24. Forced
Nearby, he can hear the sniffling of the one called Green. Green isn't his name, only what their mother had called him to tell him apart from the others, because of his green eyes. None of them have true names. They don't know why, only that names are something to be earned, not handed out freely.
He knows that he should comfort the one called Green, but his body is aching with weariness. Only a few hours before he had been feeling the worst pain of his life, and a few wounds are still sluggishly oozing blood. Even moving forward to touch his brother's pelt with his nose seems like a colossal effort.
Out of the three of them, it is the one called Fleck who is doing the best. He is the only one out of their litter to share his father's distinctly flecked coat, and this sets him apart from his brothers. He is the one that their father has hope for - not the one called Green, nor the one called Paws. He has, so far, been able to avoid most of the blows his father has tried to give him, and he has not crumpled under the pressure.
It is the one called Paws who has been largely ignored. The one called Green has received the brunt of their father's wrath, the one called Fleck has received a touch of their father's mercy, but it is the one called Paws - called this because of his large paws, hinting that someday he will be much stronger than he is now, that someday he will be more than a fragile twig ready to snap - who has remained almost invisible. And this is how he wants it.
He doesn't know what his father wants from him. He doesn't know why the three of them have been stolen away. He doesn't know what Fate has planned for them. All he knows is that he misses the scent of his mother's fur and the feeling of the scraps of cloth in their nest against his belly.
It's several hours before his aching allows him to sleep. The last thing he hears before drowsing off is the continuing whimpers of his brother.
. . .
The second day of their training begins at dawn. Their father invades their make-shift den - located underneath an old Twoleg nest, nothing more than a hollow dug into the mud - with a fearsome growl, and the first thing the one called Paws feels is his father's claws raking over his pelt. His father moves on to the others, but the one called Fleck is already awake and manages to move out of the way before he is injured. The one called Green is not so lucky. His yowl of pain splits the air, but their father does not stop. The other two shrink back and watch with terror as their father tears into their brother, but they make no move to help him.
It isn't long until the one called Green falls silent.
Their father's claws are slick with his blood, and he looks at the two of them with emotionless yellow eyes. He steps away from the body of their brother.
"He is the first to fall," their father rumbles. "Who will be the second?"
The remaining two brothers glance at one another, their eyes radiating uncertainty and fear. Their father waits, but they do not speak, and his eyes narrow.
"We'll know before the moon is over," he says, and glances down to the still body. "Bury it in your nest. We're moving."
They do what they say because they has no choice, and their father watches them the entire time. The one called Paws does his best not to look into those blank, staring green eyes, but he knows they will still be haunting his dreams.
When the burial is finished, their father leads them away, down a long path of stone and gray walls. They don't know where they're going, but it doesn't matter. This is what their lives are now, a winding, endless maze, and they aren't sure they will ever be able to escape it.
They settle near another old Twoleg nest, abandoned like the others, and their training begins again. Their father lunges and strikes them, moving too fast to be avoided, always with his accusing yellow eyes. He snarls at them, calling them weak and spineless, and somehow this hurts more than his claws.
The one called Paws had never known his father until the day before. He had never come when they were kits, never visited their mother. Their mother had spoken of him rarely, and without any fondness, but he had always imagined his father to be someone brave and noble. Never had he thought that his father would be this brutal, this tyrannical, this terrifying.
He doesn't let them rest until the moon is hanging over their heads. Only then does he allow them to slink into the shadows and lick their wounds. This time it is the hunger pangs, not sniffling, that keeps the young tom awake for hours.
. . .
The following days are more of the same, until they all begin to blend together and he can't distinguish one from the next. He can barely remember his mother now, so even imagining her fur can't comfort him. Once he dreamed of escaping, but now he dreams of his dead brother coming to him and taking him out of his aching, worn-down body.
But he is growing. The growth spurt that his mother predicted is under way, or at least the first leg of it. Already he is a head taller than the one called Fleck, and although he is clumsy and slow, there is power behind his blows. His father looks at them as equals now, and the one called Fleck is no longer able to escape his wrath.
The one called Paws is no longer invisible, and he doesn't like it.
The two brothers are pitted against one another now, forced to spar while their father watches and jeers at their weakness and stumbling paws. Whoever wins is allowed to take the first few bites of whatever their father brings back. Whoever loses is given only what remains. The one called Fleck almost always wins, and he is shrewd enough to stuff as much prey as he can into each bite before he is forced to concede the scraps to his brother. The one called Paws can no longer remember a time when he was not hungry.
