Once upon a time, there was a she-cat who deserved all the love that the world had to offer. She never knew it, and found only hate and heartache.
They were not, Shackle thought, the kind found in stories with happy endings.
He visited the kits sometimes, when the barn had gone dark and quiet for the evening. Enough moonlight shined through the hayloft's window for them to continue playing, and they did, running and cavorting until they were all but pushed into their nests by an exhausted Rose or Alifair. Miss Jaci's kits had grown tremendously, shooting up like weeds until they could nearly match the older three step for step. The bigger of the toms was a mirror image of Jenner, all that reckless youth passed down into another generation, and one of the little she-kits—Audrey, he thought, but wasn't positive; he tried to keep his distance—was her mother made over.
The smallest daughter had green eyes, and it was difficult for him to look at her sometimes.
A mouse hung from his jaws as the gray tom began the climb up the ladder. His shoulders screamed their protests; the pain had been worse since the battle, but it was nothing that he couldn't handle, nothing that he hadn't handled before. Shackle could hear tiny voices emanating from the loft, and he threw a quick glance over his shoulder to see Alifair and Twister asleep in their nests. The moon was already high in the sky, its pale light seeping through cracks in the barn's old roof, and it was far past the children's bedtime.
He lifted himself to solid ground, the firm floor of the loft more than welcome after climbing up the rickety ladder. The dark-furred tom approached the sound of the voices, moving towards the light streaming in through the window, and the sight illuminated by the pale grow stopped him short.
Rose slept peacefully in her nest, white face buried in the hay as kits played on. The older litter had gone to sleep as well, bodies sprawled across the hay-covered floor, as if they had fallen asleep in the middle of playing. It was the younger group that caught Shackle's eye, though, Miss Jaci's sons and daughters.
"Hush, now, or you won't get to hear the rest of the story."
Three of the four were crowded around Mackerel, the small she-cat's fur bleached paler still by the moonlight. Ellie and Audrey, always so quiet, so unlike their parents, were already silent, tucked into the curve of Mackerel's belly and looking up with expectant eyes. The smaller of the brown tabbies had nestled against Mackerel's chest, dark fur contrasting starkly with her pallor. The last of them sprang out of the hay, tackling the silver tabby's side and crawling up onto her back to tug at her ear. Her laughter, a light, musical thing that Shackle wasn't sure he's heard before, fills the air, and she shook him off gently. "Come on, Conall, don't you want to hear the rest?" She licked the top of his head as he curled up beside his sisters, her amber eyes glowing.
This was what happiness looks like, Shackle knew, and he would have sold his soul a thousand times over for her to have that kind of contented glow for the rest of her life.
The gray tom couldn't bring himself to disturb them; his paws felt as if they were made of stone, unwilling to advance any further and destroy the bliss of the moment. He moved to return to the ground floor, and the dry straw crackled loudly underneath his paws.
"Shackle?"
He winced and looked up to see Mackerel staring at him, amber eyes surprised. "Good evening, Mackerel," he rumbled, sitting aside the bit of fresh-kill so he could speak without being muffled. "I was just, ah—"
His explanation was mercifully cut off by one of the toms—Conall, he thought, that one is Conall. "Did you bring any food, Uncle Shackle?" he asked, hopping to his paws. Yellow eyes gleamed as the tiny tabby spotted the mouse, and he rushed over. "This is even bigger than the last one!" Dipping his head in a quick nod of thanks, Conall hustled back over to the other cats.
"...Uncle Shackle?" Mackerel repeated, looking faintly bemused.
"Uncle Shackle visits us sometimes, Mama Mack," the other tom said softly. Seisal, Shackle remembered. "After Mama Rose has already gone to bed. He'll bring us snacks. Not sparrows, though, 'cause I told him that I don't like to eat birds." The kitten offered him a small smile, and Shackle returned it to the best of his ability.
The silver tabby's eyes were wide, and when she looked up at him, that warm, happy glow had returned. "Well, then, why don't you all thank Uncle Shackle for catching you the mouse?" She smiled, and the gray tom felt as if he had stepped into a sunbeam.
A chorus of gratitude filled the air, even the little she-kits nodding their heads. "Will you stay for the rest of the story, Uncle Shackle?" Conall asked. "Mama Mack tells the best ones, even better than Aunt Ali."
Shackle hesitated. "As long as it is fine with you, Mackerel."
"Of course," the silvery she-cat replied, stunned but still smiling. She gestured to the spot next to her in the hay, and he reluctantly padded over. Careful not to crowd her or the kits, he sat down beside her, curling his thick tail around dark paws that still ached from training with Maelstrom that morning.
