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Post by Ξ±αΌ± Ξ½Ξ΅Οέλαι αΌΞ½Ο on Dec 16, 2017 14:47:43 GMT -5
The sky has given over
its bitterness.
Out of the dark change
all day long
rain falls and falls
as if it would never end.
"The Spring Storm" by William Carlos Williams
Chapter One
There have been three lives lost in only six days.
Three cats wandered too far, three friends not returning home, three funerals with no bodies to mourn over, because everyone knows what has happened.
The small circumference of safety is shrinking every day as the water creeps closer, and everyone is feeling it do so.
Saoirse is the one left to play damage control. Three funerals planned, mourning family comforted, even while she still maps and plans and leaves. She leaves the camp and walks the edges of the circle, the edges of safety, trying to find a way out. She is close enough to hear the lap of water against forest shores, smell the cold, stagnant scent that clings to the rising ponds and swamps.
They are surrounded, all sides blocked off, and the water creeps closer.
The camp itself is quiet when Saoirse gets back. Although itβs more afternoon than morning, there are still wisps of fog not yet burned off covering the camp with a gray haze, and the only color left is the dark green of the moss that clings to the fallen logs and stumps that dot the small clearing.
Although the clearing is full, the cats inside are subdued, a haze of exhaustion and grief hanging over everyone, a cloud more effective than any thick fog.
βSaoirse,β Mairiβs voice is quiet as she joins Saoirse in the path across camp. βWeβve been out hunting since dawn. This is all we have.β
The pile of prey is pitifully small; a few mice, a red squirrel, and a thrush that looks as if it had been sick when it was caught. Even though their numbers have shrunk over the last moons, it is nowhere near enough to feed the entire Clan, and Saoirse adds it to the list of problems that need to be dealt with.
Somehow. Sheβs still not quite used to the whole being in charge thing, having only ascended to the role after recent deaths of the leader, then the heir, and she, as the daughter of the tom who was supposed to take the role of leader should the leader die, suddenly found herself in a position she did not want nor was she prepared for. And sheβs had to learn while charging headfirst down a hill, ground slick beneath her paws, one slip bringing the entirety of the Clan Fearthainn down with her.
βWeβll feed those who need it the most, first,β Saoirse says, even as her stomach cramps at the thought of not eating again. βThose who are healthy can wait until tonight to eat.β
She says this, even knowing that most likely the hunt tonight will bring a similar fare, and force her to make a similar choice. It makes her ache to watch her Clan wither away from hunger, those young and strong only getting a bite or two at each meal. She herself canβt remember the last time she went to bed with a full stomach, and most mornings she wakes up with hunger pangs that leave her feeling sick.
Before the waters started creeping closer, Saoirse used to fantasize about normal things. About secret crushes and adventures she would one day have, but now her fantasies revolve around two things: A full belly and a way out of this territory, a way past the approaching waters.
Off in the distance, thereβs the first boom of thunder, and everyone in the camp instantly freezes. Beside Saoirse, Mairi mutters a quiet prayer, and although Saoirse is moons past believing in some special power that will save them from this mess, she is tempted to do the same. Because thunder means rain. And rain means flooding. And flooding means an ever-shrinking circle of safety.
βOkay,β Saoirse says, then raises her voice when she realizes no one can hear her. βYou all know the drill by now!β
And the camp, previously still and quiet, explodes into a flurry of motion and sound, and Saoirse lets herself get swept along. The old and the young are bundled into dens fortified against the heaviest of rains, the small pile of prey is scooped up and tucked away safely, because they cannot afford to lose it, however small or sickly it is. And the rest of the cats simply flood into whatever dens they can, crowding close together, any sense of personal space abandoned at the first hint of approaching rain. If the rain is light, all the rush and panic will be for nothing.
But if itβs heavy, if it brings storms with the power to fell trees and winds strong enough to knock a full-grown cat off their feet as it has more often than not, itβs not a risk they can take. There have been too many deaths already.
Someone is panting in Saoirseβs ear, and she canβt tell if itβs from fear or from the rush, or both, and it doesnβt really matter. She and seven others have crammed themselves into a hollow fallen log, a den typically shared by four now holding nearly twice that amount. Someone else is standing on Saoirseβs tail and she is squished against another catβs side, and the tight feeling in her chest grows with every breath. Sheβs never liked tight spaces, and this small area seems tighter every second that passes.
Thereβs another crash of thunder, and then, thereβs a scream. Saoirseβs head shoots up, because she knows the voice, knows the name that is cried.
βLachlan!β
βSaoirse?β One of the cats in the den whispers, voice tinged with fear. βDo you thinkβ¦?β
The thought is too horrible to consider, but itβs the first thing that pops into Saoirseβs head.
βStay here,β she orders, shoving her way past the cats blocking the entrance. Someone bites back a hiss of pain as she steps on a paw, but no one snaps at her. She bursts out into the empty camp, and the hair rises on her spine. The air carries the taste of electricity, iron on her tongue, and then the sky is bright with arches of white fire. The crash of thunder that follows is enough to make her drop, crouching against the ground as if she expects to be attacked. Then sheβs up, and sheβs moving.
Saoirse races across camp as the sky churns dark and dangerous above her head, roiling clouds barely holding back the rain she knows is just about to fall. Desperately, she tries to remember where it sounded like the original shout had come from, and she races to the den.
Everyone inside jumps as she crashes through the entrance, nearly knocking someone over. And, in the back corner is a she-cat, frantic with fear, one small kit tucked under her stomach, between her front paws.
But only one. There are two cats on the she-catβs other side, pressing against her close in a show of comfort.
βImogen,β Saoirse says, as gently as she can manage, a knot in her stomach. βWhatβs happened?β
βI thought he was with me,β Imogen says, and Saoirse can see that sheβs shaking violently, curled around the kit at her stomach as if her life depends on it. βHe was right with me. And then we were in here, and then I only had Aislinn, and I donβt know where he is!β
Saoirse crouches down so she can look Imogen in the eye, cats parting all around her. βImogen, are you telling me that Lachlan isnβt with you?β
βI donβt know where he went,β the she-cat repeats, voice trembling.
Itβs Saoirseβs worst fear confirmed. A kit, out somewhere alone, with rain coming any second.
βWeβll find him,β Saoirse promises, even though sheβs not sure how itβs possible.
βCaoimhe said the same thing, and she said that sheβd find him, but I donβt know how sheβll be able to!β
That sends a second bolt of fear through Saoirse. βDid Caoimhe go out looking for him? Imogen, did she?β
Imogen nods, and at that moment, thereβs another crash of thunder strong enough to make the walls of the den shake, and the rain comes. It comes heavy and dangerous, hitting the top of the den with a sound like rocks bouncing off the wood, and thereβs ice in Saoirseβs veins.
There are two cats, two of her cats, out there in this, both of them alone.
She doesnβt think she believes in some higher power anymore, not after everything, but in this moment, she thinks she may be praying.
Chapter Two
The rain fills her footprints even before sheβs left them, and the forest ahead is a gray haze, slashed apart only by the lightning shattering the sky. Trees leap out of the fog, hulking and dark, and she can hear the splash of the surrounding waters nearby, too close, too close. She veers away from them, from their dangerous shores, and as she goes, the mud claws its way up through her fur, sinking in deeper with every moment. Any longer, and she will become one with the earth.
Any longer, and Lachlan may die.
Heβs too young to be out on his own in fine weather, let alone a torrential downpour. The closing circle is too tight, the waters too deep. βLachlan!β She calls him by his nickname for good measure, but as she cries, βLockie, where are you?β only the thunder calls back. It ripples out over the sky, threatening to tear the world apart. It rolls in her bones, cuts to her core.
But she has to keep running, for Lockieβs sake. For her sisterβs sake, too, because if Lockie dies, Imogen may die of heartbreak soon after, and Caoimhe canβt allow that to happen. Sheβs always protected Imogen from the start, kept her safe from the monsters in the dark and the shadows on the wall, and she would rather let the rising waters claim her than let her sister down.
The sickening squelch of mud beneath her feet jolts her away from the thought of where Lachlan should be, nestled at his motherβs side, and to where Caoimhe really is. The storm has dashed away the boundary markers, and already the waters swell with the rain, rising enough to cross the old shoreline by a tail-length, and a tail-length is all it takes.
She shudders and rips her paw free of the mud, staggering away from the roiling water with her heart in her throat and a prayer on her lips. Her motherβs words ring in her ears, a warning sharper than ever.
βStay out of the pools,β her mother once said as they took shelter from a rain much like this one. Caoimhe and Imogen had been little more than kits, and at that moment, only Caoimhe had been awake to hear her motherβs favorite warning once again. βThe beasts that live there have holes for hearts and empty eyes, and when you come too close, they pull you in. The water is deep, Caoimhe, dear. Stay out.β
Then, their mother had only meant the little ponds at the far ends of the forest. Now, the water comes almost to Clan Fearthainnβs camp, and keeping a safe distance from the pools grows ever harder. Caoimhe has never actually stepped in the waters before, though. Sheβs never crossed that line. Not until today.
Through the sheets of rain, she watches with bated breath, searching for the telltale ripples. According to old Balfour, there were only the faintest ripples on the water before Caoimheβs mother went under, and as much as she wants to discount the elder and his failing eyes, she canβt stop herself from squinting through the storm, trying to separate raindrops from darker things in the deep.
Maybe that shimmer there is it. She crouches, creeps backward with her claws extended into the mud even though itβs as cold as ice. But then she sees the water glimmer out of the corner of her eye, and that could just as easily be her doom, too.
How many cats have come back from the water? How long has it been since Saoirse called off border patrols because cats werenβt returning at all?
How long until sheβs next?
Another crack of thunder catches her off guard, and she hisses in spite of herself, lunging for the nearest swath of heavy undergrowth and splashing through the creeping shallows as she goes.
Twice, sheβs gone through the water. Her heart rockets into her throat and lodges itself there, beating viciously. Youβre going to die, youβre going to die, youβre going to die, it insists. Youβre going to drown. The waters agree, too, splashing up into her face as the rain comes down more violently than before, spitting at her, mocking her. She sees her motherβs face in the ghost of one burst, smudged and hollow, an echo of what she used to be.
She doesnβt stay long enough to see if her motherβs eyes are black.
Backpedaling out of the brush, Caoimhe rips herself free of the waterβs tides. βLachlan,β she whispers to herself. Her nephew is still out in the dark and the cold. He still needs her, and Imogen still needs him to be found. Finding Lachlan is the only anchor she has.
She traces her way back through the forest as well as she can with all familiar markers obscured in the storm. Camp is somewhere to her left, and the widest stretch of territory that remains is probably somewhere ahead, provided the rains havenβt swallowed it up. Off to the right are the lands that were the first to go, the strip of swampy earth that welcomed the murky waters in with open arms. Even the kits know better than to go that way.
But kits cannot help but to follow beautiful lights, even when warned time and time again, and for the first time since she plunged into the forest, Caoimhe feels a flicker of hope. Straight ahead, a wisp flits between the trees, its soft golden light cutting through the heavy fog like a beacon. She waits for another flash of lightning, just to be sure it isnβt a trick of her own racing heart, but to her delight, itβs still there when the blinding sky darkens again.
βWait!β she cries, flying through the rain in pursuit. The wisp zips off, winking as the storm crashes down between it and Caoimhe. Still, she sprints after it. βPlease show me where Lachlan is. Heβs my nephew. Iβm trying to save him!β
For all her pleading, though, the wisp never slows. It takes all her strength and then some to keep up with it. Her stomach aches, empty as can be, and mid-stride, she realizes she hasnβt eaten a proper meal since two sunrises ago, when she shared a lucky mouse with Imogen and the kits.
But Lachlan canβt wait, and this wisp is the only lead sheβs had since leaving the camp. Thereβs every chance he never followed it, never saw it, but Caoimhe knows her nephew, and she knows he would chase a butterfly to the ends of the earth if it was interesting enough. And a will-o-the-wisp is a thousand times more fascinating than any bug.
With her stomach threatening to cave in beneath her and the rain drilling holes into her back, Caoimhe follows the wisp as far as she can. It leads her to the edge of the water again, rekindling her fear, but this time, she keeps her paws well away. There will not be a third time tonight. She will not tempt fate.
In the distance, a pale light shines on the water before winking out. Itβs probably the wisp disappearing forever, extinguished by the violent rain, folded back into the darkness. There are waves out there, where the water is deep enough to be churned by the wind, and they ripple forward to crash against the forest shore, lapping at Caoimheβs toes. She spits into the water when one gets too close, and curses it over the rolling thunder.
βMama says you shouldnβt curse,β Lachlan points out from behind her. She almost screams and curses some more, but when she whirls and finds her nephew, soaked to the bone and dragging his feet with every step, she rushes over and stands above him to shield him from the rain.
βWhere have you been?β she scolds him, ducking to lick his forehead and getting a mouthful of wet fur and rainwater for her troubles. βYouβve worried your mother sick. Youβve worried me sick! Lockie, the forest isnβt safe and you know it.β
He shivers and leans heavily against her forelegs. βI saw a pretty light,β he admits. βI wanted to catch it for Aislinn because we lost our moss ball yesterday. But then it floated away and then it started raining and then I got lost and--β
βAnd then I found you,β Caoimhe finishes for him. βNow letβs bring you home and get dry.β
But he scoots backward, farther beneath her belly, when she tries to take his scruff in her jaws to carry him home. βWhat about the other cat?β he asks. βSheβs out there, too.β
βLockie, no one else left camp but me.β She shuffles and picks him up before he can dodge her again, wincing as a fat raindrop splashes him right in the face. A chill starts up her spine when he sneezes, entirely unrelated to the cold seeping through her pelt.
She only grows colder when Lachlan insists, βBut sheβs out there. She was gonna bring me home right before I saw you.β He sighs. βShe was really pretty, too.
βArenβt you going to look for her?β he asks when Caoimhe doesnβt turn around. βCaoimhe, sheβs alone!β
But so are they. Theyβre in the forest during a storm with the water creeping in all around, and there is no way another cat could possibly be on their land unless itβs not a cat at all.
Or maybe sheβs come from beyond the forest. Maybe, just maybe, she knows the way out.
βIβm bringing you home first,β Caoimhe says past Lachlanβs scruff. βAnd then Iβll look for her, I promise.β
Either heβs placated by that, or heβs too exhausted to argue anymore. He hangs from her jaws without another word as they start the trek towards camp, even with the rain falling in his face, even with the thunder roaring all around. Only his harsh sniffling makes Caoimhe certain that heβs still alive. It puts her mind at ease that she found him in time.
But she canβt help but think of the other cat that Lachlan saw, of the possibility of a way out. Maybe, if she can find that cat, Clan Fearthainn can escape. Maybe Lachlan and Aislinn can grow up without storms hanging over their heads and a shrinking circle of mud beneath their feet. Maybe Imogen wonβt worry herself thin any longer.
When the storm passes, she knows sheβs going to search high and low for this cat. She has to.
She must.
Chapter Three
The wait is agonizing. Imogen is an absolute wreck, barely holding it together, not that Saoirse blames her. It makes her blood run cold at the thought of two cats out there in the rain, one of them barely old enough to leave his motherβs side, let alone wander the forest during a storm.
Especially since chances are, neither of them will come back. Theyβll just not come home, and everyone will know what has happened.
