[♛ 𝔽𝕒𝕓𝕣𝕚𝕔𝕒𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟]

when the fox hears the rabbit scream

he comes a-runnin'

Oleander was a cat with simple pleasures. One of these pleasures was to sit next to the frosty river and listen to the robins shriek their petulant anger at eachother, their voices sweet with bitter fury. His golden eyes followed them as they flitted from branch to branch, their bulbous little chests heaving with the effort of their song. All this fuss over a few measly hedges. He wondered if they would ever erupt into battle, or if they would simply scream their little hearts out until they could sing no more. The cream tortoiseshell tom bent his head to lap delicately at the freezing water, feeling rather tired but at least not hungry. There were few cats in winter who could happily claim that they were not hungry. A moorhen paddled idly in the water ahead of him, drawing his attention for a moment. Though he knew that prey was prey and he was a cat, he appreciated the diversity of life the wild had to offer him, even in the harsher seasons. The capability of birds to fly, the speed of mice and the tenacity of squirrels, all of it was fascinating. Watching the wildlife live their lives apart from his own was a strong reminder that even he, in the eyes of a larger animal, was nothing more than food. He liked that. It made sense, and the thought that his life may come to an abrupt end at any moment allowed him to appreciate the fact that right here, right now, he was alive. And he was content. Or, mostly.

There was a scattering of dirt behind him, and Oleander raised his chin from the water. His golden eyes settled on a trio of felines that stood rather stiffly nearby. "Hello." Oleander ventured, his eyes darting from one cat to the next. Any cat with sense getting approached by such a burly crowd of cats would have bolted by now. But recent victories had made him overconfident, and pride forced him to hold his ground. The largest and most intimidating of the cats was a bushy-furred muscular tom that was built quite like a bear. He was a tabby with hard yellow eyes and scars criss-crossing his muzzle. He held himself with the attitude of a cat who was used to winning a fight. "This him?" He grunted, though his gaze never left Oleander. This was when the tortoiseshell tom finally felt an inkling of worry. Were these cats looking for him? The she-cat that stood a few paces behind the two toms nodded her head vigorously, eyes wild as she stared at him the way a mouse would stare at a wolf. She was long-haired too, but so white she nearly completely blended in with the snow. Her muzzle was broad and incredibly flat, giving her an ugly smooshed look that made Oleander twitch an ear in distaste. She seemed so frightened she couldn't even speak, her hazel-green eyes bulging out from her misshapen face. The other tom said nothing, but beheld him with a cold blue gaze that made their intentions all too clear.

They were here to kill him.

"I think you have the wrong cat." Oleander meowed, taking a step backwards. His rear paws splashed into the freezing water behind him. There was nowhere for him to go, unless he bolted for the treeline to his left. But these two agile toms could easily overtake him, and besides... he was still certain he could talk his way out of this. "Oh trust me, we don't." The huge tom took a menacing step forward, his long fangs bared. "We've dealt with monsters like you many, many times before." He continued, and Oleander unsheathed his claws. The tension in the air was palpable. "Now you've got a choice. You can tell us where the hell you hid that poor cat's body so we can give him a damn proper burial, or we can do the world a favour and kill you right now." He snarled. The four cats stood, staring at eachother, lashing their tails. "Forget the body, just kill him!" The she-cat screeched. "Quick, before he gets away!" But Oleander never had any intention of running away. His eyes narrowed. If today was to be his day to die, then so be it. 

He swung his paw to fling a loose pebble by the riverside into the face of the huge tabby, and then hurled his entire weight at his silent blue-eyed friend. His claws dug into fur and flesh, and the other tom let out a howl of rage as they rolled over in the melting snow. Oleander dug his teeth into his shoulder, but he was aware that he was heavily outnumbered. As he felt himself being dragged off the other tom by the massive tabby, he kicked and twisted in an attempt to free himself, clawing at his legs. He was strong, well-fed. He should at least stand a chance. But this cat was larger, sturdier and had friends on his side. He realised a moment before it happened what they were going to do. The last thing he heard was the petulant shriek of the robins, too occupied with their small battles to notice what was happening below. And why should they care, anyway? Huge paws shoved him under the water, pressing him against the smooth rock beneath the surface. The other silvery tom helped him, four paws pressing him down so that every struggle he made was futile. Terror surged through his veins as he realised there was nothing at all he could do to get free. Bubbles rose furiously from his lips and nose, his lungs screamed idly for breath. The wintry river was cold, so cold. He could feel his ears going numb, the harsh press of paws on his head as the slow-moving current tugged at his whiskers. What a foolish, careless way to die. And all over a pitiful excuse of a tom that hardly deserved these cat's pity. One last name slipped through his mind as his thoughts began to splinter apart.

