Chapter Text
You’ve never wandered this far from your den before. That may sound strange, but it’s true. You’ve kept a small territory, just enough for you to protect and defend as your own. It may not be vast, but your little kingdom is all you have left after everything you lost. And having been alone for as long as you have, you know it is best not to stray too far from your home. But the winter has been harsh, and you are so terribly hungry. You need to find more bountiful hunting grounds if you wish to see the spring.
You have accepted the danger of travelling so far— larger predators, hunters, and starving competitor animals tend not to hesitate should you enter their sightline. You understand— you are hungry, too. The game has gotten more scarce with each passing winter. There is something within these woods that has been devouring the wildlife, one creature at a time, feeding and growing strong. You have yet to encounter whatever it is, and hope you never do. You don't want to be just another carcass left to rot or a pile of sunbleached bones.
It is risky to move now, at the height of winter, when any available den will be occupied by another creature fighting to survive. But you haven’t seen prey in days. The hunger gnawing at your stomach is making you desperate, overriding any logic or reason your human mind can raise in an argument. The animal in you needs to eat, and you will search from here to Bucharest to find food if you must. Assuming you don't die, that is.
Unfortunately, death looks like a greater probability.
The snow is falling heavily, and you huff as the likelihood of finding prey decreases with each centimetre that accumulates. The woods are silent under the blanket of snow, masking your slow steps while also disguising the scurrying of smaller animals. Your coat feels heavy as the snow melts on your back, soaking into your thick winter fur and chilling you, but you cannot rest. Not until you have found the rabbit you had heard rustling in the brush before the storm picked up.
You can imagine how it would feel to pounce on the little thing. It would squirm, trying to wriggle out from under your paws as its little heart beat its way towards its end. You can feel the warm blood spill into your mouth as you snap its neck and tear into its throat. You wouldn't waste a single drop of blood, even as you rip into it, desperate to get at the meat. You can see the steam rise from your fresh kill and can feel the heat of it beneath you. It would be perfect; you know this even before you catch the thing.
A branch snaps, echoing like a shot even through the curtain of snow. You glance around, suddenly feeling like you are hemmed in, but nothing reveals itself to your keen eyes. The sound doesn't make sense— the snow is so thick on the ground that nothing short of a bear would be able to produce that noise. You may have been a little distracted by your daydream, but even you couldn’t have missed a bear. It just doesn’t make sense. Unless—
You look up at the swaying trees around you and release a low hiss. They were in the trees, atop the nearby cliff, and surrounding you. These creatures— one, two, three, you count five— look human. Sort of. Perhaps it is more accurate to say that they look like they were once human beings. But now, their grey flesh, matted hair, piercing blue eyes, and sharp teeth reveal the truth of them. They have long since left humanity behind, becoming the mutated monsters you see before you.
Was there anything left of their old selves within them? Who were they before they became this? Did they have families, jobs, lives? They must have. Now they wield axes, spears, and clubs of misshapen steel, a mess of jagged edges and barbed wire, chains and nails. Their feet are bare despite the snow, their clothes ragged and torn. Their snarling mouths are ringed with blood, some old, others new, and you know that it is not all animal blood. But you can tell they aren’t picky about what they eat. These creatures are violent and hungry, and they fully intend on making you their meal.
You won’t let that happen.
Your mouth curls into a snarl, a low growl tearing itself from your throat as you prepare yourself to fight for your life. The creatures see your posture change, and, one by one, they drop from their perches. And oh, they are much bigger up close. The smell is strong enough to make you gag nearly— rotting flesh, general decay, and something unknown that feels dark. It feels like whatever lurks in the woods, watching and waiting and eating and growing. An unceasing hunger that drives these creatures on even as they rot.
A ripple of dread runs down your spine. Five starving creatures against you? You may be larger than a normal wildcat, but you aren’t that big; there’s no way you can take on five of them. Even in your prime, you wouldn’t have stood a chance. And now, you’re thin and weak from a hard winter. You cannot fight them as much as it pains you to admit it. Running is your only option.
Jana had always told you to pick your battles.
Reeling back, you swipe at the nearest creature. A bolt of satisfaction shoots through you as your claws rake across the creature’s face, but you do not stop to gloat. You are off like a shot, bounding through the snow as quickly as possible. Sounds of grunting, growling, and whining come from behind you, but you tune them out as you focus on escaping through an unfamiliar woods.
The snow slows you down, but you’re faster than the creatures that follow you. You were made for these woods, for the ice and cold and the thin, barren trees that serve as your limited cover. You had spent nearly three decades prowling around forests just like this one in some form or another. As a wildcat, you had made these trees and cliffs and sharp rocks and scarce prey your own. In the forest, you weren't terrified of anything.
