Animal Farm - "Butchery" - NC-17
Jun. 24th, 2004 05:24 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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rareslashTitle: Butchery
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
theratman
Fandom: Animal Farm
Rating: NC-17
Paring: Napoleon the pig/Basil the sheep
Warnings: Rape, violence, sheepshagging, mention of blood
Disclaimer: Animal Farm belongs to George Orwell.
Notes: This is partially based off of the song "Sheep" by Pink Floyd... if you want you can read the lyrics here.
Butchery
It was warm that day on Animal Farm, or Manor Farm as it had been called just a few months before, and the sun beat down with pleasant heat now and then driven through by a slightly cooler breeze, bringing with it the scent of apple blossoms that drifted throughout the grassy area, lighter than the air that carried it. In the field near the pool, a herd of sheep were grazing, not bothering to glance up to scan the horizon because, after all, they had nothing to be afraid of. One of them, a young fellow called Basil, stood a bit away from the group, chewing a mouthful of grass absently and blinking slowly in the afternoon sun. His thoughts were drifting rather aimlessly, and his soft brown eyes were unfocused on his surroundings. He’d finished his work for the day and had been sent off with the rest of the sheep to feed on the tender grass of the meadow, but his mind was not on the sweet grass. Rather, he was thinking about the farm’s former master Mr. Jones - time had passed since the animal’s rebellion, but Jones was still on his mind more often than not.
His thoughts went to house where Jones had lived, before the rebellion – the pigs had led him and the others through it after they had banished the humans from the farm, the only time he had ever been inside the house, or any house for that matter. He’d seen things inside that building that he’d never imagined existed, strange contraptions that Jones had left behind when he and his men had fled the farm. He’d been exceedingly curious about it all, but he and the others had been rushed out of the house so quickly that he’d hardly had time to get more than a quick glance at a few rooms. Napoleon and Snowball had closed up the house thereafter, proclaiming that no animal should ever enter it again.
Basil had not intended to, either, at least not at the time, but the more he thought about it the more he wanted to venture back into the strange, silent world inside the farmhouse. ‘But it’s forbidden,’ his mind always reminded him each time he entertained the thought. Still, standing in the idyllic setting of the green field beneath the warm sun, his fear seemed to have left him, and the danger of being discovered entering the house seemed strangely distant.
Taking up an easy trot, Basil moved through the meadow towards the farmhouse. It loomed ominously ahead of him, dark against the blue sky, as if cloaked in a private shadow. He felt apprehensive about coming near it, as if it might lash out at him if he got too close, but it remained still and silent even as he edged closer and closer. No-one paid him any mind - indeed it seemed no-one had even noticed he was stepping up on the front porch of the old house, and nobody but him heard the creaking complaint of the floorboards under his hooves. For a moment the whole world seemed to be empty save for himself and the old house, and he found he was transfixed by the very sight of the cracked paint and exposed wood of the front door.
He hadn’t meant to open the door. He hadn’t meant to go into the house and quietly shut the door behind him, either. But once inside, in the deep shadows of the unused room, he had meant to turn back and go back out into the meadow with his comrades. But he didn’t.
Instead, he crept through the front room, peering about at the dusty sofa where Jones had sat not long ago. The carpet was soft under his hooves and made no sound when he touched it, and the whole thing gave him the feeling that he was not really there at all, as if Jones’s house was nothing more than an illusion, like a reflection in a pool of water.
When he’d toured the bottom floor entirely, he came to the bottom of the stairs, peering cautiously up into the shadowed landing. He’d been fascinated by the bedrooms on his first visit, and had even followed Snowball back up the stairs when he’d gone looking for Molly purely for the purpose of seeing them again, but he’d not gotten as good of a look as he would have liked. He climbed the stairs tentatively, feeling fear creep back into him as he neared the landing. But the upstairs was as empty as ever, with light filtering in from the open drapes down the hall - it seemed surreal and dream-like to be here, in the unnatural silence amidst the unfamiliar scents of humans.
He stopped part way down the hall, peering up at the partly-closed door of Jones’s bedroom. Licking his lips nervously, he pushed the door open with his muzzle, peeking in to the dimly-lit room. He had a strong sense of guilt as he stepped into the shadows, because he knew he shouldn’t be here - Napoleon would not want him in here, he had specifically forbade it, and what’s more Jones would have his head if he knew he (or any of the animals, for that matter) was in his bedroom. ‘But Jones is gone,’ he tried to tell himself, and found some grounding in the words that echoed in his brain. ‘Jones is gone, and Napoleon doesn’t know about this.’ He still felt guilty for harbouring such ideas, but at the same time he found the thought of doing something behind Napoleon’s back rather exciting. He trotted warily across the carpeted floor, looking about as he went, observing the strange devises of the human room: squares hung on the wall depicting faces he recognized as the former owners of the farm, and the sight of them frightened him deeply - would they somehow be able to see him through those dead grey eyes and know he had broken the law and come into the house? He stared up at the photographs nervously, but the cryptic smiles remained still and lifeless.