Belladonna.

but not to help

Oleander

1,020 words | Laeglzq vwkwjnwv lg vaw. | Phoenix

[Phoenix]

I'VE BEEN RUNNING SO LONG
THESE SHADOWS START TO FEEL LIKE HOME

<sub>Winter was easy on no one, but the promise of spring lingered in the warming air, the lengthening days, and the return of birdsong in the early morning hours. These were the days that helped him through the cold, darkened nights, beautiful sunny days that hinted at the changing of the season and reminded him that winter did not last forever. As the days grew longer, so did his excursions of the safety of his hollow as the prospect of a full belly sent him after the slowly returning prey. Today had been a successful hunt, and it was with the satisfaction of what felt like the first full meal in months that he made his way across the snow-covered mountains back toward his den.

Fear scent, sharp and tangy and oh so unforgettable, permeated the air, and the brown feline paused midstride, instantly on high alert. This particular mountain river was one he frequented specifically for the way it curved and meandered through the snow-covered terrain, forming nooks and crannies were one such as he could obtain a drink in peace. Safety was of the utmost importance, and to that end, maintaining his privacy and solitude was paramount; after all, no fights would happen if no one knew he was there to begin with. But apparently that wasn’t always the case. The unfamiliar scents of strangers were layered thickly over the smell of fear, and though he couldn’t make out individual words, he recognized all too easily the sounds of hostility. Claws slipped from their sheathes as he quietly slunk forward. Had they not been directly in his way and so disconcertingly close to his den – another reason he favored this particular stretch of water – he might have tried to avoid confrontation altogether and simply sneak by undetected, but hard learned lessons of the past demanded that he at least investigate these strangers from afar. It was unwise to trust luck alone to keep him hidden – after many unwelcome visitors seeking shelter in his hollow, he knew that now. Better to have an idea of what he could be dealing with than be caught totally unawares.

Ears lay flat against his head as he peered at the scene before him, pale green eyes traveling from a pale-furred she-cat with her two male companions to a tortoiseshell feline standing with his paws in the water. Cornered. Outnumbered. Finch shuddered, closing his eyes and claws digging into the snow beneath him. So horribly outnumbered. Unbidden, a memory rose. In his mind’s eye, the three cats became five and the afternoon sun gave way to an ominous darkness and swirling snow. He could hear the wind howling in his ears, feel the terror racing through his veins as he ran, away from his father and away from his best friend, but also away from those five who would hunt him so desperately for the meat on his bones. If only he had known that the last memory he would have of them was their fear-stricken faces as they struggled for survival— if only he fought back instead of run like a coward— if only. Muscles clenched as adrenaline raced through his veins and his mind traveled the well-worn path with an age-old familiarity. If only he had done something differently, perhaps they would still all be together and he wouldn’t be so alone.

Splashing and the sounds of a struggle broke through his thoughts, and he opened his eyes to see the two toms pinning the tortoiseshell feline beneath the surface of the river water. Finch wasn’t sure what happened next or why – perhaps it was the way he could almost taste the fear blanketing the air and it set him on edge; perhaps it was because he wished so dearly that someone had fought for him on that fateful night; perhaps it was simply because he could so easily imagine the horror of suffocating on frigid water and knowing that struggling against the inevitable end was futile but unable to stop himself from doing so anyway – or perhaps it was a combination of the three that spurred him into action, but he found himself racing forward with his heart pounding in his ears and teeth bared.

Surprise was on his side as he used his momentum to throw his entire body weight into the smaller silver tom, managing to dislodge him just enough so that his paws slipped from the tortoiseshell’s head and he stumbled back. “What the—” Attack fast and relentlessly. In a world like this, there was no room for hesitation. In a blur, he lashed out with unsheathed claws at the silver loner, keeping the other feline off balance and backing up until a misstep sent his opponent to the ground. A moment later, Finch had him pinned, claws at his throat. Breathing heavily, he turned toward the massive tabby tom, who had abandoned his prey to advance on the brown-furred tom.

"Get away from him." He gestured with his tail to the unmoving tortoiseshell tom. "Stay back," The loner ordered with an authority that felt skin deep. His heartbeat pounded in his ears, fear making his words harsh. Pale green eyes narrowed as the tabby took another step toward him, and he leaned forward as the silver tom beneath him let out a cry of alarm. ”I will kill him. Do you think I won’t?” Somewhere in the back of his mind, a quiet voice pleaded with his opponent: Please, please just leave. I don’t want more blood on my claws.

“Listen—“

“You don’t understand—“

The tabby and the forgotten long-furred she-cat spoke at the same time, trying to placate, trying to reason. Finch knew their kind, those who would hunt down and slaughter an innocent cat, and he was uninterested in what they had to say. He had been on the receiving end of their ilk’s particular affections far too many times. ”I understand perfectly. You would terrorize and attack another cat unprovoked. You would outnumber him and send him running for his life, because if you caught him, you would kill him. You hunt for sport. You ruin other cats’ lives – innocent lives – for fun. You would break up families—” The words came out cold until they choked him, until they didn’t, and somewhere along the line, he realized that he was speaking more to the five cats who haunted his nightmares than the three felines before him. He blinked and pale green eyes met yellow. It was the tom he had to convince.

