The Stag's Sight

by SplatDragon

His mother, The Doe, had laughed and patted his head. His father, The Badger, had harshly taught him to hold his tongue. He quickly learned to read them; to hide when his father's fur was bristled. As he grew older, he would learn to tell a potential mark by the state of their ears and tail. Now, as Dutch's Boy, it was impossible to ignore the unspoken aggression of his family.

The Stag was weary.

His head hung low, sprawling antlers a heavy weight atop his head.

The Lion stood, fur having long gone dull with the beginnings of mange, once-handsome mane patchy, throat rumbling with a muted roar as it thundered a speech to the rest of the Gang. The Stag flattened his ears; a hoof stamped the ground. In the place where The Fox had once sat was The Rat.

The Stag had learned when he was young that no one else had the gift that he had. They did not see what he could see, did not know others for what they were. Could not read the twitching, moving ears and far too expressive tails. Saw only weathered flesh, rounded ears, never the animals that overlaid them, hovered over them like a second skin. It was only he that had to focus to see the human beneath the animal.

The Rat's eyes may have been on The Lion, and to everyone who merely saw his human skin it would look as though The Lion had all of his attention. But its bald ears twitched this way and that, taking in the reactions of the Gang. They flicked at the 'doubters', the Coyote and The Stag especially. The Stag raised his head, stood tall. He would not appear weak before The Rat, no matter how heavy his head.

The Coyote, he saw, was nervous, and for good reason. Tension was high in the air. The Vixen leaned into it, the Cub - he couldn't tell, yet, what it would be, it would just be a tangle of blurry ears and an indiscernible tail until it reached its majority - kept between them. The Coyote's ears were back, its tail tapping nervously on the ground. It looked like a cornered beast, ready to run when given the slightest chance.

The Grizzly sat near the fire, its glassy eyes focused on The Lion. A glass bottle was cradled in its massive claws, although The Stag could see it was empty. The Grizzly swayed, causing The Wolf to step away. The Wolf and The Grizzly had gotten close as the Gang had fractured, becoming fast companions despite their previous differences. The look of reverence on The Wolf's face was revolting, and The Stag wondered if he had ever looked as such. Would his blocky face look half so ridiculous twisted as The Wolf's pointed muzzle was?

Perhaps louder than the roaring of the Lion was the absence of The Mouse, The Bear, The Fox and The Setter. He found himself seeking The Mouse in the corner of his eye, expecting to find it skulking among the horses. But it was gone - long gone, and yet its ghost haunted him, just as the others did. He felt it was his fault, for he had been the one to bring The Mouse into their fold, and if it had not become one of them it may have lived a much longer life; or, at least, suffered a much kinder death.

His ears twitched, the Setter's bark carrying on the wind. The Stag caught a flash of red fur near The Tigress, and turned his head. But there was only striped orange fur, a trick of the light, perhaps. If The Setter were here, it would have been yapping, calling out The Lion. But The Setter was gone, and no one dared loose their voice.

The Rat was where The Fox had stood, and some part of The Stag - a primitive part, where the buck paced and grumbled and raged and guided him - urged him to act, to charge and fling it away, throw The Rat into the dirt and crush the life out of it as he would any vermin that managed to sneak into camp. The Rat had no right to stand where The Fox once stood, guiding The Lion with a soft voice and a steady hand; replaced with flattering, false words and sharp, guiding teeth.

But he hushed the buck, calmed it as he would a wild horse. Harming The Rat would destroy what shreds of trust The Lion still held in him, ruin any chances The Stag had of getting through to it. And so there was little he could do but stand and watch, ears flicking, as he watched The Rat's tail coil around The Lion's paw, teeth bruxing and eyes boggling in sheer glee. The Lion roared, speaking words that were not its own, a cadence and phrasing that was wrong, and The Stag felt the noose get tighter as a silver clump of fur came loose from The Lion's dark mane.

He shivered, and shook himself, body aching with old pains. The Stag had an urge to turn and walk away, approach a watering trough, take in his appearance.

Would he see a fine brown face, streaked through with coarse grey, as though The Fox had sewn his torn flesh with its own fur? Would he see weeping bullet wounds, one for each betrayal he had suffered? For each loss that The Hounds had cost him? Would he see the noose that he constantly felt around his neck, tightening and tightening and tightening with each slip of The Lion, until he felt he would be choked and left to be skinned, to be turned into a rug and left to decorate The Rat's tent?