Endless winds shook the huddled buildings, rattling their shutters, but the Last didn’t care. Truthfully, he barely knew. It was dark, and he could feel the chill in the air. Dimly, he knew it was winter, but he couldn’t remember when. His family were gathered nearby, waiting for him to die. To give up his long, long life, and join the others. He wanted to say something hurtful. Age had often done this to his peers, inflicting a jealous barb into everything they said, bitter at the infirmaries of age, and jealous of the young. But they were all gone, and his family were not gathering like vultures, eager to strip his carcass, but to honour, and the sight, if it could be called that, of his, what was it, his grandchild’s grandchild, giggling while she poked a stick into the fire brought him a feeling of great calm.

“Heh”

“Grandfather! What is it?” He felt a hand, gentle and soft, grasp his feeble arm. He could dimly see her face, a blurred picture of his granddaughter. Beautiful Mishka.

“Who is the precious little one I see by the fire, my Mishka?”

Her grip tightened. “Oh Grandfather, don’t you remember? It’s Gregori’s daughter, Anya.”

“Ah… Yes… I think I remember now.” He coughed, several times. He saw, he thought, several small spots of blood. “I think it’s time, little flower…”

“No…” Murmured despair could be heard from those around him. Despite his strange appearance, the people around him loved the old man dearly.

“Yes, child.” With unexpected strength, he caught her hand up in both of his, the velvet fuzz of her skin so distinct against his own hairless wrinkles. “I want to say something. I need to speak of things forgotten.” He paused. “The fog clears, I think.”

“Oh, Grandfather…” She huddled over his clasped hands, pressing her cheek against his skin. Carefully, he extracted his left hand, still gripping tightly with his right, and stroked her head, subconsciously scratching behind her ear as if she were a cat.

“My beautiful kitten…” His head felt light. “ I know you’re all listening, and I want to tell you who you are. Yes, yes, I know I’ve spoken of this before, but you never listened. But remember. I am the Last. Soon I’ll pass, and you must remember.” He struggled to sit up, and to his relief, a couple of his kin rushed forwards to help. “Thank you. God seems to be granting me a clear mind in my last hours. My glasses. Give me my glasses. Oh, thank you…” He laboriously tugged the curved wire frame over his puffy ears, wrought large by the passage of time, and took in the vista surrounding him. From the oldest of his kin, to the youngest, they blanketed him, and he drew a great strength from their presence. He could see the grief, the pride, and oh, the love, in their eyes. “Oh, I love you all so much…”

“Grandfather, please… Save your strength…” Mishka trembled, on the verge of tears. Her ears drooped. Old as she was, she still looked beautiful, the old man thought, so much like her grandmother.

“Shh, my kitten, don’t be sad. I’ve lived too long. Far too long. I’ve buried two wives, and all my children bar one…” He looked around. “Nicholai?”

“Here I am, father.” An unsteady figure picked itself out of the crowd, seemingly as old as the old man himself.  A thin, white furred hand joined Mishka’s in holding the old man’s hand. He gently leant over and rubbed his cheek against Mishka’s own. “Good to see you…”

“You too, uncle.”

“How is he?”

“I…”

“I’m dying, not deaf!”

“Oh!” “Father!”

He chuckled evilly. “Oh, your faces…” He feebly waved their protests aside. “No, no. Hush. I want to speak of who I am, who you are, and where you come from. Attend to me!” They fell silent. Not because he demanded it, or because he deserved it, but because he was the Last, their Patriarch, and they loved him. And after he passed, all his people were gone.  If he wanted their attention, he would have it. His head hung, and silence reigned for a time.

Nicholai leant close. “Father?”

A slight smile graced the old man’s lips. “Give me a moment, I’m tired, and I need to be clear.” He slowly sat up, feeling a mounting fever, and licking the beads of sweat from his upper lip, amazed he could still recognize the salty taste. “So long ago. I was born so long ago…” He coughed. “It was a time of great conflict, and a time of great prosperity. Half of the world lived like gods, and the rest squatted in the dirt, bound by barbaric beliefs, and forced to stay there because the enlightened wouldn’t act. Our great mother, the country we loved so much, fractured, and became many small places, without strength. Without resolve. And without that resolve, we did terrible things. We had weapons. Terrible, terrible weapons that would kill all they touched. Weapons we sold to any who gave us what we wanted.” Several of the figures around him nodded a silent assent. This was common knowledge, documented many times.