"Now, let's see, where were we? Oh, right, the fox and the rabbit. Now, like I said, the fox is one of the craftiest, most wicked creatures in the entire forest, and this particular fox was the worst of them all. The fox happened upon a young rabbit one night while hunting..." Mackerel's soft voice lulled the kits into a quiet, her words seeming to bring the characters to life before their eyes. Shackle glanced down in surprise as he felt a small, warm weight press against his side, and he looked down to see Ellie nestled into his thick fur, fast asleep.
Slowly, carefully, Shackle lowered his head onto his paws and closed his eyes, letting the moonlight and Mackerel's voice send him to sleep as well. He felt her pelt brush against his once the story was finished and she laid down for the night as well, but he couldn't bring himself to mind.
Once upon a time, there was a mother who loved her children more than anything. They never had the chance to open their eyes.
Whenever Twister approached him, he wasn't entirely sure of what to expect.
He understood the other cats in the barn. He and Maelstrom were partners, friends, family. He counted Alifair among his friends, and Rose and both litters of kits—although they're hardly kits anymore, are they?—among those to be protected. Mackerel was his friend as well, part of his family just as Maelstrom is. Only the mottled she-cat remained standoffish, staying close to Mackerel or the kits or the other she-cats; anyone but him.
He didn't notice her at first, not as he watched the others in the barn go about their business. Maelstrom was practicing his hunting, crouching tensed and motionless in the straw until the telltale rustle of paws underneath the hay reached his ears. Mackerel was gone hunting, as was Alifair and Rose, and the dying light of the sunset had him glancing anxiously towards the entrance. Conall and the older litter left a trail of wreckage behind them as they played Fox and Rabbit; Seisal had taken to his usual roost in the rafters, and every now and then, he could catch a glimpse of amber eyes above him. Ellie remained curled into his side, silent and motionless but for the occasional unintelligible sleep-murmur, and as her favorite uncle was busy, Audrey had joined her.
They were a peaceful lot, the cats of the red barn, and it astounded Shackle every day that this was his life now.
"You're watching the kits because she asked you to." The she-cat was always quiet, and the gray tom looked up in surprise as she sat down beside him, seeming to have appeared out of thin air. The mottled loner wrapped her tail around her paws, amber eyes on the kits even as she addressed him. "That is the reason you're watching them, isn't it?"
Shackle nodded, eyes narrowing slightly. He and Twister had only exchanged a few words in passing, and he could only imagine why she was initiating a conversation now. "Yes, she and the other she-cats wished to go hunting," he replied. "They needed someone to watch them, and Maelstrom..." His gaze flickered momentarily to his blind friend, the pale tom creeping silently through the straw, something finally having caught his attention.
Twister nodded quietly, expression pensive. Shackle felt a prickle of apprehension, but quickly brushed it away. She could hardly hurt him, and even if it was possible, she wouldn't try anything. Not here, not with the kits so near.
"I...I've come to apologize." He looked up sharply, but her face was still turned away from him as she watched the kits. "I haven't been fair to you. You've tried to extend an olive branch before, and all I've done is knock it out of your paws. I didn't trust you. Sometimes, I still don't, but I'm learning." She looked at him then, and the intensity of her expression caught him off-guard. "How much has Mackerel told you?"
Of all the questions she could have asked, that was far and away the one that he hadn't expected. The mottled she-cat looked up at him, and he barely caught the shudder that ran its course through her lanky frame. Something clicked, and finally, finally, it all made sense. Twister never looked him in the eye like this, only ever stuck close to the other she-cats, was so protective of the kits and Mackerel, always fragile, tragic, sweet Mackerel...
She lifted her chin, daring him to say something, and he wondered how hard it had been to keep that fear in her eyes buried for so long.
"She's told me everything," he rasped, flicking his tail over Audrey and Ellie as a chilly gust of wind invaded the barn. The cool moons had sneaked up on them like a hunter in the night, and the cold moons wouldn't be far behind them. After all that had happened in the last year, he could only hope that these cold moons would be peaceful. "Everything about her family, and what they did to her. What did she tell you?"
"Enough," Twister replied, and her eyes darkened. "That wolf's-bitch should have burned along with her barn. If Mackerel can trust you with that, then I think that I can trust you with her."
He frowned, confused, and her eyes widened. "You don't know yet," she murmured. "You have no idea." The mottled loner shook her head slowly and took a deep breath.
"I'm a mother. Did you know that?" Shackle shook his head silently. Somehow, this didn't seem like the time to speak, not the place to ask questions. "I didn't think you would. I haven't told Mackerel, not yet. I was, though. I had a son and a daughter."
