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Kier was returning from a day with Eris, feeling very grown up and world-sombre. However, something was also off. You see, Kier — wait for it — had grown. Physically. In height. Hold your gasps.
He had become slightly gangly, his limbs growing a fraction longer as he transitioned out of his comfortable teen body and into a slightly uncomfortable adult one; he’d gotten used to how this body moved and worked, and now he had to get used to another one where everything was just a tiny bit different, like someone had come in and rearranged his living room furniture and now he kept bruising his knees on the coffee table. Now the puppet strings were all wrong. But, despite the immensity of the growth to Kier, in actuality he was still very small, very bony, very slight — he was only the most INFINITESIMAL bit taller than Eris now, because she must’ve gone through her final growth spurt at much the same time and they were, for all intents and purposes, still nose-to-nose, just a horrible little lady and gentleman. To Kier, though, it had thrown his world upside down. Now, he kept stumbling to the side and over his own paws, blinking rapidly like even his vision had changed and he was confused by it — like he couldn’t make sense of why he felt so befuddled and different. To any onlooker who didn’t spend a great deal of time around Kier, however, he looked absolutely no different: he still looked like a kitten, still slightly smelled like one, still had his bony little baby face and his oversized ears, was still incredibly young. But the change — the fear of it, and the hormones — had left him more irritable than usual, sneering and snapping.
That afternoon, feeling very tired and drained and annoyed at the world in general despite how pleasant a time he’d had with Eris, Kier trudged up the outside steps; he just wanted to slink to the trainee quarters undisturbed and tuck his face under his still-scabby tail-tip and sleep. But that didn’t happen. Because as soon as Kier walked through the towering front door and turned to take the quieter back-route up to the second storey where he’d be less likely to run into anyone, he crashed into a kit.
“Watch it!” he snapped, jumping back from the kit because, even with everything with Eris, he still hated being touched. Looking at the kit properly, his lips twitched back into an unsatisfied, aggravated sneer. He knew this one — the proxy and Warden’s brat. The only son; oh, how special he must feel. And, worse than anything, he was practically the same height as Kier, either because Kier was tremendously short for a near-adult or because the grey brat was tall for his age. Either way, Kier hated him for it. “You’re lucky I don’t have you whipped, bug,” he told the kit as he swerved around him like he had any power at all here, head turned to speak close to the other tom’s face he passed him. If the kit’s parents found out how he was treating their little prince, he’d be flayed alive, then resuscitated, then killed again; but for now, he could get away with pinching him under the table and looking away when he cried.
Laertes had grown a bit. He was noticeably bigger, taller, but not in the way where he had grown into his height or his skin. No, he had simply gotten bigger, and his already too big paws and ears only grew with him, so now he looked like a bigger, clumsier mess. But he had also grown to be, albeit only a small amount, more confident, more open to a few new things here and there. He was still the 'boring one,' who didn't want to do much of anything for fear of death or danger or any pain at all, but he had taken to looking around the mansion much more than before. It was familiar. He loved the way it looked, the dusty corners, the covered furniture, the old paintings. Usually, he liked to wander alone, without the drag of his sisters and their teasing, without the fretting of his mother, as much as he loved the attention, without his father to bend over backwards for them yet keep his distance all the time. He would grow to be the fiercely independent type, and it all started with exploring the mansion alone.
Looking around again, head high and head low, examining the wallpaper and the stairs (which were still a little nerve-wracking), he wasn't exactly paying attention to see if anyone was around him. By the time he was able to comprehend there was a cat walking towards him, they ran into each other, which seemed to impact the other cat more than Laertes. He would have said something, made sure they were alright, before — Watch it!
Now he stood taller, because did he really not know who Laertes was? Surely the whole League knew! "Me? I'm not so sure the Warden would like that," even though he tried to sound intimidating, his voice was still young, squeaky. He didn't sound very confident. Really, he didn't seem that much older than Laertes himself, and he hadn't quite learned yet that looks could be deceiving.