Finally he decided he was safe, although the unsettled feeling of his belly did not leave him. He padded over to a small dresser, where he found a few of the drawers slightly ajar. He pried one open with his soft nose, and found pieces of cloth inside - the smell rising up from them was strong and hugely unfamiliar, an unholy, artificial reek, and he stumbled back as it seared in his sinuses, making his eyes water. He backed away until he bumped the edge of the bed, whereupon he sank onto his haunches, then sneezed wetly. Rubbing his nose with his foreleg, he shook his head dazedly, finally managing to cast off the clinging odor of Jones’s laundry. Realizing he might have attracted attention with all the noise, he grew still, listening fervently for anyone coming up the stairs.
A few moments passed in silence before he finally decided all was well. Part of him thought he ought to go back right now before he got himself in more trouble, but he was madly curious, and he found it hard to leave when he was facing this room full of human oddities. He got to his feet, peering at the dimly-outlined window behind the pulled curtains, then turned to face the bed behind him. In the ethereal backlight, the bed seemed to glow, as if it was enchanted with sorcerer’s magic. His brown eyes widened at the sight, and he found himself entranced by this thing of mystery, so much so that for a moment he forgot all inhibitions and put his hooves up on the edge of the mattress, standing, for a brief moment, on his hind legs.
‘No animal shall sleep in a bed,’ Snowball’s voice echoed in his mind, reciting the Fourth Commandment. He felt shame impress itself on him for the second time that day, burning coldly in his belly. ‘What would Napoleon think of you?’ he asked himself. But at the same time, another part of him thought, ‘Why shouldn’t I? I’d only be on it for a minute, and nobody would ever know. What harm could it do?’ Despite his efforts to convince himself that he had nothing to be ashamed of, he found himself glancing over his shoulder, expecting to see the pig standing in the doorway, watching him with those smoldering, coal-dark eyes. But Napoleon wasn’t there, he was alone, and in the end, his curiosity won out.
With surprising grace (for a sheep, at least), he leapt onto the bed, crouching down as the springs wobbled beneath him. He was still a bit frightened - he’d never been on a bed before - but he rather liked the way it moved when he touched it, as if it was alive. He smiled to himself, a fittingly innocent-looking expression, and stepped carefully over the mattress, the bed yielding under his weight. But his admiration turned to fright a second later, when he made the mistake of stepping on the sagging springs of the middle of the bed, which caved under his hooves and sent him tumbling forward into a heap of tangled limbs.
Struggling against the pull of the gravity, he managed to get his head up, barely stifling a cry of fright, and then only for fear of being caught playing on the bed. When he at last realized he wasn’t about to be devoured by the bedclothes, he grew still, panting lightly, only to find the strange contraption was surprisingly comfortable. He hunkered down against the mattress, laying his head against the soft sheet, and although it was wholly different from the hay he was used to he found he liked it just as well, maybe even better. It smelled strongly of humans, and that frightened him a bit, but then he reminded himself that there weren’t any humans here and that it was just an old smell, like a memory, almost forgotten. He nuzzled his head up against the pillow… it was soft against his face, and reminded him on a vague, subconscious level of his mother. Smiling contentedly, he closed his eyes and tucked his head between the pillow and his forelegs, letting the heartbeat-like sound of the grandfather clock in the hall lull him to sleep.
“Basil!” somebody bellowed. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Basil’s eyes shot open. He jerked up, only to find the space of the doorway filled up with Napoleon’s mountainous bulk. The pig’s eyes were narrowed to dark slits, and they seemed to cast off a cloaking shadow, making the room appear much darker than it had before. The sheep blinked stupidly in utter shock, for a moment convinced that if he concentrated hard enough he’d find that the whole incident was only a dream and that the glowering visage of Napoleon would evaporate. None such happened, though, and when his senses finally caught up with him he scrambled off the bed as if it was on fire, tumbling gracelessly to the floor. Crouched there, he stared across the room at his leader, shame burning in him and bringing a rubicund tinge to the pale skin beneath the short hair across his face and choking off his words before they had a chance to leave his throat in an attempt to explain himself.