“That’s not—Let me—“

”Not this time. Leave us alone, and your friend will live.”

A silent look. The faintest of nods. Finch held his gaze for a moment longer before he looked down at the terrified feline under his claws. Heart clenching at the fear in those blues eyes, he swallowed and stepped away, watching with a sudden exhaustion as his opponent fled to the safety of his companions. The trio left without another word, glancing back over their shoulders once or twice at him, but he made no move to follow. Finch was not like them. He did not enjoy bloodshed.

Shoulders slumped as he let out a quiet sigh of relief. No death. No blood on his claws. The sound of coughing had him turning his attention to the tortoiseshell tom, and he immediately felt his guard rising once more – and with it, his ire. The fool. “What were you thinking? You nearly got yourself killed,” He said pointedly, fur bristling along his spine. He didn’t like fighting, and yet there he was, unsheathing his claws for the sake of some stranger who was so lacking in sense. ”Three against one? A word of advice: the next time you’re so horribly outnumbered, you run.” Run like Finch had. Abandon his loved ones like Finch had. Survive like Finch had, because the most important thing was to survive. Right? ”There won’t always be someone around to save you.” Residual aggression from the fight had started to feed the fire of his anger, but as the heavy truth of that statement hit him, it extinguished the flames as suddenly as they had risen.

There won’t always be someone around to save you. The wounds of his past, once thought long-buried and long-forgotten, suddenly felt too raw and fresh. Why did he even care? Whatever this tom did or did not do with his life was of no concern to him. He wanted to do nothing but curl up in his den and sleep away the pain. ”Look,” Finch offered, voice softer. ”Just be more careful next time.” And with that, he turned to leave. Winter was hard enough without having another cat to worry about.</sub>

I feel like I'm

fading

1460 words / ♛ 𝔽𝕒𝕓𝕣𝕚𝕔𝕒𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟

[♛ 𝔽𝕒𝕓𝕣𝕚𝕔𝕒𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟]

when the fox hears the rabbit scream

he comes a-runnin'

The weight lifted from his throat, and the cream tortoiseshell immediately erupted from the surface, water spewing from his lungs and stomach as he struggled to regain his footing. He gasped an heaved in great puffs of air, relishing in the sweet, sweet taste of it after the acrid bitterness of the river water. Dazed, he half-forget what was happening, that he had just been coming to terms with his looming end, that his latest careless exploit had brought him to the attention of some would-be vigilantes. His thoughts slowly seeped back into the forefront of his mind, and rage and indignation took over. His claws were already unsheathed and he was ready to turn on his unexpected enemies, to show them exactly what these claws and teeth could really do to those that dared use numbers to overpower him. But as water streamed down his face and body he was amazed to find that the fight was already won without a need for his intervention.

A stranger, with a mottled brown pelt and furious green eyes, was pinning the silver tom down with claws unsheathed against the delicate flesh of his throat. "Get away from him." A harsh, husky voice threatened, and Oleander slowly sheathed his claws as the dark tabby that had formerly been pinning him down began to advance on the stranger, fangs bared. This was far too interesting. He wanted to see what this cat would do next. "Stay back," The cat said to him, and Oleander stood stock still, struggling to suppress another coughing fit. The other tom clearly doubted the stranger's threat, and took another intimidating step forward. When claws dug into his friend's throat, he hesitated, doubt shadowing his gaze. "I will kill him. Do you think I won’t?" The mottled tom snarled, and Oleander searched his features for the familiar signs of blood-lust. He knew the other cat was doing the same. But he was not quite as perceptive as the tortoiseshell loner was. He could not pick out those subtle hints of hesitation, of reluctance. The other two felines jumped in, attempting to explain to him what was happening, why they were doing what they were doing. Oleander remained silent, backing a distance away from the brown tabby in case he decided that Oleander's death meant more than his friend's life, after all. 

"I understand perfectly. You would terrorise and attack another cat unprovoked. You would outnumber him and send him running for his life, because if you caught him, you would kill him. You hunt for sport. You ruin other cats’ lives – innocent lives – for fun. You would break up families—" The intruder launched into an extended rant, turning his fierce green eyes on each cat in turn. Oleander felt a shiver run down his spine, not of fear, or disgust or any semblance of remorse. All he felt was an insatiable curiosity that only grew with every word that came out of this cat's mouth. There was an agony in his speech that spoke of unreachable horrors that had potentially morphed him into whoever stood before him, with claws unsheathed and threats of bloodshed on his tongue. Something that gave him a reason to save the life of a cat whose name he did not know. Oleander wanted to know more. He wanted a taste of whatever made this one tick. There was a long, tantalising hesitation as claws hovered above the silvery tom's exposed throat, his blue eyes wild with frantic terror as he finally scarpered away to his companions. The three cats reluctantly peeled away, leaving the two toms alone among the river.

