"That it will never come again is what makes life so sweet." — Emily Dickinson

    A tiny, decrepit cottage, seemingly devoid of all life within its ramshackle walls, stood in a long-forgotten corner of an equally disregarded piece of land. The only living things that appeared to make a home out of the house was the flora that blanketed the rotting wood composing its walls. Ivy and vines crept up the exterior, with lichens and mosses of various colors decorating its stone base. A few broken windows interrupted the repetition of the colors comprising its exterior—brown wood, green flora, shattered windows. Despite the house's age and the feebleness of its structure, the roof had not yet caved in on itself.

    The cabin, although it retained an inhospitable appearance, was home to a family of three: a mother, a father, and their young son. Their furnishings were crude and purely functional, but the family did not complain. A happy bunch they were, content with their quiet life and resigned to a peaceful existence. Though lonesome, they kept themselves entertained with brain teasers and logic puzzles of their own design. Books were abound in their home, as well. It was here that the parents had taught their child to read and write. And as such, they had become an intelligent family, but thankfully their intelligence had not corrupted them or led them down a path of evil like so many were.

    This particular day began like any other. The child, a three-month-old gray tabby with icy blue eyes, was the first to rise from his bed, which had been fashioned out of moss for padding and worn blankets for comfort and warmth. His parents, sleeping soundly nearby, were oblivious to the world. The child's father, nearly identical to the tyke, was named Jamie; the mother, a calico, was named Rosemary. After a lot of deliberation after his birth, the two settled on naming their only child Alaric.

    Normally, Alaric would wake his parents from their slumber so that they could find him something to eat. He, as all kits do, had a big appetite, and because of that he found himself to be quite famished. But his parents had been teaching him how to hunt, and now Alaric felt himself old enough and strong enough to be able to hunt down his own food. After all, he was three months old now! He was getting up there in the world, right? He thought so at least, since his parents, the only two creatures he had ever interacted with, were only a year or so old. He knew that he wasn't supposed to venture out by himself, but his stomach and the outdoors beckoned him with the desire and promise of food.

    Tiny paws silently padded across the small cottage, leading the child to one of the many windows that decorated his home. The hinges on both entrances had long ago been rusted shut. Opening them was impossible; none of the three felines had the strength or ability to be able to push them open. Because of that, they had grown used to traversing in and out through the cottage's broken windows. One window in particular had been worn enough by time so that they did not slice themselves on the glass whenever they attempted to go through. It was accessible by leaping onto a low bookshelf pushed near the broken pane of glass.

    For a moment, Alaric merely peered up at said perch. Despite the fact that he was growing, he often found it difficult to reliably jump up onto the bookshelf. Knowing that his failure to do so would result in a loud crashing and his parents subsequently waking up, he gulped nervously. Here goes nothing! thought the tabby. After a moment longer to prepare himself, he pushed off with his hind legs and leapt onto the bookshelf. A gleeful smile tugged at the corners of his lips, accentuating his soft, childish features. His chest swelled with pride as he thought about how that was possibly the farthest he had jumped without assistance or encouragement.

    Without wasting any more time, he proceeded through the window onto the windowsill.

    A soft morning breeze greeted Alaric upon his exit. As the wind gently rustled his pelt, he came to the revelation that he had left his home by himself. If his parents found out that he did this, which they surely would, there was a high likelihood that he was not going to get off scot free. Somehow, though, he had convinced himself in his young, naive mind that he would get away with this. He wasn't going to get in trouble. There was no way!

    The tabby peered down at the mossy earth below. With a deep breath, he leapt onto the moss. The green carpet cushioned his frankly awkward fall, and suddenly he found himself grateful for its presence. Previously he had thought it to be quite ugly and gross, and it still was, but he had discovered a newfound appreciation for it.

    Now, pondered the kitten, where to go? He issued a cursory glance at his surroundings. It would be best if he traveled in a straight line, right? That way, when it was time to come home, he could follow the same path back that he used to travel to wherever he decided to go. With that, he set off in a randomly chosen direction, figuring that it didn't really matter which way he went.

    Unfortunately for Alaric, he had chosen the direction that just so happened to be downwind. No wonder he couldn't find prey, then; they could smell him coming with ease, providing ample opportunity to take cover until he passed. This did not register in his mind, though, and his inability to locate even a single mouse or vole depressed the child until he was ready to give up. His parents had always described him as intensely competitive and somewhat stubborn, and this proved to be true; despite the feeling in his stomach (besides hunger, of course) telling him to simply throw in the towel and go home, he would not do so. He couldn't bring himself into the unknown without his parents and return home empty-pawed and empty-stomached.

    A rustling in the bushes. Alaric pivoted to face the source of the sound. A low growl emanated from the from the foliage. The tabby could not recognize what was producing the sound quite yet due to his mostly-sheltered upbringing, but he knew that it meant danger. Ears pressed to his head in fear, he paced backwards cautiously, keeping his fearful blue gaze trained on the source. Why wasn't he able to smell the danger approaching? He would not realize until he grew older and realized that he had been downwind the entire time.