Except, as you sprint through the trees, the cold air stinging your lungs, you realize that you are scared. Not of the harsh nature of the woods, no. It's a predator-eat-prey world out here. But you haven't been this close to a human in a long time. Even as mutated as they are, these creatures come bearing metal weapons; whatever they are now, they have not divorced themselves from that aspect of humanity.
Humans have shattered your mundane existence once again. They come for you with axes and clubs and a desire to kill. You haven’t felt this much fear since the day you lost Jana. You have survived lynxes and a desperate fox, the claws of a hungry brown bear and the teeth of a grey wolf. But right now, you’d gladly take on the bear once again.
An arrow whistles by your ear as you weave between trees, and another thunks hard into the tree trunk to your right.
At least the bear didn’t use arrows.
You are rapidly running out of forest to lose them in. You don’t know how long you’ve been running, but you have covered a lot of ground, leaving you even further from your den than before. With each step, you feel more lost. You should never have left your territory; starvation be damned. You’ve been hungry before; you’re no stranger to the gnawing in the pit of your stomach, the weakness in your limbs. You could have survived a little longer without food.
Before she died, your mama used to say that your appetite was going to get you into trouble. It would usually come with a chiding look and a chucking under your chin. Of course, you doubt this was the kind of trouble your mother had imagined. She was creative, but mutated men with bows and arrows? Not likely.
The woods have thinned even further, allowing larger snow drifts to form, and you struggle to keep up your momentum as the snow gets deeper. You push forward, hoping in vain that they will just give up. At this point, you’ve got to be much more trouble than you’re worth. But the sounds of your pursuers haven’t stopped.
A few moments later, you break through the tree line, spilling out into a small clearing that draws you up short. You almost skid to a halt as you glance around, your fear taking on the sharp edge of panic. It’s only a dozen metres wide, maybe, a perfect place for an arrow to find its home in your back. But that isn’t what stops you dead, leaving you standing out in the open, like a sitting duck. No, that would be the stone wall in front of you and the castle that looms overhead.
How did you get this close to human civilization? You had always been so careful, keeping far away from villages or isolated farms or solitary hunting cabins. Humans were bad. They were violent and dangerous, and if they knew what you were, they would shoot you on sight. Maybe even faster than they would shoot at a normal wildcat.
And now, you are trapped between the mutant men and the unknown inhabitants of this castle. Both promise death— that’s an undeniable outcome at this point. This is not the first time you have faced your own death, but your luck has finally run out, and you’ve used the last of your nine lives. Death will be permanent this time around.
It’s almost funny, really. You’ve been given the opportunity to choose your own death. How fitting that it would be your last.
A part of you— that large part of you that is frightened of the brutality of humanity— urges you to keep running, to outrun those creatures and avoid this castle at all costs. There’s a scent in the air that raises your hackles, prickles at the base of your claws, and leaves your tail twitching. But that baser, animalistic survival instinct refuses to let you ignore the crack in the wall just large enough for you to wiggle yourself through. It would be too small for the creatures that grow closer every moment you continue to hesitate, indecisive.
You would be free of them, even if only long enough for you to hide yourself away.
You take a few slow steps towards the castle, the snow up to your hocks, and try to push down the dread that holds you back. The castle offers you a temporary stay of execution if only you can make yourself enter the grounds.
Behind you, you hear the snarling, panting, and grunting of your pursuers shift. They have caught up to you, but when you wheel around to face them, they have not left the treeline. You watch as they paw at the ground, breathing heavily, but do not move closer. It's rather like you've crossed into the territory of a larger predator, one they fear more than they want to eat you.
Dread lances through you as you look back towards the castle. Light peeks through curtains, spilling out into the night. Looking up, you track the birds that shriek and circle the belfry. The snowfall has lightened, increasing the visibility, but you cannot see much besides their dark shapes against the grey clouds.
Strange that birds would be flying during a snow storm.
The loosing of an arrow sends you running once again. You cannot keep losing focus, not if you wish to live a little longer. Within a few bounds, you find yourself at the base of the wall. The crack is smaller than you had thought, even tighter a squeeze than you had feared, but with the creatures now firing on you, you are left with no choice.
You push yourself forward, thankful for your damp fur, and pull yourself through. The jagged stone slides against you, threatening scratches even through your coat, and your shoulders catch on the stone around you. You try to push on, but you’re firmly stuck in place, trapped somewhere between the unknown and those creatures. Claws raking against the stone, you desperately try to free yourself, but each attempt only wedges you further. And each failed attempt brings you closer to the overwhelming terror that has been chasing at your heels.
