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Callum wakes up, ashen-faced and empty, from a dream that he already cannot remember but for a blurred and fading glimpse of two amber eyes. The same eyes have haunted him since that fateful day, lingering on the edges of his memory like phantoms of a life he can't remember anymore; two eyes, burning into his mind like the bright angry embers of a dying fire, two eyes, gleaming amber with hatred and hurting and hopelessness -- his mother's eyes.

The slavers stole him away from home when he was barely weaned. No one expected it. How could they, when the security of one of the forest's last safe places was abruptly shattered, pulled apart along with the families that once called it home? The little hidden-away clearing had been a stronghold, a beacon of hope against the ceaseless abduction and ensuing conflict the slavers had started in their conquest--their useless war--for control over the entire forest. Its location was a secret that its keepers guarded even at the costs of their lives. But in the end, Callum supposes, there are no secrets in a war.

He doesn't even remember that place, anymore. They took him away when he was so young; all he knows of home are stories his fellow slaves whisper in hushed voices when they think the guards aren't listening. Home is a myth, a legend. Such a utopia couldn't have existed. And even if it ever did, it certainly couldn't have survived long in this war. Besides, he has no room for dreams here. To dream of freedom is to attempt to flee to freedom is to be caught and dragged away screaming to some unknown, horrible fate. It's better not to think about home. It's better not to think about anything.

So he doesn't, just melds his face into stone, his mouth a grim slash on his face, his eyes empty pools, and that's how he faces today, and every day.

The slavers gather their quarry in the center of camp to dole out the day's workloads. The majority of the slaves--young, strong tomcats--are assigned hard labor, hauling and dragging large branches and stones to build a stronghold, while hunting and healing duties are divided amongst the camp's smaller population of she-cats. The camp leader and head of the slavers, a broad-shouldered tomcat named Coren, oversees the work with eyes of ice, all business. Flanking him are two cats, one a sturdy gray tom named Trace, Coren's second-in-command; the other a small, well-groomed tabby she-cat, who looks anywhere but at the slaves. Word has it she's Coren's daughter, though no one's ever seen a mate with him. Her name is Coriander, and it is forbidden to speak with her, else you want your tongue ripped out and your food ration taken away. She is impeccably groomed, well-fed, a true beauty, and born into power. She is everything Callum is not.

And she is everything Callum hates, an ever-present reminder of the world he'll never belong to, of the power and the freedom that will always belong to everyone but him.

Someone cuffs his ear to catch his attention. Callum glances over at the cat, a wiry tabby tom known as Wick. A fellow slave, he's the closest thing Callum has to a best friend. "Stop staring," Wick hisses lowly, casting glances at the guards stationed around the camp's perimeter and among the crowd. "They'll see you."

Callum says nothing, letting himself feel nothing, but obligingly tears his gaze away from Coren and from Coriander.

"I'm on wall team," Wick mutters quietly. "You?"

"Same." Constructing the outer wall is hard work, and puts him directly under Coren's command, but he gets to stay in camp, where there are fewer dangers.

"Nice, we're together," Wick says, and then a guard comes up behind him, hissing at him to shut up. Wick shuts up.

"Wall team," Coren shouts. "Three groups, one with me, one with Trace, and one with Coriander."

"Coriander?" Wick whispers under his breath. Callum, too, is a bit surprised, though he's careful not to let it show. Coriander never works with the slaves, she's always kept apart from them, living a separate life of luxury in a den under a honeysuckle bush. Meanwhile they suffer half a camp and a whole world away.

Guards cut through the crowd, dividing them into teams. Callum is jostled roughly to one side while Wick is shoved to another. His friend throws him a half smile as they're separated, but then the crowd swallows him up and Coren's shouting again.

"Left team, with Trace. Middle team, Coriander. Right team, with me."

Wick's group is herded after Coren, and Callum realizes he's been sorted into Coriander's group. Setting his jaw, he waits dully for her to give her orders; like her father, he expects she'll address the guards, and not the sIaves. Never the slaves, Callum thinks. It would bring her too close to their world.

But she surprises him; when she speaks, it's to them, though she's careful not to make it too apparent. Callum flattens his ears, uneasy.

"We'll work on the wall facing the river," Coriander announces. Her face is reserved but not cold, her eyes wary but not disdainful, and her voice carries an unexpected authority (when Callum thinks he detects an undertone of warmth or pity, perhaps, he decides he must be imagining it). "As always, stones will serve as the foundation, a tail-length high, then branches will make up the rest. Guards Ikken and Pom lead teams collecting stones and branches, respectively, but until their teams return we will use what materials still remain in the cache. We will use materials from the closest pile, as the other piles belong to the teams led by Coren and Trace. Those are your instructions. Move out."

Callum pushes down the uneasiness churning in his gut and moves out.

Skeleton trees sway above their heads as they work, empty branches like claws raking the cloud-stained sky. Winter is coming, all the more reason to hurry and complete the wall, which is why they've split into three groups for efficiency. But the mood is anything but efficient. The guards are tense. Coriander is tense. A storm is on the horizon, and a wind rises slowly at first, then all at once it becomes a gale, tearing branches from the wall and sending them reeling across the camp. Fallen leaves like empty shells are torn from the ground and sent spiralling in the eddying wind.

"Enough," Coriander shouts. "Get back to your dens. We'll have to wait this out."

Across the camp, Coren caterwauls something contradictory, but then the wind chases debris into his face and he gives up, echoing, "Get them back to the dens, now!"

Callum is shoved in with the crowd as the guards herd them back like animals. Somewhere behind him a cat is punished for moving too slowly. He shuts out the sounds of pain and forges ahead to the den, where he curls up around himself and dreams of eyes he'll never see again.

He hates this life, but he cannot dream of freedom. To dream of freedom is to dream of death. It's a mantra that's been hammered into his mind, become as much a part of himself as his heart and his lungs.

To dream of freedom is to dream of death. To dream of freedom is to dream of death. To dream of freedom...

Callum sighs and buries his nose in his fur. If only there were a path to freedom that weren't stained by blood. If only freedom existed in the first place. If only...

As a storm rages above his head, Callum sleeps, and dreams of nothing.

.

.

.

"Wake up! You have to get out of here, now!"

Sleep is wrenched from him by a voice, shrill and insistent, and Callum blinks awake to two amber eyes, staring desperately into his.

Coriander.

"The storm is destroying the camp," she shouts over the howling wind. Her ears are pressed flat against her skull, but her eyes are filled with urgency and... compassion? Unable to comprehend it, Callum looks away from her (to look at her is to be punished; to speak to her is to have your tongue ripped out; to dream of freedom is to dream of death).

The den is gone, battered by rain and torn away by the wind. The part of camp closest to the river is already flooded, and what's left of the wall is quickly being washed away. Callum watches as their hard work is taken by the water, but he can't move. All around him cats are fleeing, slave and slaver alike, moving around him and Coriander like they're rocks in a stream. But he can't move. He can't run. Freedom doesn't exist. Home doesn't exist. There is no way out.

"What are you waiting for?" Coriander yowls, shoving closer to him. She's looking right at him; he flinches and closes his eyes, refusing to look back. He can feel her warmth close to him, hear the desperation in her voice, and somehow it's nothing like the indifference or the frowns she's displayed before, like those were just an act. "You have to run, now!" she persists, and when he doesn't obey, she grabs his scruff in her teeth and starts to drag him like a kit.

He struggles against her hold, but she only moves him into the shelter of a bush, where the wind isn't so loud, and forces him to meet her eyes. "Look, I'm sorry for everything my father has done to you and the others, truly I am. But now's your chance to be free, do you understand? Free." Her eyes are somber, raw--honest, he realizes, and he flattens his ears.

