Sharptooth

For generations, hounds had been an essential part of family tradition. Whether as hunting companions or simply for companionship, each had chosen a pup and reared it as their own.

Fealearn had never been exceptionally fond of hounds. Certainly, she would pet them and toss bones to please them. But she had no inclination to own a hound of her own. Between training the whelp and providing for one, neither seemed particularly tempting nor worth her time.

Her parents often asked when she would want a pup of her own. Their hound bred yearly, spawning offspring as regularly as the cold and warm seasons. Each time they offered her the best of the litter. They'd even save a runt if it would please her. Yet always she declined.

The reaction when, at last, she found her voice to stand up for herself was tempestuous at best. "I do not need a pup," she braved. "Nor will I ever need one."

Her father's expression seemed fit for reaction to a puppy-kicker. "It's tradition!" he scoffed. "It's in your blood. How can you dare to break tradition?"

It was not the last time they argued on the subject. Far from it. Each visit home bred resentment as her parents argued the same points in an effort to wear her down.

Heaving the last basket of apples to the door, Fealearn kicked the door open and set it down. Enough to feed a whole hamlet were she close enough to any. The farmlands provided space and comfort beyond any other place. Here her child could play without being tempted by the thought of war. They provided enough for her household and the farmers she'd befriended over the years.

"Mother! Mother!" Ythyld's bare feet thumped on the wooden terrace. No sooner had she turned around than he appeared in the doorway. In his arms, he cradled a strange cat as large as his head.

"What on earth..?" Eyes wide, she took the cat from him, struggling to work out how to correctly hold it. She looked it over, scanning for signs of disease or pests. 

Bold, dark patches like roses spotted over its tawny fur, filled with amber-brown colouring. Though large, it seemed far more stocky, with short legs and large paws to take its weight. Out of its mouth came a pair of long, narrow canines that curved down over its chin. It let out a rumbling growl as her fingers brushed its stubby tail. Lifting it higher, she peered at its pale belly and spotted flakes of dried blood around both back legs. Fealearn turned the creature around. Its tail was matted with blood.

"I don't know what this is," she said, "but it doesn't belong here."

Ythyld's face fell. "But mother, it's injured! It can't walk."

"That is how nature is," she murmured. "Creatures are injured. They die." She carried it to the terrace and set it on the grass outside, shooing it away. It didn't get to its paws, simply turning its head to look around. She turned away from its wide blue eyes.

Night fell and still it stayed. Watching it alternate between sitting and laying as each hour passed, Fealearn felt guilt claw her chest, each strike more painful than the last. Only once Ythyld had settled in his straw bed did she give in to mercy.

She crept across the terrace with a chunk of deer meat she'd left after dinner. The cat's round ears were alert, twitching and swivelling towards her as she approached, but it did not move its head. She paused. Wild animals were common to the farmlands, though she'd never seen a cat like this. Stray cats typically had pointed ears and were leaner. Despite its stockiness, this cat's round head and big paws seemed more fitting for a kitten, yet its size was that of a young hound.

Fealearn debated the merits of bringing in an unknown, wild creature into her home before hearing its pitiful huff accompanied by a whine. An injured beast was likely to die without treatment. Surely if it could not walk, it wouldn't be able to attack Ythyld either. After all, the child had carried it from sky-knows-where.

Its head lifted as she settled on the grass beside it. Sniffing the air, it looked at her hand but did nothing. Perhaps it had such little energy that it couldn't even move for food. She set the meat down in front of it and watched as it bit and chewed the raw meat ravenously.

"Let's go inside, little one," she whispered, fingers brushing its soft fur. Once it had finished eating she took hold of it around the belly and carried it to the flickering hearth. She added twigs to the flames to keep it going. The cat laid across her thighs without complaint, its pelt ablaze in the light of the fire.

Ythyld grew attached immediately. He ran out with his father to hunt deer just for the cat, chopped meat for the cat, set down water for the cat. It was all he spoke of for days and weeks after her guilt-ridden rescue. She often found him in front of the hearth with his hand gliding across the cat's fur and telling the same tales she had once told him.

The cat became a fixture in their home. When it had warmed to them further and its belly had been filled regularly the cat finally allowed her to take a look at its tail. It seemed unharmed, so she soaked it with water from the creek and discovered bite marks on its hind. Something had attempted to eat it, but somehow it had escaped. She didn't know how to treat such a bite wound. Instead, she cleaned it regularly and encouraged the cat to move by dropping bits of meat about the floor when she cooked in the hearth. Progress was gradual. At first, the cat would only struggle forwards with its forepaws swatting at the floor, then it began dragging itself on its belly across the timber, and eventually its back legs began to find purchase. Winter came before the cat managed to successfully walk more than a few steps without collapsing or crying.

