The Light of Dusk

Chapter Eight - Voices

Dusk wanted to kill himself, after that moment. Why had he done that? Why had he done that?! There was only one option. He was crazy. Insane in the head. A lunatic. Out of his mind. Losing his mouse tails. Evil..
Yet his father.. He looked so happy. He wanted to wipe that smirk off his face, get rid of that 'I told you so!' look. He hated it. He did not want to satisfy his father. He wanted him to be upset with him, tell him how horrible he was, tell him how he hoped he never saw him again, tell him he hated him, tell him he wasn't his son.. But he praised him. Dusk hated it. Dusk hated himself. He wanted to die.
He had strange dreams that kept him from attacking his father, provoking him, or running out into the snow and burying himself, or hitting his head repeatedly against the rocks until he bled to death. The voices in his dreams told him they could give him what he really wanted. This, to Dusk, was solid proof he was crazy. What he really wanted was to die, so why didn't the voices kill him? He had told them he would do what they wanted if they killed him, but they just repeated, we can give you what you really want. What he really wanted. Were the voices saying he didn't really want to die? Because if so, they would be lying. Why did voices in his dreams have to be so stupid? It wouldn't be long before he heard those voices in his head, too.
The lynx only beat him now if he looked too sad, or did not respond to him, so Dusk tended to look sad and not respond. It was what he deserved. 
Dusk was bored nowadays, sitting in that cave, but he didn't care. It was nothing compared to what he had done. One day, Mal had decided to teach him how to hunt. When Dusk refused, he had threatened not to beat him anymore. This had him much more eager to hunt. How else must he forgive himself? He would not until he had suffered double, triple, quadruple the pain he had given his mother and sister. He was beginning to realize Squirrel's death was his fault, too. If he had not been born, Mal wouldn't have bothered with her. Or if he left his mother before Squirrel's death, Mal would have no reason to kill her. It was all his fault..
So soon, at six moons old, Dusk was a skilled hunter. He could catch everything from mice to rabbits to birds, although there hardly were any of those to find. He mostly lived on the deer meat Mal brought home every once in a while. He decided venison was his favorite prey.
Dusk had ventured out once, but only because Mal had made him. He would be content to just be beaten all day, but no, he had to go outside. Maybe the cold would kill him. Maybe then he would be redeeming himself. But Dusk knew his coat was much too thick for him to die of pneumonia.
On that 'adventure,' he had seen a cat, at Pine Grove. It had gray and white fur and green eyes. It had stared at him for a moment as he walked closer, paralyzed in fear. Then it had wailed and run away in terror. It turned out he had had blood on his mouth from his previous meal, but Dusk suspected that wasn't the only reason it had fled.
Mal was now drilling into him fighting techniques. He was always shouting, "Constant vigilance!" and then clawing him across the flank. Without realizing it, his body had taught him to leap away as soon as he said the words and was furious with himself for it. I can't even get hurt properly!
The days went on. Winter had passed before he knew it and the voices kept becoming more frequent and urgent. They were now telling him 'your time is almost near' and to 'watch for the mist to clear your vision.' That hadn't made any sense at all. Dusk was sure he had heard the voices wrong. Mist obstructed vision, not cleared it. Were the voices crazy? Oh right. He was the crazy one.
Mal continued to train him, teaching him the best battle moves and strategies. He had taught him how to feint a swipe just right and how to slam an enemy's head on a rock at the exact right place to cause the most damage. And how to climb trees, too. He wasn't sure how it would be useful, as there were barely any trees that weren't coniferous, but he learned using one of the only deciduous trees anyhow.
At nine moons old came the strangest visit of the voices. He had been passed out from an unusually vicious training session, where Mal had shown him how to throw an enemy against a tree or rocks right on the spine to fracture it, when the cat came. Its fur seemed to be all colors at once, all different lengths and textures and thickness at once, and its eyes.. Its eyes were the same way. The only thing that stayed remotely the same was the pair of feathered wings on its back. They changed from the purest of white to a beige to a sandy color. The cat had told him it was 'the Hwlyn,' and that it would be help him get what he wanted. It had told him that it had sent those voices, but seeing as he ignored them, had decided to come itself. Then, its voice had changed tone, to a mystified version of its original.

"Before the Darkness can come to an End,
The Light of Dusk must Brave more than Brawn
To show even the worst of Wrongs can Mend,
And pave the way to the next Dawn."

Then, Dusk had woken up in a cold sweat. Could it mean something? The dream felt real. Absolutely, completely real. He could recall the memory of the Hwlyn as if it were a memory and not a dream. He didn't have enough of an imagination to just dream up that cat, or that.. What would you call it? Prophecy. Yes, prophecy. It said his name, and the dream had come to him, so it was clear he was the 'Dusk.' And it talked about making wrongs better..? Did that mean what he had done would be forgiven? What if he didn't want it to be forgiven? What if he deserved the pain of guilt? It was too much for Dusk. He got up and ran, away from Mal, away from the voices, away from the prophecy. Just ran.