Another fit of coughing overtook him, and he struggled to regain normal breathing as he began to wade out of the river, droplets dripping from his soaked pelt. "What were you thinking? You nearly got yourself killed!" Oleander looked up in surprise as his rescuer turned on him, handsome pelt bristling with unbridled fury. "Three against one? A word of advice: the next time you’re so horribly outnumbered, you run." Oleander blinked, golden eyes drawing over the other cat as several thoughts and emotions churned in his brain. He did not appreciate being spoken to like that, even by a cat that had captured his interest. An offended look flicked across his face, one that could be taken as hurt by a cat that didn't know him well. "Look," The other began, his mottled face softening. "Just be more careful next time." And then he turned away, about to disappear into the forest. About to disappear for good. For some reason Oleander couldn't quite explain, he didn't want that to happen. And though he felt the sting of the other tom's disrespect, he could admit there was some truth to what he had said. 

"Wait." He meowed, his voice slightly hoarse from the near-drowning. He bowed his head apologetically. "You're right. I was foolish. I thought if I spoke to them, I could change their minds." His voice was mellow, a soft-sounded mew that was as gentle a sound as the rustling branches. "Thank you, for helping me. But I have to ask," He took a step forward, white paws sending some pebbles scattering. "Why did you intervene? I haven't met anyone in these mountains who would risk their own life to help a stranger."

but not to help

Oleander

893 words  | Phoenix

[Phoenix]

I'VE BEEN RUNNING SO LONG
THESE SHADOWS START TO FEEL LIKE HOME

<sub>A hoarse mew from behind had him reluctantly pausing, and Finch turned to see the multicolored tom with his head bowed and eyes downcast. Brown ears flicked as the quiet words reached them, their dulcet tenor far gentler than the gruff tones that usually greeted him from the maws of strangers. The contrast threw him for a moment. Inclining his head in silent acknowledgement of the unspoken apology, he could not help but remember the days when he had operated under a similar naivety. Those had long since passed, chased away by unsheathed claws and bared fangs; life in the mountains made monsters of them all. “Words only work when a suitable threat lurks in their shadows,” He responded, a small shiver running down his spine at the thought of the panic – the panic he had put – in that loner’s clear blue eyes. Finch blinked the memory away and mentally shoved it down deep with the rest of them.

How could the stranger not know how rare true diplomacy was, especially in these parts, where sharpened claws cut through the air more effectively than sharpened words? Guarded green eyes lingered on the other feline for a few moments. The tom before him looked far too old to be so unfamiliar with the harsh realities of a loner’s life, but then – and here Finch remembered the gentle tone and noted for the first time the tom’s rather elegant, though out of place, demeanor – perhaps he hailed from distant lands where the seasons were milder and other felines did not hunt for sport. Years of scraping by on his own had taught him to save his energy for the important tasks, and so he had traded a particularly dignified lifestyle for a lower maintenance one that would better allow him to defend himself. By the looks of it, this tom ought to consider doing the same. “Sometimes cats listen. But the cats in these parts are unforgiving, and words fail more often than claws.”

Ugh, why did he feel the need to lecture? The stranger had survived this long; clearly, he had been doing something right, and no one appreciated unsolicited advice. Finch had saved the other tom’s life, done what he could to ensure that the loner’s current state would remain the same going into the future, and now it was time for him to leave. He had a soft nest in a feather-lined den waiting for him to return. He had a full belly for the first time in what felt like forever that tugged at his eyelids and made him want to rest. The stranger could do as he pleased because he wasn’t Finch’s problem. The brown-furred loner prepared to leave.

Pebbles skittered forward across the slush and stones as the stranger took a step forward. Finch’s tail twitched, gaze fixed on those white paws. (Unsheathed claws, he had found, were more honest than words and facial expressions.) Spoken with the same mild manner, a question drifted across the faint breeze, so understandable given the circumstances that in hindsight, he wondered why it caught him so much by surprise. He thought of a frigid winter night with swirling snow and howling winds, huddling within the white out like a mouse as he prayed that his pounding heart or rapid breathing or constant shivering wouldn’t give him away. He thought of holding his breath as he cowered behind the boulder separating him from the three most notorious of monsters – an alabaster devil with blood red eyes, his silent shadow who never failed to dress fancy for the occasion, and the dead-eyed ring-leader himself: death dressed in black – and the chill that traveled down his spine as he came upon the mutilated body of their latest victim. He thought of a second – and a third, who rumor had it, consumed the flesh of her feline prey like the lynx that haunted the mountains – ghostly phantom with scarlet eyes who stalked these lands, both deadly she-cats who did not hesitate to turn their claws as red as their eyes.