"Why, what's your name. For good measure." He was a tattletail, of course, there was no way he wouldn't complain to his mother about this because, tearfully, he was just trying to look around and this mean, mean cat knocked him over and then yelled in his face! Laertes was supposed to be loved, respected because his father was the Warden and his mother was a proxy, and this fool certainly wasn't giving the right impression.
Kier stopped and turned around, and for a long moment all he did was gaze at the kit from narrowed eyes. The silence was long enough that anyone would've squirmed. Then, finally, he took a step closer, shedding a little of his former snappishness as he entered a new phase. "My name," he echoed, like it was unimportant. "What's your name? I didn't know we had such an impressive prince in our midst. You'll have to forgive my rudeness - growing pains, you know. They're a," and here Kier said a word that we cannot repeat. It was sure to make any kit blush - but not Kier, because he was not a kit. He was an adult, if you ignored the clear forgery in his fake ID.
His air was lethargic and bored, his expression not the least interested in the grey brat - he was just talking to him because he'd've muttered complaints to anyone who stumbled across him at that moment, and because Laertes wasn't too young, didn't need to be sheltered or coddled as Kier was sure his parents did; he was his equal. Perfect acting, then, because inside he was grinning as bright as the sun, practically buzzing an inch of the ground, practically shaking, from the opportunity this presented - a two-time proxy's brat, the Warden's brat, and they'd left him alone with Kier. Oh, fate was a wonderful thing.
"Mine?" He snorted, all haughty and stuck-up, like he surprised he didn't know Laertes' name. He was still an impressionable young kit, not yet had enough experience to know when he should or shouldn't answer questions, so he responded with all the arrogance he could muster, "Laertes." He was quite fond of the name; it was graceful, powerful, he wanted to live up to it's potential, though he wasn't quite sure how. Did it really fit a tom like him?
Growing pains, you know. Laertes looked away awkwardly. He was not unfamiliar with such choice of words — Eshek wouldn't know the definition of 'appropriate language' if it punched her in the face, but hearing it from someone else was strange. Second-hand embarrassing. He cleared his throat again, trying to gain his footing over the cat, but he was unnerving and weird to be around. He wanted to turn around, or step around him, but he was prideful and petty and didn't want to give him the satisfaction of such a thing, so he tried to stand taller, stare him down with the anger of a young, innocent child who hadn't gotten what he wanted, all chipmunk-cheeked and furrowed brows and big eyes.
"I didn't think I would have to ask again, can I have your name?" Then he gave a small, sly smile, "Though, if you don't, I'm sure I could get my Mother to track you down for me. We could certainly use a nice new rug." Oh! He had never said anything quite so violent before, and a part of him liked it, especially because he was using someone else's name, someone who he was certain had the power that Kier didn't see in him.
"Kier," he replied immediately, purposely leaving out the -kun part - and as much as he tried, as much as he damn well tried, he couldn't stop the amused grin that spread across his face at Laertes' threat. It was frustrating; he never had trouble hiding his feelings before. But there was something just so funny about it, this kit touting the proxy's brutality like it was his own personal weapon. It really tickled Kier. And not only that, but to hear his own constant mention of Mother, Mother, Mother echoed back at him. Kier was very self-aware - he knew he was a mommy's boy for all the wrong, violent reasons - and so this gave him a real kick, made a high little laugh bubble at the top of his throat, just behind his back teeth, as he continued to grin appreciatively at Laertes, very pleased that for just a little longer, he was still just that bit taller. Enough to feel older and far more experienced. What did this kit know? He loved the way he looked away at his cussing, too - it made his grin grow a fraction wider before he finally reined it in, a little twitchily.
"Your mother would really do that for you?" Kier asked, sounding genuinely impressed. He was very good at sounding harmless, at sounding stupid. "And your father - he's next in line to the throne. That must be a lot of pressure on you. I don't think I could handle it. I'd probably have a panic attack when I was just a little older than you are now and go eat my own fur under a rock. You know. Where it's safe. Everyone is always going to be after you, the more you grow. You'll have a thousand enemies you've never met and that you'll never even be able to see. But of course you know that. Your parents would have warned you. And I expect you have a very close relationship with the Nemesis, too. He surely told you." He dropped his eyes. "But if I've overstepped my bounds, I'm sorry. I don't mean any harm."