"Their...my...the tom who fathered the kits, he...he wasn't kind to me. I didn't want him for a mate, didn't want to bear his children, but I would have loved those children more than anything in the entire world. Make no mistake about that, because I would have. They were all I had to hold onto, all that kept me going when he..." She shook her head, and Shackle would have beaten the tom's head in for the defeated look that flickered over her face.
"He didn't stop hitting me when he found out that I was expecting, so I shouldn't have been so surprised when they were born. They were perfect, though, the most beautiful things I had ever seen." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "I could have believed that they were sleeping."
"My tom-kit looked like me, mottled, but my little girl...she was silver, like my mother. She was tiny, too, even smaller than Jaci's kits were when they were born." Amber eyes searched his face intently. "Do you understand?"
What could he say to that, really? Once, Shackle had believed his past to be the greatest of all evils, but at every turn, the cats he called his family proved him wrong. First Mackerel, and now Twister. "I...I think so."
Twister nodded. "Good. She'll be safe with you, I think, and that's all that I want." She opened her mouth to say something more, but her head whipped around at the sound of cats entering. The three she-cats padded inside, a rabbit hanging from Rose's jaws. Twister was already on her paws as he moved to stand, padding over to the hunting party.
"Nice catch," she meowed to Mackerel, gesturing to Rose's rabbit. "That should be enough to feed all of us tonight. "Now, get in here and warm up, all of you; it's freezing out there."
Mackerel smiled. "What have you been up to since we left?" she meowed, padding towards the back of the barn where their nests lay.
"Oh, I've just watched the kits with Shackle," she replied, and both Mackerel's eyebrows and his own jumped up. Mackerel looked over and smiled at him, that warm, infectious smile like warm-moons' sun that he couldn't help but return.
He watched as Twister leaned over and licked the she-cat's cheek, startling Mackerel. "What was that for?" she asked curiously.
"Nothing. Just glad that you're back, that's all."
She may have birthed two kits, but she has three, really. And she trusts me to look after her daughter, the only one she has left. The thought sent warmth coursing through him, the kind of warmth that no ice or snow in the world could smother.
I won't let her down.
Even as the other cats wrangled Maelstrom and the kits for mealtime, Shackle hung back, content to watch mother and daughter together. Finally, at the others' insistence, he approached. He caught the slightest smile from the mottled loner as he sat down beside Mackerel, waiting his turn as the rabbit was passed around the group. After a moment, he felt the silver tabby's fur brush his.
He didn't move away, and even the howling winds outside couldn't have stolen the warmth that curled over him.
Once upon a time, there was a tom who would haven given his lover the moon and stars. She broke his heart and left him behind, just as everyone else had.
The blind tom's expression was something Shackle had never seen before, a look that transcended the anger and pain his face had worn so often for so long, a look that made reminded him of a lost kit in the forest, still innocent to the worst of the world. "Aren't they beautiful?" Maelstrom murmured.
The kits were so tiny, so very small and fragile; he faintly remembered when Jaci's litter had been this small, but even that seemed eons ago. The newborns had snuggled into their mother's belly fur, one as pale as snow and the other a soft ashen color with stripes like tiny shadows. Daughters, both of them. Shackle had always assumed that any tom that desired kits would want a tom-kit, a son to raise and mold in their own image, but Maelstrom seemed bewitched by the two tiny creatures.
A she-cat had brought him to his knees before, and two new ones had done the same to him all over again.
"Mackerel wanted me to apologize for her not being here, Miss Shadyfern," he rumbled. "She's been feeling ill lately, and she was worried that she would pass her cold along to the children. She plans on visiting with Twister as soon as she is well again."
The dark-furred queen nodded. "They're welcome to stop by any time," she replied, offering Shackle a small, hesitant smile. He nodded, sparing her a faint one of his own. The little medicine cat had warmed up to him in recent moons; she wasn't nearly as comfortable as Maelstrom, but she was trying. It was more than he could have ever expected from her, and he appreciated it more than she knew.
"Of course," Maelstrom agreed, curling his tail around his mate. "All of you, come visit whenever you want to. Once the kits are old enough, we may even bring them out to see you." He leaned down to nuzzle the tiny tabby's head, placing a lick between her ears before straightening back up.
Shackle nodded, although he doubted that the Clan leader would appreciate loners ambling into the nursery at all hours. "I promise that I will pass the message along." He glanced over his shoulder, to the entrance of the den and what lay beyond it. The camp, so different from the one that had been decimated in the forest, was bathed in the fiery red hues of the sunset.
"I had best be off, I think. Mackerel is expecting me back before nightfall, and I don't wish to be late." He dipped his head. "Have a good evening, Miss Shadyfern, Miss Ivykit, Miss Snowkit."