They donβt need to have a body to know what has happened.
The rain continues, but slowly the thunder fades and the relentless pounding on the roof of the den slows to a steady, mellow drumming. Saoirse gives everyone strict instructions to stay in the den, because the rain could still come back, but she pokes her head out the opening.
The rain is light now, but the entire camp is one big mud puddle. Saoirse steps out, wincing as the mud squishes between her toes. Itβs an unpleasant sensation, admittedly one she should be used to by now, and she carefully picks her way around the edges and the drier patches, trying her best to avoid the worst of the muck.
βIs everyone alright?β she calls, and a bit of the weight goes off her shoulders at the answers of confirmation. The last major storm one of the towering pines had released its already unsteady grip on the soft earth and fallen, crushing a den and the five cats inside. Three had either died when the tree had hit or in the den soon afterwards, and both Cairbre and Grainne had been seriously injured, Grainne with broken hips and a crushed back leg, and Cairbre with broken ribs and internal injuries. He had died from them only a few days later.
So many have already been lost, and Saoirse canβt bear the thought of losing more.
Mairi appears next to her, so silently that Saoirse jumps.
βI didnβt tell anyone that they could come out yet,β Saoirse snaps, more out of surprise than actual irritation, but Mairi just flicks her ear, dismissing the words.
βAre you planning to send out a search party?β Mairi asks under her breath, following Saoirse across the camp.
Is there even a point to doing so?
Itβs the answer both Saoirse and Mairi know, but Saoirse canβt bring herself to say. It feels a little bit too much like abandoning her clanmates, even though that in all likelihood they would not survive the trip out of the forest, let alone the trip in.
βWeβll give them a little bit of time,β Saoirse decides, before taking a breath and allowing the role of leader to settle over her once again. βStart checking that everyone is unharmed, and get a few cats to check the status of the waters. Iβll find Orla and have her give Imogen something to calm her down.β
βAs you wish,β comes the reply, Mairi already heading back towards the clusters of dens, leaving Saoirse standing alone in front of the camp entrance.
She is just about to turn away, to go and get their medic for the still panicking Imogen when they stagger through the entrance.
Both are bedraggled, dripping wet, coated in mud, and clearly exhausted. Lachlan hangs limply from Caoimheβs jaws, and for a brief, terrifying second, Saoirse thinks that heβs dead. But then he stirs weakly, exposing a pink tongue in a wide yawn. Caoimhe sits down hard, dropping Lachlan as she does, and he grumbles in protest even as he sits down, yawning again.
Saoirse isnβt quite sure what to do, the amount of emotions currently rioting in her chest overwhelming. She isnβt sure which to focus on or which to say, shock and relief and anger all battling in her head.
βWhat in the name of the all of the ancestors were you thinking?β she roars, and Caoimheβs eyes go wide as she steps back in shock. Anger, apparently, has won.
βI went out after Lockie,β Caoimhe says, recoiling from the force which Saoirseβs words were delivered. βHe was out alone and I couldnβt just leave him there.β
βSo you risked two lives instead of one,β Saoirse growls.
βI risked my life for the life of a kit,β Caoimhe protests, and although her voice is calmer than Saoirseβs, thereβs a bit of heat starting to creep into it.
Heads are starting to pop out from around dens, and eyes grow wide when they recognize the two cats standing in front of Saoirse. One of those heads belongs to Imogen, and with a scream thatβs half a noise of pure relief and half the name of her kit, she rushes forward, knocking Saoirse away.
βLachlan, youβre okay!β The she-catβs voice holds nothing but relief and she begins to frantically groom her kit, seemingly uncaring about his wet fur and the mud that coats his every inch.
βThanks to me,β Caoimhe says. Her comment isnβt angled at her sister, but rather at Saoirse.
Saoirse takes a deep breath, clenching her teeth so tightly together that her jaw hurts. Once she feels like she can open her mouth without screaming she slowly says, βCaoimhe, Imogen, Lachlan, can you all please meet me in my den? I feel like we need to have this conversation in private.β
Caoimhe opens her mouth, but before she can say anything Saoirse cuts her off with a growled βIn private.β
Caoimhe luckily seems to realize that following along is the wisest choice at the moment.
β βOkay,β Saoirse says, trying to keep her voice a bit more calm this time. βTell me. What were you thinking when you left? Lachlan?β
The kit, still a bit bedraggled but marginally cleaner, is tucked between Imogenβs front paws, the she-cat not letting him out of her sight. Saoirse had tried suggesting that maybe Imogen would rather wait outside until theyβre done talking, but Imogenβs look of pure horror had answered that question very fast.
Lachlan shuffles his paws, not meeting Saoirseβs eyes. βWell, when Aislinn and I were playing yesterday we had a moss ball and we accidently lost it. And there isnβt anything else to play with, so I saw a pretty light and it was in the forest and I thought that if we were stuck in the dens for hours again we might as well have something to play with, and so I went after the light and it led me into the forest and then it started raining, and then Caoimhe found me.
βItβs really boring when we have to sit in the dens for hours,β Lachlan says again, when Saoirse doesnβt respond. She has a headache brewing behind her eyes. She sighs and closes them, trying to calm her once more rising frustration.
βHe went after a will-o-the-wisp,β Caoimhe says, probably intending to be helpful.
βI figured that out myself, thank you,β Saoirse snaps back, a bit more harshly than she means to. Imogen gasps in horror.
βLachlan, you went after a wisp? We have told you time and time again that they are not to be followed, no matter how pretty they are. They get you lost, and you do not want to be lost in the forest, especially when itβs raining.β
βBut I wanted to play with it,β Lachlan says again, and Saoirse is suddenly reminded why she does not want kits.
βOkay, look,β Saoirse says before Imogen can start her lecture. βLachlan, youβre clearly tired. Why donβt you go find Orla and have her check you out. Imogen, I trust youβll talk to him?β
βOf course,β Imogen says, giving her kit a disappointed look. Lachlan squirms under her gaze, and then sheβs picked him up and theyβre gone, leaving Caoimhe and Saoirse in the den alone.
The silence is stifling, an uncomfortable third presence in the room. Saoirse wraps her tail over her paws to prevent herself from shifting in discomfort. Sheβs not sure what to say, if she should scold or if she should praise. Caoimhe somehow got both her and Lachlan back safely, but at the same time, she broke a rule. The most important rule.
She saved a kit, but she risked her own life. Caoimheβs risk paid off this time, but it might not the next. And the Clan needs her alive.
βSaoirse, heβs my nephew,β Caoimhe says, breaking the silence. βI couldnβt just leave him out there alone.β
βItβs a half moon until Samhain.β
βWhat?β Caoimheβs brow furrows, clearly confused by the sudden change of subject.
βA half moon until Samhain,β Saoirse repeats. βOur only real chance of getting out of this circle of death. We need to you to be able to do this. You know the forest like no one else. If you have died today, been dragged under like your motherβ¦what would we have done?β
Anger flashes in Caoimheβs eyes. βOh, so Iβm just supposed to leave Lachlan out there? Have you forgotten that heβs a kit?β
βHe shouldnβt have been out there in the first place!β Saoirse can feel herself tensing, can hear her voice rising, but she canβt stop herself. βWe have lost so many. So many, Caoimhe. And weβre going to lose more. But you canβt be one of them if we want to have a real, fighting chance at getting out of here.β
βOkay, so, what youβre saying is that I should have let my nephew die on the slim chance that we actually might manage to leave the forest?β
βThatβs not-β
βOh, it sure sounded like thatβs what you were saying!β Caoimhe snarls, ears pinned and fur standing on end. βThe life of one tiny, innocent kit for the life of many, right?β
βThatβs not what I meant,β Saoirse says, and something inside her breaks. She sits down hard, her headache intensifying and a heavy guilt hanging over her. βNo more lives lost, Caoimhe. Weβve lost so many. Too many.β
Grief infects every single word. Itβs been only three days since the last funeral, and she knows that theyβll have to be planning another one soon enough. Thatβs just how life is currently. Itβs awful and itβs heartbreaking and she has to deal with it.
βI donβt know what Iβm doing,β she finds herself admitting. βI was never supposed to be in charge. I have to make things up as I go and everyoneβs life is in my paws and I just need cats to listen to me, to follow the rules. Itβs the rules that keep you safe. That keep you alive.β
βYouβve made that very clear,β Caoimhe grumbles, her fur is starting to settle.
βI even understand why you did it.β
βOh, really?β Heavy sarcasm replaces the anger in Caoimheβs voice, and Saoirse canβt help but feel a little bit insulted.
βDonβt you think I would have gone after my mother if I could have? Or given my father all the blood in my body if I had been able to?β Thereβs a lump in Saoirseβs throat, and she swallows hard. βWe donβt want to lose any loved ones.β
βSo youβre not going to murder me in my sleep in punishment, then?β
βNo murdering,β Saoirse promises. βBut that doesnβt mean Iβm not mad. Just because I get where youβre coming from doesnβt mean Iβm not furious. You broke our number one rule, the rule that keeps Clan Fearthainn safe.β
For the first time, Caoimhe looks something close to apologetic. Saoirse sighs.
βButβ¦I think Imogen will probably lecture you, too. Go to Orla and get checked out, then go to bed.β
Caoimhe nods, standing up. But before she goes she pauses.
βLachlan said that he saw another cat out in the forest. We were the only two out, right?β
Saoirse nods. βNo one else left. I made sure of it.β
βI have to go find them, then.β
βNo, you donβt!β Saoirse says, raising her voice when it looks like Caoimhe is about to protest.
βThe cat is not our responsibility. If they find us, great! But youβre forbidden to leave the camp, and we have more pressing matters than some mousebrain who thought it would be a good idea to wander the forest in a rainstorm.β
βBut-β
βGo see Orla,β Saoirse says firmly, and Caoimhe sighs heavily, grumbling something under her breath.
βWhat?β
βNothing,β Caoimhe says, rolling her eyes.
Then sheβs gone, and Saoirse is once again alone in her den. And for the first time she lets her posture slump. Her headache has worsened, a steady throb behind her eyes. Sheβs so exhausted, and she becomes aware of the mild tremble of her muscles. Sheβs been so tense unknowingly, and relaxing soothes a bit of the pinching ache between her shoulder blades. She gasps in relief, rolling out the stiffness.
Caoimhe and Lachlan are alive, and for now, thatβs what matters. Theyβre both mousebrains and probably should be dead, but theyβre not, theyβre alive, and itβs a weight off Saoirseβs shoulders.
Sheβll have to talk to them again, and make more rules and be better about making sure everyone is where theyβre supposed to be next storm, but for now, everything is as close to peaceful as life in Clan Fearthainn can get.
Sheβll worry about the strange cat out in the forest later, maybe send out a small patrol to go looking in the morning. She doesnβt think theyβll find anything. Chances are, the catβs already dead.
Saoirse knows that theyβd be more likely to find a body, drenched from the rising waters and half-eaten. She knows she wouldnβt just be able to leave the cat there, stranger or no. But she doesnβt think she can bring herself to plan another funeral, even if itβs for a cat whoβs not their own.
Chapter Four
Samhain.
Sheβd forgotten about Samhain while chasing after Lachlan, and now that sheβs remembered, Caoimhe wishes she could forget it all over again. As a kit, Samhain was her favorite time of the year because she could smear berry juice in her spiked fur and snarl her way through camp to her heartβs content. It was a wild night, a free night, a night to chase away the terrors that crept close any other night of the year, all while disguised as the greatest terrors of all.
Now, Samhain is Clan Fearthainnβs last chance, and Caoimhe doesnβt know if she even wants to take it.
Itβs all well and good for Saoirse to prioritize Caoimheβs safety for the clanβs survival. Sheβs the leader, and to her, the solution is plain as day: she must keep her best scout alive and well to ensure the clanβs safe passage on Samhain, when the woods are afraid of cats, if only for a single night. Saoirse thinks of the many, and her compassion is commendable.
But her compassion comes at the expense of Caoimheβs heart, lost to the forest long ago. She expects Caoimhe to abandon the thickets and groves willingly, as if itβs easy to leave her only home behind, swallowed in the water dark. As if she can part with the memories trapped in the shrinking shores. As if she can leave her roots behind.
She wishes she could tear herself in two. No, three. One of her to protect her clan, to lead it to brighter, better lands. The second to stay under the boughs she knows better than her own mind, never parted from her home. And the third is more of a wish than anything else, the barest sliver of a dream. The third Caoimhe would plunge into the depths of the forest and find a way to drive the darkness back, to reclaim her home. That Caoimhe would be Clan Fearthainnβs savior.
That Caoimhe would be happy.
But there is only one of her, suited to face a single trial at a time, and her first obstacle as she crosses camp is her sister, crouched outside Orlaβs den.
Imogen looks thin, and Caoimhe can almost feel the sharp outline of her sisterβs ribs in her own sides. No one is eating particularly well, what with the prey shortage from the rising water, but when Imogen worries, she barely picks at what few meals she gets, and it shows. Caoimhe says nothing about that, though, and instead braces herself as she touches foreheads with her littermate.
To her surprise, Imogen doesnβt spill her worries out immediately. Instead, she leans against Caoimhe for support, and Caoimhe can feel the tremor in her sisterβs legs. βSit down,β she says, guiding Imogen back to her spot beside the healerβs den. βYouβre shaking.β
βI shouldnβt have let you go,β Imogen answers, folding her legs beneath herself nonetheless. βBut I couldnβt leave Lockie out there, and I couldnβt leave Aislinn behind, soβ¦β
Caoimhe licks her ear, and Imogen only tilts her head away from the gesture. βIt was the right thing to do. Aislinn was safe with you, and I found Lockie. Besides, you never could have stopped me. You know I would do anything for our family.β
βI know. Youβre just like Mother.β
Ah. Thereβs the lecture. Even though their pelts are brushing, Caoimhe shivers. A divide opens between her and Imogen, making room for their motherβs ghost, as it always does whenever the subject comes up. The wounds are still fresh, even with her death almost two moons behind them. Ancestors, has it really been that long since the water first rose to the point of no return?
βWeβve talked enough about this,β Caoimhe says. She hopes she imagines the faint quaver in her voice, trembling with her heartstrings. βIt was an accident.β
Imogenβs whiskers twitch, and she swipes a paw over her face to cover it. βShe thought Taliesin was hurt. No one told her he switched hunting parties, and if they had, she wouldnβt have run out looking for him. It wouldnβt have happened.β
It. Their motherβs death.
A flash of movement inside the fallen oak tree reminds Caoimhe why she came this way in the first place: not to siphon Imogenβs guilt into her own heart, but to see Orla, to meet Saoirseβs standards of health. Taking a steadying breath, she gets back to her feet, and tries to give Imogenβs shoulder a gentle brush with her tail, though it turns into more of a pointed flick in the end. βIf I hadnβt gone, Lockie might not be here,β she says slowly. βKeep that in mind before you blame yourself. Or tell me I made the wrong choice.β Like Saoirse thinks.
βI didnβt say you were wrong,β says Imogen even as Caoimhe hops onto the small, muddy ledge that leads into Orlaβs den. βI just want you to be careful.β
But they canβt have it both ways. Either Caoimhe is careful and safe, or she takes her chances to protect Clan Fearthainn. Once again, she cannot split in two.
