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I'm still not certain what to do with it, let alone what to call it.
Argos?
Cerberus, maybe.
I've always liked that name.
I don't think too hard about it, though, because it's starting to seem a moot point. If I have to kill it (and it's looking more and more like I might have to do exactly that), then it won't much matter what name it carried.
It followed me home, months ago, on the last morning I'd held dearest Lilith in my arms.
Perhaps that's the reason I haven't yet had the heart to put it down.
I couldn't save her.
If I cannot even save this wretched beast…
What sort of an angel am I?
…
…demon, I mean.
I haven't even let myself in to my study, but can already hear it snarling through the door. It hasn't dared attack me – not yet – but grows braver, and more ferocious, with every passing day.
I have tried my best to soothe it.
To teach it.
To forge some connection with it.
Nothing has worked. It seems the very embodiment of bestial fury, and incapable of anything more than that.
I step into my study, and sigh as it thrashes and growls and struggles to twist around to face me.
I almost feel bad, having to keep it so tightly chained. It can barely raise itself off the floor, let alone move around. Its snarls are smothered under a heavy iron muzzle.
Unfortunate necessities.
When I first brought it to the House, it viciously attacked the first person it had laid eyes on. Luckily for everyone, sweet Mammon is much stronger than he looks.
(Or acts.)
(Or thinks he is.)
I had grossly underestimated just how powerful it is, and shudder, now, when I imagine how things might have ended had it stumbled on little Belphie, first.
At first, I had only leashed it to the stone study wall, and left it free enough to explore the room – so long as I was present to keep a watchful eye on it, of course.
That, too, proved disastrous. It destroyed everything it could reach, always in a furious, snarling, hateful rage, and when it had run out of things on which to vent its anger, turned its unending rampage on itself, instead. It tore at its own flesh. Gnawed on its own limbs. Slammed itself against the walls, over and over and over again. It shrieked and it wailed and it howled, with such determined fervor that it once managed to spontaneously set my nearby desk on fire.
How does one domesticate something so terrifying?
“Good evening, my poor thing. Lay down.”
Its tail is bristling, its claws are digging deep gouges into the floor, its eyes are smoldering with fiery bloodlust… but it eagerly obeys the command, because it craves the reward it knows is coming next.
And, of course, because it's hungry.
It watches me the whole time I work to release it from its cruel bondage, but only my hands. My feet. My busy fingers.
It has never once looked me in the eye.
With one foot planted firmly on its spine, I finish the last of it, and step back to avoid getting my legs torn open.
“Are you hungry?”
Salivating profusely, and with its glittering eyes locked on the shuffling, rustling bag in my fist, it throws itself against its leash and strains, hard enough that its eyes bulge and its tongue lolls.
“Easy, now,” I sigh. “Don't fret. I always bring you what you need, do I not?” I pull a wide-eyed rabbit out of the bag, like some macabre human magician, and toss it into the fire.
The rabbit doesn't even have time to scream.
Nor do the next two.
The two after that, however… don't get off nearly so lucky.
With its hunger sated, it plays with them. Pounces on them, pins them down while they scream, snaps their legs, gnaws on their ears… then releases them.
Again, and again.
This is the only thing it seems to enjoy.
Crouched over its last victim, with blood dripping down its chin and a feverish hellfire in its eyes, its playful torture gets a little too rough… and the eviscerated rabbit clutched between its claws finally stops convulsing.
Dead things are no fun.
It snaps its head up and lunges for the still-squirming bag in my fist, and is stopped short only by the harsh clang of chain and a thick iron collar.
“Still not satisfied? Very well. My… apologies for this one, though. The kitchen has been running short on rabbits, of late.”
It spits, snarls, and lunges again.
“Be careful how you play with it,” I warn, even though I know it doesn't understand me. “This one has claws.”
I didn't feel bad for the rabbits, but whisper a quick prayer for the kitten.
…I don't suppose anyone's listening to me anymore, though.
Old habits are so hard to break.
The terrified kitten hits the floor at its feet, and it bares its teeth in a sick parody of a cruel grin.
And attacks.
“RrrrOOOOOWWWWW! HISSSSSSSSS!” The kitten strikes back, against a predator a hundred times larger than itself, and lands one solid swat.
“YELP!”
It recoils in terror, as far from the puffed-up, hissing kitten as its leash will allow. Wide-eyed and trembling, it covers its injured nose and hunches defensively against the floor.
“Oh… oh, dear,” I frown. “I told you to be careful. Have you never experienced pain, before?”
It whimpers, and tries to back further away.
“No, I don't suppose you have. Shhhhh. There, there. It's just a tiny thing. It can't hurt you.”
I'm suddenly not sure which of them I feel worse for.
“Here. Look. It's not so scary,” I smile, as I soothe the kitten with words, a bit of subtle magic, and gentle pets between its ears.
The kitten's fur stops bristling. Its tail smoothes out; its ears perk back up.
It starts purring, and rubbing its head against my hand.
The sight leaves my captive utterly spellbound.
It stares.
It blinks.
It creeps forward, and warily sniffs the air.
For the first time, it isn't snarling.
It looks perplexed.
So terribly confused.
It looks at the kitten, at this tiny thing that was so viciously angry, a moment ago, and now, somehow…
…isn't.
It looks at my hand, so gently soothing all the awful feelings away. Back at the purring kitten.
At its own hands.
And, at long last…
…right into my eyes.
Its…
No. For the first time, that pronoun doesn't feel right.
His deep, green eyes search mine. They have always shone with cruelty and cunning and a wild, feral intelligence, but something else is, at last, rising to the surface.
Is it empathy?
Compassion?
…
…Or hope?
He studies the scenario for a few seconds more, struggling to understand, then carefully takes my other hand, turns it this way and that as if searching for a hidden miracle, then puts it on his own head, right between his horns.
My heart breaks for him, and I gently stroke his hair. “Is this all you've ever needed, then? A kind word? A soft touch? To know something other than pure, blinding… Wrath?”
His eyes well with desperate tears, and he pushes his head up against my hand, just like he saw the kitten do. He tries to imitate the sound of its quiet purrs, of those happy sounds that he can't seem to fathom came from such a furious little beast, and buries himself in my arms.
…I think I'll name him after all.
Cerberus, though…
I'll save that one for a dog.
Satan suits him better.