Napoleon did not seem to notice Basil’s silence. He left the doorway, sauntering across the room with his head held up, peering down his snout at the sheep with a look of unbridled contempt. “Don’t you know the law?” he demanded poisonously. “‘No animal shall sleep in a bed’. Don’t you understand that?”
Basil cowered before him in utter shame, trembling. “I didn’t mean to,” he whimpered pathetically, putting his head low between his forelegs, almost as if he was bowing to the pig. “I just wanted to see what it was like… I wasn’t…”
“Quiet!” Napoleon snapped, grunting low in his throat, a noise that sounded almost like a growl. “You know the rules. You know better than to come in here. And in Jones’s bed, no less.” He scoffed, stamping one hoof into the ground in disgust. “Are you a man?”
“No!” Basil practically shouted, then, managing to lower his voice a few octaves, repeated, “No, no, I’m not, I’m not a man,” so rapidly that it sounded almost like a chant.
“Then why are you acting like a man?” Napoleon demanded, punctuating the question with a harsh slap to Basil’s face with his cleaved hoof, making the sheep cry out. “Are you going to betray us? Are you going to enslave us like Jones did?!”
“No, no, Napoleon, please, I -” The pig cut him short, seizing him by the scruff of his neck in his great tusks and shaking him violently. Basil squealed in pain and fright, kicking helplessly in the swine’s jaws. Napoleon tossed him unceremoniously onto the mattress, where he bounced up into the air momentarily in an almost comic fashion before tumbling back into the tangled bed sheets.
“How do I know I can trust you?” Napoleon growled. His voice was low but it seemed a bellow in Basil’s ears. He trembled on the bed, fixing the brute with huge, terrified eyes. Napoleon took a slow step towards the frightened sheep. “What am I going to do with you, Basil?” he asked mockingly, clicking his tongue. “How do I know you really are trustworthy? I think you should be punished for breaking a commandment, don’t you? It’s only fair…”
“No, please, please, Napoleon, I’ll be good, I’ll be good, I promise,” Basil whimpered, tightening into a quivering mass as if he hoped he might disappear. He didn’t know what Napoleon was going to do to him, but he dreaded finding out.
The hog shook his head, as if it truly pained him to contemplate his comrade’s punishment. “I’m sorry to have to do this, Basil,” he said sternly, coming slowly towards the bed. “I really am. But it is the law.”
He climbed up onto the bed, his weight making the springs creak and squeal. Basil whimpered, shaking terribly, but he did not try to run away. Napoleon stared at him coldly, watching for something, but no-one but the pig himself could be sure what. His nose quivered with heavy breath, and he eased forward into Basil in what almost seemed like an embrace. Then, before his unsuspecting victim had time to dodge, he thrust his massive body forward, knocking the sheep onto his back and landing heavily on top of him, pinning him to the now wobbling bed. Basil gasped as the pig’s weight crushed him into the rumpled sheets, wiggling helplessly to try and free himself, but Napoleon spread his forelegs to each side and held down the sheep’s arms. His breath washed over Basil’s face, bringing with it the tart smell of apples.
Basil sucked in a laboured breath, struggling to get the air into his lungs. The pig’s body was crushing him into the bed, the springs digging into his back as the swine crouched over him. He let out an almost-stifled bleat of fright, to which Napoleon grinned cynically, hungrily, saliva dripping from his maw onto the sheep’s soft wool. Basil wondered briefly if Napoleon was going to kill him, tear out his throat like he had seen that mad dog do to another sheep when he was younger, but when pain did explode through the nerve endings in his brain it was not from his throat but rather low between his legs and about his rear, a sudden terrible slice through him as if the pig was tearing him apart. He did cry out then, and made no attempt to silence himself, and another pained bleat tore itself from his throat as Napoleon slammed his body against his hips and bottom, bringing a rush of pain anew nearly as bad as the first, accompanied by a sickening wetness that spread over his thighs and made him shudder with disgust.
Basil wasn’t exactly sure what was happening, but he knew it terrified him more than anything else ever had - it transcended the pain and incited a deep, instinctual fear in him, making him struggle madly against the pig in a desperate but futile effort to escape. Napoleon was grunting crudely, low, wet-sounding noises seeming to sync with the terrible, bone-jarring thrusts that sent pain wracking into his hips and backside. He braced his hooves against the pig’s chest and shoved as hard as he could, but it was like trying to move a boulder with toothpicks. Napoleon only laughed, low and throaty, and slammed into him even harder.