"Free...?" he echoes warily.

"Yes," Coriander affirms. "You're one of those cats from the haven, aren't you? You can go back."

Callum stares at her, a part of him still certain this is a trap. "It doesn't exist."

"No, not anymore, but the cats who once lived there are still alive. They've found a new home, somewhere my father's never been, somewhere he doesn't know exists." She narrows her eyes and continues, urgent, "Look, there's a group of cats who are dedicated to freeing my father's sIaves. I am the leader of those cats. Ever since I heard that the new haven exists, I've been waiting for a chance to lead you all there, and now this storm..." She flicks her tail outside at the chaos. "There's a secret path leading to the haven. I can take you there, tonight. You can be free."

Callum backs away, shaking his head. Freedom doesn't exist. It's a trap, it must be--but those eyes in his dreams...

"Callum!" Wick explodes in, drenched and dripping with water and blood that trickles from a cut on his forehead. "Come on, what's the matter with you?" He jostles his friend roughly, staring into his eyes with fierce intensity. "This could be our only chance to get out of here. Don't you want that?"

He does. He wants to get out of here so bad. But... He looks at Coriander, and sees only her father in those eyes, feels only the claws of a guard slice his ear as punishment for looking at her.

"Callum," she says. "That's your name, isn't it? Please, just trust me."

He swallows. "I can't. I... I don't know how."

She's taken aback. "I'm sorry," she says at last, and someone calls her name in the distance. Looking from Callum to Wick and then to the cat who called for her, she finally whispers again, "I'm sorry," and runs.

Wick watches her go, then turns and slaps Callum across the face, the blow stinging of claws. "You idiot. Go ahead and die here if that's what you want so bad," he hisses, and follows her.

Still reeling from the blow, Callum stumbles, then curls numbly around the trunk of the bush. Blood drips from his face and the storm screams outside, but Callum just squeezes his eyes shut and refuses to let any of it in, refuses to feel anything, because that's all he knows. It's easier not to feel pain. It's easier not to feel anything at all.

Again amber eyes haunt his dreams, but this time, they're Coriander's.

.

.

.

When morning comes, clouds mottle the sunrise on the horizon, but the storm is over. Callum crawls from under his bush to find a world completely changed in the aftermath. Debris lies everywhere. Fallen trees have destroyed most of what used to be the slavers' camp, and mud-brown water from the swollen river laps at the remains of the wall. He doesn't overlook the few bodies left behind by the storm, but he can't bring himself to care enough to bury them, either, even when he recognizes one, a broad-shouldered tomcat with still-open eyes of ice. Instead he sits and attempts to groom himself, gritting his teeth when his paw scrapes the wound Wick's claws left on his face. He forgot about that. Giving up on the grooming, he sighs, shoulders heaving, and looks in the direction Coriander went, last night and an eternity ago.

Fallen trees and branches litter the ground, but if he looks hard enough he can almost imagine a bit of a path through the underbrush. A secret path, to a secret haven, to a freedom and a home that aren't supposed to exist.

Amber eyes flash in his mind, eyes that shouldn't be familiar but are, anyway. Two eyes, burning into his mind like the bright angry embers of a dying fire, two eyes, gleaming amber with hurting and sorrow and sympathy -- Coriander's eyes.

Callum laughs, a little caustically, then takes the first step.

{ i }

"Hey, uh, Larch?"

"Yeah?"

"Can we talk? There's... something I've been meaning to tell you."


{ ii }

I first met Owl when I was only a moon old. We were nurserymates, those days; I was the middle child, determined to be noticed, and he was the odd one out, who would have given anything to be inconspicuous.

It wasn't his fault, really; it was just that he had the most enormous ears of any cat anyone had ever seen. Large and comically pointed, they were like moth's wings perched on his head, like the ears of a kit's clumsy self-portrait in the dust. His head was too big for his body, too, although he'd grow into that later. He never grew into the ears.

When I first saw him, I hated him right away. Being a kit makes the business of love and hate very simple. He was tiny, had goofy-looking ears, and wouldn't stop crying, no matter how many times his mother tried to comfort him. According to Mother, after weathering several hours of his ceaseless noise, I climbed over the edge of the nest, marched over to him, and bopped him on the nose. Hard.

That only made him cry harder.

I hated him.

Eventually the medicine cat managed to quiet him down, by picking him up by the scruff and dumping him in a little pile of moss next to his mother's nest. So long as no one touched him, he was quiet, happy even. But the business of survival makes it hard not to touch anyone, especially when you're only a day old and heavily reliant on your mother's warmth and milk. He had to return to his mother's nest, but she made sure to give him his space.

My mother asked the medicine cat if maybe he had a skin condition that made it painful for him to be touched. Her face darkened and she didn't reply.


{ iii }

"Larch?"

"Shut up, Owl."

"But Larch—"

"I said shut up! I don't wanna talk to you."

"But... there's an eagle."

"What? No, there's not."

"Oh." Silence for a moment, then: "Then is there no fire, either?"

"There's nothing but the nursery, you mouse-brain. Don't be daft."

"Um. ...Okay."


{ iv }

By the time he was old enough to be weaned, it was apparent there was something different about him. It was one thing for a kit to babble about invisible things; we all had our imaginary friends at one point. But for a kit to say he saw such things as Owl did: our bodies, lying on the floor of the camp with blood spilling from them; an eagle, carrying me off; his mother, tripping on a jutting root and falling into the ravine, where she was met with sharp rocks; a fire, ravaging everything... It was unheard of. No kit had such an imagination. And any kit who did wouldn't convey his imaginings with the grave urgency that Owl did.

Upon questioning, our medicine cat revealed that she had seen an omen on the night of his birth. Owl could see things. Not the future, exactly, but alternate instances of our world. By simply touching another cat he was made to witness what would befall their other selves. Not everything he saw was horrifying or apocalyptic, but it was the norm. From a young age he was deeply aware of the fragile balance of our world, for to touch a friend was to see them die a hundred times and to see them thrive a hundred times, and never to know for certain which would come to pass.

Still, despite this burden, Owl grew up strong and happy. He was bouncy, enthusiastic, but careful. Once he figured out my hatred for him, he made a habit of pestering me, and despite my first impressions of him I came to tolerate, and even deliberately seek out, his presence. He told me what my alternate selves were doing, and I learned to watch out for danger in any form; predators, falling trees, large bodies of water, even meteors (Owl insisted at least two of my alternate selves would meet their doom by meteor. I cuffed his overly-large ears).

There was one source of comfort in Owl's power. Since he could view countless iterations of one moment, he could divine whether an event was likely to happen. But nothing was certain. He could see all versions of our world but the one we inhabited. Even an unlikely circumstance could manifest itself here. So he took caution never to foretell an outcome as definite to happen.

As if that wasn't enough, there was one more catch to his ability.

The one cat Owl couldn't see... was himself.


{ v }

"Larch, wait!"

"Owl, what are you doing?"

"Whatever you do today, don't go near the river."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, at least five of you die there today."

"...that stinks, I was going to hunt water voles."

"Hunt sparrows instead, there's a nest of them in the firs."

"What if I fall? Or a branch hits my head, or my eyes get pecked out?"

"That won't happen, I checked. Here, I'll even come with you to make sure."

"Thanks, Owl."

"Ha, no problem, Larch."


