Something was wrong.
He knew it, with a horrible hollow certainty that drowned out the mental chaos that had resulted from the transformation that had been effected on his and Dorcha's physical appearance.
A large mirror had been placed alongside each of the cages, and despite his best efforts he couldn't help catching glimpses of his own reflection in them. He was appalled by what it showed him. While he was unable to see himself, he'd been able to continue to deny a truth he did not want to face. Now, however, at almost every turn he was confronted by that terrible reality.
Had circumstances been different, he would have retreated into his den and stayed there until forcibly dragged out of it. He licked frantically and repeatedly at the white on his wrist, the action a throwback to memories that were beginning to collapse, to lose their meaning. He tried to hold on to them, to force them to stay whole, but the more he fought the more they broke and betrayed him.
But it was Dorcha who scared him most and whom he was powerless to help; Dorcha who refused to be parted from him for a moment, even insisting on sharing his new, comfortable bed, which was really only large enough for one, so that he still slept mostly on the floor. Every movement of her body said she was afraid, even more afraid than she'd been when they were first captured. He did not know why, but her dread of he knew not what crept into him like a contagion, and the infection grew and grew until his whole world was possessed by The Fear.
He watched the no-tails, trying to glean some clue. It had to be something to do with them. Most of all he watched Fearful, who would not meet his eyes.
There had been no word uttered when the bars separating the cages had lifted again. It had simply happened, without any explanation, and then Fearful had gone away, leaving them in the half-light that was the nearest the room ever got to representing night-time.
He had not known until then how much he had depended on Fearful; how much, even against his will, he had come to trust him. Now it was dawning on him that even Fearful knew something was wrong; and if even one of the no-tails was afraid, how much more afraid should their powerless prisoners be?
So it was almost a relief, early next morning, when the blood came. A relief that The Fear finally had a presence, even if it was heralded by Dorcha suddenly uttering a hoarse howl and rolling over clutching her belly. And then there was blood, a trickle that became a stream, and there was no need to worry any more about his puppies' welfare; but there was still Dorcha, writhing on the soiled bedding, and his utter helplessness made him want to tear the world asunder. He lunged at the glass eyes, bellowing his rage and terror, and watched the red lights below them wink knowingly in response, but no-one cared and no-one came, and they were alone.
Dorcha might die, and he was the only creature in the whole world who knew.
And he could do nothing.
He hovered over her, moaning his anguish in time with every panting breath. He lay down behind her and tried to wrap his forelegs/arms around her, but she was in so much pain he did not know where to touch her without hurting. He licked/kissed her ear and her nose. He wanted her to bite him again because that would be part of usright which was before uswrong, but usright had been swallowed up in The Fear and that too might soon be dead.
The click of the door-lock disengaging was the most welcome sound he had ever heard in his entire life.
He was on his paws/feet even before the door cleared its frame, hurling his weight against the front of the cage. His toes/fingers clawed at the bars.
Breaking, breaking, everything was breaking: his mind, his heart, his grasp on reality. Inside his brain the walls were crumbling faster than he could shore them up, and language, language, he was remembering language, and along with language he was remembering everything that was before, everything that made usright into uswrong, everything that revealed what he'd done, what he'd become, what he was doing penned in a cage like a beast, and above all why Dorcha was bleeding to death.
A howl burst from his lungs, but it got caught somewhere in his throat in something infinitely complex. Whatever this was, it was connected to a thousand other things, and if he gave it voice then that would be the end: everything would break, everything, and all the certainties he'd been clinging on to would be lost, leaving him alone in a world he wanted only to reject. For just a second it throttled him, and then with an almost superhuman effort he managed to choke it free.
The sound shocked the silent room.
"HELP HER!"
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