The acrid odor of blood was rising up into the air, and Basil found himself whimpering uncontrollably, choking on the reeking stench of his own blood as it spilled onto the dirty sheets. Desperately he cried out, shrieked vainly for help, but no-one came to his rescue. And all the while Napoleon smiled that terrible, razor-toothed smile, foamy drool dripping from his grisly lips to mix with the tears pooling on the sheep’s face. After a moment Basil realized he wasn’t even screaming for help anymore, because he knew no-one was coming for him… he was screaming merely for the pure agony, screaming his anguish to the empty room even as the sound echoed off the walls back at him and rattled in his brain until it was deafening. He realized it was useless, but he couldn’t have stopped even if he was inclined to.
Napoleon’s body grew suddenly stiff atop him, and the pig’s jaws gaped wide to release a terrible, shuddering breath, his small eyes half-closed in ecstasy. Basil stopped screaming then, grew near-silent as he felt a terrible heat exploding inside him, making his stomachs churn and lurch inside him. Napoleon jolted as if he was in the throes of some bizarre seizure, his nostrils quivering and twitching sickeningly, his jaws still agape and slavering. It must have lasted some minutes - to the hapless Basil it seemed rather like hours.
Until, finally, the massive boar pulled out of the sheep, still panting and sheathed in sweat, leaving Basil lying limp on his back on the bed with his legs spread wide, almost as if the pig was mocking him. Napoleon stood next to the bed, his great sides heaving as he panted noisily, watching Basil without a word for a long time. Finally, having caught his breath, he grinned voraciously, exposing the cruel, yellowish teeth that had done the damage to the sheep’s neck not long before. “I think that’s enough,” he said quietly, in a tone that almost resembled kindness, serving only to further sicken Basil. “Have you learned your lesson?”
Basil shuddered, nodded mechanically. He couldn’t seem to find his voice.
“And you’ll never let it happen again?” Napoleon pressed, his tone eerily calm.
Basil shook his head fervently, trying his best to hold back the tears that had already dampened the soft fuzz on his face.
Napoleon smiled, as if they were old friends. “Good. And Basil, you needn’t worry - I’ll keep this between us. So long as you don’t let it happen again. I think you feel sorry enough for your mistake. There’s no need to humiliate you in front of the other animals by letting them know what you did.”
‘What I did?’ Basil thought dimly. There seemed a great injustice in that statement, and for a moment he was sure that it was not what he did that was wrong but what the swine had done to him, whatever it was, that hurt him and made him feel so dirty… so ashamed. But then, why would he feel ashamed if he hadn’t done something wrong? He shivered again, unable to concentrate on the thoughts, what for the throbbing pain in his backside. Napoleon seemed to have dismissed him, and the boar turned his back on the sheep, lumbering out the door and into the hallway, whereupon his retreating presence could only be noted by the creaking of the stairs as he made his way down them.
Basil lay in silence for a long time, shivering and whimpering softly to himself. He was exhausted and he hurt all over, but he knew he had to get up and go back to the barn or Napoleon might return and punish him again. He pushed himself up on wobbling legs, as unsteady as a newborn lamb, and with careful precision and bravery that came merely from numbness wiped the tears and snot off his face. Looking between his legs he found bloodstains down his thighs, and although he found it sickening he licked the blood away from the soft off-white fur, nearly choking on the salty liquid that clung to his tongue and clogged his senses until everything seemed a haze of red. When he had finally finished and deemed himself suitable to return to the farm, he crept down the stairs and back out into the bright light. The others were all going about their business, working or grazing, and although Napoleon was nowhere to be seen Basil had the feeling he was watching from somewhere nearby. He did not even want to think about that.
His throat was dry and scratchy from crying, so he limped meekly in the direction of the pool. The water sparkled in the sunlight, but as he came closer the shimmer went out of it and the water seemed to grow still and dead. He drank merely to quench himself, not for the pleasure of the taste of the cool, pure water, although it did wash away the lasting taste of blood, and for that he was glad. After a moment he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the water, and the broken, sickly look of his brown eyes frightened him deeply, until he turned away from the pool, unable to look at the reflection any longer.
Stiffly, he made his way back towards the meadow, where the other sheep were still idly grazing. Most did not look up as he joined them – but it was the few that did that caught Basil’s attention and made him halt in his tracks. Something about the way their dark eyes stared at him, the hollowness about their gazes, seemed painfully familiar – until at last he realized it was the same hollow look he had seen reflected back at him at the pool, the same haunted expression that tainted his own features. It was becoming quite obvious that this was far from the first time Napoleon had hurt an animal like this.
Basil knew it was madness, knew the others would surely turn on him if they knew, but at that moment he could think of nothing else but exacting his revenge on Napoleon. His insides burned with hatred, searing with an anger he had never felt before, his dim mind focused entirely on the pig. He would get Napoleon back for this. Someday, somehow, he would make him pay.
