As he flit over the open plains, tortoiseshell bundle in mouth, the ginger tom took care to step precisely in the tracks he had created before. His breathing was ragged, a quick succession of ha-ha-ha pants warming the kit in his jaws. Her feeble struggling had long since ceased as the chill night air pressed against her, rich and cool with the smells of thaw and a reawakening earth. She, the now nameless kit, did not know to welcome the coming months of spring and summer - she only knew that this wasn't the same milky den that had only briefly been her home, and that her mother's familiar scent was fading fast, carried away from her with each rustle of the wind.
Now she simply sniffled, letting out a quiet whimper whenever Foxtrot stumbled on the slush that seemed to melt before his paws.
She was cold, and while the feeling was not a new experience for her, the nameless kit didn't like it anymore than she had a moon ago. The white hills yawned before her, and with the predawn glow of the sun peaking on the horizon, she could tell that it was nothing more than an empty expanse with trees encroaching from all sides.
Hills, she thought, placing a word to the unknown. It didn't lessen her fear, but the realization did offer her a small amount of reassurance, made her feel a little less alone and confused. The identity of her captor did not come as easily, though. She didn't recognize this stranger's scent - he did not carry the smell of her mother or any of the other huge cats she had encountered - and although he was red, red between the grisly scars that seemed to cover every inch of him, he was not the same deep russet of her mother's friend.
Another burst of fear shot through her, and the little kit nearly let out another plaintive cry before she was jostled when the tom slid on the ice, all four legs splaying out as he fought to keep control. Her dangling hind paws brushed the watery snow, and she pulled back, whimpering in complaint.
"Shut up." A rush of hot breath met her scruff, and she fell silent at once, ears flattening at his harsh words. She didn't understand what they meant, but she recognized their sharpness and the warning implied in his tone.
Much to her relief, the ginger tom managed to steady himself, a growl humming in his throat as he plunged on. The journey seemed to drag on, but before they reached their destination - wherever it was - her captor plopped down on the ground with a groan, dipping his head and dropping her in a heap on the slush. The freezing cold jolted through her painfully, but she knew better than to cry out again, fearing that his retribution would be more than just a snarl this time around.
"Gods dammit," the tom snarled, baring his fangs in a grimace. She shrank back, trying to appear as small and meek as possible as he sucked in a violent breath. It hissed between his clenched teeth, and she felt the tiniest twinge of satisfaction at the look of pain pronounced plainly on his mutilated face. This tom truly was horrifically scarred, with more scars cutting into his skin than she could count. She may not have known many cats, but all of them had had two eyes, and he, this horrible cat, only had one, gleaming, coppery eye. An eye bright with pain.
She stared up at him, blanched beneath her thin fur, drinking in every detail from the scar curving up from the corner of his jaw to the shredded remains of one ear. How could one cat bear so many scars? What had he done to deserve such a punishment? She had dim memories of a kit taking a swipe at another, but it had never been enough to draw blood, never possessed enough strength to do this.
She swallowed, finally managing to tear her eyes away from his exhausted panting. He is a monster.
"You need a name," he said, and she felt his eye suddenly upon her, willing her to look his way again. Reluctantly, she finally glanced back at him, mewling quietly in response. The sound conveyed no words, but the ginger tom seemed to interpret it as an acknowledgement of sorts. He nodded after a moment and raised his head to the star speckled sky, smirking with an arrogance she would come to be familiar with for the rest of her short life.
"Something fierce would be nice," he mused, amber gaze still fixed on the evening blue sky. "Something... unusual. Exotic. Unheard of."
The little kit frowned, puzzled by his mumblings. Hadn't he been in pain only moments before? Why was he suddenly acting fine? Why did he seem... happy? The feeling was twisted with darkness, impure, but it was a kind of cruel contentment nonetheless. It didn't make any sense, none at all, and her head was beginning to ache with a combination of confusion and fatigue.
"Oh, I know," the ginger tom said after a moment, and his crooked grin lengthened disturbingly as the smile tugged at his scar. "Astral, after those bastards in the sky your mother and the rest of you blindly worship. How fitting." He chuckled, and although it was full of mirth, a chill still ran down her spine.
I want Momma. I want Red and Bite and Quiet, and I want our nest and I want warmth. They didn't appear, though - she had not expected them to. Nothing came without her quiet whimpering, she knew from experience, but making a noise now would only provoke the tom's wrath.
The tom rose to his paws finally, and she watched as the string of muscle in his hind leg quivered with effort. Why was he so weak? Was it his scars, or was it something else? Did it hurt to do bad things? She had never considered that possibility before, but it seemed sensible enough now that she thought about it. The bad needed to be punished - that was the only law she had ever known.
"Let's go, Astral," the ginger tom grunted, and seized her by the scruff of her neck before she had had a moment to prepare herself. She couldn't help the whimper that escaped her then, and immediately she cringed with fear, realizing her mistake a second too late.
Mercifully, and much to her surprise, no rebuke came, and after several tense moments she relaxed. Whatever the future held for her, she was safe for the moment, and she wanted so desperately to believe that Momma would come to rescue her soon. She would snatch her up and bathe her with frantic licks, drying her slush dampened fur until she was fuzzy and warm. Then, Momma would lay her by the crook of her belly and scold her in that soft, loving voice that she knew meant that Momma didn't really mean a word she said. And all would be well, and warm, and she would drink her fill and sleep, sleep, sleep...
Bite wouldn't even take a snap at her, not with Momma so worked up, and Red and Quiet would be as gentle as ever.
She hardly registered the ginger tom's struggles as he toiled along the slushy trail, wrapped up in her fantasy that would never be completed. It wasn't long before she succumbed to a sleepy state, an undefined line blurring between dream and reality.
His pants were her lullaby, and the labored song was the last thing she heard before she coasted off to sleep and awoke into a new world,
a world where Death danced under the name Astral, and the hate made a nest in her tired mind.