It was a nice name, he had to be honest — simple, recognizable, unforgettable. Outwardly, he gave Kier a disdainful look, allowing himself to be furious at the grin on his face because how dare he look down on Laertes like that. Despite his sense of superiority, already a flimsy, shallow thing, he felt young, he felt his age, he felt small and weak. He had felt scared and weak before — the outside world was a terrifying place, and in the presence of his sisters' confidence he always felt a little behind — but this was different. He was bigger, he was of higher class than him, and yet the feelings of it were dripping away, like Kier had pulled the plug.
Your mother would really do that for you? He gave a genuine laugh, "of course she would. I'm her favourite." He paired his words with a proud wiggle of his shoulders, thin and boney. But it faded a little, at Kier's next words, because he had never realized just how much he did have to live up too. He flaunted their power any chance he got, knew he was important somehow but never got into specifics.
"What? After me? Who would that be?" He lowered his voice to a whisper, obviously shaken by the words, looking passed Kier like the devil himself would appear. "I—" His parents hadn't told him any of this, and most information about Regulus E'tan he had gathered through whatever passing conversation he could hear.
Then, like a sudden shift, he straightened out again, tried to gather his wits, though behind him his tail twitched, it's thin, rat-like look making the quiver obvious, "You haven't, I, of course, already knew that. You'd have to be an idiot not too, in my position," he looked wearily to the side, "obviously there would be … certain cats out to get me. I'm big, and important, and … good leverage for my big, important parents." He was sounding more afraid by the second, and his lip quivered softly. He was still small, young, scared of the dark and stories of monsters and ghosts, of being away from his mother for too long, of Tilly, and it seemed the sudden, terrifying new information was getting to him. And why wouldn't it? Nobody his age would have ever thought of the possibility, but now when it was brought to his face, he felt the need to constantly look over his shoulder.
Laertes coughed, "I can ask my Father to put up extra security, not a problem that can't be dealt with." He was trying to sound so royal and important, trying to fit into shoes much too big for him.
I’m her favourite. The smile didn’t leave Kier’s face, even if it twitched ever so slightly at the corner. But all it did was make him happier when he clearly started to get to the brat, like it was senseless little revenge against a kit whose only crime was being born loved and cherished by his mother. He nodded along as the kit spoke, harmless and deferential, like he was just a humble courtier giving the prince honest advice. He didn’t answer his first question; better to leave him guessing and afraid, better to leave him needing him.
“Oh yes, well, of course - obviously,” Kier agreed in a quick voice, nodding with sage enthusiasm like Laertes had hit the nail on the head. His voice slowed as he continued, but it didn’t become any less upbeat, any less casual. “But then, there is the matter of the insanity in your family line. Everybody knows about that. Your father’s family tore each other apart. Everyone is just waiting for the other shoe to drop — for the day he goes insane, too.” He leaned in a little, like it was a shameful secret he was embarrassed to share; he looked around guiltily for a moment, frowning, before he glanced back to Laertes and continued. “When you and your sisters were born, I heard such whispers — which one of them will succumb to the curse first? Which one will murder their mother, their siblings — which one will take their father’s crown?” He paused for a long moment and leaned back, smiling serenely, reassuringly — almost like he was amused by the far-fetched fairytales. “But of course that won’t happen. They’re just kit tales. I’m sure you’re all very sane — after all,” he laughed, the sound a rich bubble, “what would life be like if you spent every moment looking over your shoulder, wondering which sibling would get you first?”
Did Kier hear such whispers — did the League care about the cursed line so deeply, or even know about it? — or was he just lying as he always did? He would never say; he just smiled, like he was the one cat the kit could count on.
Kier was making it very difficult to keep his footing, the power in the situation, because with every word he said, Laertes felt weaker. "Insanity?" He asked quietly. Everyone is just waiting for the other shoe to drop — for the day he goes insane, too. He shook his head, "no, no. My father is very reasonable. He is not like his father, or anyone else." Despite trying to keep his calm still, his fur stood on end, his eyes were wide and scared and young.