Cross-posted, sorry if you get this more than once.
Author:
theratmanFandom: Animal Farm
Rating: NC-17
Paring: Napoleon the pig/Basil the sheep
Warnings: Rape, violence, sheepshagging, mention of blood
Disclaimer: Animal Farm belongs to George Orwell.
Notes: This is partially based off of the song "Sheep" by Pink Floyd... if you want you can read the lyrics here.
Butchery
It was warm that day on Animal Farm, or Manor Farm as it had been called just a few months before, and the sun beat down with pleasant heat now and then driven through by a slightly cooler breeze, bringing with it the scent of apple blossoms that drifted throughout the grassy area, lighter than the air that carried it. In the field near the pool, a herd of sheep were grazing, not bothering to glance up to scan the horizon because, after all, they had nothing to be afraid of. One of them, a young fellow called Basil, stood a bit away from the group, chewing a mouthful of grass absently and blinking slowly in the afternoon sun. His thoughts were drifting rather aimlessly, and his soft brown eyes were unfocused on his surroundings. He’d finished his work for the day and had been sent off with the rest of the sheep to feed on the tender grass of the meadow, but his mind was not on the sweet grass. Rather, he was thinking about the farm’s former master Mr. Jones - time had passed since the animal’s rebellion, but Jones was still on his mind more often than not.
His thoughts went to house where Jones had lived, before the rebellion – the pigs had led him and the others through it after they had banished the humans from the farm, the only time he had ever been inside the house, or any house for that matter. He’d seen things inside that building that he’d never imagined existed, strange contraptions that Jones had left behind when he and his men had fled the farm. He’d been exceedingly curious about it all, but he and the others had been rushed out of the house so quickly that he’d hardly had time to get more than a quick glance at a few rooms. Napoleon and Snowball had closed up the house thereafter, proclaiming that no animal should ever enter it again.
Basil had not intended to, either, at least not at the time, but the more he thought about it the more he wanted to venture back into the strange, silent world inside the farmhouse. ‘But it’s forbidden,’ his mind always reminded him each time he entertained the thought. Still, standing in the idyllic setting of the green field beneath the warm sun, his fear seemed to have left him, and the danger of being discovered entering the house seemed strangely distant.
Taking up an easy trot, Basil moved through the meadow towards the farmhouse. It loomed ominously ahead of him, dark against the blue sky, as if cloaked in a private shadow. He felt apprehensive about coming near it, as if it might lash out at him if he got too close, but it remained still and silent even as he edged closer and closer. No-one paid him any mind - indeed it seemed no-one had even noticed he was stepping up on the front porch of the old house, and nobody but him heard the creaking complaint of the floorboards under his hooves. For a moment the whole world seemed to be empty save for himself and the old house, and he found he was transfixed by the very sight of the cracked paint and exposed wood of the front door.
He hadn’t meant to open the door. He hadn’t meant to go into the house and quietly shut the door behind him, either. But once inside, in the deep shadows of the unused room, he had meant to turn back and go back out into the meadow with his comrades. But he didn’t.
Instead, he crept through the front room, peering about at the dusty sofa where Jones had sat not long ago. The carpet was soft under his hooves and made no sound when he touched it, and the whole thing gave him the feeling that he was not really there at all, as if Jones’s house was nothing more than an illusion, like a reflection in a pool of water.
When he’d toured the bottom floor entirely, he came to the bottom of the stairs, peering cautiously up into the shadowed landing. He’d been fascinated by the bedrooms on his first visit, and had even followed Snowball back up the stairs when he’d gone looking for Molly purely for the purpose of seeing them again, but he’d not gotten as good of a look as he would have liked. He climbed the stairs tentatively, feeling fear creep back into him as he neared the landing. But the upstairs was as empty as ever, with light filtering in from the open drapes down the hall - it seemed surreal and dream-like to be here, in the unnatural silence amidst the unfamiliar scents of humans.
He stopped part way down the hall, peering up at the partly-closed door of Jones’s bedroom. Licking his lips nervously, he pushed the door open with his muzzle, peeking in to the dimly-lit room. He had a strong sense of guilt as he stepped into the shadows, because he knew he shouldn’t be here - Napoleon would not want him in here, he had specifically forbade it, and what’s more Jones would have his head if he knew he (or any of the animals, for that matter) was in his bedroom. ‘But Jones is gone,’ he tried to tell himself, and found some grounding in the words that echoed in his brain. ‘Jones is gone, and Napoleon doesn’t know about this.’ He still felt guilty for harbouring such ideas, but at the same time he found the thought of doing something behind Napoleon’s back rather exciting. He trotted warily across the carpeted floor, looking about as he went, observing the strange devises of the human room: squares hung on the wall depicting faces he recognized as the former owners of the farm, and the sight of them frightened him deeply - would they somehow be able to see him through those dead grey eyes and know he had broken the law and come into the house? He stared up at the photographs nervously, but the cryptic smiles remained still and lifeless.