    For now, though, he could not be concerned with that, as the threat was now emerging from the underbrush. A canine pushed through the foliage, growling and snarling with an aggression that Alaric did not understand. He only knew that he had somehow angered this dog. Why? He had no idea. An older Alaric still would never know for sure.

    "Mom... Dad..." he whimpered. As the canine continued to loom over him, tears welled up in his eyes. He knew then that he shouldn't have gone out by himself. But no matter how hard he tried, he could not turn back time. He could not go back and tell a past version of himself to just stay inside. He was going to die today. Three months old, and in his naivete and stupidity, he was going to die.

    The dog readied its attack, but before it could dive for Alaric, another figure leapt out from behind him. He would not recognize who it was until after whoever it was took the blow that would have killed Alaric. The dog's teeth dug themselves into the figure's neck while the figure clawed at its chest and muzzle. The figure put up enough of a fight to make the dog release its vice and run away whimpering, but not without dropping the figure onto the hard earth.

    It was in that instant that the tabby realized who it was. His father, Jamie, had been bitten in the jugular, sparing his son from what would have undoubtedly been a killing blow.

    "Dad!" he exclaimed, bounding over to his father. Blood was already beginning to pool on the ground from a viscous scarlet waterfall originating from the male's neck. It was now that the kitten's tears began to fall. Sobbing loudly, the kitten did the only thing he could think of: stop the bleeding. He pressed his small paws against the wounds, but he was too small and his dad's injuries were too deep and too numerous for his efforts to have any effect.

    "Please, please, no!" yowled the kitten. As tears continued to cascade from his icy blues, he continued to plead with his dad to stay with him, to not die and leave him alone. Sorrow pooled in his father's eyes, betraying the smile on his face.

    A paw nudged the kitten. "Alaric, stop." His father's voice came through with the same commanding air that it always had, despite the fact that he was growing weaker by the second. A gray paw pushed Alaric away from his wounds. "You can't save me," his father whispered, gaze locked on his son. The younger tabby opened his mouth to speak, but his father interrupted him before he could even begin. "Come here so I can see your face. Please." Reluctantly, Alaric did as his father asked and moved so that his father could see him with greater ease.

    The larger tabby's smile did not fade upon seeing his son's tears. His smile, which under normal circumstances would have turned into a frown, only persisted because he wanted to stay strong for his son. He was dying, but his last thought was of Alaric, the child whom he loved more than anything—more, even, than his mate.

    "Do not cry for me, son." His father's words were soft, warm. They only made Alaric angry.

    "You're dying, Dad! How am I not supposed to cry?" Regret hit him over the head in that second. His father was dying, and yet Alaric had spent some of his last few seconds yelling at the older tabby. "I'm sorry..." he whispered, both for yelling at his father and for causing his dad's premature death.

    "It's okay, Alaric," the older male spoke. "I want you to do something for me, though." His father's voice was beginning to weaken. Noting this, Alaric nodded in response. "I want you to go home and tell your mother what happened. She will be upset, but you two will work through this together." The child's tiny head bobbed once more.

    As if recognizing that his time was drawing near, his father began his final words. "I'm gonna go soon, okay? Alaric—I will love you always. More than you will ever know. Now, go ahead and go home." Alaric muttered an "I love you too, Dad," before reluctantly turning and padding away, never once looking back.

    That was the last time Alaric allowed himself to feel anything.


    A deep sigh pushed its way past his lips as he exited his house. Alaric, now a year old, shot a glance upwards at the sky. The moon, like a heavenly overseer, was directly above his head—he guessed it was midnight based solely on that. Nighttime strolls were not rare in any sense of the word, and in fact he supposed that he had probably ventured out on one almost every night since arriving in Tanglewood. They were calming, in a way, and they allowed him to reflect on anything and everything that had happened on that day. Tonight, though, was somewhat special in that he wasn't reflecting on the day's events.

    The tabby proceeded down the town's main road, making his way along a well-trodden path towards the shoreline which he had come to frequent. The steady crashing of the waves along the coast as well as the moon's reflection off the surface of the vast expanse of water let him clear his mind.

    Taking a seat at the end of one of the many piers dotting the shoreline, Alaric gazed out at the ocean with the memory of his father's death on his mind. It was something that he had reflected on quite a lot since it happened, whether he wanted to or not. It had plagued his dreams, twisting them into nightmares that recalled his trauma and kept it fresh in his mind. It was as if he subconsciously decided that this was not something that he was going to ever let go of.

    Frankly, Alaric was growing sick of it. He was tired of being reminded over and over that he had blood on his hands. He'd even taken up the study of medicine so that he might be able to prevent this from ever happening to anyone around him. It was hard to just... let go of something like this, though. But he wanted to move past it. He wanted to leave that behind and get to living the life he wanted to live.

    From now on, he decided, he was not going to let the memory hold him back. It would still hurt whenever he thought of it, yes, but over time the pain would dull. He'd move on. He'd learn to feel again. It would take a long time, definitely, but he'd get better.

    A smile—a genuine one—pinned itself to the corners of his mouth as he stared out at the ocean.