A/N: This returns to Young Erik and his time with The Shadow

Giver23

"Ugly Dogs"

Animals had no fear of my appearance. If I sat very still, birds would hop toward me and eat bread from my extended hand. It fascinated me and I thought myself quite clever and unique.

"Pigeons," my uncle said. "They are trained and trust humans."

His words failed to put a damper on my spirit. Weeks in the sun had turned my flesh bronze and bleached my hair a lighter shade of brown. My mood was on the rise, my outlook on the strange world around me for once positive. I shrugged off his comment, which in the past I would have never done. It normally would have dwelled and eaten holes in my soul. But I was changed, transformed…I was alive.

We walked for several days and the encounter with the two men who had wished to enslave me became a distant memory. The wheat and barley fields seemed to grow taller with each passing day. The days grew longer and much hotter. Slowly we rearranged our schedule so that we traveled from dusk until late in the night and slept from sunrise until the middle of the afternoon.

It was late one night that we heard howling far ahead of us. The sound of dogs growling made my skin crawl and lit my nerves afire. Even Moon seemed anxious, being that he was an animal of prey.

"What is that?" I asked at last. The sounds grew louder, the growls turned to an occasional yelp.

A gunshot tore through the night before The Shadow could answer.

"Make haste," he said under his breath.

Accompanying the terrifying noise was torchlight and several wagons along the side of the road. The land dipped down to where a large fire illuminated the outside of a barn. From there the sounds of dogs growling and whimpering filled the night.

"Uncle—"

He looked me in the eye as I tugged Moon forward. "Dog fighting," he answered.

A thin man with a limp emerged from one of the wagons as he led a stocky, muscular dog on a short leash. The beast had only one eye and its ears seemed to have been torn off. I didn't look at it for long, but its torso appeared quite scarred.

I saw another dog, smaller than the one on a leash. The creature was in a cage, snarling and slamming its head against the wooden bars in an attempt to either escape or attack us. I couldn't tell which, since my view of it was blocked by the bulkier dog with foam in his massive jaws.

"Uncle," I said once we were past the man and his dog. "They fight dogs?"

"Aye."

"Man against dog?"

"Dog against dog."

I didn't quite understand what he meant but it made my stomach tighten. What was the purpose of watching two animals fight? Indeed, what was the purpose of watching an animal fight a man?

"Dog against dog?"

"Aye."

"What do they do that for?"

"Some people consider it sport. They wager money on the animals and watch."

"Watch what?"

"The fight. It continues until one of the beasts dies."

My lips parted in horror. "But why would they want to watch that?"

"Because man was blessed with a brain he often times never uses," he answered. "Come on. We should make it another three miles before we he stop and make camp."

My heart felt sick and heavy. The dogs and their unseen fighting would be out of earshot, but it didn't mean that they were not bloodied or dying in each other's jaws. I glanced back and wondered if the earless animal I had seen would fight and live or die in a bloody heap.

Though I said nothing more of it, I continued to glance back. I was certain we were far from the noise, yet still I heard the sound of dogs yelping well into the dawn.

A night of tossing and turning led me to a dreary and difficult late afternoon. I woke cranky and miserable with the camp to myself. The Shadow was singing to himself from the stream where he bathed. Vaguely I recalled that he told me he was taking a bath for my sake, because he feared if he didn't I would fall over dead the moment I stood downwind from him.

As I listened to his off-key tune, I stood and stretched.

There he was: A beaten, sorry excuse for a dog, not more than twenty paces away. His head was misshapen, his ears mere stubs and his legs bitten raw and bloodied. There was no telling the color of his fur as he was little more than pink flesh coated in what I assumed was his own blood.

We stared at each other for a long moment and all I could think of was the terrible noises I'd heard the night before. Bracing myself, I waited for him to charge across the terrain and attack.

He sounded as though he snorted rather than breathed, which reminded me of a bull. I lowered my gaze, recalling that eye contact was often misconstrued as aggression and I had no desire to challenge this creature. If there was one stance I knew well, it was submissive. While I watched him from the corner of my eye, I crouched down and slowly extended my hand in a respectful greeting. The animal kept his distance, his head held low as he trotted around me. I wondered if he smelled my fear as I felt sweat roll down my back and the moisture on my palms.

If he'd had a tail I was certain it would have wagged as he finally approached and sniffed my hand. His tongue flicked out and licked my knuckles, which made me smile.

"Nice boy."

