I'm tired of the city life
Summer's on the run
People tell me I should stay
But I got to get my fun
-April Sun In Cuba, Dragon
Caraid is just another shape in the darkness. He's one smell among a fetid many. One more lump to trip over, another rumbling stomach that adds to the din. No more special than the she-kit to his right, the boisterous tom to his left. Khia is different. She escapes their basement prison, even if only for a few moments a day.
Today, she was already gone when Cariad woke up. The light that filters through the cracks at the top of the wall signal it's probably morning. The black tom uncurls and stretches. There's not much room for any movement; the pen is as full and cramped as ever. The air is still stale, so he guesses they haven't been fed yet.
He considers going back to sleep, because there's not a lot else to do, in this cage that's barely metres wide. If Khia were here, he'd talk to her, maybe force her into a scuffle. He'd fight with Ruari and Brine, but the two of them were always a team, and together, they always beat him. If they were still with Arrah, he'd pester her for information about his parents. Or maybe not. They did abandon him, he's found out, and he can't help but be a little sour about that.
None of the other kits here are his friends. He knows once he gets out of here- sold, for better or worse- he'll probably never see their faces again. Cariad barely talks to them, and it's only grudgingly that he sleeps close to them. Every one of them snores. He's secured a spot in the corner; it's colder than the middle of the pen, the main body of heat, but Khia curls up with him, and Etch with her, her brothers just behind them. He knows that it's nighttime, when they miss Arrah the most.
Caraid blinks, noticing, through the gloom, that most of the others are grouped at the far side of the pen- which, considering, is not really that far at all. They're clamouring for a story, because Tethys always gives in if they make enough noise. Cariad makes his way over, shuffling in the dark. He's had enough of sleeping.
Tethys is slumped against the wire. It's hard to tell, with her squashed muzzle, but she may be grimacing more than usual. Modron bats at her paws; petulant, Cort tugs her thick-furred tail. Cariad sits off to one side, wincing as some tiny bone crunches beneath his paw.
"You want to hear a story, eh?" the pen queen grunts. "I'll tell you a story that'll make you glad you're locked up in here."
"Oh, yes!" the kits gush. "Please!"
The black she-cat fixes the group with a narrowed, amber stare. "You'll never be as safe as you are in here," Tethys begins, in her gravelly old voice. The kits stare up at her with wide eyes, already entranced.
"Know why?"
Caraid finds himself shaking his head with the rest of them.
"Because the cats out there aren't just any cats. There are alley cats. There's street royalty. But there's cats who aren't from here. They're our special visitors, a few times a year too many. Would you ever like to meet them?"
Modron, seated at Tethys's feet, nods. She's probably just like the rest of them; desperate to meet anyone new, anyone different, someone beyond the basement prison. The queen leans down and hisses a sharp, "No!" in her face. The little golden tabby recoils.
"They're evil," Tethys proclaims, ignoring the kit with suddenly quivering whiskers at her paws. "We call them the Raiders. They have named themselves PureClan. If the city ever had one, defined enemy, it would be them. Monsters. You know what they steal? Not food, not territory- cats. They steal cats and take them away, never to be seen again."
"Where do they go?" another tom-kit asks.
"To a haunting, eerie forest," Tethys growls. "Shadows drape the trees, and branches reach up into a sky that is only ever blue. They kill cats- like you, like me- for sport and fun. They line their nests with fur and bones; give their kits skulls to play with; bathe in blood. When they grab someone, they never come back alive."
"That's it?" someone says, disgruntled. This isn't the story any of them wanted, at all.
"Yes," the pen-queen grunts. "Now leave me alone."
Reluctantly, they all disperse, because the smoky black cat isn't above cuffing them around the head to get her point across. Caraid rises to his paws, intent on getting back to his spot and defending it from the others who might steal. It's all he's got, in this world, to protect. A patch of concrete.
