Beginning of a Werecat

[Lindpen]

I wrote this like a year and a half ago, so I probably see many of the errors that you will. Nevertheless, feel free to rip into this. It has lots of mistakes, awkward phrasing, and purple prose x_O.

1. The Capture

He crouched behind the rock, both arms wrapped around his left leg. The rain fell so thickly that it was like standing under a waterfall; he wondered if he might drown. Still grasping his leg, he ventured to peek out around the rock, straining his eyes for a sign of the figure. Any indication of his tracker’s location would help.

A noise broke out over the rain. He froze.

“Belenus,” the man called out. “Belenus!”

Belenus retreated back behind the rock, ready to bolt. His terror overrode the pain; he released his bleeding leg, flattening his body against the rock.

“Come on, Belenus,” the man said. His voice was growing closer. “You’re very special, did you know that?” He was so near now that he longer needed to shout for Belenus to hear him. In a few seconds the man would find him.

The child pulled away from the rock, his limbs quaking. He had to flee.

The moment Belenus shifted his weight to his wounded leg, he felt a stab of pain so sharp that he collapsed. He lay inches away from the rock. He was completely exposed. If the moon peered through the clouds or there was more lightning, he would be discovered.

A hand came down on him, jerking him up by the shirt collar. Belenus kicked his right leg out. The man swatted the advancing foot away, still using a single hand to hold the child up by the shirt, dangling him over the ground like an animal being gripped by the scruff of its neck.

The cloth dug into Belenus’s skin and choked him. He was unable to scream or reason with his attacker, not that it would do any good.

“Foolish child, don’t you know I can see in the dark?”

If he expected an answer, Belenus couldn’t give him one. How long can I go without air? he wondered. He already felt dizzy, and the restriction on his lungs from expanding and contracting was more painful than his leg.

“I warned you to stay with me,” the man continued. “It’s for your own good.”

That, Belenus knew, was a lie. He tried to kick the man again, but he was too weak. You’re going to kill me, he thought, feebly struggling to free himself of the man’s grasp.

“Now, you’re going to be a good little boy—excuse me, cat—aren’t you?” He cackled and there was a flash of lightning that illuminated the sallow face, the small black eyes shining.

Just as Belenus was about to pass out, he heard the most wonderful sound yet in his young life: His shirt tore. The fabric continued to split straight down the back, until Belenus fell to the ground, wheezing.

Minutes passed and nothing happened; the attacker must have thought he killed Belenus. The child lay crumpled in the mud, shivering as the icy rain pelted his body. His chest burned; his throat throbbed whenever he swallowed. His leg jabbed him with new pangs and tears streamed down his face. But, there was one comforting thought: I’m free.

Then, the attacker yanked him up by the arm and Belenus fainted.

[Lindpen]

2. The Revelation

When Belenus awoke, he didn’t know where he was or what happened. He rested on a cot in a dim room, lit only by a small oil lamp. His stomach growled; when did he last eat? His upper body ached and his left leg was swollen. Then he remembered: Someone kidnapped him. Wincing, he rolled onto his side and looked at the room he was in. The walls, floor, and ceiling, all wood, were bare of decorations; the only pieces of furniture in the room were the cot and the lamp. At the opposite end of the room, to his right, there was a single window, shutterless and screenless.

Belenus decided he would escape through the window. He mused that his captor wasn’t that bright. Struggling into a sitting position, he moaned and grabbed his ribs. He examined himself, still shirtless, and saw great mottled bruises all down his sides; he suspected he had broken bones. Suddenly, even the task of reaching the window seemed impossible.

Footsteps thudded outside the room. He threw himself back down onto the cot, feigning sleep. He waited but no one entered.

“I’m glad to see you’re taking an interest,” someone—he recognized the voice of the man from the night before—said.

“ ’Course I am,” a second, deeper voice said. “ ’S not every day ya come ’cross a werecat. How’d you get ’em, anyway?”

“Ah, you do not understand,” said the kidnapper. “I made him, in a sense. If you would like to know how I infected him, it would make a much more intriguing story than how I caught him.”

“Go ahead then.”

A chair scraped against the floor. Were these people sitting in the hallway?

“Before I begin, would you care for a drink?”

“ O’ course, yes, thanks.” Glasses clinked. “Cheers!”