Their father is building to something, but they don't know what. There is a gleam in his yellow eyes now when he strikes them that tells them something is coming, but they don't understand it. Their father is like a storm, rushing over them and leaving them deaf, blind, and confused. They can't comprehend him, and they don't try. They simply wait until the storm passes, and pick up the pieces he leaves behind.
One day, he wakes them without a blow. His low growl jolts them awake, and they blink up at him blearily, wondering what new torture he's conceived. But he barely spares the one called Paws a glance, flicking his tail towards his flecked son instead. The one called Fleck gives a nervous glance towards his brother, but follows his father without question. The two of them disappear from view.
They don't return until late in the evening. The one called Fleck is trembling, his yellow eyes glassy, and he does not speak when his brother questions him. His body is unmarked by any injury, but there is a hollowness to his gaze that his brother does not understand.
Their father has brought back a mouse, and he lays it down in front of his larger son. The one called Paws looks to his brother, confused by this shift in his father's behavior, but his brother does not look at him. The one called Paws does not question his father's generosity for long, and eats the entire mouse, although with each bite he waits for his father to take it and give the scraps to his brother. But his father does not.
When the older tom leaves, he questions his brother again. This time, the one called Fleck speaks, but only says one sentence:
"You'll see for yourself soon enough."
The next day the fleck-furred brother is taken out again, and the next, but each time he seems to have disappointed their father, for he receives no prey while the one called Paws eats. And he still remains silent, even when his brother presses him for information, only staring ahead with blank eyes..
And then, one day his father returns home without the one called Fleck. There is blood on his claws again, and the remaining tom's stomach rolls as he realized what has happened. Somehow, his brother has failed their father one too many times. Even his distinctive pelt could not save him.
And he knows that it is his turn.
. . .
They have moved homes again, and he has forced himself to shed the memory of his second brother just as he did with his first brother and his mother. He is a clean slate now, desperate to stay alive, and eager to do whatever his father says. But even still, when his father leads him away just as he had the one called Fleck, he cannot help but be afraid.
They weave through the tangled city streets and dark alleys, and this time it seems to him that the city is more understandable than before. Perhaps it is because he has grown in the past moon, or perhaps it is because he knows that paying attention might save his life. Either way, when they finally come to a stop he knows exactly how to get home.
They are in a strange part of the city, one that is unfamiliar to him. There's more grass here, and the Twoleg nests have large spaces in between, and yet for someone the Twolegs have boxed themselves in with strange wooden walls. He looks to his father, but the old tom says nothing. Then, he leaps up onto one of the wooden walls, and his son understands that he is expected to follow.
It takes him two tries, for the first time his shoulder gives out due to an old wound, but the second time he manages to hook his front paws onto the fence. His father doesn't move to help him, and he strains to pull himself up, panting with exertion as he succeeds.
His father begins walking, and his son follows, ignoring the prick of the rough wood against his pads. The fences are all connected, and his father chooses their path with careful deliberateness, until they come to a stop on a fence looking over a yard like any other, save for the two kits tumbling underneath a bush.
One is gray, one is white, and the two of them are both squealing with delight as they wrestle one another. He wonders where their mother is, why she isn't there to protect them. Doesn't she understand how dangerous life can be, when they are so fragile?
She will soon.
"Choose one to live, and one to die."
He looks to his father, but he is like stone, unflinching. And the one called Paws understands that this is the choice his brother couldn't make, the one he is now forced to.
He looks down at them. They are half his age, at most. Two moons, perhaps less. And they are completely oblivious to the danger above them. It does not even cross their young minds to look up. Why would they? All they know is this grass and this bush. Their world doesn't extend beyond the yard, to the dangerous city streets and shadowed alleys, to the Twoleg nests where anything can happen without anyone knowing about it. They think they are safe.
And they are wrong.
And then the kits do look up, just for a minute, and his eyes meet hers. They are green, set in white fur, and that makes his decision. He looks to his father, and points to the gray kit, the male. His father flicks his tail.
"Do it."
He hesitates, and now both kits are watching him, looking curious and unguarded. He leaps down, and now that he has entered they domain, fear flits over their faces. They do not understand strangers, and he can see from the way their eyes flit over his wounds - some old, some new - that they do not know what to make of him. But they are afraid.
The male kit is slightly in front of his sister, perhaps to protect her. This detail makes itself known in the back of his mind, but he pushes it away as he takes a step towards the two kits. They shrink back, and the white one's mouth opens, as if to mewl for her mother.