“War almost destroyed us. Not a war between peoples, or countries, but of ideologies. Damn them. Such foolishness…” Tears ran down his face, and his fists trembled. He raised his head and sighed.

“We don’t know exactly what happened. There was a time when we bred disease, both to harm, and to cure. Grew it in bottles, and tried to keep it secret. Grew it and twisted it and grew it more. Vaccines and counter-vaccines. Plague and anti-plague. All it took was a bomb in the right place, or maybe the wrong place, and everything fell apart.”

“Nine months later, the first of you was born. It was as if the very beasts around us had, in some strange alchemy, become part of our very beings. And you were hated. The pious called you abomination, and the rational called you mutation, but all called for separation or destruction. At least, until it became clear you were all that was to be. And there was my kind. Affected late in the womb, but unaltered like you. We gained a strange vitality. A long life, robust and healthy. We were a queer hybrid, not quite of our parents, or quite like you. The last of Mankind.”

“We grew up alongside you, and watched the others fade away. My first wife was a human like me, but our children were, well, not. Two Foxes, three Hybrids and a Wolf. I grieved so, when Anya died. I wanted to die. But I had my family to watch over. And Time heals all. I married again, years later, when an Angel soothed the bitterness. Liana was so beautiful, and so kind. She was a Hybrid. A crossbred mongrel. We never did figure out exactly what she was, but we figured she was mostly Wolf, with a little Cat thrown in. We had six children. Three Wolves”, his eyes flickered to his last remaining son, “two stillborn and a Cat. Your mother, little kitten.”

Shaking hands wiped his eyes, and he reached to cradle her cheek. “You look so much like her…”

Bravely, she tried to smile as his hairless fingers caressed the fading velvet of her cheek. “Grandfather…”

“No, you do. If anything, you’re so much more beautiful. Just so sweet.” He sighed. “I ramble, forgive me. Now, where was I? War. The more extreme of our Brothers in the hot countries went mad. Not only were they besieged, but they were also cursed. Their women birthed monsters. In their horror they slew them. Some even slew their wives, as if it was their doing. Eventually, their anger turned westward, as it often did, blaming their troubles on old enemies, and those weapons we had sold, so long before, were finally unleashed. The greatest country in the west lost three cities, its leaders, and its reason. The soldiers of the west were recalled, and the peoples of the hot lands rejoiced, for, finally, the invaders were gone. When even the guards to their borders were withdrawn, only then did they pause. And realise.”

He paused. “Please. I need water…” A cup was brought, and he drank a little. 
“Grandfather, please, save your strength.”  Mishka hugged him.
“Silly girl, why? I have no time. I have to talk. While I can. Now listen.” He coughed.
“There was panic. Mass panic. People tried to flee. But the roads were gone.”
“Gone, Grandfather?”

“Destroyed! Bombed! They wanted no-one to escape their revenge.” He seemed to shrink a little. “They turned the hot lands to glass. The Cursed Lands, you call them now. Dead and deadly, just like they wanted. And even the greatest of nations fell to chaos in the wake of the destruction, as its people followed its leaders into madness, and civil war. And we watched, Nicholai, my Nicholai, as we fell into ruin. Didn’t we? We watched as we fell?”

Nicholai squeezed his father’s hand gently. Death was close. “Yes, Father, I remember. I was so scared, and everyone was fighting. But I remember how strong you were, in those last bloody years of war. Before the Accord…”

“Yes… When the last of my kind finally realised they were a lost cause, and surrendered to the truth. Gave up their authority to those who had driven them to their knees. Such a pity they didn’t understand the true nature of that truth.” He sighed, and fell silent. Several minutes passed before Mishka hesitantly spoke.

“Grandfather?”

