So, I'm redoing Fleck's backstory, so i figured it was time to completely redo the old fanfics. So, presenting Fleck's backstory/how he met Skyward Flight/how he ended up in Cloud Mountain. If you have any title ideas, let me know! Sorry it's so long, I got into the swing of writing and couldn't stop lol. Feedback welcome and appreciated! (The first bit is a little add-in, so the reader sees a bit more of Fleck's personality.)

It’s one of those days where, when you get up in the morning, you can practically feel the thrill of spring racing through your veins. One of those days when the air is so crisp and fresh that you wonder if something exciting is about to happen. It’s the world starting afresh, the aroma of the ice melting from the ground and the world thawing out, shaking the ice from its tired bones and peeking its head up from the ground. The kind of scent that makes your heart ache with the stabs of homesickness, even if you are in your own home, because you know that you were made for something far greater than this simple life. It is the sort of morning where you wish you could fling your drapes open, if you had drapes, and sing from the balcony. As I used to put it, when I was much younger, it is one of those days when you can smell an adventure. Maybe, though I dare not hope for it, something good will come out of today. Sometimes, you never know. 

Fleck finished the paragraph he had left off on and screwed the cap of his black ink on tightly, so he wouldn’t lose a single drop of ink, a substance more valuable than liquid gold. He wiped the tip of his quill on the inside hem of his shirt, where no one would see it and wonder if he was up to something. Gently, so as not to smear the newly applied ink, he rolled up the finished pages of what would hopefully be his first completed novel. Most of the pages were scribbled-out drafts, notes, and doodles he used for worldbuilding. Starting the story felt almost sacrilegious. 

Employing the utmost caution, he pulled a rickety, falling apart chair from across the room and stood on it, carefully panning out his body weight so as not to break the worn-out furniture. With the combined height of the chair, he was just tall enough to peel back the plaster from the ceiling over the mantel and hide his pen, precious bottle of ink, and ream of rather beat-up paper into the space his father had carved out for the semi-precious odds and ends they owned.

Fleck’s father, Jebidiah Cove, had been a good man. He had never stopped loving what was on the other side of this war, this struggle, even when he had been sentenced to death. He had never stopped praying, even when it felt like the Maker had abandoned him here, in this horrific slave city. Even when Jebidiah Cove had been dying, he’d still been a good man. A lot of other men would have cursed, or cried, or begged for mercy, but Fleck’s father had prayed three simple words- “Maker, forgive them.”

Fleck didn't think he could be that brave. He was always angry with Morbin and the wolves, and the rabbits who went along with the evil bird. He was angry that, a few months prior, the King of Natalia, Jupiter the great, had been murdered in cold blood. Fleck could never forgive the Longtreaders, and he could never forgive Morbin.

There was a shard of a mirror hidden in the little cubby hole, a shard his mother had kept in her handbag every day, for as long as he could remember. Fleck pulled it out and watched as the facet shone in the dancing light from the candle that was flickering on the ground. His own face looked distorted- pale, dirty, worn-out. There were bags under his eyes, which were painfully swollen, red, and puffy. He didn't have the face of a hero. “You would have been disappointed in me.” he muttered under his breath, shoving the shard of glass back into it’s hiding spot under the plaster as if it were evil and foreboding.

“What are you doing?” called stretch in a painfully weak voice that barely carried across the room. Fleck neatly and precisely stuck the plaster back into place and slowly turned around to face his twin brother. “Did you move your hiding spot again?”

Fleck hopped off the chair and nudged it towards the dying fire, hoping his brother would decide to sit in the warmth for a few minutes. “I moved everything back to where dad used to have it.”

Stretch nodded. He was wrapped in a brown woolen blanket that was so threadbare and ragged it barely retained any warmth. It was terrible, especially during the frigid Akolonian winters, but it was the best the boys had, and therefore, Fleck had forced Stretch to keep it. 

If someone were to look at the two bucks side-by-side, without knowing which was which, the identical twins would be impossible to tell apart.

Both of them had unique hazel fur and brown eyes that shimmered with a gold light when in the sun. The tips to their muzzles and ears were a brownish tan, as if they had spent too much time in the sun, as was the diamond-shaped marking on their foreheads. Fleck looked a little stronger, with broader shoulders and more defined muscles, while Stretch was thin, weak, and ill, with no muscle mass and a haunted, weary look in his eyes.

Fleck looked as if he carried the entire world on his shoulders.