Finally he decided he was safe, although the unsettled feeling of his belly did not leave him. He padded over to a small dresser, where he found a few of the drawers slightly ajar. He pried one open with his soft nose, and found pieces of cloth inside - the smell rising up from them was strong and hugely unfamiliar, an unholy, artificial reek, and he stumbled back as it seared in his sinuses, making his eyes water. He backed away until he bumped the edge of the bed, whereupon he sank onto his haunches, then sneezed wetly. Rubbing his nose with his foreleg, he shook his head dazedly, finally managing to cast off the clinging odor of Jones’s laundry. Realizing he might have attracted attention with all the noise, he grew still, listening fervently for anyone coming up the stairs.
A few moments passed in silence before he finally decided all was well. Part of him thought he ought to go back right now before he got himself in more trouble, but he was madly curious, and he found it hard to leave when he was facing this room full of human oddities. He got to his feet, peering at the dimly-outlined window behind the pulled curtains, then turned to face the bed behind him. In the ethereal backlight, the bed seemed to glow, as if it was enchanted with sorcerer’s magic. His brown eyes widened at the sight, and he found himself entranced by this thing of mystery, so much so that for a moment he forgot all inhibitions and put his hooves up on the edge of the mattress, standing, for a brief moment, on his hind legs.
‘No animal shall sleep in a bed,’ Snowball’s voice echoed in his mind, reciting the Fourth Commandment. He felt shame impress itself on him for the second time that day, burning coldly in his belly. ‘What would Napoleon think of you?’ he asked himself. But at the same time, another part of him thought, ‘Why shouldn’t I? I’d only be on it for a minute, and nobody would ever know. What harm could it do?’ Despite his efforts to convince himself that he had nothing to be ashamed of, he found himself glancing over his shoulder, expecting to see the pig standing in the doorway, watching him with those smoldering, coal-dark eyes. But Napoleon wasn’t there, he was alone, and in the end, his curiosity won out.
With surprising grace (for a sheep, at least), he leapt onto the bed, crouching down as the springs wobbled beneath him. He was still a bit frightened - he’d never been on a bed before - but he rather liked the way it moved when he touched it, as if it was alive. He smiled to himself, a fittingly innocent-looking expression, and stepped carefully over the mattress, the bed yielding under his weight. But his admiration turned to fright a second later, when he made the mistake of stepping on the sagging springs of the middle of the bed, which caved under his hooves and sent him tumbling forward into a heap of tangled limbs.
Struggling against the pull of the gravity, he managed to get his head up, barely stifling a cry of fright, and then only for fear of being caught playing on the bed. When he at last realized he wasn’t about to be devoured by the bedclothes, he grew still, panting lightly, only to find the strange contraption was surprisingly comfortable. He hunkered down against the mattress, laying his head against the soft sheet, and although it was wholly different from the hay he was used to he found he liked it just as well, maybe even better. It smelled strongly of humans, and that frightened him a bit, but then he reminded himself that there weren’t any humans here and that it was just an old smell, like a memory, almost forgotten. He nuzzled his head up against the pillow… it was soft against his face, and reminded him on a vague, subconscious level of his mother. Smiling contentedly, he closed his eyes and tucked his head between the pillow and his forelegs, letting the heartbeat-like sound of the grandfather clock in the hall lull him to sleep.
“Basil!” somebody bellowed. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Basil’s eyes shot open. He jerked up, only to find the space of the doorway filled up with Napoleon’s mountainous bulk. The pig’s eyes were narrowed to dark slits, and they seemed to cast off a cloaking shadow, making the room appear much darker than it had before. The sheep blinked stupidly in utter shock, for a moment convinced that if he concentrated hard enough he’d find that the whole incident was only a dream and that the glowering visage of Napoleon would evaporate. None such happened, though, and when his senses finally caught up with him he scrambled off the bed as if it was on fire, tumbling gracelessly to the floor. Crouched there, he stared across the room at his leader, shame burning in him and bringing a rubicund tinge to the pale skin beneath the short hair across his face and choking off his words before they had a chance to leave his throat in an attempt to explain himself.
Napoleon did not seem to notice Basil’s silence. He left the doorway, sauntering across the room with his head held up, peering down his snout at the sheep with a look of unbridled contempt. “Don’t you know the law?” he demanded poisonously. “‘No animal shall sleep in a bed’. Don’t you understand that?”