Which one will murder their mother, their siblings — which one will take their father’s crown?
"My sisters would never —" though he wasn't as sure, especially because Tilly always did have that look in her eyes. Kier's reassurances weren't very reassuring at all, but he still nodded, face set and angry, "yes, just kit tales. Sometimes my sisters are … not pleasant, but they would never do any of the things you're telling tales of. I don't believe you." Yet he stilled stepped away, glanced to his side without moving his head. He would bring it up to Father later, he decided, to confirm that it wasn't true, that there was no so called curse. That Kier was just trying to get under his skin.
"You shouldn't tell such lies, do you have any idea of the damage things like this could do?" He acted like he was so much older, so much wiser than the cat before him, as if Kier wasn't older and more experienced than Laertes was, as if he wasn't playing right into his trap.
Yes, very reasonable, Kier muttered to himself, struggling to hold back a growl from stuttering in his throat. That's why he had spawn with that insufferable harlot. But he just smiled sympathetically, nodding along reassuringly. "Of course he is," he agreed gently. "Or, he's just very good at pretending to be. I suppose it doesn't matter which. Blood will out in the end - I just pray that when it does, you haven't displeased him in some way. Cats with madness in their blood can be so horribly unpredictable. And you..." Kier looked him up and down, eyes still sympathetic. "Well, you know how it is being the only son. You start out thinking it sets you apart - it makes you special - but all it is in the end is another threat to your father. Your sisters, they can fade into the background... But you, the only son...? A thousand eyes will be on you every day of your life."
You shouldn't tell such lies, do you have any idea of the damage things like this could do? Oh, he loved Laertes' anger. He'd stamp it out of him eventually. "Yes, but do you have any idea of the damage it could wreak on the League - on your family - if it were true? The worst thing that happens it that it isn't, that it never was. But the best is if it is - you can protect your sisters, your mother. You're clever, aren't you? Like your father? They take after their mother - they'll get themselves killed eventually, and in any case they're too blind to the Warden's failings to ever see the warning signs. You, though - you can be their guardian. Isn't it better to be warned? To be prepared?" Now, he dared to take a step closer, frowning down at the kit imploringly. "I could help you, Laertes - can I call you that? I could help you make your family stronger. I can help you become better for them - the cat you've always dreamed of being."
He didn't like the way Kier was. The way Laertes hung on every slimy word he said, the way he agreed in earnest and played it up as worry, the way he fell for it — though, at the time, Laertes had no idea there was any tricks at all. He liked to pretend he knew everything. He was the Warden's son, he was the Proxy's son, and as Kier said, he was their only son. A threat. An easy target. Maybe he shouldn't make himself so insufferable.
He looked earnest, fearful for his life and his future, anger quick to melt away at whatever Kier was saying next. "You can't be so sure." He tried to reason, to still convince himself that he didn't believe a word of it, but there was fear in his voice, a slight shake to his words.
Yes, but do you have any idea of the damage it could wreak on the League - on your family - if it were true? "And that is why cats like you," he spat the word like poison, "should keep your mouths closed." He had lost the intensity by now, and when Kier mentioned his cleverness, his goodness, how stupid his sisters were — usually, he would have stuck up for them, because nobody but him could say anything like that about them, but he kept quiet — nodding along with everything. He did want to help them, he wanted to learn about this curse because who would warn them? Certainly Bermondsey wouldn't bring it up. He could only imagine the shame. I could help you, Laertes. It was a while before he said anything. He stared down at the floor.
And then he looked up, met Kier's eyes finally. "How do I do that?" The words would settle their deal, a deal Laertes had no clue he was making. He had no need to look around anymore, because maybe the devil wasn't coming around the corner; maybe the devil was right in front of him, offering him something he couldn't refuse.
And what is why cats like you should keep your mouths closed. Kier just smiled back at him, unbothered by the insult; clearly one of them held the upper hand here, and it wasn't the little prince.