Mercifully, Imogen does not press the issue beyond the threshold of the den, and the rain-soaked wood overhead looms just beyond the tips of Caoimheβs ears, uncomfortably damp. A trickle of water slips down the back of her neck as she scans the tight space for Orla, and she jumps when the healer answers from behind, squeezing past in a whisper of silky black and white fur.
βBefore you ask, yes, Iβve already seen your sister. And Lachlan.β Orla tips her head at the other end of the log, and Caoimhe looks over her shoulder to find her nephew curled up fast asleep in a scant pile of moss, some of it heaped over his back. βImogen will be the same as ever, and Lachlan will be fine after he gets some rest. Heβs only cold.β
βMake sure he and Aislinn share the nest, then.β The words escape before Caoimhe can call them back, and she adds, βFor warmth. And sheβs probably upset, too.β
Orla scoffs. βWould you like my job, Caoimhe?β Her paws run over shelves scored into the fallen log over many, many moons, turning over her scant supplies. βLast I looked, the position of healer was filled, and filled well.β
βOf course. Iβm sorry.β
βTake a seat.β Thatβs as good as it gets where Orla and apologies are concerned. Sheβs never been gracious about them, even heartfelt ones. In the same vein, she often brushes off thanks as well, devoted to her job and offended by even the barest insinuation that she is healer only because no one else has the skills for it. Being told to sit rather than being ignored entirely is something of a small miracle in itself. Caoimhe sits.
Orlaβs inspection is cursory, almost as if she does it out of reflex rather than pressing need. She combs through Caoimheβs fur for parasites and finds none, examines her pads for thorns or open wounds and finds none. Caoimhe is not coughing, and her shivering is reasonable given the damp conditions and Orlaβs icy demeanor.
βHealthy enough,β comes the judgment at last. Orla rocks back on her haunches. βYou can leave, though I would advise the back entrance.β Her ears swivel towards the exact spot where Imogen is probably still sitting outside, even as she kinks her tail over her back towards a narrow break in the wall.
Overstaying Orlaβs welcome is hardly recommended. Even the youngest kits know to follow her instructions diligently and then scatter as soon as theyβre released. Her impatience is legend, and her tongue is barbed with soft, subtle hooks and bitter words. Worse, her memory is long, and the next time a cat is in need of a visit, she will remember their transgressions.
Yet Caoimhe stops at the edge of the gap. βWould you treat a cat who wasnβt Fearthainn-born?β she asks.
The wrinkled berries under Orlaβs paw vanish into a cage of unsheathed claws. βBe clear with me.β
βItβs something Lachlan told me. He said he met a she-cat while he was lost.β
βThereβs no way out until Samhain,β answers Orla, curling her lip at the mention of such a frivolous holiday. Except now itβs a dangerous holiday more than anything. βEvery cat knows Saoirse and I dreamt that on the same night.β
Caoimhe dips her head in concession, but forges ahead. βYes, but what if there was a way in? And when Samhain comes, this cat could lead us out? She canβt do that if I donβt find her, and if sheβs hurtβ¦β
βIf sheβs hurt, you want to know that Iβll heal her. A stranger,β finishes Orla.
Then, without warning, she kicks a single berry Caoimheβs way, striking her in the chest, leaving a round, red stain. βI am a healer. Donβt come back until youβve learned that I will always do my job, every time. I do not turn my back on those who need my help.β
Caoimhe flees then, leaving the burst berry lying on the floor. She squeezes out the back exit and doesnβt look back until sheβs standing over the fresh-kill pile, made of two mice and a single thrush. A pair of golden moons stare back from Orlaβs den, two thin, thoughtful slivers.
βYouβre to stay in camp until tomorrow morning!β comes the shout. For Caoimheβs eyes only, one moon winks, and then they both disappear.
If Caoimhe is not mistaken, thatβs an order. She hopes it doesnβt rain when the morning patrol goes out.
Chapter Five
Dawn comes with a biting chill and the smell of cold wind.
Saoirse shivers, fluffing up her fur, shifting from paw to paw as she waits for the rest of the cats to come trickling from their dens. She hadnβt wanted to lead the morning patrol, but after a late night conversation with Orla, sheβd decided it was probably best.
She had gone to see the healer after tossing and turning in her nest for hours, desperately seeking sleep. It had proved unsuccessful, so she sought out other means. Orla had offered up chamomile and a conversation. Admittedly, conversation was a bit of a stretch; she had shoved the bundle of tiny, daisy-like flowers at Saoirse and told her to keep an eye on the troublemaker. Which is why sheβs now sitting outside in the cold, waiting for the other members of the patrol to come and join her.
First to come is Madden, and the combination of her soft gray fur and a lack of regular meals turning her already small frame even smaller makes her resemble a wisp of fog more than a cat. She yawns and sits down beside Saoirse, dipping her head once in a silent greeting. Darragh is next, pausing outside the den he shares with his mate, Mairi. The two touch foreheads, closing their eyes. It feels intimate, almost like Saoirse shouldnβt be witnessing it. Mairi had offered to come on the patrol as well, but Saoirse had told her to stay behind, to make sure the camp didnβt fall into chaos. They need Mairiβs dependable, no-nonsense presence right now.
After a second, the mates break away, Mairi going back into the den and Darragh coming over to where Saoirse and Madden wait beside the camp entrance. He says a quiet good morning, sitting down on Saoirseβs other side and wrapping his tail over his paws to wait.
And, finally, comes the troublemaker.
Caoimhe slips from the den she shares with her sister, padding across the camp clearing. The night before, when Saoirse had told her she had to come on the patrol, Caoimhe hadnβt gotten as mad as Saoirse had expected. And even now, sheβs not dragging her paws or looking reluctant. In fact, of the four cats, she appears the most awake and ready to go out of all of them.
βWhatβs the plan?β she asks as soon as sheβs in front of Saoirse, and it takes Saoirse a minute to gather her thoughts, still moving sluggishly. Both the early hour and the cold seem to be sapping articulate thought from her mind, and she gives her head a quick shake to clear the forming cobwebs.
βWeβre checking the status of the waters since the rain,β she says, standing up. βSee if they have risen, and if they have, by how much. We are not going out intending to hunt, but if you see prey, we would be ill-advised to ignore it.β She levels a look at Caoimhe, pointedly adding the final piece of information. βWe do not want to lose someone today, so stick with the group at all times.β
Caoimhe rolls her eyes. Saoirse sighs, but decides not to press it. She doesnβt want to start an argument.
β Even though Saoirse has grown up walking this very path, the forest feels unfamilar. Fog hangs low and heavy, and the undergrowth drips with moisture. The faint wind rustles the branches overhead, and the fur prickles down Saoirseβs spine. She feels like sheβs being watched, like there are unseen eyes hidden in the mist, tracking her every move.
She knows the others feel the same. Madden nearly jumps out of her skin when a wet fern drips water down her neck, and Darragh whips around, snarling and claws unsheathed at the rustling of some small forest bird in the branches just above their heads. Only Caoimhe seems unfazed. More than that, she almost seems expectant. Excited. She leads the way down the little path, going fast enough that the rest of them are starting to get mildly winded, her pace a few steps below a jog.
Saoirse slips past Madden so sheβs walking side by side with Caoimhe. The gray tabby twitches an ear in Saoirseβs direction in acknowlegement, but waits for Saoirse to speak.
βHowβs Imogen?β
βSheβs fine,β Caoimhe says, a bit too quickly for Saoirse to really think that the statement is the truth. βSheβs not letting Lockie or Aislinn out of her sight ever again.β
βUnderstandable.β Although Saoirse has no kits of her own, nor does she have any plans for some, she does understand, in way. You have someone elseβs lives cradled in your own paws, their well being on your own shoulders. And even though Saoirse hasnβt given birth to the entirety of Clan Fearthainn (ancestors, thatβs a horrifying thought), their lives all rest on her decisions. It makes her chest grow tight at just the thought, as if the trees are pressing down closer on top of her.
Sometimes she wishes she was a bit more impulsive like Caoimhe. Caoimhe doesnβt question, she acts. She doesnβt let herself drown under all the different options, under the choices. She does what she thinks is right without agonizing over the exact details, and right now, Saoirse could use a little bit of that confidence.
There is a fine line to be walked with confidence, however. Caoimheβs so confident that she could be called unnecessarily reckless. While Saoirse could use a little bit of extra boldness, Caoimhe could do with less. She risked her life by going out after Lachlan, not only endangering herself, but Clan Fearthainnβs future. Samhain creeps closer every day, and Saoirse canβt have Caoimhe dying on her before then.
Itβs the bravery, though, that makes Saoirse regret the harsh words. Going after Lachlan was reckless in a life-threatening way, but to go out in the woods during the storm, to risk the creatures that wait in the darkness, takes an amount of bravery that Saoirse isnβt sure she has in herself.
Stepping a little off the path to let Madden and Darragh pass, Saoirse motions for Caoimhe to wait.
βGo ahead,β Saoirse says to the other two. βBut donβt go too far, okay?β Once Madden and Darragh have disappeared into the undergrowth, she turns to Caoimhe.
βI want to apologize,β Saoirse says, and surprise etches itself across Caoimheβs face. βI reacted harshly yesterday. More harshly than I intended.β
Caoimhe sits down. βIβd say. Iβd barely set foot in the camp before you laid in on me.β
Saoirse winces. βIβm sorry,β she repeats. βI should have taken you to my den immediately, instead of berating you in front of everyone first.β
Caoimhe shrugs. βI get it, I guess. You were angry.β
βThis doesnβt mean Iβm condoning it,β Saoirse says, just in case Caoimhe might be getting the wrong idea. βBut...it was brave. And you saved Lachlan, you both came back alive, and thatβs what matters.β
βThatβs what matters,β Caoimhe echoes, softly. βIβd do anything for them. Theyβre my family.β
Saoirse flashes back to Caoimhe the night before, dripping wet with her nephew between her paws. The way she looked...small, as if the water had stolen the strength from her body and the fire from her eyes. And the way it has lit back up, the way it is on fire now.
Since they were kits, Saoirse has been fascinated by Caoimheβs fire. And she worries, sometimes, that this life surrounded by water will put it out.
Up ahead, in a sound almost swallowed by the air, thereβs a scream. Both Saoirse and Caoimhe jolt upright, all of Saoirseβs muscles going tight. The scream isn't one of fear or of pain, more a shocked yelp, but itβs enough to make adrenaline course through her veins.
At the same time, she and Caoimhe surge forward, crashing through the greenery that blocks their path, following the two sets of paw prints in the damp dirt.
The smell hits her first. Sour and putrid, like long-stagnant water but far, far worse. Then she sees Darragh, standing stock still and staring at something she canβt see, and she can hear Madden dry-heaving in the bushes.
Caoimhe skids to a stop directly in front of Saoirse, so suddenly that Saoirse nearly crashes into her, and then she sees what the reactions are causing.
It used to be a deer. Itβs lying on the waterβs shores, half in and half out, dead, white eyes staring at nothing even as they seem to be staring directly at Saoirse. Its decomposing flesh, soaked by the water, is whatβs causing the smell, but whatβs not rotting flesh is bone, stark and white and stripped clean. It would be bad enough to find this creature anyways, but thereβs an element to it that makes a chill run down Saoirseβs spine.
No wildcat killed this creature, Saoirse knows this for certain. Itβs not just that any wildcats lurking in the woods were driven away generations before she was born. She knows by the way this deer has been treated.
It was ripped apart.
Saoirse edges closer, stomach churning, bile rising in her throat. What remains of the deerβs pelt is shredded by sharp teeth, bones broken by force, showing hints of the marrow within. She knows what did this, knows in an instinctual, terrifyingly certain way.
βA kelpie,β Madden says, slinking up beside Saoirse, her voice hushed. βThatβs what did this, right?β
βItβs not a kelpie,β Darragh says sharply. βKelpies have never come up this far. It must have been something else.β
Saoirse shakes her head, once and sharply. βThereβs no use denying what did this.β
She turns, looking for Caoimheβs opinion on the killer of the poor, dead thing in front of them.
βWhereβs Caoimhe?β she asks, and Madden and Darragh turn away from the dead deer, looking at her in questioning.
The space where Caoimhe had been only minutes before is now empty, and not a trace of her can be seen.
Saoirse spits out a curse, anger rushing through her, making her fur stand on end. Both Darragh and Madden take a step back as she snarls. But the anger is washed away quickly, the hot rage replaced with cold fear.
Caoimhe is out alone, again. And thereβs something still out there, and maybe, itβs still hungry.
β They stop by camp first to pick up a fourth cat to join their party. Mairi doesnβt even waste time asking questions when a panicked Saoirse tells her to follow after them, seemingly sensing the level of anxiety that was, and still is, overflowing in Saoirseβs chest.
Afterward, they broke up in pairs. Darragh and Mairi heading towards the formerly dry riverbed, Saoirse and Madden deeper into the woods. They call Caoimheβs name as loudly as they dare, but neither cat wants to attract unwanted attention, so for the most part they keep quiet.
Theyβve been doing this for hours. Exhaustion drags in Saoirseβs limbs, and judging by the typically nimble Maddenβs heavy tread, she feels the same way. But whenever Saoirse begins to think about stopping, about returning to camp, an image jumps to her mind. Of Caoimhe in the dead deerβs place, found on the shores days after being dragged under the water. Tiny and soaked and fragile, limbs twisted in ways they were not meant to go, gray fur now holding the reddish brown of old blood.
So, with the sour taste of fear on her tongue, she keeps going. She keeps walking and looking and calling, hoping to find any trace of the gray she-cat.
Hoping, praying, that she doesnβt find a body instead.
Saoirse doesnβt think she could handle finding Caoimheβs body, all of her bright fire snuffed out like it was never there.
The sun reaches its highest peak and begins to creep back downwards, and Madden begins to lag. At first itβs by a little, and then it gets to the point where another cat could fit in the space between them. Saoirse slows, admittedly reluctantly, and turns to look at the she-cat.
βCan we just...rest for a bit?β Without waiting for an answer, Madden plops down and lets out a breath. And Saoirse notices for the first time how traces of kithood softness still lingers in her fur, how young, how small she looks against the trees.
βAre you okay?β Saoirse asks, and her voice comes out a bit more brisk than she intended it.
βIβm fine,β Madden says, even as she gasps for breath. βJust need a minute.β
Saoirse watches her, watches the way she closes her eyes and she breathes, watches the way her chest heaves and the way she shifts from paw to paw, as if they hurt.
βWe should go back,β Saoirse admits, hollowly. As much as she burns to keep looking for Caoimhe, sheβs running Madden into the ground, and Madden is too stubborn to admit it.
She should not be risking the wellbeing of one young, underfed cat to spent all day searching for another. For a troublemaker who went off alone after being specificially told not to.
So, after Madden catches her breath, they head back. Since this time theyβre not zig-zagging from worn trails and deer paths and unmarked sections to try and cover as much ground as possible, the way back to camp is much easier, and they reach it much more quickly than it took to leave.
Mairi is waiting outside the entrance when they get back. She steps aside to let Madden enter the camp, but blocks Saoirse from doing the same. Limbs aching, Saoirse sits down for the first time since she left the camp that morning, wincing at the ache of muscles and cramp of an unfed stomach even as she starts to question her second-in-command.
