the grieving queen (story time w/ aesop) [open]

aesop (they/them) | galeclan

Muscles tired, but still working, Aesop pulled their way out of the elder's den. Though their sight had begun to fail them near the end of their life, they still had no issue in making out light and general shapes. They'd been watching the light begin to fade and listened carefully - their hearing still as sharp as ever - until they knew that the youngest cats of GaleClan had gone to sleep. As much as Aesop loved to tell stories to the curious little minds of the Clan, they always had stories that were sometimes better suited for more experienced minds. Of course, with their eyesight fading, they had to rely more or less on the other cats of the Clan to make sure that if a curious little head poked its way out of the nursery, that they could be scooted back into a warm nest.

Thankfully, having spent many leaf-bares in GaleClan, they knew the layout of the camp well enough. They knew the best places to climb to the top of the elder's den, a fallen log. It wasn't nearly as tall as Basilstar's meeting place, as Aesop would never want to intervene on the leader's position, but it was tall enough that cats could gather and listen to their stories. Stories that most of them had listened to for their entire lives, for even if Aesop had not been born and raised in this camp, there were few cats who had been here longer than them.

They waited a few moments as they scrambled up to the top of the log, letting the wind move through their fur and taking in a deep breath. Any cat in GaleClan knew that when Aesop climbed up here, it meant that they were prepared to tell a story. Any who was curious to listen could gather below and prepare themselves for some entertainment to help warm their hearts as the temperatures began to drop.

After enough sufficient waiting, their ears picking up the sounds of a pawful of cats chittering below, Aesop began.

Once there was a queen, who cradled her only kit close to her body. It was the season of cold weather, and the queen and kit were curled up under a great bush for warmth. Unfortunately, the kit was quite sick, and its breath quite shallow. The queen had spent every day taking care of her kit, cleaning its fur and doing all she could to keep it alive.

An elderly old tomcat passed by, and asked if he might share the queen's den for warmth. She happily obliged, and when the tomcat sat down near the sickly little kit, its crying stilled. She took the opportunity to catch a mouse and bring it back for her and the old tomcat to share. She looked at her kit, cold and drawing such shallow breath, and looked at the tomcat with sadness in her eyes.

"My kit shall live, yes?" she asked him. "The ancestors will not take it away from me!"

The old tomcat nodded in a strange way, that it might as well have meant yes or no. What the queen did not know was that this tomcat was Death himself. The queen began to close her eyes and her head became heavy, as she had not slept in three sunrises and three sunsets. Now she slept, but for no longer than the time it takes to chase a rabbit, when suddenly she awoke cold and shivering. She searched about her den, to find that both the tomcat and her kit were gone.

The queen ran out into the snow, crying out for her kit.

She came across a sleek black she-cat, who said to her: "Death has visited you and has taken your kit."

"Please, tell me where he has gone!" the queen pleaded.

The black cat answered. "I will tell you where he has gone, but first, sing to me the songs that you would lull your kit with. I am Night, and I have heard all these songs and loved them so. I watched over you as you cried to your kit, singing them to soothe its tears."

"I will sing you the songs, but please, I cannot stay long! If I wait too long, Death will take my kit away and I will not be able to catch up!"

Yet Night sat and said nothing, waiting for the queen to respond.

In agony, the queen sang all the songs that she would sing to her kit, of which there were many. When she finally finished, Night spoke to her and said: "Go into the dark fir wood, for I saw Death take your kit along that path."

The queen ran along the path in the dark forest until she came to a crossroad and did not know which way to take. At the crossroad sat a porcupine, a small creature with thorns along its body, sharpened from the cold.

"Have you seen Death go by, with my little kit?" the queen asked.

The porcupine nodded. "I have, but I am quite cold and hungry and need to feed. I will not tell you which way he went unless you warm me against your belly and let me take some of your milk."

The queen let the porcupine feed from her milk, its thorny back piercing into her and causing her to bleed. But as the porcupine finished its meal, it grew large, plump with warmth and milk. So warm was the heart of the sorrowful mother, with which the porcupine then told her the way to go.

Soon, the queen came upon a lake. The lake was not frozen over, and was far too large for her to swim across. She soon thought that perhaps she could drink the lake dry, but knew that it was impossible for anyone to do.

"Let us find an agreement," called a voice from within the lake. "I am fond of collecting pearls, and your eyes are the two clearest I have ever seen. If you weep them out into me, I will carry you over into the garden where Death lives and cultivates flowers and trees, each of which represents a life."

The queen began to cry. "What I would not give to get back my kit!" she sobbed, weeping until her eyes were dry enough to fall out into the lake, where they became two beautiful pearls. Though the queen could no longer see, the lake lifted her and carried her to the opposite shore, where the smells of the most beautiful flowers filled her senses. She could not tell if this garden was on a mountain, in a cave, or upon a moor, but she could tell that it was vast.

"Where shall I find Death, who went away with my little kit?" she asked.

The voice of a she-cat nearby came to her. "He has not arrived here yet," she said. "How have you found your way here, and who helped you?"