{ vi }

We grew up fast, as all young cats are prone to do. Before we knew it, our kithoods were drawing to a close, and we would soon be old enough to make the biggest decision in our young lives. We could choose to stay with the group of cats who'd raised us, where food, shelter, and healing were a certainty. Or we could strike out on our own and forge our own paths, throwing our lives to the mercy of fate. Since Owl had already had enough of fate, he chose to stay, and I chose to stay with him. Life with Owl was already an adventure in itself, and I wouldn't give that up for the world.

Then one day came when everything changed.

Owl was just getting up one morning. We shared a den now, because we had always been together, and it would be strange to be apart. He was leaving the den, and I was still half-asleep, but I saw the look flash across his face when we touched noses to say good morning. He'd seen something, but despite my calls for him to tell me what it was, he turned and ran from the den as if it had caught fire and his life depended on getting away as fast as possible.

He stayed away for days. I was desolate, blamed myself for his absence. I stayed awake at night, waiting for him and worrying that he'd done something stupid, gotten himself killed. He finally came back on a stormy evening. Rain dripped from his nose and the tips of his ears, and despite being soaked to the bone, he just headed straight for his nest and fell into it, exhausted. On instinct I moved to lick the water from his fur, but he flinched from my touch and growled at me to go to sleep.

The next morning he was gone before I woke. The next, and the next, his anger gave way to grief and he refused to leave his nest, wouldn't meet my eye, wouldn't talk to me.

I wanted so terribly to curl around him and comfort him, to lick his big ears and his soft chin and his cheeks. But I couldn't be sure what horrible fate he'd foresee if I did.

So like his mother, I learned to keep my distance when he cried.


{ vii }

"...Owl?"

"..."

"Please, please just talk to me."

"..."

"I don't want to hurt you, but you're hurting me. I love you, okay? You're my best friend and I don't want that to change because of... It's my fault, isn't it? Look, I'm sorry. But I'm okay, see? I'm not dead, not dying. I won't leave you, Owl, I promise. I swear. I swear to any higher power you want, just please, please, just talk to me."

"..."

"...Okay. I get it. I won't—"

"No. Stop. ...It's not your fault."

"Owl..."

"It's nothing, okay? It was just another vision of another time that won't happen. It's not going to happen. ...I won't let it."

"Owl."

"Larch, I'm sorry. I... I was just so... just so afraid of losing you."

"No, it's fine, I didn't want to lose you, either."

"...Oh, Larch, what would I do without you?"


{ viii }

From that day forward I didn't let him out of my sight again. He was still visibly shaken from whatever horrific vision I'd inadvertently granted him that morning, so I took special care to stay away from danger, even little things. It was frustrating, almost, and it made me feel like an expectant queen, about to blow if I so much as touched anything. I also felt it more likely that a meteor would hit me than Owl would tell me what he'd seen. I'd always been privy to his visions, but now he was reluctant, even outright refusing, to tell me anything he saw.

But I knew the answer would come sooner or later, so I let it drop.

The medicine cat eventually cornered him and demanded he take some thyme and chamomile for his nerves, and maybe even some feverfew, because all that thinking was bound to be giving him a headache. He accepted her medicine without protest, and for a little while he seemed to be calming down, returning to the Owl I knew, loved, and trusted.

Finally, one afternoon he came up to me, and I knew he was ready to tell me what he'd seen that morning so long ago.

But what happened next was impossible for either of us to accept.


{ ix }

"There's... something I've been meaning to tell you."

"This is about your vision, right? What you saw, that morning?"

"I'm getting to that. Please, Larch, I'm sorry."

"...For what?"

"I'm leaving."

"..."

"Larch, I—"

"You're leaving?! Wh—why? How could you? What about me?"

"That's the point, Larch! You want to know what I saw that day? I'll tell you. You died, Larch—"

"Owl, I'm always dying in your visions—"

"Don't interrupt me, Larch. ...Please. Just... You died, and... and I was the one who killed you."

"How—"

"I don't know! I thought I couldn't see my own selves, but I did and I'm so scared, Larch, I'm so scared that this one is going to happen, I've never seen myself before."

"O... Owl... It's not going to happen."

"I know. I know it's not, because I'm leaving before it does."

"You can't!"

"I can and I am, Larch! I can't risk losing you."

"Owl, either way you'll lose me. And I can't lose you. Not like this. This is what a coward would choose, Owl! You know better than me that nothing is for certain."

"The only certain thing is death, Larch, and I've seen you die so many times... I've seen so many things that can kill you... and now I'm one of them. I can't stay here, don't you see that?"

"You have to stay! I'll die without you!"

"You'll die with me! Larch, please don't argue with me on this one!"

"Owl!"

"Larch, I— I can't!"

"Owl. I swear to everything you love that if you leave me I will follow. If you go, so will I. I love you, Owl, can't you see that? I love you, and I can't bear to lose you to yourself."

"..."

"Don't be afraid, Owl. We can get through this together."

"No! You have to stop talking! You're going to—"

"Owl, please, just look at me..."

"Larch, don't— Don't touch me!"

"Owl..."

"I said don't touch me!"

"Owl...! Wha—"

"...! Hh—"

"...O...Owl... wh... you..."

"Aahh— hh, no! No! Oh, gods, n— Larch! I'm sorry, I'm so sorry I told you this was going to happen you weren't supposed to— please... I can't I can't, I — Larch!"

"...don'... fine...lo...ve..."

"Please, Larch wake up, I'll do anything I'm sor—Larch you have to wake up don'— don't close your eyes look at me Larch no—"

"...owl...n' worr..."

"Larch...?"

"..."

"...! N— no no NO LARCH STOP PLEASE!"

"....."

"...wake up...

"...you have to wake up..."

"....."

"...hh— hh...

"...this is all my fault...

"I shouldn't have told you, I should've just left I—

"...I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!

"...LARCH!"


{ x — coda }

They say when you die, your spirit goes to the sky and becomes a star. I guess now I can say for certain that they're not wrong.

I've forgiven Owl for what he did. He never forgave himself. After my death, he isolated himself from the world and refused to let anyone close enough to touch him—for then, he told himself, no one would be close enough to be hurt by him. He spent moons this way, wandering from place to place, though he always returned to my grave every now and again. But the business of survival makes it hard not to touch anyone, and one day a she-cat bumped into him from behind, startling him so his heart nearly leaped from his chest.

He saw nothing when they touched. His power was gone.

They grew close, and he was honest with her about his former ability and about the life he had taken. She reassured him that no one could kill her so easily, especially not a big-eared softy like him. They fell in love, started a family, and lived. He named the middle child, a she-kit, Larch.

She died before her first moon was over, and is here now, with me in the stars, her light blazing young and strong.

I don't know if Owl will live happily ever after. I don't even know if he deserves it. But maybe we'll meet again. There's a chance he could get hit with a meteor, after all.

And, you know, there's another name they call meteors.

Falling stars.

Fire.
It's there, flickering on the edge of my vision, just beyond the treeline. Already I can hear the screams, smell the smoke, see tattered fragments of burnt black leaves flit across the sky like distant phantoms on the wind. The sky is dark, the air heavy with smoke and ash, and the forest cries out, cries out for a mercy that will never come.