βDid you find her?β
βNo, but-β
βWhat about any signs of her? Pawprints? Fur?β Horror rushing through her at a thought, Saoirse lowers her voice. βAny blood?β
βNo,β Mairi repeats, and before Saoirse can unleash the next set of questions hovering on her tongue, continues speaking. βIβm just going to tell you that you should handle this as calmly as possible.β
βHandle what?β
βYouβll see,β Mairi says, and steps aside so Saoirse can enter the camp.
And there, sitting next to Orlaβs den, a bit muddy, a bit bedraggled but otherwise fine, is Caoimhe.
Saoirse freezes midstep, thoughts and emotions piling up in her brain. Caoimhe looks up, notices Saoirse, and cheerfully asks, βWhere have you been?β
Ancestors, Saoirse is glad Caoimhe isnβt dead, but she is going to kill her.
Chapter Six
Sheβs relived it a thousand times, but it still doesnβt feel real. The deer, the stench, the harsh gleam of bone. The bloodied flesh, the rippling waters.
The blur of bright motion through the trees.
Saoirseβs order to stay together was well meant, and Caoimhe knows it. But it was just like the will-o-wisp in the storm: she couldnβt let it go. Didnβt.
The rest of the party barely noticed as she ducked back into the undergrowth, promising to be right back. Perhaps it was the fog that kept them from hearing, or perhaps it was the shock. Maybe it was both. Regardless, she was pelting through the forest before anyone noticed she was gone, chasing her new wisp.
It wasnβt a wisp, though. It was a cat, a slender ginger tabby with shining white toes, and she ran as if she had no fear of the waters deep. She ran like Caoimhe wanted to run, like she used to run when it wasnβt that hard to avoid the slim, scattered pools.
Sitting beside Orlaβs den, shivering in the cool afternoon air as her fur dries, she canβt recall exactly what she said that made the tabby stop. But her heart leaps back into her throat, beating steady and low, and despite the chill breeze, she feels warmer than before.
The tabby has the darkest, greenest eyes sheβs ever seen, like the forest at the height of summer in the days before the flooding. Caoimhe can imagine them with perfect clarity even down to the strange way the tabby blinked when she asked βHow are you here?β
The tabby blinked in slow motion, as if time were gliding to a halt all around her. She blinked for so long in that strange, endless way, and then she asked, βHow are you?β
βI live here,β said Caoimhe.
βI live here,β the tabby echoed.
But here was a different side of the water for each of them. Caoimhe stood on a sinking bank, her paws caked with mud, while only a couple lengths across the water, the tabby perched on a tiny hill, her paws perfectly dry. She might as well have lived in an entirely different world.
She almost returned to that world without another word, too, but Caoimhe stopped her. βMy clan is trapped by the water,β she said to the tabbyβs retreating form. βI think my nephew saw you in the storm yesterday. Could you show me the way out?β
The question was meant for the clan. It was. But there was no denying that when the tabby turned back to face Caoimhe again, Caoimhe felt more than relief or hope. Curiosity unfurled in her chest, slowly winding its way between her bones. It guided her to the edge of the water, and she almost stepped in. Only the faintest spark of fear kept her back, crawling through the back of her skull in the shape of her mother but with watery pits for eyes.
The tabby padded down her little hill with so much grace she was almost gliding. βYou have a clan? In this forest?β
Not for long, if they couldnβt break through when Samhain arrived. But until then? βYes,β Caoimhe answered. The words tumbled out freely once she started, as if she couldnβt stop. βThe preyβs stopped running because of the floods, and cats are dying by the day. Our healer and leader both say our last chance is coming soon, but we canβt evacuate without a path through the waters. We canβt risk it.β
That was when the tabby took Caoimheβs breath away. Even now, she still isnβt sure sheβs gotten it back. With her head cocked delicately to the side, the tabby walked into the water and crossed half the distance between them. βI donβt think youβre risking anything,β she said.
All the fur stood up along Caoimheβs spine, and impulse threatened to tear her apart. βYou canβt be in the water!β she cried, and her body strained forward of its own accord, as if she was supposed to tackle the senseless tabby to dry land. But her feet were rooted to the earth, and the black water reflected her own fear back up at her. She could not risk her life for a stranger so blatantly, even if she wanted to.
She really wanted to.
But the tabby read the panic in her eyes and splashed free of the water without incident, shaking herself out and running an immaculate paw over her face to smooth her fur. βYou could cross here,β she said. βThe water wonβt hurt you.β
βThere are kits,β Caoimhe replied. βAnd elders. And...and we canβt cross the water.β It felt like an excuse, a clumsy one at best, instead of a reason. Like she needed to justify herself and her clan more. Saoirse would expect more.
Saoirse. That was when Caoimhe plummeted from the tabbyβs suspended bubble of time, and her heart remembered to beat again. βMy party,β she said. βPlease, just wait here! Iβm going to get them so you can show us the way out. Itβll only be a moment.β
The tabby surged into the water again in alarm, retreating once she read the horror in Caoimheβs face. Her eyes darted all around, as if the forest were suddenly alive. βPlease donβt,β she begged. βI donβt want anyone else to know Iβm here.β
βWhy not?β
βI donβt think the numbers are in my favor, if you have a clan. Even if you have a party.β She blinked again, long and slow. βPlease.β
Caoimhe didnβt have to deliberate. βWhat if you just show me, then? Iβll come back here tomorrow, midday. Just me, and you can show me the way out. Iβll never tell a soul, and the clanβll be gone before you know it.β
βPromise?β asked the tabby.
Caoimhe promised, and there was a warm pang in her chest as she did.
They went their separate ways after that, the tabby over the hill and Caoimhe lingering just long enough to see her feathery tail disappear into the brush before she too took her leave, heading back to the deer carcass. By the time she got there, though, the partyβs scents were cool and stale, laced with sharp panic and the dampening scent of rot and marsh. There was no hope of tracking them, so she returned to camp. The forest was no place for a lone cat.
Except the tabby, so sure of herself even with the water up to her belly.
Theyβll meet again tomorrow, if Saoirse doesnβt skin Caoimhe alive first. Caoimhe canβt keep the cheer from her voice as finally, finally her leader returns to camp with her hackles raised and ears pricked, breaking Caoimheβs reverie. Sheβll come back to it later, she thinks. Run it through her mind again to keep it fresh, so she knows where their meeting will be.
βWhere have you been?β she asks, setting the tabby aside to greet Saoirse. Itβs her fault the party was split, yes, but itβs odd that Saoirse wasnβt back to camp before Caoimhe; sheβs the one who instituted that rule that all split parties should return home immediately. Itβs the easiest way to regroup, provided everyone is still alive.
But Saoirse doesnβt answer right away. She stands in the camp entrance, straining to surge forward, Mairi poised to hold her back by any means. Even from this distance, her eyes are blazing hot enough to scorch the entire camp dry, if only she had eyes for anything, anyone but Caoimhe. But she doesnβt explode. She doesnβt raze Clan Fearthainn to the ground. The light in her eyes goes out, smothered, and she takes in a deep breath before nodding at her den. βWith me,β she says.
This will be the second time in as many days.
Thereβs no avoiding it. Caoimhe bobs her head. βBe right there,β she says to Saoirseβs back. All leaders of Clan Fearthainn ought to know how to storm away, and Saoirse has very suddenly mastered the technique as she slides into the hollow log where she keeps her nest. It seems wise to bring a peace offering, and Caoimhe stops only once before following Saoirse into the den, plucking a skinny mouse from the fresh-kill pile.
Saoirse, though, does not seem to be hungry. The mouse lies at her feet untouched, and she wastes no time. βAgain,β she hisses. βYou disappeared again. After I warned you not to go anywhere alone! Do you have any idea how long youβve been gone? How long weβve been looking for you?β
A pit opens in Caoimheβs stomach. If the mouse had looked tasty when she chose it, she has no appetite now. Her words stick in her throat like bones. βWhat happened to putting the clan before one cat?β she jokes weakly.
The fire roars to life again in Saoirseβs eyes. Her tail lashes in tight arcs. βIβWe canβt lose you,β she snaps. βSamhain is coming and you know the forest better than any else in the clan. Youβre going to have to lead us out. We need you to do that, or weβre going to die.β
βNo pressure, then.β Regret pools on her tongue like bile as soon as the words slip out. Thereβs plenty of pressure, and whatever she feels as Saoirseβs chosen scout is probably nothing compared to the weight on Saoirseβs back. Caoimhe will be leader for one night. Until then, and after that, it is Saoirseβs burden to bear.
The weight is tearing Saoirse apart, too. Caoimhe can see it in the way Saoirseβs shoulders sag, the quiver of her whiskers as she chooses her next words wisely. βI donβt know whatβs gotten into you.β All her fury melts away, replaced by something fragile. Desperate. She pauses as if fighting past a lump in her throat, a feeling Caoimhe knows all too well. βIβm counting on you, and you keep running away.β
βAnd I come back,β Caoimhe points out as gently as she can. βBesides, this timeβ¦β But she stops short, thinking of her promise not to give the tabbyβs whereabouts away. Saoirse deserves to know that there might be safe passage; it seems like all she cares about lately, and no one can blame her for it. Still, Caoimhe keeps those green eyes to herself, blinking slowly, just the way the tabby did, to keep the image alive.
βThis time?β prompts Saoirse, with the slightest hitch in her breath.
And she deflates completely when Caoimhe tells her it was nothing, just light in the woods. A bust. A mistake. βIβm sorry to hear it,β she replies. All the color is drained from her voice, all the warmth she has always given so freely is gone.
Caoimhe shivers as if the den has entered leafbare well ahead of the rest of the world. βWe have half a moon,β she says, the words spilling out unbidden, struggling in vain to warm the air again. βThereβs time to prepare, and Iβll figure something out before then. I promise.β
She realizes too late what her promises must look like to Saoirse right now, and Saoirseβs dismissal hits her like a stone. She doesnβt want to leave the cramped quarters behind yet, not until theyβve found the safety theyβre both so desperate to find. But that safety isnβt in an old hollow oak or a mouse with no meat on its bones. Itβs in the forest deep, where the waters bring more death than life, and the earth below vanishes piece by piece with every passing day.
Caoimhe will go into that dark every day until Samhain if she has to. Even if the tabby has nothing for her, especially if the tabby has nothing for her, she will give her every breath to tearing that forest apart. Clan Fearthainn deserves it. Imogen and her kits deserve it.
Saoirse deserves it. Plus an apology, too, if Caoimhe is honest.
The thought fuels her to nibble at a few scraps of robin as it passes around the camp, and encourages her to get a good nightβs sleep. Come morning, she has to be her sharpest, has to give all her energy to finding the way out.
But all night? All night, she dreams of the happiness she misses, the joy she could have. The way things should be. Prey running wild over sun-dappled earth. Bird song filling the air rather than fleeing it. A warm press of a soft pelt against her side, a glimpse of tabby stripes, of eyes closed in deep content. The forest is green, the sun is bright, the world is at peace once more.
It is the first night of pleasant dreams she has had in a very long time.
Chapter Seven
Saoirse sleeps through the night for the first time in days. The exhaustion, both emotional and physical, pulls her down into the darkness as soon as she curls up in her nest. And, mercifully, she does not dream. Her dreams lately have been full of deep water, bloodstained dirt and dead, white eyes, and most mornings sheβll wake up shaking, her heart pounding. But this morning is different. She still has to drag herself out of her nest, but her dreams were free from terrors.
Thereβs the rare glow of sunlight when Saoirse exits the den, and she can tell that the morning patrols have already gone, given the emptiness of the main clearing. Mairi must have sent them out, and Saoirse feels a surge of gratitude for her levelheaded second in command.
Sheβs intending to go and find Mairi, meaning to talk about sending out a scouting mission later, but halfway across the clearing she takes a sharp turn at the last minute. She steps up to the den that she knows Caoimhe shares with Imogen and the kits. Half afraid of what she might find, she peeks inside.
She exhales in relief. Caoimhe is still in her nest, just a small, gray circle, the only movement the soft motions of her breathing. Saoirse had been halfway afraid that sheβd find Caoimhe gone, that the nest beside the sleeping forms of Lachlan and Aislinn would be empty, and she doesnβt know if she can handle Caoimhe going missing for the third time in as many days. The clan needs Caoimhe. She needs Caoimhe, even if she doesnβt really want to admit it to herself.
βYouβre up later than usual.β
A crisp, cool voice interrupts Saoirse and she jumps, rattling the branches in the entrance of the den. Caoimhe stirs, and Saoirse quickly retreats to find Orla sitting right beside the denβs entrance, right next to her.
βI was just...I wasβ¦β
βWatching your clanmate sleep?β
If it had been anyone other than Orla, Saoirse wouldβve assumed it to be a joke, but Orla delivers it in the same calm, level way she does with everything else, and embarrassment prickles hot under Saoirseβs fur. βI was making sure she was still here.β
βHmm.β
Saoirse looks away from Orlaβs cool, golden gaze and in doing so she notices the small pile of berries spilling out of the leaf wrap at Orlaβs paws.
βSamhain,β Orla says when she sees Saoirse looking, lip curling up ever so slightly at the mention of the holiday. Her disdain for it is well known within the Clan, but as the healer, it is her duty to ensure the holiday proceeds as tradition requires it to. Orla tucks all the berries back into the wrap and picks it up, jerking her head to motion of Saoirse to follow. Saoirse does, not bothering to argue.
Orlaβs den is cool, and smells sharply of herbs.The healer lets the berries spill into a small hollow and with quick, efficient paws starts sorting them by type. Saoirse watches as blackberries, cowberries, and cloudberries are arranged into neat, colorful piles, and the silence of the den stretches. She gets the feeling that Orla wants her to say something.
βI used to love Samhain,β Saoirse says quietly, and although Orla doesnβt turn to look at her, one ear flicks to let Saoirse know sheβs listening. βAs soon as the leaves started falling I would get so excited.β
She remembers how it used to feel, waiting for the sun to set on Samhain. How she would smear berry juice into her fur, making it spiky and wild. How the entire clan would celebrate, from the moment the sun set to the minute it rose the next morning. She remembers the way it felt in her chest, the absolute joy that came with the celebration, thrumming like a second heartbeat behind her ribcage. But now, the thought of the holiday comes with a sour taste in her mouth and anxiety rising her throat instead of joy.
βI remember,β Orla says. βYou and Caoimhe were always inseparable on Samhain. Troublemakers, the both of you.β
The thought comes with a pang. Saoirse remembers, of course she does. She and Caoimhe grew up together, their bond tight and seemingly unbreakable. Back when Caoimheβs unwavering stubbornness and lion-hearted bravery was precocious and not reckless and endangering. Back before Saoirse lost her mother to the waters not yet starting to rise, and her newfound fear of the forest was so at odds with Caoimheβs love for their home. Saoirse misses it with a heavy ache, and she sits down hard, the sudden wave of emotion too much at the early hour.
