Legends of Belariath

Lethtal Nethalm

It was a comfortable night.  In a comfortable village, for that matter; a mere spattering of huts strewn more of less at random alongside a placidly flowing river.  It was one of those evenings that made one want to do nothing more complex then relax and let the warm, ever-present breeze draw abstract patterns on the rippling flow of water.  It was a golden place…

But you know what they say about gold.

It was a simple, crude village.  The kind thrown together as a mere place to live and not much safer than the poorly-thatched roofs that capped each wobbly structure.  At least they’ll burn well enough, thought the silent observer, who took advantage of the inherent laziness that overtakes most creatures on midsummer hours such as those.  While the hapless cat village slept, men plotted.  And readied.

And charged.

To say it was a fight would stretch even the most open imaginations.  Horses’ hooves thunderously pounded gardens into bloody mud.  Claws snagged and broke themselves on chain mail, while swords and clubs found purchase between ribs, through stomachs and throats, and upon skulls.  The exerted grunts of males in mortal, albeit lopsided combat were occasionally punctuated by the shrill screams of decidedly more feminine voices.

Cat people were not built for combat, and it showed that night...  Blood for paint, swords for brushes, and the flaring, swirling flames of burning buildings for canvas, it was only a matter of hours before the once-proud, albeit simple community was reduced to nothing more than glowing coals; their flickering red the same color as the drying blood that flecked the ground in several locations.  Those that proved to be troublesome were merely ran through on the spot.  Those pleasing to human eyes were chained.  Those too old or young to be of any use were simply thrown in the river.

One particular male was included in the latter of those groups.

What seemed like a placid, calming river to the kitten was something else entirely when hurled in a small arc into its depths.  The cold water was nothing compared to the sheer, unknowing terror that flooded the feline’s heart.  Small hands flailed uselessly as strangling water filled a mouth that opened to scream and instead found itself fighting to inhale.  Currents buffeted the tiny figure about without purpose, seemingly only intent upon ending the hapless male’s life.  But things didn’t go according to the river’s plan.

It was sheer luck that the gripping, roiling waters lost him; a result of a sharp bend that interrupted the flow of murderous water, instead depositing the sodden creature in a small, knee-high heap upon the rocky bank.

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Hurt.  That was all he felt.  The pain of eyes squeezing shut against horrific images he didn’t understand.  Pain of fingers gripping hard enough into palms to cut the flesh.  Aching muscles, exhausted from fighting the losing battle against the river that continued to lap around his ankles…seemingly gentle once more.  The cat boy, too young even for a name, waited for a mother that was no more for a nightmare that was no dream.

Staggering to his feet, the nameless being stumbled into the wilderness to an uncertain, hostile future.

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