This wasn't supposed to happen.
I remember the day it all began. It was early newleaf, and leaf-bare's snow still drifted down from grey-bellied clouds that moved ponderously, like great giants, across the sky. My father Eaglestar's shape was a hunched gray mountain, his shoulders tense, eyes dark. My mother's body lay limp on the snow before him. Graybird's fur was still warm, and her eyes were still open but glazed with death's unseeing frost.
The past leaf-bare had taken its toll on our Clan, and it was especially challenging for my family. My mother had never been strong, and she had recently given birth to four sickly kits. My elder sister Dovefall and I cared for them as best we could, but the cold took three of our new siblings within two phases of the moon. Only one sister survived, and Mother, weak as she was from the difficult birthing, soon succumbed to greencough. She named our sister with her last breath. Littlekit.
What should have been a litter of four healthy kits, a happy occasion, became a thorn of grief in Father's side. He couldn't look at the nursery without choking. When Mother's favorite flowers bloomed for the first time that newleaf, a shadow crossed his face and he wouldn't meet anyone's eyes. When two other queens lost their kits, and greencough took the lives of three of his senior warriors, he was desolate, and then he was angry.
Across the border, ShadowClan thrived. Their already prodigious numbers swelled with the births of several healthy litters of kits, and every Gathering it seemed three new warriors were lifting their heads in pride as the Clans cheered their names. Meanwhile, ThunderClan grew smaller and weaker. Rogues haunted the borders, becoming a growing threat with each passing day, as the patrols brought back reports of prey bones and rogue scent as far inside our borders as the Snakerocks.
Father sent a patrol to ShadowClan's leader to beg for assistance with the rogues, but when Olivestar heard they had nothing to offer her in return, she refused.
So, with nothing left to do, Father waged war on ShadowClan.

If only he'd made a different choice.
As the Clan leader's only son, I was expected to help lead the raids. They were successful, mostly, but I hated seeing the terror in kits' eyes every time we had to take up our claws against their mothers and fathers, hated spilling another's blood to protect my own. But the raids achieved their purpose: prey and herbs stolen from ShadowClan's coffers swelled our own. ThunderClan's kits were able to eat their fill for the first time in moons.
Meanwhile, ShadowClan's kits suffered. The balance in power had so abruptly shifted, their cats didn't know what to do. Civil war broke out, cat turned against cat, and refugees started appearing at our borders, covered in blood and begging for sanctuary. Some agreed to join ThunderClan, their loyalty in exchange for shelter. The rogues that had plagued our borders saw the blood we had spilled to save our own and were impressed enough to join themselves. Soon the dens were spilling with cats. ThunderClan was stronger than ever.
Still Eaglestar didn't stop his war on ShadowClan. Perhaps some part of him was convinced they were to blame for Graybird's fate. Whatever the case, he meddled in their war, ruining an already broken Clan. When a new leader was finally appointed to unite the remains of the Clan, it was a cat my father chose specifically. The new leader, Thornstar, agreed to give up a share of ShadowClan's meager resources for three moons in exchange for a truce.
And just like that, it was over. The life went out of my father that day. He came back to camp, head bowed, and all fire had died from his eyes. He wouldn't eat, he slept past sunhigh and refused to come out of his den. Shortly afterward, he contracted a strange illness and died.
It wasn't his ninth life. He didn't wake.
Our medicine cat never understood it, but perhaps it was StarClan's justice, for the lives he had taken. He would forever be a figure of legend, in our Clan and ShadowClan alike. Those telling the story would paint him in a different light each time.
He was no hero. But he wasn't a villain, either. He was just my father, and more than a little broken.
I never did forgive him. But my sisters did, Dovefall because it was her way, and Littlepaw because she followed Dovefall in everything. She wasn't the only one who looked to Dovefall after the war. When Eaglestar died, our deputy, Leaffoot, stepped down, insisting Dovefall usher our Clan into an era of peace. The rest of the Clan clamored for her leadership, and she accepted the role gracefully..

It was supposed to fix everything.
And for a time, it did. But though ThunderClan was given several seasons of peace, we would never truly be free from the little war game our father played. ShadowClan overthrew Thornstar, and a new leader, Redstar, took over. A young cat, he was popular with his Clanmates for his desire to claim revenge for the destruction of his Clan. And who could blame him? Eaglestar had walked in and destroyed everything. ShadowClan had always been a proud Clan, and to have a weak Clan like ThunderClan decimate them so easily was a tough blow to stomach. These cats would have grown up watching their parents fight for their lives. War was all they knew.
So ShadowClan declared war on ThunderClan, completing the horrible circle my father had started. At first they only crossed our borders a short way, trying to instigate a fight that way. Dovestar turned the other way and pretended not to notice, for the sake of peace. But she could not continue to do so when ShadowClan warriors starting kidnapping our cats and taking them hοstage. She went herself to parley with Redstar for their release. It didn't end well, and only led to the first skirmish in what would become a bitter, bloody war.
Despite everything that had happened, Dovestar was determined to end it all peacefully. And she did, by sacrificing herself. ShadowClan killed her. And when she recovered, she insisted they kill her again. And again, until all nine lives were taken from her. It was nothing, she swore, in comparison to the countless lives her father had taken. By the time three lives had been taken, all of ShadowClan were horrified, with the exception of Redstar and some of his close followers. When the other cats refused to kill her, Redstar himself took the rest of her lives without remorse, and his Clanmates turned on him in response.

Two leaders fell that day.
What followed was not the peace Dovestar had wanted. At least, not for ThunderClan. ShadowClan never forgot her sacrifice, and their next leader, Spottedstar, swore never to declare war on another Clan for her entire rule. Her cats swore they'd never let all of her lives be taken from her at once, and ShadowClan finally found the era of peace they had so long been denied.
ThunderClan, on the other hand, fell into a state of disarray. Dovestar's deputy Twigheart was well-liked and would have continued in her footsteps toward peace, but before he could make the journey to Highstones he was struck ill. In a fever, he named his deputy, a young warrior called Smokewind, who was the son of a former rogue. Some cats disagreed with his decision and championed other cats to take his place. Many thought I should succeed my sister, something I was deeply opposed to, because I didn't want the responsibility of so many lives, and because I knew I'd never live up to her legacy. In the end, they found another candidate, Rowansun, a Clanborn warrior who was popular with his peers because of the heroism of his father and namesake, Sunstorm. Tensions rose between those who supported Smokewind and those who supported Rowansun. In the end, battle finally broke out the night Twigheart died. Rowansun killed Smokewind, and that was that.
Or, it should have been. The medicine cat and her apprentice thought Twigheart's death was a sign, though they were at odds as to what it meant. A similar rift formed in the Clan, between Smokewind's supporters and Rowansun's. Rowansun was declared leader because he won the battle, but though he recieved his nine lives without incident, tension continued to grow after he returned from Highstones. Smokewind's supporters quietly regrouped under a cat named Blackjaw, but though they disagreed with Rowanstar's rule they made no effort to overthrow him — yet. Rowanstar allowed all cats to participate in Clan life as normal, and no warrior was required to state where his allegiance lay. Perhaps Rowanstar hoped peace would find its own way.

He was wrong.
By this time I had moved to the elder's den, but I watched as, one night, a small group of Rowanstar's closest supporters turned on their Clanmates, whom they knew to be dissenters. Two cats were killed that night, a tom and his mate. Rowanstar chastised the killers but made no further move to punish them, so Blackjaw's cats made plans to do it themselves. What they didn't know was that one of their cats was spying for Rowanstar, and the night Blackjaw planned to attack camp, Rowanstar led an attack on the rebels, killing Blackjaw and declaring the rebellion over. Any rebels who were determined to continue the violence were detained as prisoners, and the rest were allowed to go back to an ordinary life as ThunderClan warriors. The rift in the Clan was healed, or so Rowanstar was certain.
Blackjaw's son, Molestripe, had other ideas. He gathered a small group of apprentices and young warriors who disagreed with Rowanstar's decision to kill Blackjaw, and one day they all disappeared, an entire generation of ThunderClan warriors. Gone. Among them was Rowanstar's only daughter. Naturally, it didn't go over well with him. But there was nothing he could do. He sent out search parties, but the young cats were gone.