Why did he intervene? If you’re not a hunter, you’re the hunted. And he knew all too well how fragile that distinction was.

Finch let out a quiet sigh. “You wouldn’t have. These mountains do not often make friends out of strangers.” Green eyes briefly met copper before dancing away again. “I have been in your place many times.” A pause while he considered his words before brown shoulders lifted in a slight shrug as he continued. “There was not always a stranger there willing to help.” If there had been, perhaps Jay would still be by his side. If there had been, perhaps he could have done more than simply listen and bear witness to that poor cat’s dying screams. I was not always a stranger there willing to help. The thought was a sobering but not unfamiliar one. In his years alone, he had grown harsher and more unforgiving than he liked to consider. But with monsters like those roaming the mountainsides, only the strongest survive. More to break himself out of his thoughts than for any desire to carry on the conversation, he added, “You aren’t from around here, are you.”</sub>

I feel like I'm

fading

873 words / ♛ 𝔽𝕒𝕓𝕣𝕚𝕔𝕒𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟

[♛ 𝔽𝕒𝕓𝕣𝕚𝕔𝕒𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟]

when the fox hears the rabbit scream

he comes a-runnin'

The pebbles were an uncomfortable, uneven surface beneath his paws. Despite the protests of his aching paw-pads, Oleander stood as still as a heron, watching the stranger with searching gold eyes. He felt a flicker of delight stir in his heart as the mottled brown tom hesitated, ears pricking up at the sound of his own voice. Every minor action was fascinating. The way this cat spoke, moved and thought stirred an excitement in Oleander's heart that he hadn't felt in a long time. “Words only work when a suitable threat lurks in their shadows,” The stranger murmured, and interest flared in the tortoiseshell tom's eyes. “I disagree.” He responded without heat in his words, as though they were merely having polite conversation and he hadn't just escaped a narrow death. Another bout of coughing overtook him, his throat raw from the ice-cold mockery of the river. “A cat can be compelled to do anything, if only you ask.” He moved forward off the pebble shore and sat down by the waterside, drawing a tongue over his paw-pads. He was surprised to detect the tang of blood, and realised that his feet had been torn raw by the ruthless riverbed. “I didn't have time to find the right words. In those moments... fleeing is probably the better choice.” He confessed. How much had this cat heard of the conversation prior to his arrival? Not much, clearly, seeing as he addressed him without fear or disdain.

The marbled brown tom plainly disagreed with Oleander, for his green eyes darkened with some distant memory. “Sometimes cats listen. But the cats in these parts are unforgiving, and words fail more often than claws.” He murmured. The other cat seemed to want to leave, but some magnet of instinct tugged at Oleander. He wasn't sure yet what exactly he wanted from this cat. Entertainment? He didn't know, and the mystery of his own instincts were enough to make him want to keep his unlikely hero nearby, to find out what thoughts and monsters crouched reticent behind the cryptic mask this cat wore. How exactly would he do that when the other was so determined to stand alone? Perhaps it wasn't a question of how, but of how long. Time was his ally. A fickle ally, but an ally nonetheless. Oleander watched the other tom as his chest heaved in a massive sigh. “You wouldn’t have. These mountains do not often make friends out of strangers.” Oleander twitched an ear. That was true. Most of the cats he had stumbled across here had been uncouth and distasteful. “I have been in your place many times. There was not always a stranger there willing to help.” The Good Samaritan confessed, and this piqued Oleander's intrigue. Life-threatening situations, especially when faced with the monstrosity of your life being threatened by a fellow cat, had an affect on you. One attempt on your life could change the way you viewed others permanently. But several? How many times had this cat found his worldview warped and reshaped? And how close was he now to splintering, the hopeless cruelty of the world around him shedding him of that willingness to risk his own pelt to save a stranger?

“Then, I thank you.” Oleander ventured, treading carefully. “For making a friend out of a stranger.”  There was a hope in his tone, like he was just some lonely mountain cat hoping for a friend. But in the depths of his mind, Oleander knew it was beyond that. This was an entirely different kind of hunt. “You aren’t from around here, are you?” The question came, and Oleander offered a kindly smile. “Ah, now what gave you that impression?” He joked, his unusual voice animated with amusement. “No. I was born far from here.” Polite society. He was tempted to say, but ironically, that would not have been polite.