But the second Laertes succumbed to his deal, all but signing his name in blood on the contract between them that Kier now snapped back up and rolled away for safe keeping, his whole demeanour changed. Suddenly, the humble courtier was gone; sweeping forward to brush against his new protege and guide him towards the back door, a cheerful, utterly confident Kier was in his place. If he could have, he'd have been holding his arms out grandly, like all the palace was under his command. "Well, isn't that just the question, Laertes?" he cried merrily. "It'll take time," he continued, turning his head to look down at the royal brat with a smile. "But with my help, you'll be ready by the time your poor father begins to exhibit signs of madness - if," he added with a grin, looking down at Laertes again, and there was the first hint that this deal wasn't what it had appeared to be, that it had fine print the kit had neglected to read, "he ever does so. First thing's first - you'll need to devote a good deal of every day to me. Over-exposure to psychological maladies can have a disastrous effect on growing minds." He looked down at him with a sombre, fearful expression, but the way he puckered his chin and frowned made it look far more mocking - far more sadistically delighted to be meddling in the lives of this noble family - than sympathetic. "Can you do that, Laertes? Or do you not want to save your family?"
All his earlier tiredness and bad mood were forgotten - Kier was always most alive when he had a mission, and this would be the finest mission of them all.
With the sudden shift in attitude, so did his air. He no longer tried to look bigger, stronger, instead he stood with the familiar hunch to his shoulders, giving in to their obvious dynamic. He gave a questioning look at the if. He had gone in so convinced, so sure that one day his father would go mad, that he forgot about the fact that he might not. What did it matter anyway, then, because even if the chance was small, he supposed he had to be prepared for it. He followed carefully, his steps now unsure, clumsy, no longer the pompous, self-assured steps he liked to have with company. He still wasn't a fan of Kier, and every time he spoke he felt the need to roll his eyes or make a silent, mocking face, but his drive was more important than his temporary disdain.
"Every day?" He knew he wouldn't disagree, so he continued quickly, "of course. I understand." He added the last part for good measure. Or do you not want to save your family? He nodded at his new mentor, genuine and fervently, because how could he doubt that? He wouldn't spend another moment with him if he didn't.
"Yes, yes," it almost came out an innocent wail, "of course I do! And Mother and Father won't ask where I am, they know I like to explore the Mansion by myself," they trusted him, and now he wanted to make their trust worth it. Laertes fell in step just behind him — if he were with his sisters, he would have tried to immediately be the leader, only to be left to the back when they sped up without him, but he didn't try with Kier, even if he wanted too. He knew his way around the Mansion by now, surely Kier should be following him, but he pushed those thoughts away. He supposed they would do no good in this situation, when he had so much to offer Laertes.
He let himself stay silent for a moment, only a few because he always seemed to have a few questions up his sleeve. "How will you help me?" He asked again, "what will we do?"
Every day? Kier gave him a stern, disapproving look; it quickly reverted to that familiar smile when Laertes acquiesced. I understand. "Of course you do," he replied cryptically, and that, too, sounded mocking.
And Mother and Father won't ask where I am, they know I like to explore the Mansion by myself. As pleased as Kier had been when the kit started speaking, watching him with amused satisfaction at how easily this was going, now, for the first time, he felt a tiny flicker for guilt. His smile almost faltered. He was a kit, a kit loved by his parents... Kier had felt guilt before but it was always an unfamiliar, sorrowful, unexpected feeling that leeched the fun out of any situation; maybe it was because he always pushed it away so determinedly, or because he truly did feel it so rarely, but it felt like when it resurfaced, it was with the weight of all the other things he'd had to feel guilty about piled atop it - like it was never new guilt, it was accumulated, a growing pile of victims. And now this sweet, innocent little son...
Yes, well, that wasn't his problem. Kits grew up. He'd give him plenty of purpose; he'd be happier, possibly, or at least more fulfilled than he would have been had he stayed the pampered royal son. And either way it didn't matter, Kier reminded himself, bewildered by this newfound need to justify what he was doing. Stupid cats bowed to clever ones; it was the way of the world. "Good," Kier replied, and when his voice was slightly choked he cleared his throat and threw the kit a confident grin. "Good."