Now fire rages at the border, and Molestripe and his cats are back.
They're determined to unseat Rowanstar and take the Clan for themselves. I live in fear once more, and it's almost like living under Eaglestar's rule again. War licks at our heels and threatens to destroy everything we've ever known. Dovestar's goal of peace has been forgotten; no, it's been thrown down into the mud and trodden on deliberately. Someone must want ThunderClan to be destroyed. But why?
I know not. All I know is that I am afraid. And, for some reason, I feel as though this is all my fault. For not seeing my sister's dream of peace to fruition. For not ending this war.
For not stepping up and putting an end to this game my father played, and, I suspect, still plays.
Fire rages at the border, angry and determined to devour everything it touches.
Somewhere in the distance, a mourning dove calls, and I can only watch as war destroys my Clan once more.

.
.
.
It wasn't always this way.

Once, many moons ago, he was a quiet youth, inquisitive and honest, a light always glimmering in his blue eyes. He worked hard and dreamed big, but that was all. He was perfect, at least in your eyes.

Of course, you were always predisposed to notice only his greatest traits, and none of his worst. He got into fights with the other kits, but you brushed it off as play. You heard he was stealing from other families, but you never believed the stories. One night he came home covered in blood, and you easily accepted his story of a run-in with a dog as you ran for cobwebs. Later you learned a cat had died that night. You blamed the dog.

They called you blind to his faults, and maybe they were right. But he was like a son to you; what did they expect? You were never going to hate him.

He... did not feel the same.

It became apparent to you as he grew older. You'd catch him sneaking out at night. Where to, you never knew. If you told him not to go, he'd pace restlessly until you fell asleep, then leave. After a while, you came to realize you couldn't stop him, so you just watched him go with sad eyes, and he wouldn't even look at you as he slipped out. He became irritable when questioned, and even snapped at you a few times. You were forced to admit that maybe they'd been right all along, that he had always walked a darker path than you'd been willing to believe.

When he was fully grown, you made it clear to him that he was no longer welcome in your territory. He didn't care. There were no goodbyes exchanged, and the last thing you saw of him was the tip of his tail, twitching irritably as he left.

It broke your heart, but you told yourself it was for the better. Maybe he'd find a nice she-cat and settle down, find happiness there. But you knew deep down that he'd never be content with something so mundane, and you stayed awake at night fearing for his life and yours.

Seasons passed, then years, and still no word of him came to meet your ears. You allowed yourself to relax a bit, even started seeing a nice tom, started thinking about having a family.

Of course, that was when he chose to return.

You hardly recognized him. He was filthy, his fur unkempt, and there was no light in his eyes, only hatred and something like madness in the cold depths of his gaze.

When you refused to welcome him back, he attacked.

He was furious and unrestrained, jaws snapping at your ear, your tail, your throat. He would have killed you.

So you killed him, instead. To save yourself. To save him.

.
.
.

But that didn't stop you from crying over your son's body when it was all over.

.
.
.

There's an entire universe in his soul and an entire world at his paws, and he'd want nothing more than to let them converge if it weren't for the border keeping him from the world, the impossibly easy-to-cross border no farther away than a tail-length or a leap, but his paws are made of stone, it seems, and he can't seem to move them no matter how hard he tries, and so he's left to watch the world a world away, just past the tips of his toes but farther away than the stars.

Somehow, though, he doesn't mind so much as he ought to, maybe. His feet have travelled miles, his eyes have seen enough for a whole lifetime, maybe even several lifetimes, and when he looks up from where he stands there's the entire sky waiting to swallow him up, and the world turns around him, does the moving for him, and all he has to do is breathe, which is easy enough once he gets used to it. It's funny, really. Existing, that is. It's funny, to simply be, to exist and not have anything expected of you except death, eventually. But in the end that's all that really matters, anyway, isn't it.

The wind buffets his fur, and he breathes it in, and it fills his lungs, this wind; it carries with it dust and smoke and the scent of rain, and he doesn't know where it's been or where it's going, and it's a lot like his life, in a way. Always moving until it dies, carrying with it things of the past and things of the future, always moving because it knows nothing of the present, always moving because it's running from the past toward a future that wants nothing more than to quell it in its tracks.

He breathes it in, the wind, the world, and looks at his life waiting a border away, a tail-length away, a lifetime away. And he knows nothing more than something masquerading as peace within his chest, an invisible face behind an invisible mask, whispering words of comfort and death.

And it's serenity, maybe, because his heart beats with the rhythms of the world, and he breathes, and he breathes, and no matter how hard he tries he can't seem to remember what it once was to be afraid.

Somehow, though, he doesn't mind as much as he ought to, maybe, because he's here, he's here, right here, and he's not moving, he's just existing, and the world moves around him, for him, never again with him. And the wind buffets his fur and something like peace stirs in his chest, and he exists, just exists and waits for death, but maybe it's already come, because he can't, he can't seem to remember what it once was to be alive.

But in the end it doesn't really matter, does it.

.
.
.

Does it.

Every evening you meet a ghost on the hill above the lake to watch the sun set.

You don't know who he is, or rather, who he used to be. If he knows he hasn't told you. Actually, he's never spoken a word, though whether or not he can talk is yet another of his secrets.

You don't mind the quiet, though.

Tonight, like every night, he materializes from the air about a foot off the ground, before dropping elegantly to the grass below, his long fur almost ballooning out around him as he falls. You didn't know gravity worked on ghosts before you met him, but apparently it does. It's curious, though, that his paws rest just a whisker's breadth above the ground. You pointed this out to him before, whisking the very tip of your tail beneath his feet, but he just shrugged and threw you a smile that was half an apology in its embarrassment. Queries directed to the local witch offered you a vague notion of a different dimension resting slightly above yours. The she-witch was eager to explain the trivial details of this theory to you, but you declined as politely as you could, the fascinating world of loopholes and alternate universes proving too much for you.

All you really needed to know was that you weren't crazy for seeing this ghost. You can just see into other dimensions.

As if that's a more reasonable explanation. But you don't mind the company of this ghost. He is kind. A friend, if you dare to presume that much.

He pads toward you now, offering the slightest indication of a nod, and you greet him likewise as he settles onto the grass at your side.

He's as transparent as glass, and you mean that literally. Dusk blooms through his body as the sun sinks on the far horizon. You try not to stare as the colors catch and refract in the intricate, wavering outlines of his ear fur, but you stare anyway and if he notices he doesn't show it.

The chirping of birds echoes across the lake from the bordering forest, accompanied by the songs of crickets in the grass. Somewhere, an early-rising owl calls, and a pair of ducks flutter in noisily to alight on the lake, casting ripples across the water's surface.

It's beautiful, and you tip your head at it. He turns to regard you thoughtfully before blinking his assent.
Suddenly his eyes flash with surprise and then sorrow, and he rises to his feet to move closer to you. Not understanding what's concerning him, you wait, and when he flicks his tail at your shoulder you follow his gaze to the recent wounds peppered there.

Understanding pools in your eyes. You got those wounds during a brief confrontation with a juvenile raccoon. It was nothing, really, just a brief skirmish to let the coon know this was your territory and you weren't interested in letting it move in. It was just passing through, as it turned out, and the fight was over almost as quickly as it began.

But he can't know that. You look at him and shake your head briefly to let him know it's not a big deal. He frowns, a bit dissatisfied with your answer, but lets it go and returns to his place on the grass beside you.