βSamhain used to be fun,β she whispers, and Orla makes a small scoffing sound in the back of her throat, but Saoirse ignores that. βAnd now, when I think of it, all I can think of is the responsibility on my shoulders.β She exhales loudly, shoulders drooping. βAnd it might not even work. I might be leading the clan to our deaths.β
βWe both had the same dream,β Orla points out. βThe same night, the day after you became leader.β
The dream. Itβs a hazy memory in Saoirseβs mind now, the vaguest hints of dancing, berry-stained figures in the dark, of the waters parting to reveal a path out. The dream supposedly was sent as an omen, showing her and Orla the way to freedom. But, in all honesty, Saoirse is more sure the so-called omen was born of the desire to leave the deathtrap the forest was rapidly becoming. Her belief in the powers of the ancestors has been waning since she was young, and she knows one thing for certain; if there ever was anyone watching over Clan Fearrthainn, theyβve abandoned them long ago.
But even if Saoirse has doubts about the dream and its origins, she has to admit that leaving on Samhain makes the most sense, and itβs the last hope they have. They will paint themselves with berries and carry themselves like the warriors of old legends, and maybe the legends will have some truth in them. Maybe it will be enough.
She must have said this last part out loud, because Orla looks up, golden eyes narrow.
βItβs not the last hope,β the healer says. βThere is another option.β
All the fur instantly stands up on Saoirseβs spine. βNo. I told you when you first brought it up. I am not turning to...to...that thing.β
βThe Clever One is fair, which the waters arenβt,β Orla says, but Saoirse shakes her head, recoiling at the very thought.
βI am not turning to a Cat Sidhe, Orla. I have told you before. Itβs just as likely that we all end up dead.β
βThey do not break their deals. You have heard the stories.β
Saoirse has. She grew up on them, just as everyone else has. Will-o-the-wisps are mostly harmless, as long as you donβt let them lead you astray, and kelpies, while deadly, rely on someone stumbling into their bog rather than seeking cats out above the water. But Cat Sidhe are a whole different level of danger. Manipulative and vastly intelligent, theyβre not something to be trifled with. To interact with one always, always leads to death.
βI will not deal with fae, Orla,β Saoirse says, and thereβs a bit of a growl in her words. βI draw the line there. I will do whatever else, but I will not strike a bargain with a Cat Sidhe.β
Orla just blinks slowly, and her silence makes the crawling in Saoirseβs skin worse. βIβm going to find Mairi,β Saoirse says, standing up. Sheβs almost out of the den when Orla stops her. And even though Saoirse would rather not, the faintest traces of the fear remaining from kithood makes her pause.
In the darkness of the den, combined with her black and white fur, Orla seems more shadow than cat, narrowed eyes glowing like two crescent moons. βThere are lives in your paws, Saoirse,β Orla says βI know where to find him, if you change your mind.β
Saoirse can think of nothing else to do but thank her, and leave as quickly as she can.
β
The patrol is a necessary one, but one Saoirse always dreads. Every single time a scouting patrol goes out, they come back with news of closer waters and no route out, and every single time, everyone in the clan feels a little bit more hopeless.
But still, it needs to be done.
The patrol is a small one. She chooses Darragh for his level head, Mairiβs match in more ways than one, and Taliesin for his knowledge of the territory and the forest outside it, from before Saoirse was born, before the formerly small swamps swelled and penned them in. She does pause outside Caoimheβs den for longer than she would like to admit. Even knowing the risk of giving Caoimhe more chances to disappear, she wants to bring the she-cat along.
She tells herself itβs for Caoimheβs knowledge of the territory, rivaled by no one elseβs, but she chooses Taliesin instead and tries to keep her thoughts off the she-cat.
And she mostly succeeds.
Mostly.
β
The branch waves beneath Saoirse in the wind, and she digs her claws into the soft bark until they ache. Even with the short patches of sunlight theyβve gotten today, and the lack of rain over the last two, the trees are still damp, making the climb precarious and her perch even more so. If the original reason for climbing the trees does not come to pass, she hopes that maybe the birdβs-eye view will let her see something sheβs missed on foot, some miraculous pathway leading out.
So far, she sees nothing other than the stretch of dry land on the other side of the channel, taunting them, their way out, blocked by rippling, dark waves. A few branches higher than her perches Taliesin, his small, dark gray frame nearly invisible against the endless gray sky. In a tree to her right is Darragh, having already made the heartstopping leap. She can barely see him through the branches that block her view, and she calls out for him. He gives the answering confirmation that heβs here, heβs okay, he hasnβt fallen soundlessly into the dark water churning beneath them.
Theyβre testing out a theory. Maybe, by traveling from tree to tree, they can get to the other side. It would be hard for the elder of the clan, and for Lachlan and Aislinn, but thereβs only old Balfour left of the elders, and Caoimheβs niece and nephew are the only kits in the clan at the moment. It would be hard. But it might not be impossible.
She wants to believe that Samhain will lead to a way out, their traditional disguises so terrible that they scare away the real monsters that lurk in unseen corners. She wants to believe that Caoimhe will pull through. But itβs becoming harder and harder to believe in the brave, reckless cat that makes Saoirse so angry and yet so confusingly tangled at the same time. Saoirse hates the thought, but she canβt help but think that one of these times that Caoimhe disappears, she wonβt come back at all.
Saoirse shoves the thought down, taking a deep breath. She has something else she should be focusing on.
Bunching her legs underneath her, and squashing the rising feeling of panic into her stomach, she leaps. For one weightless, terrifying second sheβs suspended over the water, and in that second she has an image of herself falling, being dragged under. And then, sheβs sinking her claws into another branch. For a fraction of a second her hind legs are churning in thin air, but she pulls herself up and plasters herself to the branch, gasping. She still feels like sheβs falling, but the tree is steady beneath her and she is fine, closer to the freedom her clan desperately needs.
Above her, leaves rustle and drift down as Taliesin makes the jump and lands solidly, and Saoirse thanks the stars that she did not bring Caoimhe along. She doesnβt think sheβd be able to handle watching Caoimhe jump.
The next leap is the most concerning, the length between the tree theyβre all currently perched in and the next one, submerged in the water, thin branches waving in the wind, is daunting.
βI donβt know if we can make it,β she says hollowly, the gap that needs to be jumped seemingly expanding before her eyes. βItβs too far.β
βI donβt know,β Taliesin says, one branch above her. He glances down, at her, dark amber eyes thoughtful. βIt might be closer than we think it is.β
βOnce we get to that tree, itβs short jumps,β Darragh agrees. Heβs somewhere below Saoirse, tucked in a fork in the treeβs trunk. βItβs just this one.β
They had walked the edges of the territory for a while, trying to find the space where the waters were thinnest and the trees were closest together. This is the space they chose. But as Saoirse stares across the gap, she canβt imagine, even if it is a space that can be jumped, doing it in the dark, with kits, with old Balfour.
Hope and survival is so close, green grass on the opposite side, only three trees away, but Saoirse canβt bring herself to leap.
Darragh can.
He doesnβt say anything before he does. She just sees him jump, strong hind legs propelling him forward. For a moment, it seems almost as if heβs flying. He lands on the branch he was aiming for, and for a second, everything seems like it will be fine.
And then, the branch snaps under his weight.
And then, he falls.
Taliesin yells something, but Saoirse can only watch in horror as Darragh drops. He hits another branch on his way down with a crack that makes Saoirse gasp, and he scrabbles, frantic, for any sort of grip. But his claws find no purchase on the damp wood, and for a single second that seems to last a lifetime, he falls.
He hits the water with a splash, and Saoirse screams.
Maybe it would have been fine. Maybe he would have been able to scramble up and out of the water. Maybe it would have been fine, if he had not cut himself when he had hit the branch on his way down. Saoirse can see blood, dripping from the cut on his shoulder, swirling out into the water as he frantically swims toward the shore.
Something large and dark and terrible surges from underneath the water, called by the blood, and drags Darragh under. Saoirse screams, and Taliesin cries out above her, and Darragh reappears, fur plastered to his skull and eyes wide and wild and terrified. The kelpie erupts upwards, dark and catlike in the most wrong of ways, serpentine and slick, and sinks its long, white teeth into Darraghβs neck. Blood turns the water darker than it was before.
He goes under for the second time. He goes under for the final time.
He never made a sound.
β
Saoirse and Taliesin arrive back at camp muted and numb. Horror has been an ever-present guest in Saoirseβs mind, and she knows that she will never forget the utter lack of sound of Darragh vanishing under the water. Somehow, the silence made it so much more terrible.
Caoimhe sees them first, and somewhere, in the back of Saoirseβs mind, a pleasant sort of warm surprise registers, but itβs swallowed by the gray shock with barely a whimper.
βWhereβs Darragh?β Caoimhe asks, softly, coming up to walk step by step with Saoirse. Saoirse shakes her head, once, and Caoimheβs eyes widen, her steps pausing as she realizes.
Mairi appears, slipping from the den she shares-shared-with Darragh. At first, her expression is warm, but then she takes in Saoirse and Taliesinβs silence, the empty space where her mate should be. She goes still, her face going deathly calm. βSaoirse? Whereβs Darragh?β
Saoirse swallows, a lump in her throat. Sheβs unable to force the words out, unable to make the words leave her tongue.
βSaoirse,β Mairi says again, and this time thereβs a note of panic in her voice. βWhere is he?β
Saoirse drops her head. βIβm sorry,β she says, words choked, and Mairi staggers backwards.
βNo,β Mairi whispers, no emotion in her voice. βNo.β
Saoirse looks away.
Mairi screams.
The sound rips into Saoirse, but she canβt make herself turn away. She canβt make herself leave. Mairi screams like something is being ripped from her, legs collapsing beneath her. She screams like her heart has been removed from her chest, and Saoirse closes her eyes. Sheβs suddenly aware sheβs shaking.
Soft fur presses into her own, and Saoirse looks up to see Caoimhe, eyes on the ground, silent. Saoirse leans against her, almost without thinking. Her legs tremble, threatening to give way, the gray in her mind being taken over by raw grief.
Mairi screams, and Saoirse closes her eyes.
Behind her eyelids, she watches Darragh vanish silently under the water, again and again and again.
Chapter Eight
Clan Fearthainn has been losing cats for quite some time, and yet it never gets any easier. In fact, it always seems to get worse, and Darraghβs death is no exception.
The hardest part is watching Mairi grieve. The idea that one of Clan Fearthainnβs steadiest warriors could fall to pieces was unthinkable right up until she learned of Darraghβs fate, until she screamed loud enough to shake the stars from the sky. Since then, she has done nothing but lie in the center of camp, heedless of the cold and mud, wailing until her voice breaks. No one goes near her. No one dares. Her grief is too deep, and it spreads quickly. No one has any light to draw on. No one knows how to comfort a widow who doesnβt even have a body to mourn.
But itβs wrong to just leave Mairi alone in the mud all night. Thankfully, Orla steps in, preventing Caoimheβs heart from getting ahead of her tongue. She probably would say something awful while trying to help, which would almost certainly do more harm than good. At least Orlaβs reputation for having a barbed tongue is expected, and as the healer leads Mairi away, she is already listing herbs to numb the shock, clinical as ever. At least she is constant.
Perhaps Saoirse could use some of those herbs herself. While Taliesin slinks away to join his family and grieve, she stands in the exact same place where she gave Mairi the truth, staring out into the forest, still leaning into Caoimheβs side. When a light rain starts to fall, she doesnβt even flinch.
βCome on,β Caoimhe says. βOut of the rain, letβs go. Canβt be catching cold now, can we?β
For a heartbeat, itβs like talking to stone, but then Saoirse pries her paws out of the mud and begins to drift in the direction of her den. Sheβs untethered, Caoimhe realizes as she keeps pace. Ever since she assumed the responsibilities of leadership, sheβs been wound tight, but now, all the forces holding her together have collapsed. Sheβs been at war with the forest far too long, and the forest is beginning to win.
Itβs hard to say exactly what Saoirse needs as she sinks into her nest. All of Clan Fearthainn needs a miracle, that much is obvious, but what else for Saoirse? Rest? A pep talk? A eulogy?
Humor comes out instead, though, wry as ever. Caoimhe canβt stop herself. βHey, youβll at least be happy I didnβt go wandering today. No adventures.β
Well, it is true. Caoimhe meant to sneak away after she woke, but between Mairi, Imogen, and Orla begging her help with various tasks, she hadnβt had a minute to herself. Her meeting with he tabby at midday came and went in that time, souring her afternoon, and by the time Saoirseβs patrol returned, Caoimheβs patience was so thin that she intended to bring Saoirse with her to find the tabby, to prove her escapades werenβt for nothing. But Darraghβs death swept the idea away, and now all Caoimhe can do is hover sheepishly in the entrance to Saoirseβs den, wishing she had something better to say.
Yet Saoirse doesnβt seem angry with Caoimheβs lack of tact. βReally?β she breathes, lifting her chin from her paws a fraction.
What else can Caoimhe say? βReally,β she answers. βIn camp all day, waiting to talk to you.β
There should be a question. βAbout what?β would sound right. But thereβs nothing left but the rain drumming against the log overhead and the soft rustle of moss as Saoirse shifts in her nest. When sheβs done, thereβs room for two, and Caoimhe makes herself as comfortable as she can while leaving space for Saoirse to breathe. Or grieve, if thatβs what she needs more. Except Saoirse closes the gap, and suddenly, in spite of the steady drizzle outside, Caoimhe is burning up. She considers moving, allowing a breath of cool air to pass between them, but then Saoirse speaks, and she is rooted.
βI saw it,β Saoirse murmurs. βWhen it pulled Darragh under.β
Oh. It. The warmth vanishes, replaced by an instant chill. Caoimhe shivers. βYou mean a...kelpie.β Perhaps words have power, because the air only gets thinner as the words leave her mouth, like the beast is there with them. The shifting atmosphere tells Caoimhe sheβs right even before Saoirse nods and describes the rest.
Caoimhe tries not to remember the thing that took her mother. She didnβt see it for herself, but she knows of nothing else that could have stripped her motherβs bones so clean save for the beast Saoirse describes. It was a hideous thing that took Darragh, grey and slick, with a mouth full of fangs hungrier than all of Clan Fearthainn put together. It was called by blood, by the rippling waters, and it believed in no such thing as mercy. It was precisely the kind of thing that Caoimhe could have nightmares about and likely would.
βI couldnβt see its eyes,β Saoirse says. After a breath, she adds, βI never want to.β
βNo,β Caoimhe agrees. βNo, you donβt.β
So much for being a comfort to Saoirse. Caoimhe is shaken now, too. The kelpies are drawing ever closer, and thereβs still no sign of safe passage. The days until Samhain are dwindling, and Clan Fearthainnβs luck is running out.
The beautiful tabby comes to mind then, unbidden, and guilt blooms in Caoimheβs gut. First, it feels wrong to think about the ginger she-cat while pressed so close to Saoirseβs side. It feels selfish. But then it feels even worse that the tabby offered to show Caoimhe the way out, and Caoimhe stood her up. That tabby holds the clanβs survival in her paws, and without a miracle, Caoimhe canβt hope to plot a course to freedom alone. She needs the tabbyβs help.
But right now, in this moment, Saoirse still needs her.
βGet some rest,β Caoimhe says as she begins to groom the hard-to-reach places behind Saoirseβs ears.
βThe nightmares are going to be horrible,β Saoirse protests. βIβd rather stay awake.β
βYouβre already tired enough. Iβm not going to let you torture yourself with a vigil. Besides,β Caoimhe says, summoning her very best bluster, which is currently rather weak, βall the nightmares will have to go through me.β
If Saoirse is surprised, she doesnβt show it. She simply lowers her chin to her paws and wriggles closer to Caoimhe, what little rain is still trapped in her fur a chilly presence between them. βIf anyone could fight nightmares, I think you would try,β she mumbles.