Whoever the second man was, Belenus guessed he was already drunk.

“Well,” the kidnapper began, “two months ago—no, it must have been three—I came across a werecat. It was about time; I’d been searching for years. Naturally, it was suspicious of me, and I just got a glimpse of it.

“I tracked it into the Beor Mountains for a week—a brutal journey, really—and pretended to lose all interest in the cat. I started a fire and cooked myself a nice meal of goat. The smell brought the cat around. It hid high up in a tree and I acted as though I didn’t see it. For a while, it really did disappear, but gave itself away by rustling some leaves.

“I shot it with an arrow, and down tumbled kitty. They don’t always land on their feet, apparently.” He stopped and laughed at his joke. “I didn’t kill it, which was very fortunate; you see, once a werecat dies, its venom becomes ineffective. It was knocked out, though, and I tugged at one of its fangs. Out oozed the clear liquid from the fang’s tip. I bottled the venom. By that time, the cat was waking up. Needless to say it wasn’t happy with me. I received a nice gash along my face.”

The kidnapper paused, and Belenus surmised he was showing the drunken man the aforementioned scratch. “The cat ran off before I could capture it, but I got what I needed. All I had to do was return to civilization and find a good specimen. I came across a small boy—dark hair, skinny, about nine years old—you’ll see him in a minute—and followed him until he was alone.”

There was another pause, then a chink of glasses, and the drunk said, “Cheers!” again.

The kidnapper went on with his story. “The boy sat in a low area near boulders and a small waterfall. I introduced myself as a merchant, which was near enough the truth, and pulled out a vial. I told him it was a rare luck serum, imported from Surda.”

The drunken man howled at this and struck what sounded like a table. “Luck—serum—” He wheezed and pounded the table again. “Surda…good one.”

The kidnapper gave his accomplice another minute before resuming his narrative.

“You’re quite done now? Yes? Good. As I was saying, I showed him the vial. He didn’t trust me. He wouldn’t respond, and when he saw the liquid, he sprang up and screamed for help. He tried to run away, but I tripped him and gagged him with a handkerchief—don’t start, it wasn’t ever used—and injected him with the werecat venom.” He stopped for a dramatic effect that was lost on his partner.

“Well, that warn’t very smart, was it? Why not save some fer yerself?”

The kidnapper snorted. “Even if I wanted to, it wouldn’t work on me. Only the young, the innocent, can become a werecat…and they are granted unnaturally long lives.”

“Cheers!” The drunk chortled and it sounded like he broke his glass.

“Lugh, you oaf! You’re not supposed to toast with a wall!”

“I’m real sorry, I’ll git that all cleaned and nice right now—”

A hand pounded on the table. Belenus knew it was the kidnapper’s this time.

“No, you will not! You’ll only succeed in making more of a mess of things. Get up, I better show you the kid before you get any drunker.”

Chairs screeched against the floor. Belenus turned to face the wall and closed his eyes just as the door squeaked open. The two men stepped inside, and one of them shut the door.

“I see ’em! I ne’er seen a werecat before.”

The drunk, called Lugh, stumbled nearer and Belenus sensed the man was bending down to look at him. There was a strong smell of alcohol, and Belenus tried not to cough or wrinkle his nose.

“Huh.” Lugh leaned closer. “How long’s it take ’im to transform?”

The kidnapper paced over to the cot. “I would have gotten to that, had you given me the chance,” he said. “Three days. On the fourth, he transforms. Then I can start getting venom from him and infect more children.”

Lugh pulled up one of Belenus’s eyelids. “His eyes ain’t red yet. Ain’t they supposed to be red, Midas?”

The first man, Midas, sighed. He spoke slowly, as if to a small child. “After his first transformation, yes.”

“Huh.” Lugh touched Belenus’s injured leg. “ ’S awful bloated,” he said.

“That’s because I injected his leg,” said Midas, “and he was flailing around in the process. I got the venom in but he was thrashing so much that he got a nasty cut. I think it’s infected.”

“Oh.” Lugh guffawed. “Infected, I git it! Infected like from the venom, and from the germs. Good one, Midas, good one…”

Midas groaned. “It was not my intention to make a joke, and it’s not even a funny one, at that. Now move, I don’t want you waking him up.”