On the back porch overlooking the overgrown, thorn-choked backyard, Kier stopped and sat down upon the rickety, buckled wooden slats, drawing his wounded tail around his forepaws. What would he teach him? Frankly, he hadn't the faintest clue - the fun had been in getting Laertes to succumb; he hadn't given a single thought to the future, to what happened when he did. Well, clearly he wasn't going to do anything he had said he would, but a brainwashed servant could never be a bad thing. "My, Laertes, the question ought to be how won't I help you? Obedience, endurance training, problem solving, warfare, diplomacy, staying silent under coercion," torture, he meant, "practice tasks aplenty - by the time you're finished, there won't be a thing your father or the Nemesis know that you won't know as well. No cat in the world would exist that you couldn't match in brains or brute strength. I might not look like the best teacher for the latter," Kier laughed, tilting slightly towards Laertes to look at his protege, "but as the old adage goes, those who can't do, teach. And I imagine that underneath all those smarts, there's something of the killer in you, Laertes - you're your mother's son, too." Your horrible mother. He smiled through his internal disgust.
"Yes," he said again, quieter this time, following Kier until they landed on the porch. He hesitated before stepping on, paw hovering over the old wood like it would infect him if he touched it. His gaze flitted to the other tom for a moment, and he sat down just in front of him. As he listed things off, each worse than the next, Laertes had the urge to get up, go back to his room and never talk to him again. Instead, he looked down at his paws, watched the tip of his tail twitch as it lay just beside them.
Obedience. A cat like him wasn't supposed to be obedient, he was supposed to be the leader, the strongest, the one who gave orders and didn't follow them. A killer. "No," he blurted, though immediately followed it up, "I don't know. How do I know you aren't lying," the accusation returned to his voice once more, though it was weaker, resigned, like he knew who held the real power between them, "I don't know if I want to do all that." He didn't like the small rush of shame that followed his words, like he was failing already. Deep down, he knew his sisters didn't really need his protection, that they would be the ones sticking up for him even though they teased him plentifully, but he wanted to be useful to someone.
"Well —" he thought it over again. If he got better, maybe he would impress them, and they'd actually listen to him, because he wouldn't be small, boring Laertes. "What would all that have to do with the curse?" He hadn't even confirmed if it was real or not, but Kier had somehow immediately swept him up, convinced him without a hint of hesitation that all reason seemed to go out the window.
Kier smiled down at Laertes as he sat in front of him, looking so meek and uncertain and already so thoroughly owned. It was so funny, watching the logical parts of Laertes’ brain put up the last defences, the final resistance; he hardly had to do anything — if he left him be, the kit would drive himself sleepless with trust and distrust, and in all likelihood convince himself Kier was worth the risk. It was so beautiful to watch, this study of the mind, like a mouse or a beetle trapped on its back and kicking, lost in the dark, at the air. All you had to do was flip them over.
“Laertes,” Kier said at last, and his voice was just disapproving — just disappointed — enough to play into his shame. He tilted his head down slightly, eyes never leaving him, looking so let down by his protege’s wavering commitment. “Whatever I teach you will be no different to what you’ll learn as a trainee — the only difference will be that you’ll have a head start. How many moons old are you now — two, three? You’ll start your traineeship at six, meaning your sisters, and whoever else might want to harm your family, will start at the same time as you. With me, you’d have three months’ headstart on them. Isn’t that worth it?” Kier stood and drifted over to Laertes’ side, sitting down close beside him and brushing his wounded tail comfortingly across his back, holding back a gag at the physical sensation. He lowered his voice, quiet and sympathetic, a little frown on his face. He hunched his shoulders slightly to mimic the kit, but never let himself become smaller than him; he was always just a breath taller. “They’re always better than you, aren’t they? It wouldn’t be difficult. What precisely do you have to offer? You’re clever, but where are book-smarts going to get you?” Here started the gentle criticisms poised as blameless questions, just enough to create a crack Kier could weasel into. His side brushed his, like an older brother. “Who knows — maybe your father will even end up proud of you if he sees you as something other than the frightened extra little mouth to feed, hanging off his mother’s fur.” There was personal bitterness there.