After that, Caoimhe canβt leave. She isnβt sure she ever could.
β While Saoirse sleeps soundly, deeply, Caoimhe doesnβt catch more than a wink. By the time the dawn filters through the dispersing clouds, sheβs drifted in and out of hazy dreams that have done nothing but make her heart race, fear roaring into a blaze beneath her heart. Itβs the pressure, she supposes; after Saoirse drifted off, Caoimhe counted down the days left to Samhain, and the count has stuck in her head.
She has half a moon left to save all of her clan, but only a single lead, one that might already be gone. The longer she dawdles, the more likely it is that everyone she loves will die. The thought of Imogen drowning keeps occurring to her, persistent and gruesome. The idea of Lockie and Aislinn drowning is equally disturbing, but returns more frequently, more horribly. The image of Saoirse, pulled beneath the waters in Darraghβs place, has also made itself at home in Caoimheβs head.
Theyβve become her personal demons, the kelpies. Even far from the waters, they taunt her, threaten her, promise her she cannot win.
But she has to try.
Extricating herself from Saoirseβs nest is more difficult than Caoimhe first imagines. For all the calm control she tries to exhibit as clan leader, in her sleep, the brown tabby sprawls about until she fills her whole nest. In the night, as she slept, she kicked and nudged Caoimhe often, drowsily searching for the comfiest position, and now, sheβs nearly draped over Caoimheβs back.
But with a little patience, Caoimhe is free, and she creeps out of the den and into the early morning fog. The sun has yet to burn it away, and the taste of rain hangs heavy in the air. The storms seem to have redoubled their efforts to flood Clan Fearthainn into oblivion. For all its foul omens, though, the foggy morning means no one else is awake, and Caoimhe slips from the camp like a ghost on the breeze.
Finding her way back to the place she first met the she-cat is harder than she thought. In the span of a day, the rains have washed away the old trails and left precious little to navigate by. Caoimhe knows there was a hill, knows it was somewhere in the deeper part of the forest, but the territory she once knew so well is gone, replaced by a hungry, watery landscape she would not wish upon her worst enemy.
But she has to search, even if the water would will it otherwise. She is Saoirseβs scout, and even though Saoirse dreads to allow her into the forest these days, she is the only cat ever granted such a title. She is the scout of Clan Fearthainn, and she has a duty to fulfill.
So she goes. There is nothing else to be done.
Time passes strangely in the deeper parts of the forest. The water ripples even when the air is still, and sometimes, it stays dark even at the height of the day, shaded by an impenetrable canopy. The rising dawn passes, that much Caoimhe is certain, but when she cannot tell. For all she knows, sunhigh may have slipped by as well, and at some point, Saoirse will wake in a panic because Caoimhe has left again.
βIβll be back before she wakes,β Caoimhe promises aloud as she crosses a thin trickle of water. Out of habit, though itβs barely deep enough to wet her whiskers, she doesnβt touch it. Soon, it will grow into a stream and betray any trust she offers it, so she offers it no trust at all.
Somehow, though, it betrays her sooner than she thought, because the dry strip of land on the other side does not stretch very far. It meets a flooded copse instead, a divot in the earth filled with close-knit trees. Between the trunks, Caoimhe spies dry land, but beneath them, she can see a ragged shape snagged on their roots.
βOh no,β she breathes, tiptoeing closer and choking down a wail. Last night, it was hard to believe Darragh was dead. Now, seeing the tattered remains of his body strung out to rot in the pool below, the loss is all too real. Caoimhe blinks furiously to clear her vision and sinks her claws into the soil, seeking stasis. She cannot break here. She cannot call attention to herself.
This is where a kelpie has hunted. This is where a kelpie has killed.
She wraps herself in her grief, pulling it tight like a cocoon, and tucks her head against her chest, willing herself to breathe. The visions of her loved ones dying in the murky waters return, and she wars against them with all her strength, even when that means she must drop into a crouch, a victim of gravity. If she opens her eyes, she sees Darraghβs remains, and if she closes them, she sees the future of everyone who holds her heart. There is no happiness to be found, and the spiral grows ever steeper.
Only the rustle of the undergrowth pulls Caoimhe back to herself. She pricks her ears and forces her eyes open, glossing over Darragh and his shining bones as best she can. At first, there is nothing but deadly forest stillness, but then, there is a flash of sunlight, captured perfectly in shining ginger fur.
Sheβs in motion before she can think, hurtling over narrow trickles of rain water, sprinting as close to the deeper pools as she dares. The tabby is here, here in her hour of need, and Caoimhe cannot fail her clan now. Even with her heart fit to burst clean from her chest, she presses on, following the tabbyβs elusive form along the waterβs edge until sheβs finally close enough to call out. βWait!β she cries. βDonβt go!β
Every muscle in the tabbyβs body tenses, and she jolts forward a few whisker-lengths before recognizing Caoimheβs voice. After that, she retraces her steps and the warm regard in her eyes chases away the anxiety in Caoimheβs pounding heart. βI thought you werenβt going to come.β
βI couldnβt.β Well, she could have. Caoimhe shook her head. βNot without giving you away. But Iβm here now. I found you.β
βYou did find me.β The tabby purrs, and the sound resonates so deeply in Caoimheβs chest she canβt help but purr back. Relief washes over her, and for the first time in a long time, she feels more than just a glimmer of hope. She paces along the waterβs edge, careful to keep back even though the tabby has no such concerns where she stands across the pool. βIβm not trying to be pushy,β she begins. βI swear Iβm not. But Iβm running out of time, and I need to know how to cross the waters with my whole clan. Theyβre counting on me, and I donβt have anything to show for it.
βWe even lost a cat yesterday,β she goes on, her voice breaking. She looks back along the path she followed, where the copse is barely visible. βHe was trying to find a path, but he...drowned.β
Itβs hard not to take the lie back, to lay out the whole truth, but the tabby is so delicate, so skittish. Caoimhe fears one mention of kelpies will send her running to her freedom and leave the clan doomed forever. Even if she feels wretched lying like this, she must.
The tabby follows her gaze through the trees, and a thoughtful light fills her eyes. It looks something like remorse, something like wistfulness or memory. βIβm so sorry,β says the tabby. She licks her lips and lowers her gaze apologetically. βA terrible loss.β
βIt was,β Caoimhe agrees. βWhich is why I need your help. Please, just show me where the exits are, anywhere in this forest. Anywhere. I can meet you when the sun comes up for the next few days, when no one will know Iβm gone. The clan wonβt find you, youβll be completely safe, and I can help them leave this forest for good.
βI need you to help me. Please.β Caoimhe canβt remember the last time she begged, now she must. She cannot be helpless any longer.
The tabby makes as if to cross the water, just like last time, but perhaps she remembers Caoimheβs startled reaction, as she pauses with one foot above the surface before retreating. βDawn it is,β she finally says. βYou wonβt be missed and I wonβt be found. We can check two or three spots every morning before you have to return, and it wonβt take more than a few days. Weβll find something.β
It almost hurts, the hope in Caoimheβs chest. She could weep with relief. She could even cross the water just to show the she-cat her gratitude. But first, she has to save the clan.
Sucking in a deep breath, she reels her emotions back in, tamps them down deep. βIβll meet you here tomorrow,β she promises. βAt dawn.β
And then itβs time to go, before Saoirse stirs, before anyone can accuse her of sneaking out into the forest again. But as she turns, a strange force holds her in place, and she winds up looking back at the tabby to add, βMy name is Caoimhe, by the way.β
The tabbyβs purr could rattle the earth. βFind me safe tomorrow, Caoimhe,β she replies. βIβll wait for you.β
Thereβs only time for another thank you, a last burst of hope, and then Caoimhe tears herself away. Through a gap in the canopy, she sees the sun has not yet risen to its zenith. There is still time to hide her expedition.
She wishes she didnβt have to.
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Post by Ξ±αΌ± Ξ½Ξ΅Οέλαι αΌΞ½Ο on Dec 16, 2017 14:48:15 GMT -5
Chapter Nine Itβs the seventeenth funeral in a little under half a year.
Saoirse is no stranger to funerals, no stranger to the rites and traditions that come along with them, no stranger to the ways that her cats grieve. She remembers being a kit and pressed to her motherβs side, watching as bodies of her clanmates were lowered into graves, remembers the feeling of finality, the strange way grief and celebration tangled together.
She doesnβt feel any of that now.
Seventeen funerals in little under half a year. Now all she feels is tired, the grief building up into some large, dark hole in her chest, sapping all emotion except for a lingering numbness.
Seventeen funerals, and this time, no body to bury.
Mairi is crumbling to pieces. Sheβs lost so much already, they all have, but sheβs lost more than most. Her parents were taken early, when she was only a kit and before Saoirse was born, back when the large, large stretches of bog were just small wetlands at the edges of the territory. Her only brother died of illness during one of the longest, coldest winters that the Clan can remember, the same winter that took three of her four kits.
And now her mate is gone, viciously taken from life in barely a heartbeat.
Breandan, her only surviving kit, sat next to her den all night, head drooped, but he can do nothing to comfort his mother. No one can, and her grief is made all the more terrible to witness because of the fact that no one has ever seen her break down like this before.
She keens for her dead mate, and Saoirse can feel it pierce her heart, remembers the moment that Darragh went under the water.
Now she stands like a ghost, propped up by Breandan on one side and Madden on the other, eyes dull. Saoirse wants to say something, but is unsure how to comfort her. Sheβs been pushing her emotions back for so long, trying so hard to be a level-headed, fair leader that sheβs no longer sure what sheβs supposed to do in the face of otherβs emotions.
Caoimhe slips up beside her, dropping the small bundle of dried, papery purple flowers. The harebells smell of Orlaβs den, their own natural scent covered by the stronger smells of drying herbs, and it makes Saoirseβs nose burn. Caoimhe carries her own bundle, the mourning flower a sight far too familiar.
βHow are you doing?β Caoimhe asks quietly, her usual energy subdued. Saoirse laughs, the sound devoid of humor. Howβs she supposed to be? Is she supposed to be wailing like Mairi was just hours before? Is she supposed to be still curled in a ball in her nest, pretending that the world outside is not deadly? Is she supposed to be jovial, trying to boost everyoneβs spirits?
Sheβs not sure herself, so she just shakes her head.
Caoimhe hesitates, and then, carefully, presses herself to Saoirseβs side, a show of comfort that makes a lump rise in Saoirseβs throat. Just the night before they had curled together in her nest like they were kits again, back before there was a funeral every few days and when Saoirseβs feelings for her friend were clear. Now when she thinks of Caoimhe, everything is muddled and confusing, a warmth and a fear tangling together in her stomach, creating butterflies.
When she woke up this morning, Caoimhe was gone. Neither of them have mentioned it.
Breandan leaves his motherβs side, standing in the the entrance to the camp, and yowls. Slowly, the clan forms in untidy lines behind him, pressing together for comfort, for warmth, for support. And so, the funeral procession begins.
The path is well-marked, generations after generations of paws wearing the grass away. Even the trees seem to lean away from this spot, allowing the procession to pass through. Saoirse follows directly behind Breandan, allowing the young tom to lead the way to his fatherβs grave. Caoimhe stays right next to her, her steps not faltering.
And ahead of them, the trees open, revealing the clearing. The cairns rise tall, casting long shadows against the ground strewn with dried leaves, the towering pines giving way to wispy birches. The clan carefully picks their way around the cairns, around the graves of their ancestors, their loved ones. The oldest stand closest to the entrance, moss and ferns growing up and over the stones, life slowly overtaking death. The further they go, the newer the graves get, until they stand around an empty grave.
Slowly, the Clan parts, allowing Mairi through their ranks. Sheβs silent for a long moment, and when she speaks, her voice is thick.
βI loved him since we were kits,β she says. βHe was about a moon older than me and I adored him. We grew up side by side, and I never thought there would be a day where he wasnβt there. I still donβt understand why he isnβt here. I keep thinking I see him out of the corner of my eye, or thinking I hear his voice, and then I look up and heβs not there.β
She takes a breath, and Saoirse can hear the way it shudders.
βI love him,β Mairi says again, simply, and carefully lays the harebell bundle in the grave. She steps back, shaking, pressing herself into Breandanβs side. He licks her ears, his eyes filled with grief.
And one by one, the Clan comes forward. Some tell stories, some give blessings, and some simply set the flowers in the grave, in the place where his body should be.
And finally, itβs Saoirseβs turn. She stands above the grave, and closes her eyes. She hates how familiar this feels, everything from the hushed silence of the clearing to the cool dirt beneath her paws feels so familiar.
Sixteen deaths in a little under half a year. Sixteen cats, sixteen of her cats, stolen from life by sickness or injury, by the storms or by the cruel things that lurk in the shadows of the water. Sixteen ghosts who follow her every pawstep, a lingering presence she can always feel.
A reminder of how she cannot fail.
Sixteen ghosts in her head, never allowing her to forget. And sometime within the last day, Darragh has joined those ranks, sixteen growing to seventeen. Ghosts of those that died under her command, that will follow her until she gets her Clan out of this deathtrap of a forest.
She will not allow an eighteenth.
βDarragh died trying to save us,β Saoirse says, opening her eyes. βHe died, but he died trying to give us hope. We cannot let his death be in vain. We have to hope. We have to keep looking forward, keep looking forward. We will find a way out. For Darragh. For all those who have lost their lives.β
She carefully drops her own bundle of harebells into the grave, stepping back to allow cats to come forward and shovel the dirt back into the hole.
βMay the road rise up to meet you,β she says, the funeral blessing falling far too easily from her tongue.
βMay the wind be always at your back.
May the sun shine warm upon your face.
May the rains fall upon your fields,
Until we meet again.β
Mairi gives a tiny, dry sob, and Saoirse canβt look at her, can barely hold herself together.
βUntil we meet again,β the Clan echoes, bowing their heads.
Until we meet again.
β
They build the cairn over the grave, stacking stones tall and strong, the marker to stand for generations to come. Now, Clan Fearthainn pulses with life, everyone well-fed for the first time in weeks. Cats beat their paws against pelts of prey stretched across the holes of hollow logs, the drumbeat a wild, thrumming heartbeat.
And they dance. Paws stamp against the hard-packed dirt of the camp clearing, the dancers moving in flowing patterns, celebrating in the way the clan has done for centuries. They celebrate Darragh and his life, the quiet, reserved atmosphere of the funeral long gone.
Saoirse watches on the outskirts, tail tucked neatly over her paws. Her heart throbs along with the drums, her paws itching to move, to dance, but instead she sits, cast in the shadow of Orlaβs den.
βHave you eaten?β Caoimhe appears out of nowhere, settling beside Saoirse.
βI have,β Saoirse says, and Caoimhe narrows her eyes as if she can sense the lie.
βDo you ever wish we had left earlier?β
Caoimhe doesnβt say anything, just waits for Saoirse to continue.
