Chapter 6: First the Clouds, Then the Sun

Many moons passed, as the survivors of the bloody conflict began wishing they had died a glorious death aswell.

The rats, now under the rule of Ratavian the Cruel, had lost all hope. Forced by either the crown or hunger, ventured out of the gutters in search of food. Many falling pray to the cats that now ruthlessly patrolled the Wynds.

The nobles weren't off any better. Infighting and power struggles resounded deep into the nights. Brother fought brother, for not all agreed to follow their new king, Heathcliff. While his claim to the throne was unquestionable, his actions were not.

Round and lazy had he become ever since his father's demise. Depressed and brooding, he never joined any noble gatherings and never left his castle either, preferring to be fattened by his human servants instead.

Only one thing in the world remained that motivated him to move beyond the cat bowl, and it stood before him. Tiny in stature, a mere child had broken in. Fur as white as his own and staring at him with its pronounced red eyes.

"Do you not know whose court you are defiling with your presence, vermin!? Die!"

But Heathcliff couldn't bring himself to end a child, be he rat or not. He removed his paw and saw the little one unmoving. Instead of running, it held the king's paw and approached him.

"I know who you are, King of Cats. Heathcliff, son of the late Lord Earnshaw and Protector of the Wynds."

Heathcliff was stunned.

"You speak... like a noble."

The rat smiled, pleased by Heathcliff's observation.

"Forgive me for not introducing myself earlier. My name is Pius Verus, but I am known as the Blessed Child, for I have been touched by the late King of the Gutters, Saint Rattonius himself."

Blood shot into Heathcliff's eyes and the taste of gall filled his mouth. Claws where drawn and burrowed themselves into the carpet at the drop of this murderer's name.

"I know you are angry and bitter. But we can't dwell in the past forever. I have come here not to die, but to mend what was shattered that day. Your heart and the Wynds themselves."

Unable to suppress his tears, Heathcliff turned away from the little rodent. Too recent was the loss and too deep the wound it had left behind.

"But in order to do that," Verus continued,

"I require your assistance."

Dark was the underground, darker than the darkest nights, for the hope that had illuminated the winding paths and narrow tunnels had vanished with the Enlightend One.

Fear and hunger accompanied by death and decay, were now the Gutters' wardens, and their leashes ended in the paws of Ratavian.

Now in control of the Kingdom, he alone decided who would eat and who would perish. The old, the weak, the sick, and the downtrodden were left to their own devices. Many ventured deeper, never to be seen again.

Then came the capable and the followers of the saint. Scavengers and unsung heroes whose numbers dwindled daily.

The young however were cared for with great affection, their inexperienced minds easy to shape into obedient peons.

Then the warriors. Strong and hardy, their unshakable loyalty bought with wine and cheese.

Finally, at the very top, Ratavian himself. Clever was he to rise so quickly at his age. His ambitions rewarded to the dismay of all.

"Bring cheese and fruit, honey and wine! Whether from chamber or surface, make haste or don't return at all," Ratavian commanded his servants.

Distraught, the three made their way to the edge of the kingdom. Only one staying behind.

"My lord, the storerooms are barren, the cisterns poisoned. There is nothing we can fetch. It is the end of us."

The warning broke against the lord like waves against the rocky shore.

"Off with his head," he jeered, and not a moment later it was so.

"No king are you but a tyrant!" a voice squealed out of the darkness.

"Insatiable are you, your greed only eclipsed by your ego. Blinded you have become to the true scourge, but no longer must we endure!"

"Off with his head," Ratavian commanded with full cheeks, his mind focused solely on feasting.

"Off with his head, I said!" he shouted as the accustomed roll failed to sound.

"Blessed Child, no... Blessed King!" his guards called.

The roll finally came as a grape escaped Ratavians clutches.

Before him stood a small white rat. Red glowed his eyes, and atop his head sat the keychain crown, bent and bloody, but still genuine and supreme.

"Cage the despot and spread the word. Muster every rat, for at dawn his prophecy will come true. For I am his device, and through me Saint Rattonius has returned."