In the Butterfly's Shade

In a small burrow, underneath a tree that had fallen decades ago, a mother fox lay, contentedly cleaning her kits. Her peat brown fur easily camouflaged her and her young from detection, and so she was at ease.

She had just recently given birth to her new litter, and as was customary to all new youko mothers, had worn her spirit form during labor. She would change back soon, but after her young filed her scent into memory, a scent which was stronger as a kitsune.

A tiny mouth yawned, its eyes squinting up at her nearsightedly. It was in kitune form, as all her young where. The themselves would not be able to access their spirit forms until a century of life.

There were three little ones, and she studied them as she cleaned them. There was a vixen, as peat brown as her, with eyes that had already opened, wide and surprisingly beautiful.

Misha, she whispered to her, clarity in their youko language, and nudged the kit to face the burrow hole, as was custom when offering up a name to Inari.

Next she turned to a male, with eyes a smoldering amber and a copper coat. Sey, she named him, grow. He licked Misha's face and eyes when she rubbed at them, and nuzzled her when she shivered with cold.

Last of all she turned to the eldest of her young, who had before thus been sniffing inquisitively at a patch of moss. She laughed at the color of his fur, as silver as Inari's moonlit fields.

Kurama, she named him, trickster*.

The world was a play of watercolor, splashes of light and dark. He was warm, and full, and safe. He knew that there were two at his side, soft and familiar, two that had been at his side since the beginning of his thus short exisistence, and he knew of a scent, of love and caring, and a rough tongue that licked him 'till he was damp, calm, and asleep.

The mother fox awoke, suddenly, and swiveled her ears to catch any sound. She felt the fur on her back stand up, and she growled softly.

She dared not use her ki to further conceal the hiding place of her and her young. She knew all the signs of a hunter. Her instincts told her to run, but her mind knew such an act she could not bear. So, swiftly, she began covering her children with bark, moss, and soil. She laid low.

The footsteps were close now. She whined softly, creeping toward the entrance of the burrow. Almost...

She lunged.

The hunter regarded the rich brown pelt, still warm, though no longer infused with life. He then turned to the burrow. He began to pull the earth around the entrance away.

He sat back and waited. He knew what to look for.

There. A tiny stirring admist the ruination of the burrow. A soft mewl. The hunter examined the tiny kit that appeared as the soil that had once covered it crumbled and fell away. It stumbled over its sibling, who also gave way to be a kit, hidden under soil. He killed them swiftly.

Hunger... cold... for the first time in his life, Kurama felt that something was wrong. The was no warmth about him now, only the soil that clung to his fur, damp from his recent bath, that made him appear a clump of dirt, no different from the rest.

Where was his mother, the comforting prescence that had, for a few brief hours, sheltered him from the world? Where were his siblings, whom had thus recently been at his side?

He snuffled urgently at the air, and stumbled to his feet. Mewing piteously, he staggered forward, unable to detect two small bodies hidden in damp soil.

Still, no mother.

It was then that one of his earliest, and most chilling thoughts, entered his mind, a notion that would follow him through one life, and haunt his happiness in another.

Had she abandoned him? Had his Okaasan left him behind?

Kurama sat, shivering, alone, and wondered what he should do. How could he survive on his own? How could he bear to be alone? He was so small, who would protect him?

A time passed. His stomach growled, and he thought of milk.

Then it struck him. He would go on living, and breathing, and hungering. And hunger must be fed, and air breathed, and life lived. It didn't matter how he did it. He would learn.

He would do what it took to survive. And that was the important thing.

*I know, I know, Kurama's name means "storehouse horse" [sweatdrop]. Let's just say this is the Makai interpretation.

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