Kier leaned back. “Or, I could always go to your sisters instead. Cordelia, maybe?” He lowered his head again until it was level with Laertes’ and turned it to smile at him. There was a note in Kier’s voice that said Laertes would be protecting his sisters by keeping him away from them. His pupil dilated. “Nour?”
The way Kier said his name made his skin crawl, though he felt the need to ignore it. Laertes. It dripped from his mouth, sounding poisonous, like he was inferior. With me, you’d have three months’ headstart on them.
The words were vaguely familiar, like something he had been told already — and it was, it's better if you start learning while you're young; you'll be a few steps ahead of your denmates, no? Bermondsey had told him, the night he had taken Laertes out to tour the territory. Something else wiggled in his brain, something else he had said. He hated the curse of his family. He hadn't questioned the wording at the time. The curse. He mulled it over, because now he couldn't doubt Kier's word, the evidence was right there and he had glossed over it, been too stupid to question it further. He hadn't thought the curse was literal. He looked up, and his face could tell the story of what had just clicked. This was what his father had wanted, wasn't it? It wasn't with him, but maybe Laertes would do better if it wasn't. He'd become powerful, just as his family was.
He shied away from the touch, still willful enough to give Kier a glare as he moved away from it. He wanted to argue with his words, disagree with everything because his ego was still painfully large, his need to be better making him believe he already was, but his confidence was flimsy, and despite the face he put on, he knew he didn't compare to them. He would always be the one behind. At the mention of his sisters, he stared at Kier wide-eyed, almost disturbed at the very thought.
"I'm sure now," his voice shook, though he tried to hide it. "I'll do it," and he still couldn't keep his mouth shut for once, "but really, what could you do?" It was paired with a slightly mocking grin, because the tom before him didn't seem that dangerous. Cordelia could beat him with two paws tied behind her back and a smile on her face, never breaking a sweat. He had agreed to the help, to listen and learn to protect them from forces much stronger than Kier, but he refused to grovel at his feet.
If there was one thing Kier hated, it was being doubted — a funny trait for a compulsive liar to have, but explosive all the same. His temper suddenly snapping at Laertes’ mocking jibe, he flashed up and barrelled the kit over before he had a chance to react or even draw breath, his claws gripping the royal brat’s forelegs so tightly that blood beaded around the tips. Leaning down so his muzzle was barely a hair from Laertes’ own, he bared his teeth and snapped, “I could kill you, Laertes, is what I could do. I could rip open your sisters’ stomachs and eat their soft little guts. I could poison your father so skilfully, so innocently, that he’d be vomiting up his lungs before any of you even knew anything was wrong. Do you want that to happen, Laertes? Because of you? Do you?” He gave Laertes’ shoulders a rough, painful shake, slamming them back down against the wood. It should have been becoming clear now to the kit: this deal wasn’t about him, it was about Kier. But it was too late to get out. His eyes burned with anger, with hate — but with something else, too, something like fear. Perhaps it showed how insecure Kier secretly was, that he had to prove himself so frightening to a kit just because he’d expressed a whisper of contempt, that he was relishing this power imbalance because Laertes was the only cat in the world he could treat like this. He felt himself growing slightly tearful, his eyes beginning to water for some reason utterly beyond him, and he scrambled off the kit with a burst of confused anger at his own emotions, his own body’s weakness.
Kier whipped around, hiding his face from the kit as he struggled to get himself back under control — because he had no idea why this was happening or what it was. “I’m your best chance at becoming something other than your father’s pathetic son,” he snapped at Laertes over his shoulder, hurriedly wiping his eyes with more genuine bafflement than any grief, desperate to hide the moment of weakness he couldn’t understand from his protégé. In a few days’ time, though he didn’t know it yet, this would be where he would murder his father. Maybe there was something leeching out of the wood, some sort of unholy premonition, like eyes watering with blood in a haunting. Kier was the most unstable he’d ever been.