You don't know why he appears at sunset. The witch (whom you've consulted more than once on these matters) supposed it was the hour of his death, and that's why he can be seen on this plane during the hour of the setting sun. He vanishes once the sun's set, though, so you know every meeting is short-lived.

The sun's nearly set now, and he still frowns slightly, the colorless fur between his eyes still furrowed in thought. To comfort him, you move a bit closer and nudge him gently with your shoulder (yes, you can touch ghosts, another surprise), and he looks over at you with something like a begrudging smile.

You smile back reassuringly, and you notice he's starting to vanish. Maybe it shows in your face, because he looks down at himself and then back at you, his features alight with expectation, and like every time, you say goodbye by pressing your nose lightly to first his left cheek and then his right.

You nod briefly at each other and he turns again to the horizon, his expression almost exultant as the sun's last rays are swallowed up by shadow. He fades away.

The night air is cool on your face. You linger a moment longer, your gaze tracing the empty place he was just heartbeats before, and then you turn to leave.

Perhaps tomorrow you'll ask the witch about how to speak with ghosts.

Do you remember what started all this?

She was an innocent. She hadn't done anything to incite your rage. But you killed her.

You killed her; you tore her limb from limb and didn't even have the nerve to look sorry as you watched her life bleed out from the wounds you gave her.

Do you remember her screams? Do you remember her pain, her suffering? She cried out for mercy and you gave her none.

Do you remember?

I hope you do. You monster.

She was my mate, and I was helpless to stop you. I could only watch as her blood was spilled, could only listen to her screams until they finally petered out. I watched as you killed her, and I vowed that one day I would bring you down.

And now I have. Look at yourself. You're helpless, wretched, defeated. Just lying there, powerless to stop me.

I could kill you as you killed her. And I should. You deserve every bit of the pain you inflicted upon her -- upon the thousands of innocents you destroyed in your path for power! What did you hope to gain from such destruction? Walking a path of bloodshed has only led you to your own downfall.

And now what's left for you? Nothing. You either die here or you live the rest of your life in shame, hated by all who see you.

I could kill you, and I should. But I won't be like you. You didn't give her the choice whether to live or die. But that is the choice I am extending to you now.

You can die here as you deserve, worm. Or you can be taken prisoner, guarded at all hours, left to live out the rest of your worthless life alone and unloved.

I know which I'd choose.

But I'll leave you the choice.

The decision is yours.

...Her name was Ashfall, by the way. Not that it matters. You'll never see her again. Because wherever you're going when your life is finally wrenched from you, she won't be there.

...Enough idle talk. Back to the most pressing matter. I think I've given you enough time to come up with an answer.

So, villain...

What do you choose?

"Elder Ianthe, come and see!" Ainsley, the youngest of Amaranth's litter, interrupted my meditations early one morning, excitement in her eyes. "Adair has returned with the day's sacrifice!"

I rose, shaking off the dew that clung to my fur. "A bit early, isn't she? That must be a good omen."

Ainsley bobbed on her toes impatiently. "Yes, yes, but you must come and see what she caught, you'll never believe it!"

"Not a fox, surely?"

The kit bounced around my paws, filled with pent-up energy, before bounding several strides ahead of me, unable to wait for my older paws to get up to pace.

"Better than a fox," Ainsley crowed. "A--" She broke off, stifling her laughter. "You'll see."

She hared away into the deep of the trees, her tail sticking straight into the air. I followed more slowly, wondering what could have gotten her into such a tizzy. Adair was our best huntress, for sure, and yet she was prone to showing off. Once she brought back a deer, to everyone's astonishment. If I was to be honest with myself, a fox wouldn't be so unbelievable, and yet Ainsley was determined that it was something greater. Still, Ainsley was the youngest in her litter, and more imaginative than her sisters Briony and Talia. To her, stumbling across a turtle was an adventure worth raising the whole camp about.

Still, I willed myself to hurry back to camp. An unsettled feeling had awoken in my gut, and I wanted to ease it as quickly as possible.

I heard the clamor before I even entered camp.

"What is that?"

"It's--"

"No one touch it!"

"Sister Adair, how could you--"

"I can't believe--"

"The gods will never accept this sacrifice..."

Elder Jacinta hurried to greet me. "Ianthe, I think you should see..."

A crowd had gathered in the clearing, a churning mass of cats straining to see whatever was in the middle. Ainsley appeared from the other side of the crowd, beaming from ear to ear. "Elder Ianthe, look, look!"

At the sound of my name, heads turned, and the crowd reluctantly parted to let me through. Once I came close enough to see what was there, I stopped, my breath suddenly gone from my lungs.

"Adair, what..." I stopped. Adair was huddled beside her catch, trembling like a leaf in the wind. I prayed she wouldn't collapse.

"Elder, I'm sorry," she whispered. "I didn't mean to kill the--"

"I know," I cut her off. "It's not your fault." But bile rose in my chest as I turned my gaze to the creature's body. Its limbs were twisted grotesquely in rigor mortis, and its eyes were still wide, frozen in horror and pain. Blood spattered the ground, and I knew this couldn't be a good omen.

After a period of silence I spoke up. "We shall need a new sacrifice."

Voices rose to meet my words.

"Elder, there isn't time--"

"The gods will be angry--"

"What's going to happen to us now that it's dead?"

"Quiet," Elder Jacinta raised her voice above the din. "Elder Ianthe will decide the new sacrifice."

I moved my gaze to Adair. "You have committed a great offense this morn," I murmured lowly. She lifted her gaze to mine, her eyes growing wide with horror.

"Elder, no, I-- please," she began, taking a step back.

"You must make amends for your crime," I went on, stepping toward her. "Your life will be a worthy offering, don't you think?"

"Please, no, I don't want to die--"

"You should have thought of that before you killed the--" I stopped myself and took a breath. "Please understand that this is not your fault. It is simply the gods' wish. They have chosen you, marked you with cursed blood."

She looked in horror at the blood staining her trembling paws. Flinging her chin up, Adair whispered in desperation, "I didn't mean to."

"Your pride has been your downfall," I replied. "Remember that."

"Ianthe--" she began, but she was dead before she could finish, the word withering on her lips. Her body fell to the ground with a dull thump of finality, and I turned to Ainsley.

"What do you think of this sacrifice, child?"

She laughed, the sound of it tinkling in her throat. "It's even better!"

"Good," I sighed, and the godling darted in to accept the offering. I turned away. "At least someone is pleased with this."

From the moment I was born they said I was going to have green eyes. When you are born into the clan you are chosen by a mysterious god that you never know the name of and never saw until you were older. It can be a green eyed true god, which means that they are working for the forces of good, or you can be chosen by the blue eyed false gods, who are the ones working for evil ends. When you are born, you have amber eyes and that means you are unclaimed and you are shown that having green eyes should be what is best for you. As soon as you turn six moons you are taken to the mirror-stone and it is revealed that you were chosen by a good or evil god. But, for the lucky few, and I guess I was lucky, it doesn’t have to be a mystery at all.
There has been, in my clan, a curtain cat that has never been wrong; out of all the cats that have guessed what you will be; she has always been right.

If she says you have eyes of blue, then you are then ostracized from the clan. If you are to have green then they look at you with the slightly sickening faces of those who want to make a good impression. But, when she said I was to have green eyes she also said what god had claimed me, which had never happened before. We had given names to these gods that we rarely saw, and worshipped them and asked them to help all cats under six moons to be claimed by the green eyed good gods. It made me wonder what the blue eyed clan did.

Anyway, for the first time, she said the god Alake had chosen a kit, and that was me. Alake was the leader of the gods that my clan worshiped. He had never, in all the seasons of claiming, taken a kit as his own. He was known as the creator of good and evil and he had chosen me.