Basil cowered before him in utter shame, trembling. “I didn’t mean to,” he whimpered pathetically, putting his head low between his forelegs, almost as if he was bowing to the pig. “I just wanted to see what it was like… I wasn’t…”
“Quiet!” Napoleon snapped, grunting low in his throat, a noise that sounded almost like a growl. “You know the rules. You know better than to come in here. And in Jones’s bed, no less.” He scoffed, stamping one hoof into the ground in disgust. “Are you a man?”
“No!” Basil practically shouted, then, managing to lower his voice a few octaves, repeated, “No, no, I’m not, I’m not a man,” so rapidly that it sounded almost like a chant.
“Then why are you acting like a man?” Napoleon demanded, punctuating the question with a harsh slap to Basil’s face with his cleaved hoof, making the sheep cry out. “Are you going to betray us? Are you going to enslave us like Jones did?!”
“No, no, Napoleon, please, I -” The pig cut him short, seizing him by the scruff of his neck in his great tusks and shaking him violently. Basil squealed in pain and fright, kicking helplessly in the swine’s jaws. Napoleon tossed him unceremoniously onto the mattress, where he bounced up into the air momentarily in an almost comic fashion before tumbling back into the tangled bed sheets.
“How do I know I can trust you?” Napoleon growled. His voice was low but it seemed a bellow in Basil’s ears. He trembled on the bed, fixing the brute with huge, terrified eyes. Napoleon took a slow step towards the frightened sheep. “What am I going to do with you, Basil?” he asked mockingly, clicking his tongue. “How do I know you really are trustworthy? I think you should be punished for breaking a commandment, don’t you? It’s only fair…”
“No, please, please, Napoleon, I’ll be good, I’ll be good, I promise,” Basil whimpered, tightening into a quivering mass as if he hoped he might disappear. He didn’t know what Napoleon was going to do to him, but he dreaded finding out.
The hog shook his head, as if it truly pained him to contemplate his comrade’s punishment. “I’m sorry to have to do this, Basil,” he said sternly, coming slowly towards the bed. “I really am. But it is the law.”
He climbed up onto the bed, his weight making the springs creak and squeal. Basil whimpered, shaking terribly, but he did not try to run away. Napoleon stared at him coldly, watching for something, but no-one but the pig himself could be sure what. His nose quivered with heavy breath, and he eased forward into Basil in what almost seemed like an embrace. Then, before his unsuspecting victim had time to dodge, he thrust his massive body forward, knocking the sheep onto his back and landing heavily on top of him, pinning him to the now wobbling bed. Basil gasped as the pig’s weight crushed him into the rumpled sheets, wiggling helplessly to try and free himself, but Napoleon spread his forelegs to each side and held down the sheep’s arms. His breath washed over Basil’s face, bringing with it the tart smell of apples.
Basil sucked in a laboured breath, struggling to get the air into his lungs. The pig’s body was crushing him into the bed, the springs digging into his back as the swine crouched over him. He let out an almost-stifled bleat of fright, to which Napoleon grinned cynically, hungrily, saliva dripping from his maw onto the sheep’s soft wool. Basil wondered briefly if Napoleon was going to kill him, tear out his throat like he had seen that mad dog do to another sheep when he was younger, but when pain did explode through the nerve endings in his brain it was not from his throat but rather low between his legs and about his rear, a sudden terrible slice through him as if the pig was tearing him apart. He did cry out then, and made no attempt to silence himself, and another pained bleat tore itself from his throat as Napoleon slammed his body against his hips and bottom, bringing a rush of pain anew nearly as bad as the first, accompanied by a sickening wetness that spread over his thighs and made him shudder with disgust.
Basil wasn’t exactly sure what was happening, but he knew it terrified him more than anything else ever had - it transcended the pain and incited a deep, instinctual fear in him, making him struggle madly against the pig in a desperate but futile effort to escape. Napoleon was grunting crudely, low, wet-sounding noises seeming to sync with the terrible, bone-jarring thrusts that sent pain wracking into his hips and backside. He braced his hooves against the pig’s chest and shoved as hard as he could, but it was like trying to move a boulder with toothpicks. Napoleon only laughed, low and throaty, and slammed into him even harder.