It was difficult to keep himself from slipping into the memory. The impromptu surge of nostalgia was irresistible, and he sank into the scent of fresh prey and the brush of warm sunlight. It had been almost Utopian. They had not lived as one unit, each branch of cats mostly keeping to themselves, caring for their own kittens and feeding their own siblings. But they had been friends, nonetheless. Oleander had grown up playing with kittens from different families, and learning values that were distinct from the wild, turbulent lives most loners were taught to lead. But how easily that peace had been fractured, torn to shreds by the reality that life was never so simple. Cats could not thrive only on respect and friendship, a lesson Oleander quickly came to understand as harder seasons came upon his family. Those that had seemed like friends became distant and cold, not intentionally cruel but not quite so willing to support each-other. When it truly came down to it, cats only valued those closest to them. Allegiances could not always be trusted. No cat stepped in that night, when the savages came. All cats were capable of violence, cruelty and horrors beyond imagining. In a strange way, it made them all equals. All of them were equally reprehensible. Evil was not a question of destruction, but a question of point of view. And point of view can so easily be rearranged, re-imagined, that it was hard to believe that evil truly existed at all.

 “Kin would live with kin, but families who lived nearby would typically take care of each-other.” A wistful glean came to his eyes. “Unfortunately, the violence of distant lands leeched into our ideology.” He dipped his head. “That place is behind me.” A pause. “But that which you are taught when young stays in your heart, becomes apart from who you are and never leaves you, even when you try to run from it.” He met the green gaze across from him, tail-tip twitching. “Oleander.” He offered the name like it was a gift, bow-wrapped and presented proudly upon a silver platter. And in a way, it was. To give your name to a cat implied you intended them to know you, and you intended to know them. Knowing another cat was a dangerous risk, especially in this area where killings, violence, kit-stealing and other corruption reigned supreme. He was acutely aware that giving his name carried almost the same amount of risk as refusing to run from his assailants. But unlike then, here he felt as if he had the advantage. For he knew what the other did not, and if the other gave his own name, he would consider it the first of many small victories.

but not to help

Oleander

893 words  | Phoenix

[Phoenix]

I'VE BEEN RUNNING SO LONG
THESE SHADOWS START TO FEEL LIKE HOME

<sub>Though their corporeal counterparts remained absent, the ghosts of the monsters that lingered along these dangerous slopes still prowled through the dark corners of Finch's mind, their red eyes glittering in the shadows with silent menace. He could smell the blood on their claws and hear the shrieks of their victims as they conducted their macabre performance with an efficiency and skill that had immortalized them in legend - or perhaps the screaming had always been his, locked tight behind clenched jaws and echoing throughout the fortress of his mind lest it escape and place him in the cross hairs next. When he had stumbled upon the devil in white and death dressed in black, he had chosen to hide from the resulting bloodbath rather than intervene. He bore witness to a death he never tried to stop, and survival was his retribution. On some nights, he could feel that poor cat's blood on his claws as though he had killed him himself, though in a way, he had. Something between a sad smile and a grimace made its way across his features as he looked at the stranger standing before him. At least he hadn't stained his claws any redder today.

The fur along his spine prickled slightly, and he surreptitiously scented the air, just in case that trio of cats had decided to return while the two of them were distracted. But no, he and the tortoiseshell tom were reassuringly alone. Not that he seemed particularly worried about it. The stranger was remarkably composed for someone who had so narrowly escaped death, Finch found himself reflecting with mild interest. Though the seasons had taught him how to transform both his claws and his words into effective weapons, the resulting hostility hid the fear and regret that had become his constant companions. His own fortitude had come at great cost - seasons of chipping away at the innocence that had him quivering and shaking after every horrific encounter until only the most resilient pieces of himself remained - but this cat was the picture of serenity. Where Finch would have been trembling and fleeing to the protection of his den, the stranger looked as though he stared down the jaws of death every day. There was something admirable about that self-control, he decided as he followed the other tom away from the pebble shore. Appearing utterly unbothered, the stranger sat down and began to clean his paws; unable to move on so easily, Finch remained standing. The violence in his mind - a flash of panicked blue eyes, the fragility of the throat under his claws - remained too close to the surface to allow him any comfort. He wanted to pace, wanted to leave. Green eyes landed on the other loner, who exuded calm in a way that put all those around him more at ease, and despite his wariness, the brown-furred tom found himself not unaffected. The immediate urge to escape faded until it could be acknowledged but ignored. Instead of running, he scented the air again, just in case.

Is that what we are? He wanted to ask. Friends? Finch did not have any of those anymore. Friendship: the expectation of time and obligation disguised by the promise of companions and affection. The concept had become foreign to him, something to be reflected upon with a bittersweet fondness that colored his perception of reality with a tinge of rose-gold. Very briefly, he tried it - my friend... but then, he didn't even know the other tom's name - but the idea felt irrelevant, like it did not belong to him anymore. It belonged to a Finch of the past, one who yearned for the company of cats long dead, who remembered the sound of his family's voices and what it felt like to trust in the kindness of others. That cat, the one who had friends, had died long ago. The one who replaced him had learned that it was far safer to prefer solitude to solidarity. Regardless of what the stranger thought about the power of words, their own exchange did not elevate them beyond the status of strangers - not even after a life had been saved. We are not friends. But he didn't know how to correct the other tom without seeming unnecessarily aggressive, so he swallowed his objections and looked away. "Just try not to be so liberal with your offerings of friendship next time." He told the water. The river babbled back. "Those three certainly weren't interested in being your friend."