“Little kitten, could you bring me little Anya? I would like to see her clearly, before I go.” Mishka flinched, but ushered Anya into the old man’s presence. “My grandchild’s grandchild… hello, little Anya.” He reached out a trembling hand, and her tiny tawny hands took hold of his.

“Eee! You look funny!” She paused, staring with the bluntness of all children. “No fur? Did it fall off?”

“Heh heh, yes it fell off, Anya. Fell off a long long time ago.” He scratched her ear, and cat-like, she twisted delightedly into his hand at his touch. He kissed her head gently. “Silly kitten…” He took a deep, unsteady breath. “Anyway, most of us surrendered, thinking our replacements had beaten us, and not realising the truth. You are not our replacements, no, you are simply our children. Understand? You are our children. They didn’t understand. They thought we were watching the death of our species, when we were simply changing. But then again, most of us were poorly educated. We believed, followed, and assumed all manner of insane beliefs. Few understood who you were, and who we were, and what connected us.” He coughed, violently, and blood speckled his hands, and bed sheets. He didn’t have long. And his vision whirled.

“My beautiful children. My beautiful, beautiful children. I love you so.” His voice weakened. “All I want is that you remember that you are all related, that you are all kin. All Kin. You are all human, and you are all strange hybrid beasts. And I don’t want you to repeat our mistakes. We hated one another for trivial reasons. Can you imagine hating someone for the colour of his or her fur? We hated each other for even less than that. So stupid.” Anger lent his voice strength. “So fucking stupid.” Anya squeaked, and pulled back

“Father, calm down…” “Grandfather, please…”

“Oh! Anya, I’m… I’m sorry. Kitten, come back. Please?” Anya hesitantly shuffled forwards, her gaze shifting from the tired old man before her, and Nana Mishka. Mishka smiled.

“G’anpa, I’m sorry…”

“Hush, kitten, it wasn’t your fault. I’m just tired.” He paused, and looked over to a younger wolf, one of Nicholai’s sons. “Fyodor? In the dresser behind you you’ll find a book, and a small box. Could you bring them here?”

Fyodor, a handsome and distinguished wolf, nodded his assent, and swiftly brought the desired items to his grandfather, pushing past Nicholai. “Excuse me father. Here they are, old man.” Fyodor said quietly, a certain twinkle in his eyes that belied the disrespectful tone. He looked up at Mishka. “Cousin.” After all this time, his heart still skipped a beat. She was still magnificent. Still so beautiful. Flushing, he looked away. “Uh… are you well?”

She blushed. Many years before, despite their blood ties, they had been close. Never lovers, but more than friends. “Yes, cousin, I am well, and you?”

Before he could respond, the old man interrupted. “Oh, my precious book.” He held it close. It was a beautifully bound work, in vibrant blue stained leather, gloriously inscribed with exquisite gold scrollwork around its borders. “This is the single most important thing I can give you, children. It contains great wisdom, but do not be fooled that its words are infallible. They are not, but those who wrote it meant well. And I like to think my own little contribution at the end is of use to you. But beware. Selfish people will want to command its message to their own end, even if, at its heart, it is a message of peace…” A few people around him nodded, they all understood the teachings, and they weren’t stupid. “Don’t nod like sheep. Idiots. Read it yourselves, and make your own minds up. Believing what you’re told is what got us in this mess.”

“You gonna lecture us right till to the end, old man?”  Fyodor’s words belied the pain clearly etched across his face.

“Cocky bastard. Yes, yes I am… Here, take it.” He held the book out for his grandson, who froze in surprise. “Take the damn thing, cur! Are you afraid?” Fyodor growled, and snatched the tome from the old man’s hands. “Better. You always were a feisty child. I entrust you our faith, because you have the balls to question. Faith without question is blind.” A warm smile crossed his tired features. “You aren’t blind, are you?”

“Grandfather, I…”

“Quiet.” He fumbled at the small cardboard box that accompanied the book, drawing forth a sheaf of papers. “Nicholai, these are our family papers. Births and deaths for close to two hundred years. This is where you all came from. Take them, and build a dynasty.” Nicholai took them reverently. “Oh, and Nick, here…” Shuddering fingers held out a tiny treasure. A simple golden band, glittering with a few tiny jewels. “Your mother’s wedding ring, Nick, please take it, and hand it on. And this…” He held out another ring, a band of platinum, sparkling with emeralds. “This I want to give to my youngest, my Anya. My first wife’s ring. From Anya, to Anya.” He held it out towards her. “Isn’t it pretty, kitten?”

