Tooth & Claw

by Kaylee

Running mad, running wild, teeth bared, eyes narrowed...the scent of the prey in his brain, mouth watering unconsciously at the stimulation...muscles bunching, straining, flexing, pulling, reaching reaching reaching...

He was on his feet before his eyes saw past the dream and into reality. Blood pounded...churned with adrenaline from (the hunt) something he couldn't understand. He breathed in short huffs...drew air in to flood thirsty veins with oxygen.

Slowly he came around enough to start to shove it all down.

Dream, he told himself. Not real.

He wanted it to be real.

Dream. That total abandon...that wild raging... Dream. Not real. Not me.

("He's an animal!")

A dream. Only that. Only that...and it came every fucking night. No form to it, no pattern. Just a feeling that he couldn't ignore, that he reveled in.

("Devil's spawn!")

And then hated voices from memory would come back, would somehow make him remind himself that he was

("My curse.")

something else. Was not like that. Was not an insane beast tearing through the woods with no more awareness than a damn wildcat. No. He wasn't that. He was...was…

He was alone.

"What...?"

Alone. Alone in the cabin, fire burned down to angry red embers and ash as white as the frozen crystals outside.

The boy was gone.

"Goddamnit!"

The boy was gone. How the fuck could he've gotten past him? Creed was sleeping right in front of the goddamn door! No one was that quiet!

The door faced north. If it'd been opened a cold draft would've born in the storm, and no way Victor would've slept through that. So he'd gotten out one of the boarded up windows...somehow...and probably resealed it behind himself to keep the heat in.

So now the stupid fucking kid was out there somewhere in the middle of a storm in the middle of the night wearing clothes that'd soak through with sweat in less than an hour and probably getting lost in the ever-shifting walls of white that could be so disorienting to the unwary traveler. Worse still, if he'd been gone very long the snow might've already filled up his tracks, and sniffing someone out in this weather was a bastard of a job.

Even as he thought it he was pulling on warm clothes and jamming his feet ungently into boots.

***

His strides had started out with confidence. As long as short legs would allow them to be...feet digging into piling snow and body warming from the physical activity. Freedom. It was enough to fill him with excited, nerve-jumping energy and to push him forward into a white-streaked night.

That was two hours ago.

Every time he took a step now, he didn't think his muscles would respond to his demand that they pick the foot back up again. There just didn't seem to be any strength there anymore...anything to pull with. He was shivering convulsively. Feeling frozen despite the movement that he'd thought -- hoped -- would keep him warm. He couldn't feel his feet anymore, and dimly trusted that he wouldn't take a wrong step that'd leave him with a broken ankle or worse. For long moments he would pause, unaware of elapsed time as he rested, wind chilling the sweat on his skin to what felt like a thin layer of ice.

But still he slogged on with the stubborn determination of a boy very focused on getting where he was going.

Or getting away from where he'd been.

The animal-man was hours behind him now. Logan intended to see that distance grow. The world had never been a sane place, but the past weeks had turned everything he counted on upside down, ripping him with bloody finality from the existence he knew and into one he didn't understand or want.

He had yet to stop hearing the screams of the Atsina as the yellow-hides slaughtered them.

He shuddered and fought the hot sting of tears that threatened to well in his eyes. A warrior didn't cry. Didn't give in to women's emotion. Didn't--

A forearm scrubbed furiously over his eyes, blotting out the evidence of his weakness.

They'd always said he was too small, too puny to ever truly be a brave. Being born a yellow-hide hadn't helped much, either. Larger boys had picked on him, telling him he'd never go to war, never count coup, never earn a real name of his own. Worse were the women, who always seemed to want to mother him so. White Deer had decided that he was hers. She'd constantly kept him around her to prove it. He'd had to sneak off to gain any sort of peace from her overwhelming mothering, and the other children had teased him mercilessly.

They'd broken White Deer's head open on a rock.

Logan stumbled, a choked sound coming from his throat. No tears. No tears. A warrior didn't cry. No tears.

He was so cold.

Old Crazy River had shrilled a warning to the other women. It was the women who were at camp that day -- the women and a few old men. The braves, the older (larger) boys and the chief had ridden out a day earlier to join in a huge hunt with the tribe that the pox-decimated Atsina had come to count on as protectors: the Blackfoot.

It was only the women.

And one boy the chief said was too small to accompany them on the hunt.

Crazy River had made a shuffling run through the carefully laid out spiral of the camp. She'd always been the first to notice anyone arriving. Usually it seemed she watched so carefully because she wanted the pride of being the one to announce the men's return. This time, though... Crazy River had warned them, and he'd seen White Deer push out of the east-facing opening of the wigwam. Her age-lined face had been calm. It always was. White Deer's father had possessed great medicine, and all knew she had more than her share of it.

Why hadn't it saved her?

They'd blown a hole in Crazy River's shriveled old chest.

Logan stopped trying to walk. Stopped shoving forward through the indifferent wind. Stopped doing anything but seeing the so-recent past play out in front of his eyes again.

Crazy River's body had fallen forward, blood spilling out like water to turn the dirt to ochre mud. White Deer had shouted her warning to the rest of the camp.

Bent Arrow, one of the oldest men, had charged their attackers with a war cry and a raised tomahawk.

Half Bent Arrow's face had exploded in a smear of red.

Logan had managed to sneak away from camp earlier, and had spent the day watching pretty Red Sparrow tend the horses. She was one of few who never seemed to notice his size, his color. He'd dreamed more than a few times of doing some great deed that would let him win her. That quick smile. Those bottomless eyes. That glossy hair confined behind her back in a thick braid.