A moment passed by with a lingering silence that seemed significant in a way he could not recognize. Green eyes glanced toward the other tom in time to catch a gentle smile, and unbidden, he felt the corner of his lips quirk upward ever so slightly in response. Straightening them back down into a neutral expression, he watched the strangers lips as they spilled descriptions of his previous home. While the other tom spoke, Finch thought he could see the kindness in his smile give way to grief and pictured families caring for each other in a sunny field, ignorant of the angry storm clouds on the horizon that would ravage their little paradise. He did not have to imagine the horror that the stranger must have felt when his nice, neat world had been destroyed by a violence and bloodshed that he had previously had no ability to conceptualize; a younger, more foolish Finch had once rushed forward to participate in a battle that had not been his to fight, only to realize that tales of glory failed to acknowledge the carnage left in its wake. Despite his preference for solitude, the brown-furred loner found himself bowing his head in solidarity with silent sorrow for innocence lost. The world had a way of ruining the good in life.

Something in the stranger's next words had green eyes rising to meet copper. "Forever haunted by the ghosts of the past and the shade of who we once were," Finch agreed quietly, glancing away as the intensity of that steady gaze unnerved him. He thought of the blood on his claws and wondered when his horror at the violence had given way to resigned acceptance at its inevitability. Was that what the stranger was doing here, running from the past? "Our histories are written on the scars of our heart, and the cadence of our memories is set to the rise and fall of its endless rhythm. A lifetime composed of beats." Retracing those old wounds and agonizing over what he might have done differently had become a pastime of his, and slipping into those dreary depths came so naturally to him that the sudden offering of a single word had him blinking as he pulled himself back to the surface.

The image of a delicate bloom, toxic despite its seemingly harmless beauty, materialized in his mind's eye as a splash of color against the backdrop of white that defined the current winter season. A note of expectation hung in the air - did the stranger hope that Finch could help him find such a plant? Why would he need a poison? - before realization struck and the brown-furred tom immediately began to berate himself for missing the obvious. Oleander is his name. His smile took on a sheepish note of apology for the awkward pause as he introduced himself in turn, "I'm Finch." (What must his parents have been like to name him after a poisonous plant? But then, he was named after a prey animal, so perhaps he did not have as much ground to stand on as he thought.) And then, unbidden, drawn forth from a habit he had thought long dead and was surprised to find had apparently resurrected itself: "Nice to meet you." And to have a name to put to a face.

Such niceties were a novelty. He did not remember the last time he had introduced himself, for the interactions with strangers were intentionally kept distant and impersonal: short interruptions of his near-constant isolation, brief moments swept away by the relentless passage of time. Solitude meant safety. Anonymity meant safety. All too often, the difference between life and death was determined by whether the predators knew who he was, where he was, or how to find him. To make oneself known, even if only by name, was to make oneself vulnerable. The exchange of names implied future recognition, a promise that even when their paths diverged today, they would cross again once more, and Finch didn't know how he felt about that. Uncomfortable, perhaps. Wary. But this tom, this Oleander, seemed different than the other loners he met in the mountains. His company thus far had been surprisingly tolerable.

Before his mind could wander any further down that dangerous path, he rudely interrupted his own thoughts by casting about for anything else to talk about. Pale green eyes widened as they landed on white paws once more, and he realized with a jolt that Oleander had been attacked. He could've been injured this entire time, and here they were talking about the past as if-- well, no matter. "Are - Are you hurt?" Guilt had his voice growing sharp with alarm as his mind strayed back to his feather-lined den with its stores of herbs collected for such times. He had a loner's practical knowledge of medicine, one built on the foundation of another cat's extensive expertise and greatly expanded upon through his own trial and error over the seasons; the least he could do for forgetting to check on the tom's well-being until now was offer him his services before sending him on his way. His gaze scanned the tortoiseshell tom for any sign of injury or blood. "I have herbs, um, if you need them. It wouldn't be too much trouble for me to run and get them."</sub>

I feel like I'm

fading

1663 words / ♛ 𝔽𝕒𝕓𝕣𝕚𝕔𝕒𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟

[♛ 𝔽𝕒𝕓𝕣𝕚𝕔𝕒𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟]

when the fox hears the rabbit scream

he comes a-runnin'

Oleander watched with intrigue as a series of unreachable thoughts or memories flowed through the eyes of the other tom. He wished he could simply lean forward to reach a paw into his inner psyche, to know what had tramped unbidden through his mind. What hauntings and experiences lay twisted in the depths behind those sharp green eyes? How did the world appear from where his paws stood, looking down on Oleander, a stranger whose life he had saved for no discernable reason that the tortoiseshell could make out. The notion of selflessness was distant to Oleander. He didn't understand why any creature would value another life above their own. He wanted to hear Finch's explanation for his heroism, but by the guarded demeanour the other loner held, he wasn't likely to receive an answer. At least not yet.

