#morrigan pawstep

[kinlochstories]

The End of Nijinsky

AN: A story relating to the rise of the Jaws of Hakkon and the end of Nijinsky II. This is oooold, but I wanted it on the blog. Originally written to help me nail down what sort of personality Jaws would have. 

The good die young. It is a simple statement, plain in its making and plain in its utterance. But as the Jaws of Hakkon ponders on such words, the tip of his tail twitches uneasily. Yes, it is true the good die young, for he had seen Native Dancer succumb to a disease the likes of which he had never seen, a quietly thundering disease that left him bitter and lashing out in his final moments. But that had been when the Jaws of Hakkon was young, a mottled brown lump nestled into his mother’s belly, suckling of her life nectar and reveling in the simplicity of being a cub, of being alive.

He had also heard word of his father dying, and the king of a faraway land had been good and fair. His mother had told him as much, and the female lioness called Kundala had seemed to withdraw from the pride then, to grieve within herself for a king she had spent only a few days’ company in. The Jaws of Hakkon had been only a young king himself, then, and far too busy with the reorganization of a pride far too large for such a young ruler to care for her and comfort her. Now their relationship strained in silence, for he had inherited her inclination toward ignorance and was all the happier for it even as it left his abdomen clenching tight and empty. Sullen, he thought, was the word.

Perhaps the most important death he had seen, had been the ill-fated Nijinsky, whose final moments the Jaws of Hakkon had been forced to experience and now lived again and again in his most cruel of waking nightmares.

It had been the poison of a serpent, this much he knew. He had been young then, barely past cubhood, with a watered-down red coat, birthing red, his dam had called it, and she had nosed his ear the day before and whispered to him his name as was her mother’s right. Nijinsky had taken note of the developing mane that grew in clumps along the length of his neck and had begun to take him on patrol, an experience that so often terrified the Jaws of Hakkon, for he had grown up on the tales of the elder queens who often spoke in hushed whispers of what Nijinsky did to young cubs he took on a walk.

“That will not happen to him,” his mother had said softly, and she had nosed him again and laid her protection on him. But it was a protection in name only, a placebo to stall his fear, and he had learned the truth of the pride as he began to lose his cub spots and his shoulders grew glossy black fur and his flank birthing red and his paws pounce-churned snow. And so a few months past the anniversary of his cubbing day, when Nijinsky led him out onto the Kinloch’s expansive territory, away from the pride grotto and the blossoming jungle trees that sprung up around it, the Jaws of Hakkon dragged his paws, unwilling yet to to lose his spirit to an uncertain afterlife.

If Nijinsky had noticed, he had said nothing, simply continued on, sauntering with a steady confidence, and as they walked the oasis gave way to desert and so the king’s sandswept pelt gave him camouflage and left the Jaws of Hakkon without bush or foliage to hide behind, merely the open lands and the large king who padded before him. Nijinsky had left the cape cobra that so often kept to his shoulders, giving it to the oldest of the huntresses, a big copper brute of a lioness who often ignored Jaws of Hakkon with all the ease one would ignore a fly.

At last the traveling pair came to a flat-topped rock jutting from the desert and it was here Nijinsky sat, leaning back heavily on his haunches. The Jaws of Hakkon crept to the edge of the rock and looked up at him, convinced it must be some sacrificial altar, stained rusty-red by the blood of a thousand cubs, but Nijinsky caught his eye and smirked, and the Jaws of Hakkon looked away, abashed and ashamed for his fear and foolishness.

“Do you think I kill the unwanted here?”

Nijinsky spoke to the young male, and the Jaws of Hakkon forced his gaze back on Nijinsky, molten amber meeting eyes skylark wing’s blue. Nijinsky laughed, deeply, in the pit of his belly, and slapped one paw on the hard ground. It did not echo, as the Jaws of Hakkon thought it would, and the king peered down at him with an expression that was almost smug.

“You are young,” the king finally admitted. “And you are too free with your ears. These lionesses spin lies because they see you as you are to become and wish to control you. Do not let them. I shall tell you something now, and you must keep it with you at all times. I am neither the strongest nor the wisest, nor even the most cruel across these lands.”

And the Jaws of Hakkon knew this to be true, for he had seen the shadow of the Savannah Prince, had heard tales of the Deathlords who killed for fun within their own prides and would raid others, stealing lionesses and killing potential heirs. Yes, the Jaws of Hakkon knew well that there were other prides and other kings but he had not until now thought to realize how plain Nijinsky was.

“Our strength lies in numbers,” Nijinsky continued on as the Jaws of Hakkon watched him, rapt with an intense desire to learn, to be taught. “Because we are many, we can produce what others want most. Because we are many, we find what others covet most. Because we are many, but because our territory can only hold so few, it falls upon the king to cull the ill-fitted.”

He paused and glanced at the Jaws of Hakkon, and the adolescent stared back, enraptured. “You may not choose the path that I did. You think me unkind, and the cubs are taught obedience through fear of my wrath, but I shall tell you the truth that my predecessors never thought about.”

The Jaws of Hakkon stepped closer, onto the rock, to within a few pawsteps, for Nijinsky’s voice grew faint even as he spoke, as if to keep the wind from stealing his secrets.

