout for danger. Her paws make no sound on the dry earth, and only the faint rustle of the undergrowth betrays her presence. Kiona becomes no more than a ghost as she prowls about, and by morning, no aspect of the woods has escaped her notice. Rather than spurring her family on, though, she instead settles beside Bear, tucking her nose under her tail.
This will be the place. These woods, she knows, are safe.
Two moons pass in this haven without incident. Confident in her choice, Kiona has returned to the days of old in which she taught her children to hunt, to climb, to fight. Bear serves as the relief to her diligent training; he sometimes explores the forest with his sons come sunset, allowing Kiona a rest while letting Coal and Clay test their limits without worrying about technique or skill.
One such evening, Kiona takes her own tour of the forest rather than curling up in her nest until Bear comes home, sons in tow. The air is heavy and humid, pregnant with a final summer storm. Grey clouds billow overhead, and the dark queen parts her jaws to drink in the clear scent of the coming rain, ready to relish the way static flickers across her pelt with the charged air. However, she cannot smell the approaching storm over the metallic scent of blood.
Her hackles rise, and without a second thought, she drops low to the earth and creeps along the trail. It is fresh, and Kiona wishes she could be surprised when she stumbles across a bloody streak in the grass, tainted by thick fear-scent. Every fiber of her being screams that something is gravely amiss, and yet she continues to follow the slick, matted grass, discovering clumps of pale brown fur as she moves along. The path seems to go on forever, an infinite track of fur and blood, until the storm breaks and lightning illuminates the form of a massive grey tabby crouched over a smaller brown tom who weakly pleads for his life. Then the light vanishes, and as if cued by the burst of thunder overhead, the grey tom slashes his victim open from chin to tail in one long motion.
Suddenly Kiona relives her discovery of the first body. She can picture all too clearly the matted brown fur, the broken thorns, the gaping wound. The vision of her sons, laid out on their backs, bellies sliced open, haunts her once more, and with a strangled cry, she whisks away from the horrible scene to warn her mate and children. Before she turns, though, her eyes lock with the grey tom’s. Then she is gone, paws flying over the earth, rain soaking her to the bone.
It is not safe, not safe at all, and Kiona calls out for her family above the roaring thunder. Her heart hammers in her chest, and every moan of the wind beckons her to glance over her shoulder for the tom. “Bear!” she cries, skidding to a halt beside a stream whose banks are fit to burst with the sudden downpour. To her relief, though, a broad-shouldered form emerges from the trees, two smaller, sodden shapes scampering along just behind. Kiona runs to meet them, only nuzzling them briefly before inspecting them for injury, all while ignoring Bear’s frantic questions of “What’s wrong? Kiona, what’s wrong?”
Finally satisfied, she tells him, “It’s not safe anymore.” The horror she witnessed spills from her mouth, each detail too terribly clear for her sons’ ears. She tells them anyway, though, unwillingly to leave them blind to the danger they face, and when she is finished, she ushers them along the stream bank, insisting that they have to go.
The storm has other plans, though. Not more than a fox-length ahead, lightning suddenly drops from the sky, setting a towering oak ablaze despite the rain. Coal and Clay screech in terror, while Bear shoves Kiona back before the burning tree creaks and tumbles down, barring the way and spraying hot embers with a flourish. Some hit the stream and fizzle out, but others fall on the dry earth, sparking in the withered grass. Soon, the east end of the clearing is awash in flame, and it seems like there could be nothing worse.
Yet the grey tom steps through the trees, shadows flickering madly on his pelt as the flames grow higher. His yellow eyes flick across Kiona and Bear before focusing on Coal and Clay. “You’re not leaving,” he growls, lip curling, without taking his eyes from the young toms. Kiona finds herself stepping between her sons and the tom, and Bear does the same, prepared to meet this stranger head-on.
“Coal, Clay, run. Run along the bank and cross as soon as you can. Run to our old home. Our oldest home,” Kiona tells her children firmly. Though she should look back at them, she cannot for fear of what she might find in their eyes. Instead, she keeps her gaze centered on the grey tom, even as she hears the faint patter of kitten feet racing away. “Run!” she shouts one last time.
And then the tom strikes her mate down.
It is sudden, fierce, unexpected. One moment, the grey tom is leering from the edge of the clearing, and the next, he rips a smoldering branch from the fallen oak. One end in his teeth, he whirls the other through the roaring flames before leaping towards Bear. It is brief, too brief, and Kiona can only watch as Bear is scorched across the face, then torn open, beginning just below the jaw.
Something snaps within her at that moment. Loss sharpens into bloodlust, and forgetting for just a moment the danger before her, the black queen barrels into her mate’s killer, knocking the burning branch from his jaws. Her claws sink into his back, and on instinct, her fangs seek the soft pulse of his throat. He bucks wildly, trying to toss her slim form into the rising flames of the oak, but little is stronger than the coupled might of fear and rage. Kiona hangs on through every sharp movement, her claws scoring new marks with each twist the grey tom makes. What sounds they issue, she does not know. All she is certain of is that this tom, this killer, will not harm her sons and cast them into a bracken bush for the crows.
They will be safe.
Kiona’s breath is suddenly crushed from her body as the tom finally rolls onto his back. His weight is more than enough to force Kiona’s grip to slacken, and the moment her claws slide from his fur, he is on his feet again, one heavy paw pressed over her throat. She thrashes as the pressure increases, but the edges of her vision wink in and out of existence, blurred and dark. As such, she isn’t sure if she is imagining Coal watching in horror, his amber eyes wide as the moon. She hears his wavering cry, though, and knows then that he has not run away. He is her shadow, too loyal, too true.
“Protect your brother!” she screams when the grey tom lifts his paw from her throat to deliver the killing blow. “Go!” And he turns away just before Kiona screeches wordlessly, before the tom tears her apart with a single strike.
She sees the rain clearly for a moment. It sparkles, catching the light of the raging fire, and then her senses begin to fade. The agonous wound in her belly flickers from existence, and no longer does the acrid stench of smoke claw at her nose. The thunder is muffled, and her vision reduced to pinpricks of light. Then her last precious breath gathers in her throat, faint and sweet. Kiona exhales it for her sons; they will be safe.