Shadyfern dipped her head with a parting smile, and Maelstrom stood. "I'll walk out with you," he meowed, padding over.
"As you wish." The dark tom nodded, and they walked out of the nursery side by side. It was surreal, almost, to stroll through the Clanner's camp peacefully, unconcerned by the idea of an ambush. Maelstrom seemed completely at ease, nodding in the direction of someone that called his name—his new name, one that still caught Shackle off-guard every time it was spoken in his presence. "Sleetfall!"
"Be with you in a minute, Wrenflight," he replied, and Shackle studied his face for a long moment. It was impossible to match this tom with the gaunt, ragged wraith of seasons past. His pelt was sleek and shiny with health, albeit dusted with more gray than it had been during his darker times, and the tom radiated contentment like the sun.
He even smells like a Clanner. He is a Clanner. His mate is here, his children are here, his home is here. Maelstrom—Sleetfall—is happy here.
He had wished for his friend's happiness so many times during their partnership that it had almost become a far-off dream, like praying for the sun during the cold moons.
"I don't regret it, you know," Maelstrom meowed softly, so softly that Shackle wonders if he is merely imagining it. "Not a single thing, not even a bit. I wouldn't be here but for what I've done in the past. I've done some bad things in my life, worse than some cats can imagine, and I'm trying to atone for them. But I don't regret it, Shackle. Never."
The dark tom nodded. "Yes, sir," he replied. "Most of the time, neither do I."
Where would he be now, if he had never found an angry kit lost in the woods, resentment cutting him up inside like broken glass? He would have died, surely, without a Master. He would have never known of Maelstrom or Mackerel or the rest of his family, would have never seen his father again and taken vengeance for all of those who couldn't. He would have just been another faceless skeleton in the forest, another life lost without a single cat to mourn its passing.
The path that Fate had led him down had been a dark one, a road that had led him through hell and back out again, but he couldn't bring himself to regret a single step of the way.
They paused at the edge of camp. "Give my regards to Mackerel," Maelstrom meowed, a faint smile curving his lips. "I hope that she gets well soon. Can we expect another visit once she is?"
Shackle nodded. "She can't wait to see the kits; I expect that she'll have us hear again before three dawns have passed."
The pale tom chuckled. "We'll see you then." He stepped forward and nuzzled the gray tom. "Stay safe."
Shackle nodded, resting his muzzle on top of younger cat's head before placing a small lick between his ears. "I will. Have a good evening, sir." He turned and padded into the forest, catching a final glimpse of Maelstrom's white pelt for the night before it was obscured entirely by the trees.
His and Mackerel's den was a modest thing, not very different from a dug-out fox den that they had once shared in the forest with the other members of the group. Nestled into the riverbank, there was just enough room for the two to curl up inside. It was not extravagant, just as they had never been, but it was home.
She was already standing at the entrance, amber eyes only a little duller for her cold. "Twister stopped by this afternoon, not long after you left," she mewed, stepping aside to allow him in. "She brought dinner with her. Have you already eaten?"
"Yes, Maelstrom insisted."
Her whiskers twitched. "I imagined that he would. How are the kits?" She curled up in the nest, wrapping her tail around her paws.
"Two she-kits. One is white, even paler than Maelstrom, and the other is tabby, a light gray. Their names are Snowkit and Ivykit."
Mackerel's eyes widened. "Two daughters?" She shook her head in amazement. "Ivy and Snow...they're good names. I'm happy for them." The silver tabby yawned and curled up tighter in the nest.
"How are you feeling?" he asked. She accused him of fretting worse than an old queen, and perhaps it was true.
"Just tired," she replied. "Come on, it's nearly moonrise." She patted the other half of the nest, and he slowly made his way over, settling down beside her. Her fever had abated the day before, but the silver tabby had always been extraordinarily warm, a ray of sunlight tucked into his side. She nuzzled his cheek, flicking her tail over his back and nestling her face into the hollow between his neck and shoulder.
Once upon a time, there was a she-cat who deserved all the love that the world had to offer. She chased away her own monsters and discovered the love she had looked for all her life.
Once upon a time, there was a mother who loved her children more than anything. She lost her first kits, but found another daughter that she adored just as fiercely.
Once upon a time, there was a tom who would have given his lover the moon and stars. He never stopped loving her, and when he found her again after moons of seperation, the stars were on his side.
Once upon a time, there was a servant without family, a cat who did not know what love even looked like. Fate saw that his heart was kind, and led him to all that he deserved.
Shackle closed his eyes, the sound of Mackerel's soft breathing and the quiet rushing of the river outside lullling him to sleep. They were not, Shackle knew, the kind found in stories with happy endings, but one had found them all the same.