Midas cracked his knuckles. “On to business. I will pay you fifteen percent of my profits to deliver the werecats to my buyers. Should you let any escape, or lose or damage one in any way, I will fire you and seize all of your possessions.”

Belenus dared to lift one of his eyelids. The drunk was a heavy man with rust colored hair and a beard. Upon hearing Midas’s policy, he waved a hand and said, “Good deal, good deal. Don’tcha worry. What did ya say ’is name is?”

“I don’t believe I did, but it’s Belenus—at least, that’s what I heard the other children calling him.”

“Huh.” Lugh sat down, shaking the floor as he did so. Belenus closed his eyes again. “Ya know, Midas, ’t seems a li’l mean to do this. ’S only a kid.”

Midas strode over to Lugh, and Belenus heard a loud sound of slapping. “Don’t get a conscience now. You can do as we’ve agreed and become richer than you could imagine, or you can back out and I will have to kill you.”

Lugh shifted and the floorboards creaked. “I’m not backing out, don’t worry, Midas, don’t worry. ’Sides, he’ll go to a good home, right?”

Midas moaned; in Belenus’s opinion, he was over dramatic. “How dull are you? This one is staying right here with me, or wherever I go. I’ll feed him well and all that; I need a healthy source. As for the others, I don’t care what kind of homes they get. It’s the gold that matters.”

Lugh hooted. “True, true. Can never git enough o’ that.” He thumped the floor. “Cheers!"

[Lindpen]

3. The Escape

The next morning, Belenus wondered whether it was the second day or the third since his attack. In the case of the latter, he would be turning into a werecat the next morning— provided his captor was in his right mind. He had a sickening feeling that all Midas said was true, though; his information matched up with the stories Belenus’s grandmother told. Werecats, she said, had red eyes and sharp fangs; they lived many years, thus their wisdom; they were believed to bring good fortune; they were coveted for their sapience. They transformed on the fourth morning after being bitten (or in this case, injected). There was no antidote.

The first werecats were never humans. People and werecats alike discovered the potential of werecat venom, formerly thought to be saliva, by accident. Centuries ago, the son of a tribal leader in northern Alagaësia became ill. The boy’s father sought the council of a werecat who lived nearby and was fond of the villagers.

Perhaps you can cure my son, the leader said. You are a magical creature, and very wise.

The werecat replied, I will do for you what we do when our kittens are ailing. Bring a bottle here, so you can pull on one of my fangs and collect saliva. Among our kind, it has healing properties.

The leader did as the werecat asked and the boy’s sickness left. The fourth day, however, the boy turned into a werecat. His parents were furious and ordered a search for the original werecat, but by the time they found him, the shock wore off and they could not bear to kill their friend. The boy’s parents were content with having their son as a human at night. They even thanked the werecat for preserving their son’s youth and ensuring he had a long life.

But it would be lonely to be a werecat, unless born one. No one could deny that. Loved ones died; friends grew up. Belenus began weeping at the thought of being a werecat. He didn’t care if Midas heard him.

That night, Belenus felt stronger. His pain lessened and his whole body was healing (probably from the werecat venom). His stomach rumbled and his throat was parched, but his top priority was getting away. Midas was asleep, snoring in the adjacent room. Belenus knew it was his chance to escape.

He crawled toward the window. A floorboard or two squeaked, but Midas’s snores continued. Finally, Belenus reached his only means of freedom. He paused to recover from the effort of crawling, panting and trying to keep his mind off the pain.

It was time to go. He grabbed the window ledge with both hands and heaved himself up. Fortunately, the stars and moon shone unlike the night of his abduction; it would be easier for him to find his way home. He pushed himself out the window, grimacing and sweating, and fell into a bush. Inside the house there was a thump. Did Midas hear him?

Belenus scrambled out of the shrub and fled. For the time being he didn’t care where he went, as long as he got away. He ran until his legs gave out beneath him. He judged he was two miles, hopefully more, from his captor’s house. No one seemed to be pursuing him.

Dragging himself to a nearby tree, he lay down. His leg was gushing blood anew and it felt as though a boulder crushed his ribs. I’ll rest until I can go on without killing myself, he thought, curling up as much as his pain would permit. Then, he fell asleep.