Before he can reach his corner, someone darts in front of his paws, and he sprawls on the ground, grunting in surprise. Bumping into other cats isn't a rare occurrence, here where it is so dark. A small, warm shape cushions his fall with a very feminine yelp; for a moment he thinks it may be his sister, but it isn't because her smell is all wrong.
I mean, not that it's wrong, Cariad thinks. It's a nice smell, honestly, it's just not Khia's.
The kit beneath him struggles, gasping for air. Sheepishly, Cariad climbs to his feet and mumbles a quick "Sorry."
His landing pad gets up, shaking dust out of her gingery fur. In the gloomy light, it appears to be a pale cross between gold and speckled yellow. He doesn't so much as see but feel her glare. Then he's recoiling, because her very sharp claws have nicked his cheek. This is a shock, because Ruari and Brine never use claws against him when they play. This is also a shock because he's bleeding; he never knew he could do that. A drop of blood wets his lip, and it tastes metallic- it tastes how the wire fence smells.
"Oaf," she snarls, in a voice so filled with venom it could rival the guards'. Instinctively, Cariad fluffs out his fur and mimics her teeth-baring grimace. A grey tom-kit appears at her shoulder, nudging her away. She sends him a final hiss and shies away from her friend's touch. He doesn't know her name. Maybe she tends to stick to corners, just like him.
He makes back to his spot, where his littermates are tearing a piece of newspaper to shreds. He pushes past them without a word and curls up again. Khia ought to be back soon. They don't like being parted for long. She's encouraged him to go with her, on more than one occasion, but he's not nimble like his sister. He'd struggle to climb the fence, to slink past the slumbering toms like she does. Cariad doesn't think Rhydderch likes him as much as he does her. Maybe Khia only reminds Ru of himself.
Bored, he licks his paw- he learned to ignore the taste of dust and dirt on them days ago- and swipes it across his cheek. It still hurts, and he winces; this is nothing like the bruises he gained in play-fights. He peers down at his forepaw- something dark and sticky coats the pad. He sniffs it- it's the metallic liquid. He licks it away, because it doesn't taste so bad. It's reminds him of the prey they get, among the old, dry biscuits and the rags dripping with water, only this is fresh.
There's a sudden thumpthumpthump to Cariad's right- the distinctive sound of Rhydderch scrambling down the stairs. The black tom pricks his ears and raises his muzzle, because Khia is probably with him. He can faintly see Rhydderch approaching the fence, face distorted by the thin wires. In the next moment, Khia is deposited back in the pen. She nods as the russet crouches, mumbling something to her through the barrier. Etch scurries over to them, beaming at the sight of her father. Her brothers start a tussle and begin to show off.
Khia moves over for her dappled littermate, and then, spotting Cariad, hurries over to him. She looks about as serious as he's ever seen her- more sombre, even, than when they were separated from Arrah.
"What?" he asks, forgetting any semblance of a greeting.
She ignores him, muttering obscenities she can only have learned upstairs. They're directed at the Bayard, mostly, with a few rude words dedicated to Rhydderch and his timing.
"What?" he demands, again.
She glances at him, then digs her claws into a tiny scrap of abandoned newspaper. "The Bayard. As usual." That seems about as much as she's willing to say, but he knows his sister; she'll spill it all only after taunting him a little first. He tilts his head on the side and waits for more.
"They're planning a big trade. Some she-cat and a tom. Talked about some old city 'foe', PureClan or something. It's not just a trade, Cariad, there's more than that."
He blinks; wasn't cranky old Tethys just talking about PureClan?
"Tethys says they kill things," he tells her, unhelpfully. She ignores this.
"It's more than a trade. It's a revolt. A rebellion! And they want to drag us into it. But I don't think Rhydderch will let me go."
He stares at her and wonders why the idea of rebellion is so attractive to her. Cariad is glad she has Rhydderch's protection, because he knows how much she'd love to run headlong into the light, the glory and fabled fame she thinks war will offer her. But Khia is only a kit, and a small one at that, and the creatures in Tethys's latest story use death to spice up an idle, boring day.