He hadn't seen what they did to Red Sparrow. That was some small mercy, anyway.

Though he'd rather have seen. He'd rather know.

Crazy River's screams had reached them. They'd raced madly for the camp, just in time to see White Deer emerge.

Just in time to see the people start dying.

Bent Arrow had jerked as his face blew apart, feet flying out from under him, flying forward as his body lurched back. The tomahawk had sailed from his hand in a slow, slow arc, twisting lazily through the air. Logan's eyes had followed the progress; had followed the tomahawk rather than the falling man.

Then it'd hit the ground, and time sped up again.

The men had raced into camp on short, swift horses. White Deer, seeing defense was hopeless, had held open her arms in a gesture of peace, ignoring Bent Arrow's blood that stained her buckskin dress. Logan remembered running, running, running...not fast enough.

The lead man had swung from his horse in a poor copy of a brave's war dismount, taken one step to the motionless, calm-faced and fury-eyed woman.

Now, as then, Logan couldn't hold back the raw cry as he saw again the raven-and-snow head slam back as the man shoved her down. Slam back against the heavy stone some of the smallest children used to mount their ponies. Slam back and--

He remembered the cry he gave. He remembered hearing it turn from a cry to a scream of fury. He remembered the terror he felt becoming something white-hot and blazing and overwhelming, his eyes widening into a look some of the boys had called the "wolf with sickness" look, his breath shortening to heated little pants drawn past bared teeth...

He didn't remember much after that.

Weeks and a long, long ride away, Logan tried to make his feet move again. Nothing. Whatever strength had been pushing him on was gone.

Gone like the Atsina.

With a sigh he sank to his knees, arms clutched tightly around his small form, eyes closed.

Everything was gone. Everyone was gone. He'd found awareness in a cage. Found himself with blood caked and drying in a thick, muddy mix on his skin. Exhausted. Lost. Alone.

So cold...

He heard the footsteps when they were very, very close. Opened his eyes with a snap, lurching to his feet. Of course he stumbled on the numb lumps he tried to stand on, and had to struggle to find his balance over swaying legs.

The animal-man watched him silently, expression as blank as a brave's.

They'd held this stare between them before, and before it had ended when the animal-man so easily took whatever he wanted, did whatever he pleased. Picked Logan up like a dead deer and flung him over his shoulder. Grabbed him by a stiff arm and whirled him to cut the ropes.

Logan shivered. Hated himself for doing so, and shivered again. He was suddenly aware of the wind freezing cold tracks of moisture that ran from his eyes to his chin. Humiliation joined the rest of the muddle of confusion in his head, which only made those traitorous tears run hotter.

He was alone. His people were dead, his home destroyed. White Deer, mothering him too much, her head breaking like unfinished pottery against the mounting stone...

There was nothing out there for him. Nothing anywhere.

Hardly aware of what he was doing, he slid a foot he couldn't feel forward through the snow -- one step, just one, towards the animal-man.

The animal-man's eyes narrowed a little. Something that might have been the start of a snarl or a smile briefly curved his lips, then was chased away. He seemed to consider for a long, long moment as he gazed at the shivering boy...then he simply turned sideways and raised an arm, pointing wordlessly back in the direction of the cabin.

The hot tears still burned his cheeks as Logan forced frozen feet to carry him past the animal-man, past the outstretched arm, and towards the only shelter he had.

***

He made the runt walk back the entire way, not stepping forward to help even when the boy staggered and fell sprawling in the snow. Victor merely stood back and crossed his arms, watching and waiting, and sure enough, the kid managed to find his feet again on his own. Boy hadn't even looked at him the whole time, really; not since that moment deep into the woods when he'd tried once again to hold up that fierce little glare.

Creed didn't know for sure what'd prompted that single step in his direction...that apparent surrender to this life he couldn't avoid. He'd half expected he'd have to bring the boy back by force, actually.

But somehow he couldn't find it in him to be entirely pleased with the change. Had the boy somehow managed to break his own spirit out in those woods? That'd be a shame.

He wasn't sure how he meant that, and he didn't try to figure it out.

At last the trembling little form stood at the door, hunched miserably against the continuous wind. The clothes were soaked through. Skin was pale, eyes dull. Creed reached past him and opened the door, waiting for the boy to shuffle through before coming in himself.

Logan stopped in the center of the room, swaying a bit. Victor moved past and gathered up a few blankets that he threw unceremoniously at the kid's feet. If the brat didn't have enough sense to strip and wrap himself in those, Creed wasn't gonna sweat losing him. He had a short tolerance for stupidity, and he was cold and irritated already. Not bothering to watch the boy, he crouched by the banked coals and worked once again on bringing a fire to life. A few long minutes passed with his attention focused on the reluctant flames.

When he finally turned around he saw that the boy -- still dressed in his freezing clothing -- had quietly curled himself into a ball on the bunched blankets. His eyes were closed, and cold-shaken breaths crept past his half-open lips. The idiot kid's skin was practically blue against his too-sharp bones.

The fire was starting to crackle nicely. A welcome scent of burning wood crept through the cabin, drifting to settle over the boy like another blanket.

"Goddamnit," Victor muttered as he straightened from his crouch and walked the three steps to the oblivious boy. He briefly debated slapping the little fool awake to make him get out of those soaked clothes and into the blankets in front of the fire.

Still debating, he crouched down and did it all himself.

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