It was still night when Belenus awoke. The sky was clear and the grass was bleached by the moonlight. An owl hooted nearby and crickets chirped; he wanted to squash the latter. He leaned against the tree and rolled up his pants to examine his leg, gritting his teeth as the fabric scraped against the wound. Edging into the moonlight, he saw that his leg was caked with blood. Likewise, his pant leg was stiff with streaks of the thick, dried liquid. He was struck with nausea. Warm, burning liquid surged up his throat. He lurched forward and retched on the grass.

In addition to his other afflictions, he now had an agonizing headache that felt as though someone were clubbing his forehead with a mallet. He decided he might feel better if he ate. He spat to get the acrid taste out of his mouth, then limped off in search of food.

After hobbling for half a mile he found a fruit tree. Although the leaves cast shadows over their treasures, reluctant to relinquish them, Belenus could detect the bulbous green shapes, washed white where the pale light struck them. He reached out for the nearest one but his fingertips only brushed the bottom of the smooth skin. Standing on tiptoe, he was still unable to grasp the taunting apple. He braced himself and jumped. This time, his fingers curled around the object and plucked it; he landed with his prize, too elated to mind the pang in his leg, and chomped into the fruit.

He spat it out. Holding the offending fruit up and squinting, he saw that it was a pear, not an apple; hence its inedibility. He would have to find a fallen one, already ripened, or look for something else to eat. The odds were not promising—the short grass would hardly conceal a berry—but he crouched, groping and scanning the ground.

At last he gave up and lay down, his bare back itchy against the grass. He cursed his leg; it was trickling blood, and now pus oozed out with it. Whatever endurance he still had shattered and he broke down crying. He tried to stifle his sobs, but his chest convulsed until they erupted into half-choked wails, and he was sure he sounded like a dying animal.

[Lindpen]

4. The Transformation

A wind whistled through the trees. Belenus stopped weeping and looked at the sky. Clouds were gathering, obscuring the moon and shrouding the stars. The air chilled. He shuddered and anticipated another storm.

He forced himself up, knowing he had to seek shelter. There was no chance of reaching home tonight; he wasn’t even sure which direction to go. Plus, he was dubious about returning to Teirm. If he turned into a werecat, what would his parents say? His grandmother was the one potential person who might not be devastated. Things would especially be awkward with his friends. Could a werecat play any games besides hide-and-seek? Would he simply be designated the scorekeeper? Would they see him no longer as a person, but as…a pet? So perhaps it was best to start a new life.

It started drizzling. A gust sprang up and knocked him to the ground. Belenus struggled to stand and headed for the nearest tree. The rain fell in thick sheets now, turning the ground to paste. His feet sank in the mud and he slipped as he struggled toward his temporary shelter.

The night was unsettlingly similar to the night Midas kidnapped him. That night, just as this one, he believed he escaped. He was lost and soaked, but nevertheless grateful to have evaded the man that gave him a shot of “luck serum,” when a bolt of lightning revealed the man in distance. He dodged behind an elm tree, but not before the man stared right at him. Weaving his way between trees, trembling and sobbing, he reached the meadow. It was all that separated him from home, but he would be taking a great risk venturing out in the open. He took a deep breath and tore across the field. Soon, he had to stop; the running made the wound in his leg stream blood and feel like someone was piercing it with arrows. He poked around until one of his hands grazed the rough surface of a boulder. The rock was taller and wider than he was: An ideal hiding place. It should give him enough time to tend to his leg—he would wrap the lesion with the shirt under his tunic—and then he could dash home. As he pulled the tunic up over his head, a shout rang out over the rain. The man was in the field. Belenus crouched, terror-stricken. He didn’t dare move.

The memory made him shiver as he huddled under the oak tree. He didn’t know what he would do if Midas found him again; this time, Belenus was such a physical wreck it was a wonder he wasn’t dead.

Lightning streaked the sky, the bolts thrusting down like giant fingers ready to pluck him up and deliver him to the werecat smuggler. He jolted each time the thunder boomed and bristled at every silhouette revealed by the lightning. He wanted nothing more than to be at home in bed, fed and warm, his family accessible only a room away. He wanted to see his friends again—Fionn, with his tomato-colored hair and wild theories that there was life outside Alagaësia; Consus, always grinning and formulating brilliant plans that got them into trouble; and Branwen, with her long black hair and dark eyes, scolding them all but giggling whenever Belenus spoke.