Panic means death.
The words ring in your mind, louder than the rising terror. It's right. To panic is to give in to fear, and giving in to fear will only end in your death. You cannot do that. Not after you've come so far.
Refusing to let panic overwhelm you, you slide yourself lower, nearly onto your stomach. You slow your breathing, calm your thundering heart, and wiggle your way forward. The crack is wider closer to the ground— which is not to say it is wide. No, it's still a very tight squeeze. But you can move again, and thankfully, without much more chaos, you crawl out the other side.
You are in a vineyard.
It’s small, perhaps a private one, but it’s a vineyard. The vines have been overwintered, you can tell despite the deep snow, and the place looks well-cared for. Despite the cold of winter in the Carpathians, the vines look healthy. You can imagine what the vineyard would look like during harvest time— the dark purple grapes nestled between those glossy green leaves, ripe for the picking, and the workers harvesting them by hand. Although the castle seems foreboding, you think this place might be nice.
And then you see the scarecrows.
When you were young, the children in your village used to tell stories of the old farm on the outskirts and the widow Virág. She’d outlived four of her husbands and three sons; she was the best midwife in one hundred kilometres— she’d never lost a babe, man or beast, and each grew healthy and hale, even as their age-mates grew sickly and frail. Her crops, though small, produced a bountiful harvest, even after the harshest growing seasons. She’d made poultices and draughts and gave them freely to the village girls who braved the journey to her home in search of aid. In short, she was a witch, and the village folk warned that she protected what was hers.
You remember the stories of how she dealt with those that dared cross her. You remember the totems that hung from her trees, the small glass jars of iron and blood you’d helped her bury at the corners of her land, and the iron nails that marked her doorframes. You remember how she’d always known when you’d arrived, no matter how often you’d tried to take her by surprise. They said that she would turn trespassers into undying scarecrows to watch over the land they’d dared to infringe upon, eat the flesh of those who thought to take what was hers, and use their blood to strengthen the protections she’d placed upon her land.
You, of course, used to deliver her fresh meat every week.
Being a curious young girl, you’d once asked her about it. To this day, you’re unsure if she ever truly said the accusations were unfounded. But then again, you didn’t really need an answer. You’d known the truth anyway.
After all, you were a butcher’s daughter, and you’d been cutting meat since you could hold a cleaver and tell the difference between pork belly and loin cuts. And while meat is meat, you’d known that sometimes pork isn’t pork at all.
Just like you know that underneath the ice and snow, these scarecrows have barely enough straw in them to start a campfire.
The castle is close now, around the bend in the road, yet looming overhead. It has a presence, almost as if it was alive itself, and it weighs heavily upon you. The towers and their many covered windows watch you with dead eyes, their spires reaching towards the grey sky and finials piercing the heavens. And with your keen eyes, you catch the hint of light cast from what you assume to be the castle’s entrance. But you like to think you’re smart enough not to get too close to the doors. For lights mean that someone is home, and you’d rather not encounter whoever resides in this foreboding place.
Picking your way through overgrown bushes and other dead greenery that pokes up from the snow, you search for a hollow tree or burrow to tuck yourself away in. It seems that despite the care given to the vineyard, the rest of the grounds are not so diligently tended to. Brambles and roots protrude from the earth, pulling at your fur and tripping you up. Sharp rocks buried beneath the snow stab into your paws, and though they have started to numb, you feel them cut into the abused skin.
Even before you had heard the rabbit, you had been out in the snow for too long. And you are paying for your foolishness tenfold. You’d stopped shivering long ago, and though your narrow escape had got your blood pumping, you are once again feeling the cold. Each moment you spend exposed, more warmth is sapped from your body. At this point, you’re starting to get desperate for shelter. You would even settle for another rock crevice, even after that harrowing event.
You just want to be safe, or at least safer. You’re tired and cold, and you ache. All you want is to rest, even if only for a few minutes. Once you’ve regained your strength, you can escape this castle as well. If you can hide away long enough, you may live to see another day.
That thought is interrupted by a shrill shriek that pierces the air. Your back immediately goes up as your ears ring painfully. But before you can process the sound, you are overtaken by something large overhead. Something large and black dives at you, dropping from an impressive height to attempt to catch you in its claws. Thanks only to your feline reflexes, you skitter out of the way, barely escaping its sharp talons.
Out of the frying pan, into the fire.
Your eyes follow the black shape as it soars back up into the air. Then, you see that this creature is not alone. Two more black forms circle overhead, their calls joining the first’s. And when you see what they truly look like, you shudder.