As composed as Oleander seemed, he was not immune to the finicky nature of animal instinct. He could still feel the adrenaline surging through his veins, that unwanted nip of unease from the corners of his brain. His body still wanted him to flee for fear that death would return to finish them off, as it promised to do for all creatures eventually. But Oleander was not fond of such inherent fears. He would have grimaced at his own internal weakness had he been alone enough to allow himself that much emotional honesty. Instead, he focused his attention on Finch, the one reason he was still seated beside this pebble shore.

The other tom was handsome, and perhaps younger than his eyes made him seem. There was a shadow thrown across his manner, one that suggested that the sinister nature he had displayed when his claws were pricking at the silver cat's throat was not one he was proud of. He seemed edgy, afraid the other cats might return, and rightfully so. Oleander glanced again in the direction they had gone, pondering about them and their intentions. Did they prowl the mountainside searching for monsters? Or had this been a personal attack? He drew his tongue over his fangs, savouring the feel of every individual point. Had he not been outnumbered...

"Just try not to be so liberal with your offerings of friendship next time." Oleander's ears flicked up at the words. "Those three certainly weren't interested in being your friend." Oleander's eyes narrowed slightly, a careful squint. Are you referring to them, or you? He wondered but did not ask. "No." He answered quietly. "They did not." There was amusement behind those words that he attempted to mask with a grave tone. It would seem strange to a cat like this that Oleander was amused by the thought of cats that had nearly ended his life. He did not want to unnerve Finch. He wasn't exactly sure why just yet, but he wanted this cat to feel comfortable with him.

This cat rarely met eyes with eyes. His green irises always seemed to find any other location but Oleander's own face, so when Finch turned his gaze to directly meet his, it felt like a victory. It was a brief but tantalising few moments that felt far too intimate for something so slight. Finch looked away. Disappointment gnawed at Oleander's heart. "Forever haunted by the ghosts of the past and the shade of who we once were," Came that quiet, morose voice over the gurgle of the river. "Our histories are written on the scars of our heart, and the cadence of our memories is set to the rise and fall of its endless rhythm. A lifetime composed of beats." Those words were smooth as clear water, crisp and sweet. Oleander drank them up the way he would a rich stream, feeling that he had sated a thirst he wasn't aware he had. He understood now why he had been so desperate to stay. Before him stood something he had never found before. Someone who understood. "A cat is only haunted by the past if he allows those ghosts to follow." He murmured his response. "With every beat comes the opportunity for change." His whiskers twitched. "In a lifetime, how often do you think a cat chooses to take that chance to change?" He bent his head to take a sip of the water that had nearly killed him, finding that fact comforting. He was alive not because he chose to be but because Finch had made that choice for him. It was satisfying to have relinquished that control over his own fate, especially to one so intriguing.

"I'm Finch." Oleander had always had a love for songbirds. Musical, small and fragile. Finches had a bobbing, uncertain flight. It often seemed as though they weren't entirely sure whether they should rise to the skies or dip down to the ground. Such a delicate name for a tom with the nerve to threaten the life of another. But then, he was named after a flower. Mother always had a fascination for the toxic. So beautiful, and yet so deadly. Once, as they shared a meal in the smooth earth den their family had occupied for several generations, he had asked her why she had named him and Belladonna so. She had told them that when she had first laid eyes on them as small, helpless kittens, she had marveled at how beautiful they were. Like tiny flowers. Then she had paused, her elegant eyes drawing over her son and daughter lovingly. "But I did not want you both to grow up to be so easily plucked as a daisy or a dandelion, my loves." She'd whispered. "I wanted you both to be untouchable, so you would be safe forever."

Oleander wondered at what had inspired Finch's kin to name him after such a bird. He would have asked, but to ask too many questions of such a reserved cat may have frightened him off. So he withheld. It paid to show restraint, especially in circumstances such as these. "A pleasure to meet you too, Finch." He replied silkily. "More my own pleasure than yours, considering that without your intervention I wouldn't be here to speak with you." He was surprised by the sudden change that overcame Finch, like he had been lost in some otherworld and suddenly transported himself back to reality. "Are - Are you hurt?" He asked, voice full of startling concern. It had been a long time since any cat had shown concern for Oleander. "I have herbs, um, if you need them. It wouldn't be too much trouble for me to run and get them." What an amusing tom. Oleander smiled. "I wouldn't want to take up any more of your time." He answered. "My friends gifted me with cuts and bruises, but I'm sure I'll survive." His ear twitched. "You may need those herbs for yourself someday."

but not to help

Oleander

1,139 words  | Phoenix