He fell into a restless sleep, where Midas tossed him into a cage and cackled while Lugh brandished a broken mug and said, “Cheers!”

At dawn he woke up. A terrible grinding pain beset all his bones. Sweat trickled down his face and body, and he gnashed his teeth. The smells of wood and pine flooded his nostrils. Every sound was magnified; each impression and curve in the tree bark sharpened.

He shrieked when fur sprouted on top of his hands and continued up his arms. Soon, his entire body was covered with it. His fingers shrunk and his hands transformed to paws. Claws ruptured the tips of his fingers—now toes?—and replaced his nails. His body condensed until he stood in a heap that used to be his pants. A film emerged over his eyes, giving his vision a reddish tint. Whiskers sprang out on his face. His teeth lengthened, ending in sharp points. He was a werecat.

[Lindpen]

5. The Aftermath

Belenus spent many of his days traveling Alagaësia. He visited Surda, lived for some time in the Spine, stayed in Gil’ead, sojourned in Du Weldenvarden, and even ventured to the Hadarac Desert. He passed through towns but avoided people, and he stayed far from the Beor Mountains, where Midas once hunted his kin.

He never was able to bring himself to return to Teirm. He became heartbroken remembering his mother and father, his grandmother, his friends, his cozy home, the small shops, the spot by the waterfall. What did those who knew him in Teirm think? Did they pronounce him dead and have a funeral? Was it selfish of him not to go back?

On occasion, Belenus met other werecats. They would travel together for a few days, sometimes a week, exchanging stories and enjoying one another’s company. He met a few who, like him, were once humans. Most of them were born as werecats. No matter their beginnings, though, they all spoke with the cryptic diction that Belenus used, and reveled in posing riddles to each other and solving them. After some days of this the accompanying werecat would reach his destination or head a different way than Belenus, and they would part. Belenus often pondered whether he encountered the werecat that Midas trailed in the Beor Mountains, and broached the subject of the great mountains with his companions; but as nearly every werecat except himself seemed to go there, he had no way of knowing without being blunt in his questions.

Werecats divulged their names to each other with the condition of working out a riddle. Belenus hoped that one of his companions would turn out to be a relative or a friend from long ago. They never were. As for himself, he gave the name “Belenus” in case he did happen across someone he knew; when he was young, the townspeople took to calling him Belenus—it meant "bright, brilliant"—and the name stuck. Only his parents and grandmother ever used his birth name.

Although none of the werecats turned out to be a former friend, an acquaintance in Teirm, or a relative he knew of, he did come upon a werecat making its way to his hometown. After the customary riddles and introductions, Belenus made a request: that if the werecat should meet anyone named Fionn, Branwen, or Consus, or discover that Belenus’s family still lived, he tell them that Belenus was alive.

Decades passed; he saw the fall of the Dragon Riders and the rise of Galbatorix. He lost track of the years and knew only that, as a human, he would have died long ago.

He returned to Teirm some years after Galbatorix became king. The town had more than tripled its size since he left. Wandering in the shadows, he came to a shop with an exotic, minty scent and halted. As he sat peering in through the open door, a woman with dark, curly hair rushed by and seized a scroll from the top of a crate. He could tell she was a witch.

Hello, he said.

She whirled around. Who said that? Where are you?

By the door. I am a werecat. He entered the shop, not waiting for consent, and looked around. Plants, crates, and scrolls littered the room. A shelf on his right towered near the ceiling. I like this place, he said.

It’s been a long time since I last saw a werecat, she told him. But I really take a liking to them, and they seem to feel the same about me. She smiled. My name is Angela. You’re always welcome to visit.

Thank you. He strolled over to the shelf and climbed up. When he reached the top, he lay down and curled his tail around himself. I may stay here for a while.

And I’d be delighted to have you, she said. Don’t worry, I won’t bother you much…but what can I call you?

He closed his eyes, soon half-asleep. The shelf was warm and it made a good hiding spot. He didn’t answer with his nickname, but with the name his parents gave him all those years ago, the name that, even then, he seldom used.

Solembum.