Their faces are obscured by their hoods, but a long tongue lolls out much further than a human tongue should be capable of. Their skin has turned that same strange mottled grey of the creatures in the forest, though the undersides of their wings are composed of a horrific fleshy membrane of red and purple and black.
The three strange bat-women hybrids in dark cloaks dive at you again, their leathery wings beating powerfully as their long tongues dart out toward you. Jumping backwards, you avoid another close encounter with their tongues; the creatures respond with another ear piercing shriek. They intend to feed upon you, it seems. Warm blood is warm blood, after all.
Yet again, your foolishness has placed you at risk. Those things that had been circling the belfry are not birds. You had been right to be suspicious. What creature flies in a snowstorm? Nothing, if they can help it. But these things, their hunger sends them hunting no matter the conditions. And, it seems, no matter how difficult the prey.
As they dive again, you scratch and claw at them. You’re weaker than you were when facing the creatures in the woods, and despite there being fewer, you cannot battle them off. Your best hope is to scare them away, and if not that, then to flee. The constant flight is beginning to rankle, and though exhausted, you continue to slash. Tearing through mouldering cloth and rotting flesh, you splatter yourself with their thick, black blood. The stench makes your eyes water, overwhelming your nose and leaving your head spinning. Your claws, though sharp, do not deter these creatures. Whatever pain you cause them is nothing compared to the gnawing of hunger in the pit of the stomach. Panting and disheartened, you abandon the defensive, and turn tail.
You make a break away from the castle, back toward the vineyards. Your strength is fading, but you just have to last long enough to make it to the crack in the wall. Darting through the vineyard, you pass the scarecrows made of men, dodging blow after piercing blow of their sharp tongues, but your moments are slow and sloppy. Each thwarted attempt brings you closer and closer to death. And in a single moment of distraction, your paw catches on a root; you stumble, and you leave yourself open to attack.
The disturbed air ruffles your fur as the winged creatures dive at you. Their taloned feet claw at your neck and shoulders, sending burning pain lancing through you, but they collide with each other, giving you that moment required to put the smallest distance between you. You hiss as your stride stretches the skin around the wound and the pain increases, but keep running. Your escape route is blocked off, now, but you keep moving. You refuse to be killed by a glorified bat.
Up ahead, an archway appears set into the wall, the flickering torchlight within beckoning to you. Only a few metres away, it offers you swift escape from the creatures that swoop toward you. Who knows what horrors await you there, but anything will be better than these nightmares. With something like a prayer, you put the last bit of your strength into your stride. You’ve run out of road, out of time, and out of options. Now, you push your fate into the hands of chance. You’ve done all you can.
As you burst through the archway, you have only a moment of relief before your paws slide upon the slick rock and sending you tumbling down a short flight of stairs. Of course, at the bottom of the stairs sits a puddle of muddy water— the Old Gods must hate you. The shock of the water freezes you in place, your limbs refusing to listen to you as you scream for them to move. Staying here will mean your death, but your body will not push itself to your feet.
As you lay in a heap at the bottom of the stairs, you wait for the bat-women to come for you. You can hear them screaming, angry that their quarry has eluded them, but they aren’t getting closer. If anything, the beating of their wings is growing distant.
You huff a sigh of relief and flop back into the puddle. Every part of you, both human and animal, knows that this is a terrible idea— think of all the germs that must live in this stagnant water. And yet, your body continues to refuse your commands. You’re exhausted— no, you’re beyond exhausted. Very little food, too much adrenaline, and blood loss are overwhelming your good sense. You are going to die here in this muck because your body has finally betrayed you. You have pushed it too far.
Perhaps the bat-women would have been the better option. It would have been a lot less demeaning, if more unpleasant. And at least it would have been over fast.
Instead, you wait as the muddy water permeates your coat, weighing your limbs down and making it difficult to lift your head. Your blood spills from your wounds, hot and thick with adrenaline, fear, and pain. The ringing of your ears drowns out the sounds of your own heaving breaths and racing heart. It hides the footsteps that approach your limp body, betraying you one final time. Your eyes close.
“What do we have here?” a voice asks just as you begin to slip away.
You feel movement ruffle your fur, breathe in the scent of something, but you cannot decipher what this creature is. The blackness swallows you whole, and you don’t fight it, not even as a larger predator looms over you. You welcome Death as an old friend— after eight other encounters, they certainly are that— giving yourself over to their embrace. Everything fades away, and your last breath leaves you as a sigh of relief.
At least you tried. Surely Jana can’t be too disappointed in you.
“Oh, pisicuță, I’ll take care of you now.” [Kitten]