Post by carcinoGeneticist on Mar 29, 2008 16:07:06 GMT -5
His first memory was that of cold.
The claws pressed against the back of his head were like daggers, grinding his face deeper into the snow and ice that blanketed the ground. He knew he was crying, he could feel the tears making their way through the thick protection of his fur and freezing against his sensitive skin before they had even fully left his eyes. And, oh, God, the pain. The biting pain from his wings was almost too much to bear, and as his face was shoved forward once more, he broke.
A low, thin cry escaped him, the cry of a terrified child.
"Worthless Spades scum,[/b]" the wolverine hissed, releasing her hold on the back of the bat-child's head, leaving him in a crumpled and shivering heap, folding wings and legs inward to try and stave off the cold. "You are your father's child, too weak, too weak to even deserve my attention. If the cold doesn't kill you... You might be worth something, but you'll never be as much as your brother.[/b]"
Seth just lay still in the snow, terrified to speak or even to beg. He could feel the woman, his mother, standing there as if waiting for him to move or speak or do anything. He knew that she wanted him to plead for her to take him with her, back to the welcome heat of their home. He couldn't. The words caught in his throat and left a bad taste in his mouth, and it wasn't long before she let out a soft noise, like a half-laugh. He heard the sound of her turning to walk away, footsteps becoming softer and then fading away completely. He lay there even after she was gone, for what felt like hours, until the thin membrane between his wings had gone numb with the cold, and he began to cry anew, worried that they had fallen off. He eventually pushed himself to his feet, trying to ignore the fact that his own tears were hurting them, pushing the sadness out of his mind. He couldn't cry. That would only make it worse. It was getting dark, and the snow was already falling in thick drifts that covered the wolverine's tracks.
He would have to make his own way back. For hours, despite the aching of his bones and the dull pain from his wings, he travelled, not even sure if he was walking in the right direction. The sky above him grew dark, and his only relief came from the thickness of his fur, his mother's genetic gift to him. It was the only thing she had given him, and all he could do was wonder: Is it enough?
Ahead of him, there was an object buried part-way in the snow. The young bat's ears perked despite himself, and he moved towards it. A part of him lit up inside, wondering if what he was seeing was some kind of shelter, something that could hide him at least through the worst part of the night. He put a burst of energy into his steps, clearing the last few feet between himself and the object in a second. And then he froze, eyes wide.
What lay before him was not a shelter, but a corpse. The corpse of a man, a bat. He had no idea how long the man had been there, but the ice had covered him and preserved him perfectly. He could have been laying here, dead, for years. Seth's eyes glossed over the grim wound that split his stomach like a mouth, exposing entrails and coloring the frozen fur bright red, the wound that had killed him. Instead, they fell on the rank marking on his chest. It shone through the dusting of snow and froze the bat to the spot, heart beating so quickly he feared it would burst from his chest.
The number didn't matter. This man was a Spade. A bat Spade, who lacked the fur of the Glacier. His father. Seth's heart stopped for a moment, the world collapsing down around him. It was only then that he noticed the man's wound, and he let out a desperate scream and began to run, his terror blindly taking over all of his instincts for survival. The wound was characteristic of the claws of a wolverine. The claws of his mother. She had killed his father, and she would kill him. His desperate flight sent him crashing, uncontrolled, through the trees, until exhaustion took him and he collapsed in the snow outside of his own home, chest burning with pain. When he woke the next morning, it was inside of his home, resting on the hay that had been relegated to him as a bed.
He wondered to himself if it had all been a terrible dream, but the stiffness in his joints said that it couldn't have been.
This was only the first time that his mother saw fit to abandon him out in the snow, and though his body grew an oily layer to cover and insulate his wing membranes, the woman made it harder by dragging him further and further away from his home.
The claws pressed against the back of his head were like daggers, grinding his face deeper into the snow and ice that blanketed the ground. He knew he was crying, he could feel the tears making their way through the thick protection of his fur and freezing against his sensitive skin before they had even fully left his eyes. And, oh, God, the pain. The biting pain from his wings was almost too much to bear, and as his face was shoved forward once more, he broke.
A low, thin cry escaped him, the cry of a terrified child.
"Worthless Spades scum,[/b]" the wolverine hissed, releasing her hold on the back of the bat-child's head, leaving him in a crumpled and shivering heap, folding wings and legs inward to try and stave off the cold. "You are your father's child, too weak, too weak to even deserve my attention. If the cold doesn't kill you... You might be worth something, but you'll never be as much as your brother.[/b]"
Seth just lay still in the snow, terrified to speak or even to beg. He could feel the woman, his mother, standing there as if waiting for him to move or speak or do anything. He knew that she wanted him to plead for her to take him with her, back to the welcome heat of their home. He couldn't. The words caught in his throat and left a bad taste in his mouth, and it wasn't long before she let out a soft noise, like a half-laugh. He heard the sound of her turning to walk away, footsteps becoming softer and then fading away completely. He lay there even after she was gone, for what felt like hours, until the thin membrane between his wings had gone numb with the cold, and he began to cry anew, worried that they had fallen off. He eventually pushed himself to his feet, trying to ignore the fact that his own tears were hurting them, pushing the sadness out of his mind. He couldn't cry. That would only make it worse. It was getting dark, and the snow was already falling in thick drifts that covered the wolverine's tracks.
He would have to make his own way back. For hours, despite the aching of his bones and the dull pain from his wings, he travelled, not even sure if he was walking in the right direction. The sky above him grew dark, and his only relief came from the thickness of his fur, his mother's genetic gift to him. It was the only thing she had given him, and all he could do was wonder: Is it enough?
Ahead of him, there was an object buried part-way in the snow. The young bat's ears perked despite himself, and he moved towards it. A part of him lit up inside, wondering if what he was seeing was some kind of shelter, something that could hide him at least through the worst part of the night. He put a burst of energy into his steps, clearing the last few feet between himself and the object in a second. And then he froze, eyes wide.
What lay before him was not a shelter, but a corpse. The corpse of a man, a bat. He had no idea how long the man had been there, but the ice had covered him and preserved him perfectly. He could have been laying here, dead, for years. Seth's eyes glossed over the grim wound that split his stomach like a mouth, exposing entrails and coloring the frozen fur bright red, the wound that had killed him. Instead, they fell on the rank marking on his chest. It shone through the dusting of snow and froze the bat to the spot, heart beating so quickly he feared it would burst from his chest.
The number didn't matter. This man was a Spade. A bat Spade, who lacked the fur of the Glacier. His father. Seth's heart stopped for a moment, the world collapsing down around him. It was only then that he noticed the man's wound, and he let out a desperate scream and began to run, his terror blindly taking over all of his instincts for survival. The wound was characteristic of the claws of a wolverine. The claws of his mother. She had killed his father, and she would kill him. His desperate flight sent him crashing, uncontrolled, through the trees, until exhaustion took him and he collapsed in the snow outside of his own home, chest burning with pain. When he woke the next morning, it was inside of his home, resting on the hay that had been relegated to him as a bed.
He wondered to himself if it had all been a terrible dream, but the stiffness in his joints said that it couldn't have been.
This was only the first time that his mother saw fit to abandon him out in the snow, and though his body grew an oily layer to cover and insulate his wing membranes, the woman made it harder by dragging him further and further away from his home.