The acrid odor of blood was rising up into the air, and Basil found himself whimpering uncontrollably, choking on the reeking stench of his own blood as it spilled onto the dirty sheets. Desperately he cried out, shrieked vainly for help, but no-one came to his rescue. And all the while Napoleon smiled that terrible, razor-toothed smile, foamy drool dripping from his grisly lips to mix with the tears pooling on the sheep’s face. After a moment Basil realized he wasn’t even screaming for help anymore, because he knew no-one was coming for him… he was screaming merely for the pure agony, screaming his anguish to the empty room even as the sound echoed off the walls back at him and rattled in his brain until it was deafening. He realized it was useless, but he couldn’t have stopped even if he was inclined to.
Napoleon’s body grew suddenly stiff atop him, and the pig’s jaws gaped wide to release a terrible, shuddering breath, his small eyes half-closed in ecstasy. Basil stopped screaming then, grew near-silent as he felt a terrible heat exploding inside him, making his stomachs churn and lurch inside him. Napoleon jolted as if he was in the throes of some bizarre seizure, his nostrils quivering and twitching sickeningly, his jaws still agape and slavering. It must have lasted some minutes - to the hapless Basil it seemed rather like hours.
Until, finally, the massive boar pulled out of the sheep, still panting and sheathed in sweat, leaving Basil lying limp on his back on the bed with his legs spread wide, almost as if the pig was mocking him. Napoleon stood next to the bed, his great sides heaving as he panted noisily, watching Basil without a word for a long time. Finally, having caught his breath, he grinned voraciously, exposing the cruel, yellowish teeth that had done the damage to the sheep’s neck not long before. “I think that’s enough,” he said quietly, in a tone that almost resembled kindness, serving only to further sicken Basil. “Have you learned your lesson?”
Basil shuddered, nodded mechanically. He couldn’t seem to find his voice.
“And you’ll never let it happen again?” Napoleon pressed, his tone eerily calm.
Basil shook his head fervently, trying his best to hold back the tears that had already dampened the soft fuzz on his face.
Napoleon smiled, as if they were old friends. “Good. And Basil, you needn’t worry - I’ll keep this between us. So long as you don’t let it happen again. I think you feel sorry enough for your mistake. There’s no need to humiliate you in front of the other animals by letting them know what you did.”
‘What I did?’ Basil thought dimly. There seemed a great injustice in that statement, and for a moment he was sure that it was not what he did that was wrong but what the swine had done to him, whatever it was, that hurt him and made him feel so dirty… so ashamed. But then, why would he feel ashamed if he hadn’t done something wrong? He shivered again, unable to concentrate on the thoughts, what for the throbbing pain in his backside. Napoleon seemed to have dismissed him, and the boar turned his back on the sheep, lumbering out the door and into the hallway, whereupon his retreating presence could only be noted by the creaking of the stairs as he made his way down them.
Basil lay in silence for a long time, shivering and whimpering softly to himself. He was exhausted and he hurt all over, but he knew he had to get up and go back to the barn or Napoleon might return and punish him again. He pushed himself up on wobbling legs, as unsteady as a newborn lamb, and with careful precision and bravery that came merely from numbness wiped the tears and snot off his face. Looking between his legs he found bloodstains down his thighs, and although he found it sickening he licked the blood away from the soft off-white fur, nearly choking on the salty liquid that clung to his tongue and clogged his senses until everything seemed a haze of red. When he had finally finished and deemed himself suitable to return to the farm, he crept down the stairs and back out into the bright light. The others were all going about their business, working or grazing, and although Napoleon was nowhere to be seen Basil had the feeling he was watching from somewhere nearby. He did not even want to think about that.
His throat was dry and scratchy from crying, so he limped meekly in the direction of the pool. The water sparkled in the sunlight, but as he came closer the shimmer went out of it and the water seemed to grow still and dead. He drank merely to quench himself, not for the pleasure of the taste of the cool, pure water, although it did wash away the lasting taste of blood, and for that he was glad. After a moment he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the water, and the broken, sickly look of his brown eyes frightened him deeply, until he turned away from the pool, unable to look at the reflection any longer.
Stiffly, he made his way back towards the meadow, where the other sheep were still idly grazing. Most did not look up as he joined them – but it was the few that did that caught Basil’s attention and made him halt in his tracks. Something about the way their dark eyes stared at him, the hollowness about their gazes, seemed painfully familiar – until at last he realized it was the same hollow look he had seen reflected back at him at the pool, the same haunted expression that tainted his own features. It was becoming quite obvious that this was far from the first time Napoleon had hurt an animal like this.
Basil knew it was madness, knew the others would surely turn on him if they knew, but at that moment he could think of nothing else but exacting his revenge on Napoleon. His insides burned with hatred, searing with an anger he had never felt before, his dim mind focused entirely on the pig. He would get Napoleon back for this. Someday, somehow, he would make him pay.
Cross-posted, sorry if you get this more than once.
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