βMaybe,β Saoirse whispers, βwe should have left months ago. But we were all too stubborn, to unwilling to leave our home. But now...so many have died.β
She hates how small the crowd in the clearing looks. She remembers the way these celebrations used to be, the way cats tripped over each other, the way pelts brushed with every turn. But now, the Clan is almost half gone, death an ever present unwelcome guest. She imagines the ghosts filling in the spaces, and a physical ache fills her.
Caoimhe shrugs. βI wish a lot of things.β
βIt feels pointless, wishing.β Saoirse remembers before she was like this, when she wished as easily as she breathed and hope was just another emotion. Now wishes feel like kit-hood stupidity and hope is dragged closer, clawing and fighting, rather than running into her open embrace. Sheβs not sure when she became this pessimistic. She thinks that maybe it started the second her father was lost to the water. She fears it started far earlier.
βIt seems pointless not to.β Caoimhe stares across the clearing, and Saoirse follows her gaze. Imogen sits there, Caoimheβs sisterβs gaze warm and focused on her two kits dancing in front of her, stumbling over their kit-clumsy paws. Lachlan and Aislinn are the only two kits in the Clan, nowhere near the first and hopefully not the last. The future, right here before Saoirseβs eyes.
βWhat would you wish for?β Saoirse asks the question partly out of curiosity, partly to keep the silence stretching between them from growing awkward. Caoimhe considers the question, head tilted, before answering.
βTo be fearless.β
A laugh slips out of Saoirse before she can stop it. βAs if you need anymore hare-brained courage.β
She expects a biting retort, some sort of half irritated, half teasing reply, snark dripping from every word, but instead she gets...silence. Itβs unnerving, so not what she was expecting, that all she can do is look in Caoimhe in shock. And Caoimhe looks almost pained, like thereβs something she so desperately wants to say, but she doesnβt. She closes her mouth and tears her eyes away from Saoirseβs, tail tip twitching in agitation.
βWhat about you?β Caoimheβs voice is full of forced lightness, and sheβs still not quite meeting Saoirseβs eyes. βNot a big wish, but a wish youβd make when you were a kit.β
Itβs an easy question.
βTo fly.β She used to dream of growing wings like spotted woodpeckers that dot the territoryβs trees, soaring loops through the clouds, which she imagined felt as soft as down. Now, she dreams of flying away. Flying everyone away.
Flying Caoimhe away. Saving her.
She wants Caoimhe to be safe, wants her to be safe so badly that it hurts, sometimes. Last night they were curled together in a nest like back when they were kits, inseparable best friends. Back before Saoirseβs fear and Caoimheβs love of the forest was so sharply contrasted that they grew apart. When everything was simple and the biggest thing they had to fear was the darkest corners of their dreams.
And now? Saoirse looks at the she-cat beside her and almost gets knocked off her paws by the rush of raw emotions that crashes over her by a wave. Theyβre not kits anymore, havenβt been for moons.
And when Saoirse looks at Caoimhe, she thinksβ¦
She thinks she mayβ¦
βYouβre looking a little spaced out there.β Caoimheβs voice snaps Saoirse out of her preoccupation. She shakes her head once and blinks. Caoimheβs looking rather amused, her tail flicking with the pattern of the drumbeats still echoing around the camp.
βSorry,β Saoirse says automatically, then stops, unsure of what exactly sheβs apologizing for. Caoimhe stands up and stretches, mouth splitting in a yawn. She straightens, and tilts her head in a clear invitation.
βCome on. Weβre not dead yet, which means we should dance.β She steps out into the clearing, then turns and smirks at Saoirse. βOr do great and powerful leaders not dance?β
βIβm coming.β Saoirse gives herself a quick shake, shoving down all her messy, terrifying thoughts down deep before following Caoimhe out, into the rest of the clan.
And they dance. The drumbeats settle behind her ribcage, a second heart pounding a tempo sheβs heard since kithood. And itβs easy, so, so easy to let herself fall into it, and she dances, twisting and twirling throughout the rest of her clan, Caoimhe perfectly keeping beat. Theyβve done this so many times, but something about this feels different. A thread connecting them, wrapped tight in Saoirseβs chest, keeping her tethered to the infuriating, reckless, wonderful she-cat beside her.
They stop. Caoimhe stares up at her, half challenging, and Saoirse down at her, chest heaving as she tries to catch her breath. Theyβre forehead to forehead, and Saoirse closes her eyes, gasping, and theyβre still as the rest of the clan flows around them, blurs of motion and paws thudding against the ground.
Saoirse canβt do this for her. Canβt do the funeral and say the blessing and dance if Caoimhe is dead. She canβt watch Caoimhe die. Canβt wait for Caoimhe to come home in pieces or not come home at all.
And she knows what she has to do.
She tears herself away from the tabby, every muscle in her body screaming to stay close, to get closer. Caoimhe watches her go, a solid gray form amongst the rest of the clan, and Saoirse takes a deep breath. She has to do this. She canβt let Caoimhe die.
She scans the edges of the clearing, searching for that distinct golden gaze.
Orla watches her calmly, waiting for Saoirse to speak as she pads up. She doesnβt seem to surprised when Saoirse voices her request.
βI want you to take me to him,β Saoirse says firmly, more to convince herself than to order Orla.
βI want you to take me to the Cat Sidhe.β
Chapter Ten There is a war in her heart, and it is scored by the echo of the prey-pelt drums.
Caoimhe sleeps in Saoirseβs den again, or tries to, but her head throbs and her heart breaks and the rain comes back some time in the night to drive her fear home: the days are running out. Samhain is coming.
Every second spent in the camp is a second wasted, even if she needs rest, food, a moment to breathe. Even if she needs the warm press of Saoirseβs side against her spine like nothing else in the world. Even if she needs to know Clan Fearthainnβs leader dreams well tonight instead of torturing herself with visions of Darragh and the black waters.
Strange, to think she needs it, yet it makes sense. Before the waters rose, few nights went by when her family wasnβt curled together in a den. Imogen always slept on top, too delicate for the bottom of the pile. Their mother was next down, comfortable so long as she had her loved ones near, and their father always slept within reach of the heap, to know his darlings were safe. And then Caoimhe, the rock, the anchor, the family roots, at home underneath.
Those were safe times. Warm times. Times she cannot see herself having again, except here, in this den, and even that is different in a way that puts a lump in her throat when she tries to give it voice.
During the funeral, she told Saoirse she wished she was fearless, and as she stares out into the downpour, she realizes she spoke the truth. Not all of it, because fear stayed her tongue, but more of it in few words, more than she thought possible.
What she would give, not to be afraid of the water, of the responsibility on her shoulders, of Samhainβs coming.
And what she would give not to be afraid sheβll never have the future that might just be tied to the cat who should be lying beside her. The one who danced and danced and disappeared in a huff, Orla flanking her into the dark healerβs den. The one who hasnβt come back, who should, because Caoimhe has kept her nest warm, has waited.
Might? scoffs her conscience suddenly, a roar over the rain.
Caoimhe quashes the thought, rolling over hard and putting her back to nest. She hasnβt gone far, not more than a whisker-length, but without the soft moss beneath her itβs like diving into an endless ocean, and the funerary drums thunder on in her ears. They are the ghost of consequences yet to come, consequences that will befall all of Clan Fearthainn, even Saoirse, if Caoimhe does not succeed in leading the way to safety.
There is no room for wishes and wants, not yet, and she waits for dawn, for the light to strike the earth and open the way.
This will be the day, she tells herself, the day she and the sun-spun forest tabby find the way. She cannot allow herself to believe anything else.
β
βI didnβt know if you would come.β The tabby is as radiant as ever, even with the rain plastering her fur to her lithe body. Sheβs like sun despite the weather, and Caoimhe is able to track her delicate movements all the way to the waterβs edge, where she stops with one demure paw a hair away from the deep. She always pauses like that, lifting a paw before looking to Caoimhe and finding something there that holds her back. Disapproval? Perhaps. Fear is more likely, though. Always fear, unshakeable fear.
A sudden urge pulls Caoimhe down to the edge, where she mirrors the tabbyβs gesture, only for a heartbeat. What would it be like, to live without fear of the water? To swim again, without terror of the things that lurk underneath? Long ago, only one pool was forbidden, and the streams that trickled through the forest were Caoimheβs haven. She used to float down them on her back in the midday sun, allowing the water to take her where it willed.
But she sets her paw back down in the mud and draws a deep breath, centering herself. Those days are no more, and there is business to attend to.
βI keep my promises,β she finally says to the tabby. Thereβs a barb in the words, one she has to force out or risk choking on, because thereβs an image of Saoirse in her head, sound asleep and so weary, so worn, and it is stronger than the tabbyβs magnetic stare. That image makes Caoimhe feel guilty for sneaking around, for hiding the truth, for trusting a stranger instead of working beside her clanmates. That image makes her want to leave the tabby beside the waters and never see her again.
But itβs not that simple. Not if the tabby can help Caoimhe find the way out.
So the best she can hope for is to end it quick, and by the flash of hurt in the tabbyβs eyes, it seems like it might. βThereβs no need to be sharp with me. I was worried.β
βAnd Iβm still worried,β Caoimhe answers. The sting vanishes here, dying before the words leave her tongue. She tastes regret, though; cruelty was uncalled for. Better to be honest than to be cold. βAnd Iβm sorry. Samhain is getting closer, and I need to find safe passage as soon as possible. Theyβre counting on me, and Iβm counting on you.β
Lightning flashes, throwing hot white light through the trees. Caoimhe startles at a shadow that roars to life beside her, dying as the thunder sweeps in, but there is no time for fear, not anymore. In her mindβs eye, she pounces on her hammering heart, pinning it underfoot. Her claws needle it, the slightest threat: lie still, or suffer the consequences.
She knows then that she will tear out her own heart to save Clan Fearthainn, to take this weight from the shoulders of the cats she loves. To take this weight from Saoirse especially, to keep it from crushing her again and again. She will do anything to set things right, no matter the danger.
βCaoimhe?β
At the sound of the tabbyβs voice, she opens her eyes, releases the hold on her heart. It stills. For now. βShow me the way out. Please.β
βI canβt make any promisesββ
βThen donβt.β Caoimhe wants the words to be soft. She wants them to be kind. The tabby is on the brink of doing her the most important favor she could ever ask for, after all. And yet Saoirse is in her head, terse beneath the burdens of leadership, turning to stone to keep herself from breaking. The two she-cats pin Caoimhe between them, impossible hope and practical, breaking heart.
She steps carefully along the bank of the stream until she mirrors the tabbyβs position exactly. βDonβt make promises you canβt keep,β she says, βbut try to keep them all the same.β
Thunder scores her words, making the sky tremble with its force. Across the water, the tabby shivers. Her pelt is soaked through, though no less radiant for it, and she watches Caoimhe with a new intensity, eyes narrowed as she stares through the sheets of falling rain.
Perhaps she sees Caoimheβs soul. At last, she breaks into a startling sprint, racing along the muddy bank with her tail kinked over her back, a flag for all the forest to see.
Caoimhe almost loses her. Something holds her back, a sense that she should wait one more moment, one more heartbeat.
But then she follows the tabby into the dark, lunging along her parallel path with her heart in her throat. This must be it, she decides. This must be how she saves Clan Fearthainn. Her other options have long since washed away.
Chapter Eleven It feels like something out of a faerie tale. The tall trees, dripping with moss and wet, the dim, cloudy patches of moonlight dappling the nearly invisible path Orla is leading her down, the way the air tastes of damp dirt and sparks with the electrical undercurrent of an approaching thunderstorm.
It makes the fur raise along Saoirseβs spine. Sheβs grown up on faerie tales, and she knows how they end.
Looking back on it, sheβs a little surprised about how blood-drenched the stories her father told her and her siblings were; stories of kits being led into the forest by will-o-the-wisps, of tenderhearted young she-cats being tempted into the waters by handsome toms, only to have them turn sleek and serpentine and deadly, of the fae that wait in the corners of the forest, twisting their words to trick you into some unbreakable promise.
Stories like those always end in death.
They are legends dripping in warnings, and the truth runs through all of them like a dark, throbbing heartbeat. Saoirse longs for the days when to her, thatβs all they were; stories tinted with the warnings to not follow the flickering lights in the forest or dive into the deep pools that back then, only existed on the very edges of the territory. And now? She lives those stories, every day.
She is following her healer into the forest, searching for a creature from those legends, one deadlier than even the kelpies that are picking the cats of Clan Fearthainn off one by one. And Saoirse tries to feel confident in her choice, but with each step further into the forest misgivings rise sour and hot in her gut. This creature that Orla is taking her to see could save her clan.
Or it could end it.
At long last Orla stops, so suddenly that Saoirse almost crashes into her, so lost in her own thoughts and fears that she was barely paying attention to the she-cat in front of her. Orla yanks her tail away from Saoirseβs stumbling paws, annoyed.
βWe wait here,β she says, and thereβs no room for questioning in her words. Saoirse settles down carefully next to her, trying to ignore the way the feeling of approaching rain hangs heavily in the air. She hopes it will wait until morning.
The longer they wait, the more uneasy Saoirse feels, and along with unease the sense that she is betraying her clan and their small circle of safety that they fought so hard for. And she feels as if she is betraying those seventeen ghosts that flank her, the memories of her lost loved ones always only a heartbeat away.
She swallows hard and closes her eyes, trying to force the memories back. But she canβt, and they wash over her like a tidal wave.
Her mother was the first to tell her stories of the Cat Sidhe who lurks in the woods, and the first to tell Saoirse and her siblings to stay far away. Her mother, taken by sickness when Saoirse was barely three moons old. It wasnβt an easy death; the fever slowly burning her mother away, but it was a natural one. A better one than the rest of her family got.
Kiean was next. Her big brother, so confident, so sure. He and his mentor just vanished one day, no trace of them to be found. Their deaths were some of the first, back when the clan was first starting to realize that perhaps, their forest was not as safe as they thought it was.
Then was Niamh. Only a few moons after Kiean. Her patrol came back, shaken and mourning, saying that they heard her scream, and they were not able to get to her before whatever took her dragged her until the water. And suddenly, Saoirse had no siblings, no mother, only her father.
His death hurts the worst.
Saoirse adored him. He was everything she wanted to be; charming and funny and so effortlessly kind. The next leader of the clan, capable and sure. She and Caoimhe, still inseparable back then, used to follow after him like starstruck kits, as if hoping that a bit of him would rub off.
Saoirse was the one who found him, after. Barely recognizable as a cat, torn and broken and bloody, and she would not have known it was him except for his eyes, so like hers, open and unseeing and empty.
His death made her leader, passing from his strong, capable shoulders to his only surviving childβs, the closest thing to a chosen heir he had. And Saoirse constantly feels as if her shoulders are bowing and breaking under the weight.
She was never supposed to be leader. That piece of knowledge is crystal clear in her mind, now more than ever.
Beside her, Orla, relaxed and appearing rather bored, stiffens suddenly, and Saoirse freezes, glancing wildly around to see what set her off.
βBe still!β Orla snaps, and Saoirse freezes like a scolded kit, one paw raised.
And from the dark, he appears.
At first glance, you would think he is just another cat. A devastatingly handsome cat, but still, a cat. And then she gets a closer look at him.
Saoirse canβt quite put her paw on what it is, but thereβs something about him thatβs distinctly and disturbingly un-feline. The length of his limbs or the shape of his face or the proud way he holds himself or his eyes. Bright as lanterns, shimming silver, and they feel like they are peeling Saoirse apart, layer by layer, stripping her down to something small and vulnerable.