Stretch had always been sick, even before they had come to Akolan. Fleck hoped, though it was a slim hope, that one day his brother would recover, despite several cruel and harsh prognosis otherwise. At one point, the brothers had held on to a dream of freedom- a home where they didn't have to work to eat, where Fleck wasn’t beaten constantly, where Stretch could get better in peace. They had dreamed of finding family- good friends who would stand beside them, no matter what the circumstances.

Now that Fleck was thirteen, cynical, street-smart, and tough-as-nails, he had let go of that dream. After all, it was just a dream, and dreams never came true. That was the frivolous hope of a child. Nothing in real life could ever be that good.

“How are you doing?” Fleck asked, to break the tense silence that had engulfed the two boys when Fleck had been lost in thought.

“I’m doing well enough to go to work with you today.” Stretch answered. Fleck could be ridiculously stubborn, but Stretch was, as well, and he was constantly pestering his brother to let him out of the house. Fleck, who knew that Stretch’s health would deteriorate faster if he was doing work of any kind, immediately vetoed the idea.

“I made breakfast.” He said instead, determined to change the topic before Stretch found more leverage to back his request. Breakfast was, in fact, a rather humble affair of cooked oats in water. It was slimy and flavorless, but it was all they had and Fleck knew that even a slimy meal was beneficial to Stretch’s emaciated body.

“Aren’t you having any?” Stretch asked, taking the bowl, which was radiating steam in little pillars, from the table. Fleck shook his head. 

“I already ate.” He lied. Truth be told, there hadn't been enough of the mushy oats for both boys to eat breakfast, and Fleck was the stronger of the two twins. Plus, he could probably scrounge something like a chunk of bread from the dumps on his way to work in the mud pits. It certainly wouldn’t taste good, and it would probably be riddled with nastiness, but he could at least take it, unlike Stretch.

“I’ll see you tonight.” Stretch said, sitting down in the char by the fire and spooning out some of the clumpy porridge. He knew his twin brother was lying about eating, but Fleck was extremely stubborn and headstrong, and Stretch knew arguing wouldn't get him anywhere. Fleck nodded his agreement and started towards the door. “Oh, and Fleck?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you.”

Fleck bit back a grin. “I love you, too.” The door handle was tarnished and worn, but Fleck managed to keep the hinges well-greased, so no sound was made when the door was opened or shut. Fleck might have been hopeless, but he was still a miscreant, and miscreants did what they had to do to survive in a broken world. 

Curfew meant abandoned dumps. The dumps meant food.

The streets were lit by early morning sunlight filtering eerily through the layers of ash, falling to the ground like snow. This constant state of terrible air quality left Fleck’s throat burnt, dry, and raspy. His feet kicked up clouds of dust and ash, reminding him how little time the street sweep spent in this section of the city.

The run-down townhome Fleck shared with his brother was in the sixth district of Akolan, which was slowly falling into disrepair. It bordered the seventh, the awful district constructed of ragged tents where those who couldn’t pay their bills were kept in starvation and terrible, filthy conditions. No wonder some of them had started getting sick. Fleck thought of district six as a warning- get your act together, or go to the seventh district.

No one wanted to be sent to district seven.

When the twin’s parents and siblings had still been alive, the townhome had always been bustling with energy and activity. Fleck could remember the warm aroma of potato bread and stew, and the peaceful hymns his mother had sung to lull the children to sleep. Now, the house seemed overly large, like it was waiting for more people to show up, and far too quiet, as if it were lonely and longing for a friend. Just two orphan boys with shattered dreams and broken ambitions were left in a ragged, tumble-down house, haunted by the misty memories of song and love.

Fleck hated to admit it, but Morbin had truly and totally broken him, mentally and physically. Shattered him, like a piece of glass. Gone was the boy who found joy in everything, who played hop-scotch and painted with mud on the street or house walls. Now, his writing was dark and moody, on paper he scrounged from the dump. A reflection of how hard everything had gotten.

His father would have been disappointed.

____________________________________________________________________________

Jebidiah Cove pulled Fleck close to his strong, muscular body and ruffled his son’s unique fur. Fleck was shivering, from the cold, and from the fright he’d had that morning, when Uncle Josiah, the elderly man who shaved wood and whittled in the street, had been killed.

It hadn’t been fair, Fleck thought, to kill a good man, just because he offered the wrong person one of his beautiful wood carvings. Fleck could feel the bulge of it in his pocket, where he’d slipped it from off the streets. “Why does everything have to be so unfair?” Fleck asked, pushing the tears out of his eyes with a willpower he hadn’t known he possessed. The sorrow stung his nose, and he twitched it, which effectively distracted him from thoughts of the kindly old buck.