“Ooh, sparkly…”

Anya reached for it, but he pulled back, and held it towards Mishka. “Keep it safe. For her.” Mishka gently took the ring from his hand. Anya mewled petulantly.

“I will, I…”

“Oh!” The old man shuddered, and the throng around him tightened. “Nick? Nicholai? I, I can’t see you…”

Nicholai’s hand gripped his father’s tight. “I’m here, Papa.”

“Oh, little Nicky, I was afraid you were…” A soft hand caressed his cheek. “Mishka? Is that you?”

“Yes, Grandfather, it’s me…” Tears ran freely from Mishka’s eyes, soaking the soft downy fur of her cheeks, and dripping slowly from her chin. “I’m here for you…”

He reached out, seeing the kitten near his side. “Little Anya, so pretty…”

“G’anpa?”

His finger stroked her cheek. “Be a good girl, kitten.” He felt as if the world around him had grown soft. Like a cushion of the softest fur. There was a light warm and gentle. And he thought he could see something there.

“ I love you all…” He reached for the light…



 
The graveyard was otherwise empty, but still seemed crowded; so many had come to the funeral. A soft and gentle fall of snow blanketed the mourners, and the lack of wind lent the scene a quiet serenity. Aware of the singular importance of the occasion, the priest leading the proceedings gulped, knowing all eyes were upon him.

 “We gather here to pay our last respects to Ilya Fedorov. A man who helped shape our world. Last of his kind. The Last of Man. As was his wishes, I would like to read from Ilya’s own words, from his addition to our Holy Book, because I think it sums up all we need to know of who he truly was.” He took a moment to compose himself. Like almost everyone present, the old man wasn’t just another of his flock, he was family. He opened the lacquered blue book, at its final page.

“Ahem… ‘I cannot know the will of God, and I cannot presume His plan. But I know He is there. He did not do this to us. We did. We took what he gave us and twisted it. And that itself is His will. We are brethren, despite our odd countenances. We are Kin. And we must always remember that. We are Kin.’ And with that he reminds us we are all the same under the watchful eye of God.” The gathered crowd nodded, though a few shifted uncomfortably.

“Ilya was a Godly man, and we commend his soul to God.” He spread his hands wide, and brought them together, holding the book to his chest, and bending his head over it. “Takbir…” he said, quietly.

“Allahu Akbar.” Chanted the gathered crowd. The priest nodded again, and they responded. “Allahu Akbar.” At that, the crowd slowly began to move, mixing with itself, and starting to spread. Individual exchanges of grief, and comfort, rippled through them as they departed. Before long, the grave was vacant, bar four. The priest, stood quiet, holding the book close. Nicholai leant hard on his cane, eyes shut, cursing the tears that threatened to blind him. Mishka wept openly, for the grandfather who had always been there, loving and supportive. The fourth stood silent, hidden beneath his hooded overcoat. After a time, Nicholai spoke.

“I’d like my book back, Father.”

“Of course, father, here.” The priest offered his father the book.

“Pyotr, you made me proud.”

“For Grandfather, could I do any less?” He rubbed his muzzle against his father’s, and both nodded. He looked across at Mishka. “Aunt Mishi?”

“I’m… I’m okay…” She wavered, than flung herself at the pair. “Oh Uncle… what do we do…?”

Nicholai held her close. “Oh Mishi, we endure, like father wanted. We survive, and build his dynasty. We’re not finished, not by a long shot.

Nearby, the hooded figure smirked, and drifted off into the white snowfall. Things might just become interesting.

“Come on, we need to get inside, it’s getting bad.” Mishka and Nicholai, arm in arm, limped off together, as the snowstorm grew stronger.


Winter is a hunter. An indifferent hunter.

We aren’t bound by it. Because we Are.

We are Kin.

‘From the teachings of Ilya Fedorov’