The queen turned to the sound of the voice. "I was aided by the night who heard my mourning songs, the porcupine who tasted my milk and felt my warmth, the lake who collected my sight, and I hope from you, too. Where shall I find my kit?"

"I do not know," the she-cat answered thoughtfully. "In this garden, there are many plants and flowers that have faded this night, and Death will come soon to transplant them. You know well that each flower represents a life, just as each is arranged. They look like other plants, but in one facet they are different, for each has a heart that beats. Perhaps you will recognize the beating of your kits' heart. But what will you give me if I tell you what more you must do?"

"I have nothing more to give," the queen said. "But I will go to the ends of the world you for."

"There is nothing for you to do there for me," said the she-cat. "But you can give me your long, beautiful white fur. I am sure you know that it is beautiful, and it pleases me so."

The queen obliged. "If you ask for nothing more, I will give you that gladly." And she gave the she-cat her long, beautiful white fur.

The she-cat led the queen through the garden. Though she could not see, she could still smell the flowers and plants that surrounded her. There were orchids and roses, sunflowers and blazing stars. There was rosemary and cacti, some of which bloomed and some of which was clearly quite sickly and frail. In each flower and plant, she could hear the sounds of heartbeats. Each flower had its name, and each was a life, these cats still alive and scattered farther than the queen could ever imagine. There were even great trees within the garden, celebrating great cats that were accomplishing things who were blessed by the ancestors above to live long, prosperous lives.

But the queen listened to the heartbeats of the smallest plants alone, knowing that one of them would be her kit. They were all so small, their heartbeats so quick as with the smallest of kittens who were sickly and frail. Out of the millions, she recognized the heartbeat that belonged to her kit alone.

"This is it!" she cried, and bent over a sickly little marigold.

"Do not touch it!" called the she-cat. "Rather, wait here, and when Death arrives, do not let him pull up the plant. Instead, threaten him that you will do the same to the other plants, which will frighten him so. He must account for all of them, not one must be pulled up until he receives commission from the ancestors."

Soon, a icy cold rushed through the garden, and the blind queen knew that Death was arriving.

"How did you find your way here?" Death asked. "How have you been able to come quicker than I?"

"I am a mother," answered she.

Death reached out for the delicate marigold, but the queen did everything she could to protect it, wrapping her warm body around it and refusing to move out of his way. But when Death breathed upon her body, which was no longer covered in fur to keep her warm, she was forced to back down, powerless.

"You cannot stop me," Death said.

"But the ancestors can," she replied.

"I only do what they command," said Death. "I am their gardener. I take all their trees and flowers, and I transplant them into the worlds beyond in the unknown land. How they will flourish there, and how it is there, I may not tell you."

"Give me back my kit," said the queen. Quickly, she moved towards a bundle of flowers and showed her sharp claws, ready to tear through the bundle. "I will tear apart all of your flowers, for I am in despair."

"Do not touch them," said Death. "You say you are so unhappy, and now you would make another queen just as unhappy!"

"Another queen?" she said, sheathing her claws.

"I have found your eyes," said Death. "Take them now after I fished them from the lake. They are now clearer than before, and then look deep into the pond close by. I will tell you the names of the flowers you wanted to pull up, and you will see their whole future, their whole life, and you will see what you were about to frustrate and destroy."

With her sight granted back, the queen looked into the pond. In it, she saw two lives. One was full of happiness, a blessing upon the world, and the queen felt joy and gladness all around her. In the second life, she was swallowed by a great hunger and bitter cold, full of loneliness and despair.

"Both are the will of the ancestors," said Death.

"Which of them is the flower of misfortune, and which is the blessed one?" she asked.

"This I may not tell you," answered Death. "But this I shall: one of those two flowers is that of your own kit. It was the fate of your kit that you saw, their future and their life."

The queen cried. "Which one of them belongs to my kit? Tell me that! Release the innocent kit! Let my kit free from all that misery! Rather carry it away than allow it to suffer such a life! Carry it into the will of the ancestors! Forget my tears, and all that I have done!"

"I do not understand," said Death. "Will you have your kit back, or shall I carry it to the place that you know not?"

Then the queen fell to the floor and cried, praying to the ancestors above. She begged for their forgiveness, that she may never again interfere in the life of another for her own selfish gain.

And with that, Death went away with her kit to join the ancestors above.

As Aesop finished their story, they settled down a bit more on the log, their eyes filled with colours as though they had witnessed the story themselves. As though the kaelidascopic array of colours in their eyes was what would have come should they have fallen into a lake. Something in the story had certainly struck a nerve in the elder, who had to watch their own two kits die so young. They held their emotions softly against their heart as to not upset any of the Clan below them, thinking of the way they purred around the small bodies of Jubilee and Prue. How small they were, far too small in order to escape Death.

Of course, it was just a story like any other, one that they'd heard in passing from the many cats they knew.

They listened as the cats below them chattered, and waited for them to return to their own dens to sleep for the night.

story by hans christian anderson ● 2371 words