At the top of the of the stairs, the battered door is flung open. A pale yellow light seeps into the basement in its absence; although all of them in the pen wince, they can't help but stare at it. They were born in that light and taken from that light. All of them want it back. Indistinct, the Bayard's voice drifts down to them, snapping the guards from their sleep. They scramble to attention; today it's Tubal and Amenko. Both are fond of naps.
Moving from the light, a dainty silver tabby moves carefully down the worn, smooth steps. A dark tabby follows at her shoulder, whiskers brushing her pelt. Reluctantly, the Bayard hobbles after them, slowly placing one paw after another. As far as Caraid knows, he hasn't been done here in years. He reaches the bottom and breathes heavily for a moment, leaning against the bottom step.
"Open the gate," he croaks at Tubal. The pair he's brought with him now stand in darkness. Hurrying to comply, the grey guard knocks the latch open with his nose. Unused to moving, the gate sits in place, until Tubal hooks his claws into the gridwork of wire and pulls it open. He and Amenko enter the pen, rounding the kits up into one big group. Khia sticks close by him; and then they're filtering out of the gate, far too slow for the guard's tastes. They mill around in one large, confused group, staring at the hunched old tabby they've only ever seen a few times in their life. None of them knows him, really, but they know he's the reason they're living their kithoods in a basement.
"In a line," the Bayard commands, and the guards echo it, hiss it until they scurry to find positions, a haphazard arrangement stretching from one wall to the other. Khia's shoulder, short as she is, presses against his belly. On his other side, a tabby jostles against him. The silver tabby steps forward, trying not to grimace in a very obvious fashion at the stench they've all lived in for moons. Caraid is also forced to push back a grimace, because now he can see the soft pink scars she wears. Her eyes look soft and gentle in contrast.
Her tabby never leaves her side; somehow, he's attuned to her movements, stepping where and when she does, but his eyes are on the assembled kits, his prospective trade.
She begins pointing certain kits out with her tail; they're quickly butted out of line and huddle in a corner. It's clear she's favouring a recurring theme; the big ones, the strong ones, the wiry, lean, tough ones. He sees Ruari and Brine go. He sees Etch stay; little Etch, who's still staring at her father.
The pair reach him, scrutinise him, scrape their eyes over his pelt and assess his merits. She nods, and he mirrors it- abruptly, Cariad is shoved out of the ragged alignment. He stumbles over to his littermates, and glances back at his sister, the only family who has ever wanted him. No one gets a chance to study her, because Rhydderch is directing them away, moving them along, shaking his head in a firm no.
Not that one. She's too good for your war.
A few more are hustled into their ragtag group. He can't process what's going on. Because Khia was bursting with talk of rebellion, and he thinks, for him, things may very well get worse than a dark and gloomy basement.
ALLEGIANCES- THE REVOLT
MISS- pale grey tabby she-cat, heavily scarred
EMORY: dark tabby tom with black rings around eyes
EVORI: slim black tom with yellow eyes
FRAY: brown-eyed black tom
ANDREINA: dusty brown tabby, white throat and belly
AZRA: black-and-white tom
MAEJA: small white she-cat, torn ear
FELIKS: sandy ginger tom
KENNA: lean black she-cat
ABDERRAHMAN: heavyset grey tabby tom
VIOREL: scrawny blue-grey tom
BRITTA: small, lean grey tabby she-cat
MEINO: pale red tom, yellow eyes
GRETE: grey she-cat with soft dapples
TAMID: large black she-cat
AMALIA: wiry fawn queen
TAMELA: fat calico she-cat
ARAMAZD: steel-grey tom
NADA: stocky tom with thick black pelt
SAHAR: reddish she-cat with white underbelly and blue eyes
IMMANUEL: golden tom mottled with brown patches
KERBOROS: dull-furred brown tom
SAGA: pale, short-furred she-cat with dark brown paws, tail and muzzle
The next chapter is a little difficult to write. It might be a while before it's posted, but in the mean time, you could check out the A Drabble A Day challenge I'm writing.