Jebidiah‘s voice was harsh and rasping, from years of mining coal in the underground chutes, but Fleck could still hear the soft, melodic, gentle voice he had come to love. “Whenever i get those feelings, I look up at the stars and pray.”

Fleck looked up at the stars. They were mostly obscured by the clouds of ash that lay like blankets between this world and the horizon, but a few brave ones fought their way past the barrier and looked down on the slave city with an undeniable light. He nestled into his father’s warm, strong arms, wishing he could cry, hating how strong he’d become. “They’re all gone.”

“Yes, but those stars that are left shine the most beautifully.” Jebidiah whispered into his son’s ear. “That’s what the Maker does. He refines us until we think all the lights are gone, but then, when we least expect it, a star shines, brighter than all the others, and illuminates our tear-stained world.”

Fleck looked at the stars with renewed wonder. There hadn’t been stars in Fish Neck, either. The acidic clouds and light-washed skies had created a barrier similar to the clouds of ash in Akolan. “There still aren’t that many of them.”

 “Do you hear the stars sing, Fleck?” Jebidiah asked. Fleck thought for a minute, allowing his imagination to take over. Faintly, he thought he could hear the stars humming a gentle, lulling melody. He relaxed in his father’s arms and let peace wash away all the sorrow and guilt of the things he had witnessed that day. His father smelled faintly of coal dust and dirt. It was a comforting aroma and Fleck leaned closer to it.

“How do the stars sing?” He asked, looking into his father’s vibrant blue eyes and feeling entirely safe and at home. No one was going to hurt him, tucked into his father’s warm coat and strong arms.

“They sing praises to the Maker, our heavenly father.” Jebidiah whispered. Fleck closed his eyes, sleepily, wishing he always felt this safe and protected, wishing he wasn’t always scared for his life or Stretch’s. 

Fleck didn't notice the tear that slid from his Father’s eyes, nor the way Jebididah pulled him closer. “I love you, Fleck-star.”

____________________________________________________________________________

Fleck snapped out of his memories, longing for his father’s warm arms and fantastic stories. Part of him still felt like the scared little kid on the rooftop, wishing his father would never let him go. The world was dark, and Fleck could never see the stars on his own. If only his father was here now, Fleck thought. He needed someone to lean into, someone to tell him that everything was going to be alright in the end.

Fleck tried not to look around as he bustled through the busy streets toward another long day of drudgery and sorrow. Hunger was already starting to bite him from within, and he tried to distract his mind by imagining wild rice and carrot stew, a meal his mother had often cooked at home, in Fish Neck, before they had been taken to Akolan. He tried not to watch the little children cry as they hugged their parents farewell, and the adults rushed out the door to face another uncertain day. He forced his eyes on the cobblestones, ignoring family hugs and farewells. He hated the fact that he could still feel the emotions of the rabbits around him- a blend of acute, stabbing sorrow, love, and worry, all emotions he felt in his own heart whenever he left Stretch.

What if he were to die, and never see his brother again? Or, worse, unbearable to think about, what if something happened to Stretch? The two boys had always been inseparable- where there was one, there was the other. But if something happened to Stretch, and Fleck had never told him the truth, how would Fleck feel for the rest of his life?

No, Stretch knew that Fleck loved him more than anything else. They were brothers. Scratch that, they were twins. They felt each other's emotions all the time. But the nagging worry wouldn’t leave Fleck’s mind alone- right now is promised, the future is unclear.

Anything could happen to either of them, in the blink of an eye.

The mud pits were seven circular dirt pits, filled with water and fresh dirt each night and cultivated into thick, slimy, heavy mud. The filth sunk into one’s clothing and fur, and clumped as soon as the sun, which beat down on the workers at all times, from every angle, struck it. Plus, each iron shovel full of it was heavy and unbearably hard to maneuver. 

A rabbit working the mud pits was usually in their teenage years, strong, fit, and muscular. They had to be, for the awful work of spending the entire day filling wheelbarrows full of the heavy, ore-infused mud Each load was carted off by another set of workers to be made into bricks using the sun and the brick irons, enormous kilns created to fire the bricks needed to make new infrastructures like aqueducts and mine supports. 

