Delrowe  

It was late, well after moonhigh. What had started as an errand for his mother had quickly been forgotten when he’d realised that, as no one was keeping tabs on him anymore, he could go and hang around Eris instead. And so that was what he’d spent the day doing, helping her around her lab and sharing lunch with her because she always forgot to eat when she was engrossed in her experiments and switching on the lights he’d installed when it started to grow dark. All the mice they’d worked on had died, but that was half the fun — even Eris hadn’t seemed as frustrated by the failure as she usually did — and they’d shared a little lingering look over the bodies as they laid them out for the maggots and the worms.

Then, on the way home, he’d suddenly remembered his original reason for going out and had to keep up the pretence of being a good assistant — Rhiannon had probably been growling about his tardiness all day, if she’d remembered him at all. So, he’d had to go and hurriedly carry out his original task, which just made him later and later — how hard was it to find these accursed bloody berries? He spent far, far too long creeping around in the pitch-black undergrowth, getting tangled in spiderwebs and losing his footing in mole-holes and hissing curses every time his ears snagged on thorns and he had to swat and writhe around to free himself, until eventually it happened so often that he ended up screeching with anger while he did it, on his back and fighting with plants in the dark. When finally he had what his mother had wanted (and, in all likelihood, wouldn’t want tomorrow morning, when she’d take one look at them and sniff and say ‘what would I want those for?’ and leave him twitching behind her), it was the still, cold silence of the early hours. He was covered in shallow scratches, had a new, blood-crusted nick out of one of his ears, and was in an over-tired, seething mood.

He hardly thought about his family nowadays. Rhiannon, of course, was a looming figure, but his father, sister and brother had all slipped to the fringes. Where before they’d been such all-consuming presences, directing every facet of his life from what he could eat to where he could go to what he could say, now he was free of them. And while at first he’d had a confused period of mourning for the change, now he couldn’t be happier about it. He’d always believed he was close to them — now he realised it was only physical closeness from forced proximity. He had never known any other cats, and now, though he was still plotting Mal’s death, it was more a comforting, subconscious force of habit than something he was actively invested in; if it happened — if the opportunity arose — then wonderful, but if it didn’t, then oh well. His brother, once such a tyrant in his life, had faded to a peripheral being who played no real part in his day-to-day activities. Where his thoughts had been consumed by him two moons ago, now Kier went most of the day without thinking of him at all. And when he did, it was usually only because he was getting home late for dinner, or just to slip into bed if he missed it, and he had a vague, faint dread — now more a sort of tired irritation, like the monster of his nightmares had become a tangible beast, and the beast was obnoxious — of Mal’s backhanded drawls.

It seemed, however, that he’d underestimated just how much this once-tyrant might be bothered by the loss of his submissive chewtoy, and by said chewtoy’s disrespect for their family. Because, as he trotted up the staircase, eager to set down the twig he was carrying and give himself a quick, much-needed grooming and get into bed, a shadow suddenly fell over him from the second floor landing. Kier raised his head from where he’d had his eyes idly on the steps, his top two fangs protruding over the twig and his gaze strangely innocent. And, of course, it was his brother. His heart sank; he’d been hoping to get into the safety of their room without a beating. He told himself it was just because he’d outgrown the childish fear of Mal and any beating would just be an annoying chore, but really, he wasn’t that free of him. He still felt the fear; he still felt the dread of being alone with his brother; he still wanted to cry out for their father, even though he knew he’d never saved him then and he wouldn’t save him now.

But he wouldn’t let Mal see how much he affected him — let him see how he was the only cat in the world who could make him genuinely afraid. So, instead, swallowing his fear and replacing it with defiant, cheerful nonchalance, he set the berry-laded twig down at his own paws and told him, “no need for an escort, I’m coming straight up. Thank you, though, for your concern, brother.” And, with that, he picked the twig up again and tried to swerve around Mal to get to the trainee quarters, hoping he couldn’t see how fast his heart was beating in his little chest and how his pupils still darted like a hunted bird’s no matter how calm and unbothered he tried to keep his narrow silver gaze. His head twitched slightly; it hadn’t done that in weeks. His family, it seemed, really did make him regress to the small, hounded second son he’d always been. Just when he’d finally started to claw together his own confidence and freedom and life.