I hated the attention. As I grew older it was like everyone was trying to get on my good side. That maybe the goodness would rub off on their kits or future kits. The worst part was I never got any privacy. It was always “Demetrio can you show us how this works?” when they knew how it was done already but just wanted a god chosen kit to show them. I rarely got any sleep. One night I even heard a den mate of mine whisper, “Demetrio please send me good dreams.” As if I was some type of god myself. I knew it would only get worse after I turned six moons.

***

Finally the day came when I was supposed to leave camp, by myself, to go to the mirror-stone. It wouldn’t be hard to find as it towered above camp like an overlarge tree. It was right between both my clan and the clan of the blue eyed cats. Each kit had to go alone. If that kit never returned then they were said to have blue eyes. If they did they were welcomed back into the camp as they were meant to be. It was the only rule both clans seemed to follow: Don’t interfere with the choosing and you cannot attack on a choosing day.

Of course, even on the way to the mirror-stone I wasn’t alone. Against a tradition, if not a rule, three of my so called friends were coming with me.

“What could happen? You have green eyes. We’ll be fine,” was what they said to me. I dreaded what was going to happen after the claiming.

What they would do? How they would hang on my every word. As the trees around the camp faded into the distance and the mirror-stone’s milky white surface came up ahead of me I started to see the stone more clearly.

The stone was about three tree lengths tall and about seven fox lengths around if the foxes stand nose to tail. It was a milky white, not a pearly white as I imagined. It was like a mirror only as I got closer. When I was a few fox lengths away, I and the others were blobs of fur. At this point in time they stayed behind as I got closer. My nose was a mouse length away before I saw my eyes.

Amber to begin with, like always. Then they began to change. Becoming some other color. I spoke to my ‘friends’ but didn’t turn around. “They said Alake was the creator of good and evil. So that means he had to have been both. That means I could have been green eyed or blue eyed.”

I turned, showing them my deep blue eyes.

 There was blood.







Corporal Morningglory’s eyes darted left and right, her temporary safe place on the hill in danger from a tom streaking up its side in a blood red and tabby flash.







This was the paranormal’s last chance in the Toxic War and they were failing. Failing against normals.







She plunged back into the fray with a wail of despair. Cats that should be worshiping them, were inferior to them, were winning by sheer number and strategy.







Morningglory spun to face the new enemy who even had the time and the gull to mock her before she plunged her claws into his throat, “Where’s your famous powers now?” he chuckled with his last breath. Blood bubbling at the corner of his mouth and the light in his green eyes fading to a glassy sheen.







But the worst part was his mocking grin that seemed to say, Even if you kill us all it won’t make a difference.







Morningglory was soaked in an unknown tom’s blood and the loss of paranormal life was only growing. She witnessed another battlemate fall under the sheer mass of bodies before she could reach her unnamed cohort. Morningglory had barely enough time to flee from her ally’s killers before they pounced on her as well.







What good is a long life, glowing eyes and an extra long tail on the battlefield? Morningglory wailed silently as her tail was pulled by a cat as streaked in gore as she, so much so, it was hard to tell whether they were friend or foe.







Morningglory slipped on the blood pooling in a valley between two small hills. The moor that was the battlefield for this branch of the Toxic War was full of screaming cats. The lieutenant of the paranormals, a mixed blood white she-cat called Everstar, was commanding what little was left of her army from the air. Unreachable by normals because of the buzzing pair of bumblebee wings on her back.







Morningglory wished with all her heart right then that she could have been made a mixed blood paranormal, even if she could become insane at anytime, because she could have used the added bonus of wings or shape shifting or anything that could help her live through this day.







She tried to help a struggling younger paranormal, his paws slipping on the red grass and his eyes burning coals in his head that showed just how afraid he was of dying. She reared at his larger opponent who had scarred ears and the small paranormal tom, who had been attacked, ran away with his long tail between his legs.







Morningglory thought she might have a chance, but it was dashed when she found out her opponent was faster then her, getting under her guard easily and raking her belly with stone sharp claws. Morningglory screeched with the fiery pain that coursed up and down her pelt.







Morningglory was facing sure death, her attacker’s claws at her throat; her immediate death only prolonged because he couldn’t get a grip on her blood slick neck. Then a shadow fell over the two grappling cats.







Everstar’s wings hit Morningglory’s would be killer square in the head, knocking him back. He tried to struggle to his feet only to have Everstar paws pound him into the turf.







Everstar’s claws were digging into his fur, her eyes blazing a fiery red, and she bent her head to deliver the killing bite. The cat screeched something that only Morningglory heard, but by then she was too late to warn Everstar.







Lieutenant Everstar, lifted her blood soaked lips from the cat’s neck, his glassy eyes staring up at the evening sky, unseeing.







“What did the cat say?” she asked, her voice low, and Morningglory barely heard it over the screams from the battle, or maybe it was the pounding of her own heart.







“He said,” whispered Morningglory, Everstar had to lean in closer, blood dripping from her muzzle, just to hear her horror filled words.







“He said not to kill him, that he didn’t know he was attacking another paranormal, because of all the blood. He said he was Second Lieutenant Feverfew of the paranormals. You’re second in command.”

Will C. Morgen fell off the cliff.







It was a long drop to the bottom, a fall that would kill a normal cat.







Will wasn’t normal.







Her body fell through the thin layer of ice that coated the edge of the sea. As her world went dark from the impacted, her mind flashed back to the start of this whole thing, when she had fallen into water and she had started walking the path to Seaside. The path that had split into three and she had still fallowed all of them.







-------







Percival Winfred the III’s face was split into a big grin and his longer then a normal cats tail twitched with mirth…







“Fancied a swim?”







Will glared at him, her fur slicked to her sides, making it very hard not to fall over from the weight of the liquid in her long fur. Her paws were inches deep in mud and her violet-green eyes were narrowed in anger at Percival’s merriment.







The stream wasn’t deep, but Will floundered as she tried to reach the bank. Percival took pity on Will and attempted to haul her out of the water and onto the road that they had been walking on before Will had walked to close to the bank and tripped into the stream.







Will’s mass was too much for the much smaller Percival and they both tumbled into the water; Will for the second time.







Will smiled as she regained her footing on the muddy bottom of the stream with no problem and flicked her very long tail at the paws and nose tip that was all that was showing of the topsy-turvy Percival.







Will haughtily sauntered out of the stream with no difficulty and when she reached the road she turned and stuck her tongue out at the dripping Percival who had recovered his footing by this time. Percival rolled his eyes in amusement for his crush’s antics.







Will shook out her pelt and condescendingly paced a few steps down the road, suddenly her eyes darted left and right, then she turned to stare at a small tree that had fallen over the stream, maybe in a storm, that she swore hadn’t been there before.







A path stretched into the trees on the other side of the stream, and the shade under it looked welcoming. Will felt drawn to it and she was so distracted by her visionary thoughts on what could be at its end that she didn’t hear Percival’s approach.







She jumped when he coughed. “What, what?!”







“Woh, cool it, it’s just me,” said Percival. “I haven’t suddenly turned into a crazy monster.”







Will flinched inwardly; Percival didn’t know that was just what she was turning into. As if she had called up her power, bile rose in her throat as her tail lengthened even more.







Percival knew that on a ‘normal’ paranormal a long tail meant high anger or fear. But as he turned his head wildly, looking for danger Will sprinted down the small path. Her whip-thin extra long tail was the last thing Percival saw before she disappeared into the shade.







