Abbernathy and the Cat Kingdom

Dawn

Images of the dead haunted Lain as he lay in the middle of an overgrown field. Their final screams occupied his mind, a heart-wrenching song echoing over and over, reminding him that everything was meaningless. Overhead, the sky was dappled with grey clouds rain soaking his face and streaking down his armor. Was it the rain that blurred his vision, he wondered. Or tears? Did it even matter anymore? Had any of it mattered, to begin with? Feign had secured his victory. And he would be sure to have another.

Turning onto his side, Lain took in more of the unfamiliar scenery. His Aelurian eyes allowed him to spy the emerald-stained hills stood in the distance, lined with gnarled hemma trees so unlike those found back home. Each tree branch curled like some petrified hand of the dead toward the sky. The leaves were curled and blackened as if scorched. Animals kept to the shadows, the smaller ones keeping their footsteps light to avoid catching a predator's attention. He heard a mouse's shriek as a bird dug its talon into its gut before returning to the sky. Just like in Aelurus, the strong devoured the weak. 

Then, just as Lain got to his feet, a rush of air made him stiffen.

"The sea," he whispered, tasting the brine and salt on the breeze. The gods had seen fit to dispose of him next to the sea. Their cruelty truly knew no bounds. Even in another realm, they sought to punish him.

As a kit, Lain had loved the many seas that surrounded Aelurus. And back then, he had dreams of sailing those seas, discovering what secrets lay undisturbed in their depths, settling on the coast, and finding his mate. It hadn't taken long for reality to sour his dreams. 

Outlaws rode the seas, bought Aelurians whose rampages were funded by the Moonborn Houses. They ransacked villages, killing any who stood in their way and turning the rest to ash. Skies were filled with smoke and unanswered screams. Lain and his then soon-to-be mate had been resting at a coastal inn when a band of outlaws made landfall.

Two weeks after the terror--after Lain had buried his betrothed-- he took his vows before the Crescent Moon King and was given his sword, the very sword he carried now. As he looked down at the steel that had become an extension of himself, he realized how foreign it'd become. The blade was dulled and chipped from his years at war. Blood, that never seemed to come out no matter how hard Lain scrubbed, stained the leather sheath. The image the sword reflected was no longer of a bright-eyed Lain, willing to do what he must to protect his kingdom. He was worn out, his grey fur matted, his silver eyes full of despair.

Failure.

Was Lain truly any different than Feign? Or the outlaws that had slit his fiancee's throat? Lain killed men, women, and at times, children all in the name of Aelurus. But what did his reasons matter to the families of the victims he had left behind? The banner he rode under, the kingdom he was ordered to protect, meant nothing. He was a murderer. And that bloodied truth remained on his hands no matter how hard he tried to scrub them clean.

Wet grass clung to Lain's sore body as the guardsman wrestled with the urge to give up. He was tired of fighting. In this foreign place, under these foreign skies, he'd been stripped of his title, his duty. He was a cat-man afraid of what he saw, and what would inevitably come for him. He didn't even know if the queen and the princes had survived the journey.

Rest, just rest. Let Feign slit your throat, let his necromancer raze your soul. Let it all end.

End? Would it be that easy to just let go? Hours of training, years of ravaging homes and burning cities to appease his King's hunger for conquest, could it all be swept aside? Could he find peace on the other side? Would he be permitted to write his poems? Dance with the woman he loved under the stars she adored?