Even with its returned ability to walk, the cat relied on them for food. Ythyld used sheaves of wheat to play with it and dangled crumbs of bread from spiderwebs to encourage its hunting instinct. She felt most uncomfortable with the latter, holding her breath each time the cat let out a little growl and launched its forepaws at the crumb. Ythyld never seemed to be hurt though.

The same could not be said for her. With sharp little claws, the cat often caught her skin when it curled up between her legs and ran in its dreams. None were so worryful that she treated them any different to the remnants of a splinter. A splash of boiled water and a clean cloth did well enough.

Fealearn found the most comfort in knitting when the cat settled with her. She used yarn from the market to make socks for the coldest nights, hunched over by the hearth with the cat snoring softly against her foot. When a blanket went wrong she set it on the floor as a mat and watched the cat curl up there.

So the cat became a fixture. Though it grew, its head remained round, its canines lengthened, and its legs thickened to match its paws. The snow thawed as the cat's back reached Ythyld's waist, instead of his knee as it had been. Though too heavy to lie across her legs, its heavy head was a welcome warmth to her skin.

By spring's approach, she felt an overwhelming desire to bar the door and keep the cat inside. Ythyld desired to show the new blooms to the cat though, and she gave in. She watched from the terrace as the two ran off towards the hills. Fear clutched in her chest. But they came back. Every time after they did too.

She had forgotten her family's obsession over hounds by the summer, her mind so set upon the cat who had become family. When their annual visit to the farm was upon them, she gave no thought to the cat that lay upon the terrace.

"Get back! Beast, back!"

The booming voice of her father was met by a vicious rumble of a growl. The cat only made such noises when met with hostility, such as the cowherd who had run screaming after attempting to whip the poor thing.

Fealearn stormed out of the door. The cat stood directly in front of the door, blocking her mother and father from entering. Its lips pulled back with its snarl and hackles raised made it seem all the more fearsome. Such a sight did not warn them off. Instead, her father had taken out his dagger and wielded it dangerously close to the cat's muzzle.

"Stop," Fealearn snapped. "This cat is ours."

His eyes sharpened on her. "This beast!" he cried in fury. "This beast is no pet to keep, child. You have here a monster, biding its time to eat your children and maul you at the slightest chance. No. I will not stand for such a creature. It must be dispatched - at once!"

Despite his yells, she did not waver. "You will do no such thing," she said, matching his accent in her fury. "We have had no threat from it."

"It threatens me now!"

"No. You threaten it." She held her nerve. "Put the dagger away, or leave."

Her mother trembled in her father's shadow. The indignation causing her to shake was painted on her face as clear as the cat's rose-spotted back. "How dare you take the side of this monster," she hissed. "You don't know what it is. This is no cat."

"It is what it is, and this has served my family well—"

"Family!" scoffed her father. "We are your family, child."

"My family is who I decide." Her retort came sharper than expected. It staggered them, her mother taking a full step backwards. "I am not your child. I have my own child, my farmers, and my cat. This is my family. Not you, who impose such restrictions despite living past the mountains."

At the command of her tapped foot, the cat whirled around and slunk around her legs, her fingers smoothing down its raised fur as it passed. She did not have to turn around to know that it remained behind her. Her father's red face and darting eyes confirmed it.

"That is a beast," he repeated. "From the dark forests. It longs for blood. I will not risk your life simply because you're rebelling against our family."

"How do I rebel, father?"

"If you'd taken in a hound as we told you, you would have all the companionship you yearn f—"

She cut across his words, insulted. "I did not take this cat in for companionship. It was injured, hunted itself, and needed healing. I did it for Ythyld's sake. Not my own. I have never wanted a hound. Nor will I ever."

The scrunching of his face resembled the expression of the cat. His lips distorted into something of a snarl himself. "Get rid of the beast, or else we shan't visit again."

"Your demands will do no good here," she said coldly. "I embrace your threat. Do not come back." Stepping back, she made to close the door.

"How dare you!" her parents screeched in unison.

She slammed the door shut to drown out their venom. They yelled threats, warnings, and insults at the wood, rattling it with their thumping fists and attempts to prise it open. Instead, she kept steady on the other side, locking it firmly with timber across its middle. The battle against the door seemed fit for a thunderstorm, not two refined elders from across the mountains. Their devolution into little more than gusts of screaming wind brought a smile to her face.

"Mother?" Ythyld tip-toed to her side, wrapping his arms around the cat's neck.

"Ignore them," she said. "They'll leave soon enough."

"What if they harm it?" he fretted.

Fealearn pressed her hand to his cheek. "They are beasts set to make themselves bigger than their competition, to force it to flee. Humans prize human life over all else, Ythyld. They do not have the bravery nor boldness to attempt it."

The sun rose to their abuse once more. Remaining indoors, Fealearn busied herself with her knitting with child and cat on either side of her. By sunpeak, the indignant howls vanished.