Workers spent the entire day in full sunlight. It was often blazing hot, even in the winter, and the ash was the worst inside the pits, which were two to three feet deep and close to twenty feet wide. Water was not an option. A rest was not an option. Food was not an option.

The rabbits in the pits were paired two per pit, and conversation was forbidden. These rabbits were often deemed the most likely to run away or cause trouble amongst the rabble, so the pits were patrolled by guards with whips, to set straight anyone who dared lay a foot out of line.

Everyone here was under the watchful eye of Morbin’s evil lieutenant, Vitton. Or, as Fleck liked to call him, Vit the Skinner, the Malice. Everyone here had, at some point, been a troublemaker, or, were related to a troublemaker who hadn’t finished his punishment before death. In Fleck’s case, that was both his parents and his two older siblings, and he had a lifetime of punishment awaiting him.

Fleck checked in with the head guard by yanking up the right sleeve of his ragged, short-sleeved shirt, to show the superintendent the brand on his shoulder. Up until the year before, when Akolan started taking Prisoners of War instead of just commonfolk, prisoners were marked with a number on their right shoulder- with help from Vitton’s branding iron- when they first started work. Fleck’s number was three-hundred and thirty-two. “Cove. You’re on pit three today.” The guard grunted, thrusting an iron shovel into Fleck’s outstretched hand.

He knew better to thank the superintendent. If he did so, the older buck would be more than willing to smack him with the braided end of the whip tucked into his belt. The man was a slave, just like Fleck, however, being from district one, he seemed to have an infuriatingly high ego.

In fact, all the guards here believed they were better than the workers who toiled endlessly day in and day out.

Pit number three was filled with a mud so liquidy and thin that Fleck felt all of his hopes for a quick day’s work drain away like water through a sieve. He needed to empty the pit of all the mud into wheelbarrows, one barrow per five minutes, and do it efficiently, with no mud spilled on the ground. With filth of this consistency, it would be harder to avoid making a mess, and therefore it would take longer to empty the pit.

At the end of the day, he was to fill the pit with ash, dust shaved from the cliff walls, and water, so that in the morning, a fine mixture of mud would be ready- made. If the consistency wasn’t perfect, the mud would be impossible for the brick-shapers to work with. That would slow the process down, and give the guards more reason to notice him.

Fleck didn't need the added attention- his father’s escapades had already made him Vitton’s prime target.

His previous work partner had been removed from duty for bad-mouthing a guard. Fleck had been punished as well, though not as severely, for “laughing at a superior’s misfortune.” His new partner was a tall, graceful doe about his age. She seemed too gentle and pretty to be suffering under the hot sun, and he pitied her fresh face and lack of experience. Soon, she would be just as broken and hopeless as he was. Her fur was white, her eyes blue, and in the center of her forehead was a black diamond.

She made it into the pit with no complaints, even though the mud was watery and cold and drenched through clothing instantly. Her shovel was a little taller than Fleck’s, perfect for her extended height, and he noticed her ears were pierced with several sets of drab steel earrings. Again, he found himself pitying her. This was going to be the hardest day of her life.

“Hey.” She said as she started shoveling next to him. When Fleck didn’t respond, she pestered him more, even though she had to know talking was against the law. Still, most of the first-timers still tried pushing the limits a few times, before they got bearings for the job. “What’s your name?”

“You’re not to speak to me.” Fleck whispered out of the corner of his mouth, through teeth gritted in annoyance. If this doe was going to be talkative, he was going to have to report her. There was no way he was paying Vitton a visit, especially with Stretch sick. The guard lashed his whip over Fleck’s back, and he bit his lip but didn't cry out. For him, this was routine, and he could distract himself from the pain easily enough. It would be worse at the end of the day, when the sun had beamed through the thin material of his shirt and left him with a sunburn.

“Shut up down there!” The guard called. Fleck gritted his teeth in anger and glared at the doe, who looked unabashed.

“Fine then. Be like that. It’s a shame you’re too cowardly to tell me your name.” She tossed a shovelful of the liquidy mud into the wheelbarrow with a sarcastic flop of her remarkably long ears. Fleck, who was already seething with anger, partly because he’d just patched his shirt the day before, and it had been torn again by the guard’s brutality, couldn’t resist answering after a taunt like that. He always had been hot-headed and quick-tempered.

“My name is Fleck. Now shut up, before they make us work harder.”

The doe grinned. “I’m Bastille, and I’m not going to stop talking to you.”

What do yall think? Any feedback? How are you guys?

-Fleck 😉