I turned my wrist in order to scratch his chin and he jumped back. He yipped as though I had hurt him, which sent goosebumps down my arms. He turned and scampered away and I thought for certain that my little four-legged friend would leave, but instead he paused and dropped down. He lay for a moment, still breathing heavy.

The dog's sound of alarm drew my uncle back to camp. He raced up to me, his shirt barely over his head, and stared at me, then the bloodied dog.

"Oh, Erik," he said. He didn't scold me but I knew he was not pleased with the latest addition to our tribe. With a shake of his head, he studied the animal. "Out of all the people in the world, I should have known you'd find the ugliest dog possible—half dead at that—and befriend him."

"He's not ugly," I retorted.

He glanced at me and smiled. "No, not ugly. Merely half-dead. And afraid as well."

"He's not afraid of me." I was hopeful still that The Shadow would agree to me keeping the dog even though the dog wouldn't come any closer, and I had no idea if it was friendly or would even live to see the next day. In the weeks since I'd left the cellar and gone out into the world I'd found myself the proud owner of childish optimism. Most certainly I realized that the dog was injured. I even understood it was seriously maimed. But to me it was not beyond repair.

In that wretched beast I saw myself. If I could teeter on the edge and be drawn back from the abyss then surely this miserable dog could find his place as well.

"He," my uncle said, "is a she. A nursing she, I'd gather."

"A who?"

"She's had puppies. Look at her underside."

Beyond the scars on her back and legs, the tears to her face and the loss of her ears I'd not noticed she was a female.

I craned my neck as though I'd spot her pups. Giddiness filled my insides. I'd always been fond of dogs, especially big dogs. The prospect of caring for a mother and her puppies was one I very much wished to undertake. I could see myself carrying them when they couldn't walk on their own.

"Where do you suppose they are?" I asked.

"Dead," he answered. "She either fought off whatever dog attacked her and failed to protect her litter or they were sold or died and she was discarded."

My optimism swiftly turned to rage. "Why would someone do such a terrible thing?" I asked.

"Money," he answered. "Profit comes well before the life of a dog."

We didn't speak much after that, and it became my unspoken goal to earn the injured dog's trust and bring her with us wherever we traveled. While The Shadow looked on, I gave her half of my meal—pheasant with sweet peas and green beans—and crouched down ten paces away to watch her eat.

All the while I praised her, recalling how I'd once coaxed a rail-thin mutt into following me. I'd escaped from my cellar and quietly petted the stray dog. It trembled as I ran my hands down its sides, but eventually he grew calm, shared my meager supper, and trotted behind me. My father, who hated everything in the world, removed it from my possession. While I stared through the bars, he cut its throat and tossed it into a ditch.

My eyes filled with tears as I looked at the injured dog and desperately wanted to redeem myself. I'd felt as though I'd led the mutt into a trap. If I hadn't touched it or fed it, no one would have hurt it. I had brought death upon a frightened, unknowing dog. I felt like a monster to have brought it home.

The Shadow plopped down beside me and folded his legs.

"I bet she'd be a beauty with a little cleaning," he remarked.

At once I turned away, afraid that he'd see me crying.

"You have a good soul," he said to me.

With tears still in my eyes I looked at him, needing to see his expression in order to accept his compliment. If only he'd known what a terrible soul I truly had.

"Cynicism," he said, "is the greatest betrayal of a good soul. Remember that. Don't ever let anyone tell you that you are a bad man, Erik."

I nodded. I didn't feel like a good person. I had never felt like anyone until I had met him.

"She's dying," he said under his breath.

"I know."

"She won't be able to walk and follow us and I doubt she'll allow you to pick her up."

My throat tightened. Now I would betray her, this poor creature who'd been bitten to death, her puppies dead or stolen, her life unknown.

He stood without saying another word and I knew he wished to take our leave. With a heavy heart, I forced myself to follow him. She'd die where she lay, this nameless creature. She'd die with a small meal in her belly as she watched us abandon her.

Before I reached the edge of our camp and untied Moon, I glanced back at her one last time. She'd moved. God knows how, but she'd moved in a desperate attempt to follow us. She whined, crawled forward in a dog's way of begging us to stay with her.

"You have two hours," The Shadow said. "That is all we can afford to give to a dead dog."

I barely heard him speak as I scooped up the dog and carried her toward the water's edge, intent on cleansing her fur. If she'd die, she'd die beautiful, cared for in her last hours. If she lived? Perhaps I would redeem myself. Perhaps the edge of cynicism that lingered in my soul would leave me at peace.