His mind didn't process what had happened until he was on the floor, a fear so fresh and new and unlike anything he'd ever felt before sending a nauseating wave in his stomach. He let the threats wash over him, turned his head so he didn't have to look into Kier's eyes, didn't think he would be able to handle it. He was young, he was small and he was scared. As he was slammed into the floor, as he caught sight of the blood dripping from his forelegs, he couldn't help but let out a quiet, shaky cry. And when the weight was relieved, he couldn't stand up for a moment, felt his legs would give out, and when he finally did, shaking like a leaf, he stayed in a crouch low to the floor.
He wanted to cry for his mother. "I'm sorry," he whimpered, "I know." He was just his father's pathetic son, wasn't he? Scared of his own shadow, the kit who spent his boring days hiding from the world he was too nervous to face. Terrified of fictional monsters and creatures and things that didn't exist, when the real monsters were all around him. He wasn't sure where the anger came from, wasn't sure how they had gotten to this point other than it was his fault. His taunting. The wounds on his arms weren't deep, but slow drops of blood dripped towards the floor, which he was still pressed up against.
"Will you help me fix myself?" He sounded close to tears, but he didn't want to let them fall, so he picked himself up off the ground, didn't stand too tall even though he wanted to appear strong, but he didn't feel worthy of it.
Kier sat down with his shoulders hunched, defensive and annoyed and thrown off, his back to the kit. For a long moment, he just listened to him sniffling behind him and hunched his shoulders further, wrapping his tail tighter around his paws to block out the discomfort of the sound. I’m sorry. I know. Kier’s eyes searched the uneven floorboards, looking uncertain, guilty, almost stricken. And then came the kit’s heartbreaking question. Kier finally relented to his guilt, sweeping around to sit down by Laertes’ side and draw him in with one paw to an odd little hug. He held the kit as he cried, trying to shush him with comforting sounds and a paw brushing up and down his foreleg a little awkwardly — he didn’t know how to, had never done it before, was just mimicking what he’d seen she-cats on the road do with their crying kits when they fell off a wagon and hit their heads. But for once, his mimicry was off. Clumsy. “You don’t need to be fixed,” Kier told him, and despite the uncertain, insecure stiffness in his voice, despite how much the contact and the comfort made his gut churn with nervous sickness, it was almost gentle. It was the only honest thing he had said so far. “You just need to be changed.”
He was going to ruin this kit’s life. And just for that moment, as he held him, his heart broke for him.
But by the next morning, Kier was feeling much more himself. Whatever himself was. Mainly just whatever was left when everything else had been forced down and choked. He sat waiting for his protégé at the bottom of the staircase, cocky in his wrongdoings because he made no effort to hide them from Laertes’ parents.
He had a full day planned, and he hummed merrily to himself as he waited, looking around the entry lobby with a contented smile, his tail with its missing tip tapping rhythmically against the floor and his forepaw joining it before long.
He let himself be comforted, though it held none of the warmth he was used too. It was cold and empty, unsure and guilty, and he didn't feel better at all. Tears escaped anyway, and even though he hated it, he leaned into Kier. He would change him, make him into something that was worth it.
Laertes was extremely nervous for the day. When he had gone back to his room the night before, still trembling and teary-eyed, he had attempted to avoid his family. He wasn't right then, his usual standoffish attitude just felt different, scarily different, and any concerns were brushed off with a murmur or an excuse. He hardly slept at all, felt it difficult to sleep beside his mother and sisters and father because what if the curse acted quicker than he thought. He woke up early, groggily, left without hardly any good mornings or goodbyes because he didn't want to be late. This trip down the stairs was much more confident, hardly any hesitation at all, and couldn't help the small twinge of fear at the sight of his new mentor.
For a moment, he wanted to stand a few steps above him, enjoy the feeling of being able to look down, and if it were yesterday, he might have, but he descended, moved to stand beside him in a hunch so he was a little bit smaller. Kier's happy mood had the opposite effect on Laertes. He was apprehensive, because who knew if he would snap like he did yesterday.
He gave a small, forced smile as greeting. "Good morning, Kier. Are you well?"