“Both Fallen Leaves and Cosmic One were known for their generosity. But as I did, they had to struggle with the challenges of a rapidly developing pride, especially in a land where only the most sought-after of cubs may find homes amongst other families. And so they both chose the way that was easiest to them. Cubs that displeased them were taken away and left on the edge of their territory, far enough away that such young creatures could never find their way back. Storm Cat, fool that he was, kept up the same tradition and came to chase the mothers away as well if they displeased him. Imagine a newly-made mother sent into the desert, even with only a single cub; her death was assured. All their deaths were assured, and these good kings were lauded for their bloodless reigns.”

Nijinsky finished, licked the length of his muzzle and growled quietly, “Do not become like them.”

They had started back then, their abrupt venture into the wilderness disrupted by an invisible threat that Jaws of Hakkon knew nothing of. It occurred in the grassland that bordered the oasis, that rocky boundary that separated paradise from purgatory, and the shoots grew thick and weedy and clung to their legs like living things.

There was the silence, the nothingness of a tendon drawn too taut, coiled beneath well-muscled hindquarters but without proper guidance and proper elasticity. The cramp, the unbearable and sudden terrible pain, came in the form of an adder leaping and snapping at the Jaws of Hakkon’s black shoulder, and the uncaring ground flew up to meet him as he was batted aside the way all young males are.

But this was not the swat of a lioness dogged by suitors or the crushing blow of a pride king driving would-be usurpers from his territory. This was almost a caress, made terrible by the shock that sent the Jaws of Hakkon spinning away even as death flew toward him like the black-winged Morrigan.

There was the dull thud, barely a whisper, silken and slippery, of contact. There was a hiss, a snarl of pain and outrage, and the resolute snap of a spine snapped neatly in half. The adolescent rose shakily to his paws and was witness to the pride lord wearily shaking the corpse of their assailant. He dropped it, as if the small creature weighed of a thousand stones rather than a few small pebbles.

And the gaze he cast upon the Jaws of Hakkon was very dear.

“Fetch me some water, if you are able,” Nijinsky said, and his whiskers drew back against his face and made him look ten years aged as he sank down into a hunched crouch beside the dead serpent. “I must drink, and I will not move until I have.”

In the present time, where the Jaws of Hakkon’s broad shoulders stand wider and more stoutly than Nijinsky’s ever had, the unfortunate heir rumbles quietly into the night air. His nostrils flare and his countenance relaxes a moment later. The memory of it, the absurdity of it, often ruffles the guard hairs that dive between his heavy shoulders and follow the length of his spine. But there is no danger here, no danger now, and once more he loses himself to memories of a worse time.

The adolescent did not not know then as the adult knows now that a plea for water is a plea for peace and respect and a painful death carried out in isolation. And Nijinsky did not expect him to know, only expected him to search in vain and return too late.

But the Jaws of Hakkon was fleet-footed, for he was driven by desperation and by guilt, and his youthful limbs carried him into familiar territory. With his long, white nails he drug moss down from the side of a tree and stooped low to carry it in his mouth. The sharp scent of water drove him deeper still and he was quick to dunk his burden into the gently rolling water that sprang from an underground well and flowed above ground in a brisk stream before dipping down beneath the land once more. The Jaws of Hakkon carried his precious cargo swiftly but sweetly, taking care not to suck the moss dry or scatter precious droplets upon the wind.

The sun had begun to dip only a fraction when he returned to Nijinsky’s side, for even with his quickness it had taken some time, and his young paw pads were raw with rough going and stuck by pointed stones that dug between the toes. By now Nijinsky was in the throes of the venom, spread on his side with his four paws slapping weakly against invisible demons.

The Jaws of Hakkon trembled with pity and attempted to feed the agonized elder some of the water, hoping to calm the pride lord’s spirit as he calmed Nijinsky’s desperate thirst. But the elder lashed out, first with velveteen paws and then with claws exposed, and the Jaws of Hakkon received a shallow slice to one shoulder before he backed away, uncertain and afraid.

He crouched close by and laid his chin on one heavy, helpless paw. And so he sat there, and he watched his predecessor die in the grasslands between the Kinloch’s oasis and the harsh desert that lay beyond, where even weeds could not survive. At some point his mother came for him and came for the king, and the eldest of the surviving ancients, Sunfeather, pressed one shaky paw down on the dead lord’s muzzle, pressing him down into the ground and out of sight.

“Good riddance,” she said softly, and the Jaws of Hakkon bared his fangs at her, though with time he came to realize that as he was being molded, she had been, and she had been made in a time before Nijinsky and as such held no allegiance to him. But his cub-back bristled then, white hot rage mixing with golden sorrow, for he had loved his not-father and had come to see him as the desolate desert that surrounded their stubborn oasis.

And so he had come to realize, as he remembered now as an adult, that Nijinsky had been the desert itself, unforgiving and without mercy, but a protector to their pride all the same.

The Jaws of Hakkon at last stands up in the shallow cave of his den, shaking off bits of debris that cling to his shaggy pelt. Aside from the typical sounds of pride life, all is silent, and the world slumbers in the early morning before the dawn. His whiskers spread out, searching and seeking, and he sits back on his haunches with a satisfied sigh as the soft whisper of a cape cobra slithering through the grass greets his ears.

The orphaned cape cobra, Nijinsky’s constant companion, has recently taken command of one of the cubs, a litterling sired by him. He calls her Wintersbreath, and she peers at him with the icy eyes of creeping chill and cunning cold.

Nijinsky died young because he was good, and so the Jaws of Hakkon will likely follow in his place, but as Nijinsky gave them the sweeping desert that encircles their paradisal land, so the Jaws of Hakkon will leave behind the fangs of frost. This he has sworn.

#kinloch pride #kinloch stories #king: jaws of hakkon