And the longer she looks, the more his attractiveness feels wrong. Saoirse doesnβt even like toms, but thereβs something darkly hypnotizing about his beauty; like a sundew flower tempting flies closer with the promise of nectar, only to slowly eat them alive.
Saoirse suddenly realizes sheβs still holding her paw in the air, and sets it down quickly. Sheβs torn on what to do now; bow? Straighten up and meet his eyes?
Beside her, Orla raises her chin. βI have brought her to see you, Clever One. She wishes to make a bargain.β
βA bargain?β The Cat Sidheβs voice rolls over Saoirse like honey tainted with poison, heavy and silky with the faintest hints of danger curled underneath. It takes everything Saoirse has to not let her hackles raise, and she forces her fur to lie flat and her eyes to meet his.
βI come to make a deal for my clan.β
βInteresting,β the Clever One muses, circling Saoirse and Orla slowly. Saoirse finds herself leaning away from him, some deep, feral instinct within her screaming to get as far away from this creature as she possibly can. The Cat Sidhe eventually settles in front of the two cats, wrapping a long black tail elegantly over white front paws. His shifting silver eyes narrow.
βTell me, she-cat, your name.β
Thereβs something about the way itβs phrased, as if he is expecting her to hand her name over to him as if it is a juicy piece of meat, that makes Saoirse pause. In the back of her mind, thereβs the faintest wisps of warnings once told to her, about fae and names and bargains, and she says the first name she thinks of that is not her own.
βLiadan,β Saoirse finds herself saying, the name spilling from her mouth before sheβs even truly aware sheβs chosen it. βYou may call me Liadan.β
The Clever Oneβs eyes narrow- in disappointment? -but he smiles.
βLiadan,β he purrs, turning the name over in his mouth. βInteresting meaning, that name has.β He looks Saoirse slowly up and down, taking in her brown tabby fur. βA gray lady, coming to me in the night, offering to make a bargain to save her clan. Interesting indeed.β
He looks away, and Saoirse huffs out a breath, strangely shaken. Beside her, Orlaβs tail is flicking, the only sign of her discomfort. The Cat Sidhe settles in front of them once again, and settles his gaze on Saoirse.
βTell me, Gray Lady, what is the bargain you wish to make?β
Saoirse pauses before answer, considering her words carefully. All her life sheβs heard stories of how fae can twist your words, make promises out of them that you never intended, and she canβt let that happen.
βI want to save my clan,β she says, her mind flashing, against her will, to Caoimhe. She shakes her head to clear her thoughts of the stubborn she-cat. She canβt let herself get distracted, not right now. βAnd Orla said you maybe be able to help. Samhain is coming, the waters are rising, and we need a way out.β
The Clever One regards her, before finally answering. βThere is a way. But it will come at a cost.β
Something that Saoirse might be able to call hope rises in her chest. βTell me.β
βThe rules I work with are simple.β The Cat Sidheβs tail flicks, once. βLife for life. To save the lives of the rest of your clan, you simply need to give me one innocent one.β
An innocent life. All those lives saved, but an innocent life taken. Who would it be? Saoirse flashes first to Madden, so young, so gentle, having already experienced far too much in her short life. And then, an even more horrifying thought. There are two lives in the clan more innocent than Maddenβs.
Lochlan and Aislinn. Horror rises up in her, the taste of bile coating the back of her tongue.
βWhat will it be, Gray Lady? I will grant you one favor, one wish, in exchange for a single innocent life.β
Caoimhe would never forgive her. Saoirse could never forgive herself.
βNo.β The word comes out strangled, Saoirse choking down all the things she wishes to say. She wants to call this creature sitting in front of her what it is. She wants to spit in his face, call him monster, force him to grant her this deal with no lives taken.
But he is ancient and powerful, and compared to him, she is a bug on a rock.
βI will not take that deal,β Saoirse whispers, and beside her, Orlaβs head whips around, eyes narrow in...what? Shock? Disapproval?
The Cat Sidhe just laughs. βVery well, Gray Lady. There will be no bargain struck today.β He stands up and lazily stretches. βBut you have thirteen days before Samhain, and should you change your mind, you know where you may find me.β
And he disappears into the trees as quickly as he appeared.
Saoirse lets out a breath thatβs half sob, aching muscles releasing tension she hadnβt realized sheβd been holding. Beside her, Orla whips around, eyes blazing.
βWhat are you doing?β Orla hisses, tail lashing. βHe offered you the way out!β
Saoirse stares at her healer hollowly. βI canβt, Orla. Not Lockie or Aislinn. I canβt.β
βFine,β Orla snaps, getting up and shaking her fur out. βLetβs go then. And donβt ask me to trek out here in the middle of the night again because you have regretted this mouse-brained decision you have made.β
She stomps back down the path they came, and Saoirse, exhaustion suddenly dragging on her bones, follows.
β
At dawn, the sky opens, and the rain finally starts to fall.
β
As soon as they get to camp, Orla storms back into her den without another word to Saoirse, and she decides not to think too hard about the fact that the clanβs healer is mad that Saoirse didnβt agree to kill someone. Sheβs too tired to think about that, and itβs with dragging steps that she walks across the camp to her den.
Her nest smells like Caoimhe. And despite how tired Saoirse is, how much she longs for a dark, dreamless sleep, itβs distracting and she finds herself tossing and turning. Her den feels too big, too empty, and she canβt help but think of the warmth Caoimhe lends when she sleeps beside her.
Eventually, she gives up on sleep.
Itβs still raining when she exits her den, drops so cold it feels like theyβre mixed with ice. The clan seems to have battened down the hatches, because thereβs not a cat in sight when Saoirse steps out into the mud puddle that is the center of the camp. She finds herself heading towards the den Caoimhe shares with Imogen and the kits without really thinking about it, trying to figure out how to phrase the question she wants to ask.
Hi, Iβm so desperately lonely, and when Iβm with you Iβm less lonely, can I please sleep in your nest?
Even the idea of asking the question causes her pelt to throb hot with embarrassment, but she slips into the den anyways.
Imogen looks up. Sheβs curled around Lockie and Aislinn, two small blobs of gray and white, breathing peacefully despite the pounding of the rain against the roof of the den.
βImogen,β Saoirse says, wrenching her gaze away from the kits- the tiny, fragile, innocent kits - βdo you know where Caoimhe is?β
Imogenβs forehead furrows in concern. βI havenβt seen her since last night. I thought she was with you.β
Ancestors, Caoimhe is the only one that can make Saoirse go from feeling small and vulnerable to furious in under five seconds. She takes a few long, slow breaths before she feels like she can thank Imogen without yelling her frustration, and exits the den before she can let herself get any more frustrated than she already is.
She has two options. Return to her soft, warm, dry nest, and pretend it doesnβt smell like Caoimhe, or...or she can break several of the rules that Caoimhe apparently doesnβt think apply to her.
Donβt leave the camp when itβs raining. Donβt leave the camp alone.
The choice is easy, too easy. The leader shouldnβt find it this easy to break her own rules, ones that she created in the lives of those lost, but sheβs already drenched to the bone, and Caoimhe is out there whipping up what Saoirse knows is another hair-brained scheme, and somehow, impossibly, Caoimhe, for all her wild hope and impossible ideas, makes Saoirse feel...complete. Like she needs a little of Caoimheβs fire to ignite her own.
She leaves the camp, rain pounding against her. She leaves camp alone. After all, who could she take with her? Not Mairi, so entrenched in grief. Not Madden, whoβs so young, who Saoirse has put through too much already. And not Darragh. Never Darragh, never again.
But she canβt think about that. Canβt let the grief rise in her throat. Because once she thinks of one lost, she thinks of them all, the ghosts crowding up in her head.
She wonders if sheβll ever be rid of them.
But Saoirse canβt let herself focus on them, canβt let herself focus on the dead while Caoimhe is still out there in the forest, probably doing something exceedingly stupid and heartwrenchingly brave, and so she takes a deep breath, puts her head down against the wind and rain, and pushes forward.
β
In seasons past, it wouldβve taken days to search the entire territory. But now, with so much of it cut off by rising waters and creeks turning into rivers, Saoirse can run across the entire thing and barely even get winded. Which means that itβs easy enough to find Caoimheβs paw prints in the muck lining the bank of the deepest of the pools, even long after the rain has washed her scent away.
She follows them, blinking to clear the rain from her eyes, barely able to focus on the rapidly vanishing path in front of her. She canβt believe sheβs doing this, canβt believe sheβs out here looking for Caoimhe again, but she also knows that she canβt bear to lose her, not again.
Saoirse already lost Caoimhe once, when they were young,when Saoirse was mourning and pushing anyone and everyone away, unable to bear the thought of more pain, of one more person she loves dying. And suddenly her best friend was gone, and it was like they were strangers, the words Saoirse had spit in a bone-deep fear creating a divide she didnβt think would be repairable.
But somehow, impossibly, it was, and Caoimhe has slept in Saoirseβs nest the last three nights, and the thought of losing her is a hot, twisting pain behind her ribs.
Saoirse will not lose Caoimhe tonight. To lose Caoimhe would be like losing a piece of her heart.
She shivers, trying to ignore the way cold is settling heavy in her chest, and soldiers on.
β
Finally, after what couldβve been days or hours or meer heartbeats, Saoirse picks up voices over the sound of the storm. One is achingly familiar, the other not so, but Saoirse is too focused on Caoimheβs voice to wonder why the other sounds like a stranger.
Carefully picking her away around the deeper puddles of mud, Saoirse follows the voices, rounding a small grove of trees. Caoimhe comes into view, soaked to the bone and talking to someone just out of Saoirseβs sight. Warmth floods through her despite the chill, and she speeds up, relieved to find the tabby safe and alive. But then, she notices how Caoimhe is talking, laughing, and how she stands at the very edge of the water, as if sheβs one heartbeat from sliding in.
Saoirse, suddenly apprehensive, steps forward, mud squishing between her toes, as she strains to see who Caoimhe is talking to.
And there, on the other side of the river, is a cat. Her ginger fur is dark from rain, small white paws stained brown. Her attention is fully focused on Caoimhe, head tilted and tail softly flicking, and Caoimhe is equally zeroed in, bright and enthusiastic, a gleam of sunlight cutting through the otherwise dark forest.
The ginger tabby notices Saoirse first, standing at the edge of the trees. Her eyes go wide and she jerks backwards, ears going flat. Caoimhe cuts herself off, spins around with claws unsheathed as if she expects to be attacked. For a second her worry is soothed when she sees it is only Saoirse, and then sudden panic flashes through her and she whips around to face the stranger on the other side of the river.
Already, the ginger tabby is barely a hint of orange through the trees, and Caoimhe cries out.
βNo, wait!β She paces back and forth along the bank, tail lashing, a frantic gleam in her eyes. βPlease! Come back!β
Thereβs a fierce, starving sort of desperation in her voice. And for a second, it looks as if she is going to dive into the water, swim through the treacherous waves in order to reach the cat who vanished into the trees. Saoirse tenses, ready to lunge forward, to drag her back if need be, but eventually Caoimheβs tail droops.
A strange sort of emotion is rising in Saoirse at how crestfallen Caoimhe appears. She almost wants to call it jealousy. But it canβt be jealousy; she has no reason to be jealous of this stranger attracting Caoimheβs attention. But the canβt-be-jealousy quickly turns to shock as Caoimhe rounds on her, eyes blazing in anger.
βYou scared her off!β She charges towards Saoirse, who tenses, almost expecting Caoimhe to lash out, to mark her nose with needle-sharp claws. But instead, Caoimhe stops, breathing heavily, eyes strangely glazed. βIβve been so careful trying not to scare her off, and then you come, and sheβs gone!β
βWho is she?β
Caoimhe ignores the question, tail lashing. βWhy are you even out here anyways? After all your lectures about not going into the forest alone, not leaving while it was raining. Itβs almost as if the rules apply to everyone but you.β
The shock is rapidly squashed, replaced by irritation. βIβm the leader, remember? I make the rules, so I get to choose if I follow them or not! And I was out here looking for you, to make sure youβre not a pile of bones at the bottom of some bog!β
Caoimhe huffs, rain dripping down her face. βWhat about last night, then? After you ran off? I waited for you. All night. And you didnβt come back.β
Now itβs shame that prickles in Saoirseβs pelt, and she canβt quite meet Caoimheβs gaze. βI was out with Orla. We were...we were trying to find a way out. Iβm sorry I didnβt tell you. Iβm sorry I left you.β
βWell, thatβs what I was doing, too.β Now Caoimhe is bubbling over with a giddy energy, anger gone as quickly as it came. βSaoirse, the tabby...she might be able to help us leave. She might be able to show us the way out!β
βHow long have you known?β
βA half moon?β Caoimheβs forehead furrows in concentration. βMaybe a little longer?β
βA half moon and you didnβt tell me?β Now Saoirse is well and truly angry. βDarragh died trying to find a way out, and you didnβt think to mention that maybe, maybe, you know someone who can help?β
Caoimhe frowns. βI did tell you! After Lachlan went looking for the wisp. I told you he saw a cat in the forest, and you said we couldnβt spend time looking for them!β
βBut you found her, and if you had come to me and told me the whole story, I wouldβve helped! I wouldβve listened, but you didnβt!β Saoirse shakes her head. βAncestors, Caoimhe, is this you trying to play the hero? Because if it is, itβs the wrong time for it.β
It comes out harsher than intended, and guilt zings through Saoirse as hurt flashes in Caoimheβs eyes.
βHow could you think that?β she whispers. βI just want to help, Saoirse. Thatβs what Iβve always wanted.β
βAnd when will you stop? When your version of βhelpingβ ends with someone dead?β Thunder booms overhead as if to mark Saoirseβs words, and she immediately wishes she could take them back, swallow them before she ever spit them out. Caoimhe looks at her pleadingly, as if asking her to apologize, to admit she was wrong.
But Saoirse canβt stop thinking of Caoimheβs body found floating and bloated in the river. Of her corpse, half-eaten on the banks of a river, monstrous teeth marking her bones. Itβs an instant, agonizing, searing pain that rips through her at the thought.
Saoirse knows what itβs like to have your family ripped away from you. And every single time she looks at Caoimhe, she feels so much, so much that it seems impossible to contain. And to have that torn away is unimaginable. She never shouldβve let herself get this close, shouldβve kept her emotions closed off and her heart safe.
She closed herself off moons ago, after her father died. She loves her clan, but she also keeps herself distant, because distance means that she is keeping herself safe from pain so large it feels as if it will swallow you whole.
Caoimhe looks at Saoirse, eyes begging for her to apologize.
Saoirse looks away.
βIβm keeping you confined to camp until Samhain,β Saoirse says hoarsely, unwilling or unable to meet Caoimheβs eyes, sheβs not sure. She swallows hard, imagining building a wall up around her heart, protecting it from harm in a barrier of sharp thorns. βAnd I donβt think you should sleep in my den anymore.β
Saoirse expects Caoimhe to argue, to put up a fight as large as the storm still roiling overhead, but she doesnβt. She just follows Saoirse back to camp, as if all fight has been sucked out of her.
Somehow, thatβs far worse.
Chapter Twelve
Coming Soon
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