He hesitates again, seeing himself trapped in their eyes, seeing them mirror the fear and uncertainty that he had experienced when his father had taken him and his brothers away from the only home they had ever known. But the world is a dangerous place, a horrible place, and they are just as likely to be hurt as badly as he was. He can make the gray kit's leaving painless. He can help the gray kit escape the same torture that he underwent.
It is then that he strikes.
The gray kit doesn't have a chance to cry out before his jaws are around his throat. He hesitates then, for a moment, and his gaze flicks up to his father. His father's yellow eyes are as cool as always, and he nods.
The one called Paws bites down.
The kit's heartbeat fades.
The sister cowers beneath their bush.
And his father's eyes remain cold.
"Now her."
He releases the gray kit's body and looks up to his father. He doesn't understand. He chose for her to live. But his father is unyielding and unflinching, and slowly he turns to face the white kit. Her green eyes are wide now, seeming enormous in her small face, and she continues to wiggle back into the safety of the bush. A slight tremor runs through his legs, but he forces himself forward, stooping to reach underneath the bush with one large paw. And again, he tells himself that he is sparing her some pain. After all, who is to say that her father is not a monster, just like his?
He swipes at her, but misses; the second time he manages to grab her leg. He pulls her, inch by painful inch, into his reach. All the while, she screeches and screams, crying out for a mother who cannot come in time. He can see her now, trapped behind a clear barrier within the Twoleg nest. Her paws are pressed against it, and her mouth is opened wide in a pained yowl, but she is unable to escape.
The white kit is finally close enough for him to grab her with his other paw, and he pulls her up to him, ignoring her faint whimpers of pain. She's stopped struggling now, and stares up at him with frightened eyes. He feels a flutter of unease, but he knows that if he does not complete this task, he will end up like his brothers, buried somewhere without anyone to mourn him. He's certain that even his mother has forgotten them by now; she is probably readying herself for a new litter, as he is sure she has done before.
He does not want to fade away. He wants to be remembered.
Gently, he takes the kit's body in his jaws, and snuffs out her light. He lays her on the grass, next to her brother, and if it weren't for the blood dotting their coats, they would look as if all of their play had simply worn them out. Their mother has stopped yowling now, and is simply leaning against the surface that imprisons her, keening for her young.
He looks up to his father, and the flecked tom nods.
"Now it begins," he says. "That was your first lesson. Your choices do not matter in life, death, anything. Your Master is the one who will decide everything for you. You are nothing without him."
The one called Paws only has a moment to blink at the strangeness of that word, Master, before his father summons him and they continue on their way.
. . .
It has been nine moons now since he was first taken from his mother. Nine moons minus a day since the one called Green died. Eight moons and a day since the one called Fleck died. Eight moons since his first and second kills. Eight moons since he has spoken to anyone aside from his father. Eight moons since he first heard the word 'Master.'
He is large now, and strong. He is silent, and obedient. He is calm, and level-headed. But most of all right now, he is nervous as he and his father walk the streets together, for it is today that his training finally ends. It is today that he gets his Master - or rather, his Master gets him.
His father signals for him to stop, and then continues on without him. He waits for several hours until the flecked tom returns, this time with a companion. The other tom is young, no more than six moons. His fur is still soft with kit-fluff, but underneath the down there are sharp tabby markings.
His eyes are green.
His father pauses, and the young tom steps forward. His eyes flick over the one called Paws, taking in his scars, his torn ear, his squared shoulders. He remains rigid, his breath caught in his throat. He wants to impress his Master, but does not want to act without his approval. Finally, the young tom smiles.
"What's it's name?" he asks, looking to the flecked tom.
"That is for you to decide, Tobias," the older tom replies. "He is yours now."
It has never been so shamefully apparent to the tom that he does not have a name. This kit, his Master, probably had 'Tobias' chosen for him by his parents before he was even born, but his servant has never deserved to carry one until this day. His ears burn, but he waits for the tom's judgment.
"For me to decide?" Tobias echoes. He mulls it over for a moment, before his green eyes glitter. There is pride in his youthful face as he says, "Shackle, because he is mine and mine alone."
And just like that, there is a chain between them, a bond of duty, forged by moons of separation, conditioning, sparring and loss. It is the strongest he has ever known, and one that he is ready to die to defend.
He did not choose this life, but as he has been told for eight moons, his choices do not matter.
His father does not say goodbye. He only walks away, disappearing into the shadows now that his duty is done.
AN: I love Shackle. :I
He's moving up my character-tier quite rapidly, up there with Northstar, Darkstorm, Shimmerfrost, and Chillpaw.