Last night, sleep had been hard to come by.

Reznor-kun curled up in a ball; stretched out long and lean; laid on his back, his side, his stomach; contorted into strange shapes; sat up straight; tucked his paws beneath him and laid down; lay with with his head up, on its side, and down into the moss; opened his eyes and closed them and squeezed them tightly shut. None of it helped. He could breath in deep or shallow, count mice in his mind, but even as exhaustion weighed heavily upon his body, he lay awake.

He knew why. It wasn’t a mystery.

The kits never left his mind. They were so young and tiny, born only a day or two ago, with their ears folded back and their little eyes shut. They mewled when he first picked them up, but then they settled, and hung limp from his jaw as he took them away from their den. Away from their mother, who had slipped out of the den to hunt, and would return home to an empty nest.

Imagining her horrified cries when she discovered they were gone broke his heart. He knew what he did to her was wrong. At the very least, Reznor should had the guts to tell her to her face what he was going to do. Even if she couldn’t stop him. But she would think him deranged, delusional, and she would try to talk him out of it, and he couldn’t afford for yet to try.

Because he was already balancing on the claw’s edge and he couldn’t misstep down. There was no turning back.

The kittens had been so tiny and innocent, though. They had just started their lives. He told himself it was better to do it young, before they had a life to look forward too. Before they realized what the world was like. They were nothing but fur and meat, helpless. Maybe the proxy would like them better when they were older, with more flesh on them, but he couldn’t bear it.

He didn’t end their tiny lives. They hadn’t even started yet.

And so he rolled back and forth in his nest, on and on, his mind raging in grief and rage and disappointment and guilt. He could feel the self-hatred welling up inside of him even now, but he had to crush it.

Reznor was just trying to survive. He didn’t want to die. But he was marked for death, and he had to prove he didn’t deserve that. He could like a full life. A happy one. And he could make up for what he was doing now.

A few little bodies in exchange for all the lives he would save when he was older. Wasn’t that worth it?

He hated that he didn’t know the answer.

This was the way things were. The League killed cats all the time. Kits especially. He hadn’t landed the blow, just delivered them to execution. That was different than a true kinslayer, right? He wasn’t a good cat but he wasn’t a killer.

The League might understand, but his girlfriend wouldn’t. Reznor knew that too. If Wintershine ever found out, she would be horrified. Beyond that. Would she scream? Cry? Attack him? Maybe she wouldn’t believe it. Maybe she’d turn those perfectly soft eyes on him, full of disbelief and doubt, and he could assure her it wasn’t true. It wasn’t real, he would never do that. She was from DayClan, she was too soft to understand survival. So he would whisper her sweet words and let her forget it all.

Did that make him a bad cat? He didn’t care anymore.

But he did. And he hated that, too. He hated that he cared so much.

By the time the morning sun was rising, he hadn’t slept more than an hour, and his moral conundrum was far from resolved.

The blue tom yawned and sat up straight. He turned and started to groom his fur, neatening each errant strand, pulling away scraps of moss, letting the rhythm and routine soothe his soul. He straightened up the pristine white ribbon around his neck and slipped out of the den.

He had no training today. That was good. He doubted he had the energy for it. He was so tired and so distracted. Surely this weight would go away soon. The crime was over and done with. Guilt wouldn’t change anything. It wouldn’t bring them back.

Even if he wanted to sit and wallow, he couldn’t. He had a meeting to attend. As Reznor entered the forest he started to glance about for prey.

The scents of the forest surrounded him. The sweet, sticky sap in the trees around him; the dusky musk of the earth beneath his paws; the long, thick blades of grass peeking up between the roots; if he concentrated, he could taste the scent of his Leaguemates who had passed through the day before, and the lingering fear-scent of the prey they had cornered. He remembered being so overwhelmed his first day of training. Reznor has been using his sense of smell all his life, but it was instinctual, reacting to the signals without understanding them. He had to learn how to dissect and focus and puzzle out exactly the right prey scents. He did that now.

A squirrel was watching him on his left, he could taste it already, but he knew it was a lost cause. It was already wrapped around the tree trunk, only comfortable because it knew in the canopy he would never be able to catch it. His blue gaze narrowed slightly upon it, the tip of his tail twitching as he contemplated chasing it off anyway, but in the end, he chose to ignore it.

There were birds overhead; maybe he could wait for one to land and creep up on it. He tilted his head back to consider them. A bird with dark gray feathers was preening on the branch above his head, showing no interest in leaving anytime soon, at least not before it removed those tufted feathers sticking up from its back. A finch flickered past, swift and confident between the trees, but it was far out of sight before he could even consider following it.

Reznor shook his head and went back to listening as he padded on. The prey wouldn’t come to him, so today he would chase after it. He slipped low and carefully through the undergrowth, alertly checking the area before he stepped through, waiting to catch sight of something to eat.

A fox had passed through here recently. That surprised him, but beyond that, it was the tang of blood, sharp even though it was getting to be a few days old. It was the fox’s blood, not a cat or prey. He wondered if it was worth pursuing. There was a prey-scent underneath as if the fox had been carrying it. Maybe if it died it left its catch behind.

But he didn’t want stale prey. Wintershine deserved something fresh. He moved on.

Eventually, Reznor found his catch. It was a young and small hare, half his size, and it was stuck. Vines tangled around its hind legs, thorns snared its coat; the prey must have dragged on for a while before it was finally stuck because there was a variety of debris caught in its trailing vine trap. The blue tom circled close, then lunged, snapping its throat and ending its life without hesitation.

He wondered if Innocentia gave his children a swift death.

Reznor carefully freed the prey from its prison, removing each burr and pulling away the vines and debris. He even smoothed its fur a bit. It looked peaceful. Pale brown and grey ticked, soft enough to line a nest, and warm in his jaws, though the heat was fading quickly. That was different from the kittens. They stayed warm and wriggling the whole journey, not this solemn dead weight.

He shook his head and took the prey to go.

As he reached their meeting place he lifted his head to catch a glimpse of the she-cat and an instinctive smile crept across his face before he could chase it away. He really did like Wintershine, she was a nice cat, but he couldn't focus on how she didn't deserve any of this. Maybe one day, when they were both older, she would understand why he had to do this. Even if she could never agree. Never accept it. Accept him.

The blue tom bounded closer, summoning a charming grin, and for now, he didn't notice she was any different. Maybe he did see the difference in her weight. Maybe he knew the moment he looked into her eyes, but he didn't want to believe it.

"Wintershine," Reznor-kun purred, slipping the hare to the corner of his mouth. "You look lovely today."