“Aarmah is that way,” he shouted after her, his worries about her fear fading as he wondered why she was going off on a path that looked like a dear trail. His paws leaped into action as he raced after her.







Will’s eyes were starting to cloud, her paw steps were becoming labored, but she ran at full tilt as she tried to get as far away from Percival as possible. She was dangerous when her blood boiled like this.







What’s happing to me, wailed Will silently in her head, her eyes began to glow with red lights, her paws no longer hit the path as she veered off the trail. She could tell that Percival was trying to catch her but she didn’t want to be found like this. Only a few paces off the path she collapsed, her eyes edged with red, only the centers a violet-green. With her last glimpse through her red-rimed eyes, she saw something that was impossible- two cats that looked just like her mineralized, then also collapsed as if having the same trouble as her.







Will lost her sight completely.







----







Percival called Will’s name, over and over, but she didn’t answer. He continued down the path as fast as he could, trying to catch the sight of her disappearing tail- unaware that he had passed her fallen form long ago.







----







Will’s eyes cleared, but she didn’t want to move. Everything hurt, like she had been torn into three pieces.







Then her cleared eyes fell on the reflections of herself. They looked like her, but they weren’t just like her. One she-cat had plain violet eyes, not green-violet eyes like Will’s. The other had amber.







They stared at her, there heads cocked in such identical expressions of puzzlement that Will nearly laughed. The one with amber eyes snapped out of her confession first, “Who am I?”







Will tried to get to her feet, but they gave under her weight. Violet Eyed looked at Amber Eyed and said, “You look like an Olivia to me.”







Amber Eyed seemed to try out the name in her head for a second then nodded, “I like it, Oliva.”







“No,” said Violet Eyed, “Olivia, not Oliva.”







“Oliv-aauu,” attempted Amber Eyed.







Violet Eyed sighed, “Fine, Oliva. It’s the best you can do I supposes.”



Oliva looked relived.







“What should I be called?” Violet Eyed looked to Will then, and she had such a hopeful look in her eyes that Will bit back her questions to give the poor she-cat something. Will said the first thing that popped into her head, “Marick.”







Marick looked pleased at her new name and her normal-for-a-paranormal tail whipped Oliva’s face in joy.







Oliva flinched and tried to pin Marick’s tail down, but only succeeded in poking her own eye.







Will couldn’t hold in her questions anymore and they busted out like the flood gates had opened, “What in Toxic is going on? Why do you look like me? What happened to Percival? Why do you look like me? And most importantly, why do you look like me?”







Marick looked at Oliva; Oliva returned the look.







Oliva cleared her throat, turning back to Will, “Well, um, we look like you because we are you. When you were made a paranormal you were given a rare disease called mixed blood-”







“I know all that, I haven’t used my powers, I haven’t found the path I need to seek, and I can’t have used my powers!”







“But you did,” said Oliva. “You found your path; it is in fact, right behind that bush.” She pointed to the bush that had blocked all three cats from Percival’s view.







“But-,” started Will.







“You thought it was a figurative path,” finished Oliva.







“But, why, what are my powers?” said Will, who was feeling a little faint. She already knew what they were.







Marick spoke now, quoting the letter the Master had left for Will before she left for Aarmah, “‘You must travel three paths at once, one dark, one light, and one that in one and the same, travel it till the ice brakes.’”







Will nodded with dark expectance; she looked at Oliva, and said, “You’re the bad side of my personality aren’t you.”







It wasn’t a question; Will knew it just as well as she knew that Marick was the good side. Oliva nodded, “I thought I hid it well.” A smile flickered across her muzzle, not a nice smile either, a hint of a darker side from the amber-eyed she-cat.







Marick was still carefree and happy, her feet were even moving to some unheard beat.







Will’s head drooped in a sudden wave of tiredness, and if she had been standing, she would have collapsed.







Marick rushed to her side, “Are you okay, Will?” She asked; her voice filled with concern.







Will tried to nod, but her head just felt too heavy. Marick and Oliva both took her side and hoisted her to her paws. Will barely heard the voices as the walked around the bush and back onto the road.







“What will happen if we run into Percival?” asked Marick.







“Nothing, because we’ll leave her before that happens.”







“We’re leaving her?!” gasped Marick, not knowing if she could.







“We don’t need a host; we need a life of our own. We’ll leave her when she regains her senses. Set out on our own.”







“Can we do that? I mean, she is we. What happen if she dies or something, if we leave her?” asked Marick.







“What will happen if she dies, we die, that what. One of the reasons I just didn’t leave her where she fell,” snapped Oliva.







“Where do we leave her then?” asked Marick, wondering if she could run and find Percival to look after Will before they left.







Oliva knew what Marick wanted to do, so she said with as much force as she could put into her words, “Here.”







Marick was so surprised that she dropped Will.







Oliva nodded with approval then wrapped her tail around Marick’s neck, pulling her along as both of then rushed off into the forest.







-----







Percival had the sense to turn back and he found Will just regaining some of her movement. “Will! Are you okay?!”







“Fine,” Will muttered, thinking about her other parts, off somewhere. They weren’t going to get off so easily, she’d find them.







“Good,” said Percival, “because I found a sign that says, ‘Seaside 2 miles’”







-----







Will’s head broke through the waters surface,











her lunges bringing in unnecessary oxygen. In the winter moonlight, she saw two silhouettes up on the cliff, two shapes that nodded their heads- then turned and raced off. Will smiled, those cats weren’t in the group that had pushed her, and they were cats well known to her.







Oliva and Marick were still around and they might even come in handy when it came to punishing the cats who had tried to kill her by pushing her from the cliff edge.







Her path wasn’t at its end just yet.

Will needs to steal a chessboard. That sounds strange even to her ears, but she still needs to. One problem, the owner, a mutant subspecies of cat or a paranormal, was possibly Will’s most deadly enemy.







Will’s lips form a fleeting smile. The Master, the owner of the chessboard, may be the most powerful cat in Seaside, but he had no idea that she had mixed blood, a disease that meant extra powers for a paranormal. There was also a high possibility of Will turning into an insane psycho.







Will was standing on the old school house roof, her pelt blowing in the pre-storm wind. Thunderheads of dark clouds are forming out to sea and Will’s violet-green eyes regard it with blank apathy. The storm is of little concern. She plans to be underground before it hits the town.







Today is the day the Master falls, Will thinks as she jumps off the roof to the cobblestone road. The ground is wet from a short burst of rain that happened last night, so her brown paws hit the ground with an unusually loud slap that rings into the quiet of the early morning air like the distant thunder that can just be heard from the sea.







Will is not used to the silence. She has only been in the small town for two days and is uncomfortable around the lack of noise. This is why she looked around herself to see if anyone has caught the noise.







She almost misses the eyes, specks of damask swirling around the pupils, that peer from around the corner of the house opposite the school. One of Will’s ears turn to follow the sound of the muffled paw steps. She walks into the shadows, making it harder for her stalker to see her. On the pretence of bending over a pool of rainwater Will’s prehensile tail whips around, lengthening as it heads for the spy. With paranormal strength, her tail wraps around the cat’s neck, holding it in a vice like grip. Three strangled words slip from the cat’s rapidly closing throat before it became too hard for it to speak, “It’s me, Marick.”







Will wrenches Marick into the light, pulling her to stand nose to nose with her.







“Why are you following me?” she growls, her eyes blazing with anger at the intrusion of her look alike.







Marick’s looks unfazed by the near strangulation, even if Will’s tail has only loosened a little. Her cheerful smile is wiped clean by Will’s growling words spoken through clenched teeth, “Why. Are. You. Following. Me!”







Marick’s eyes are starting to get a red tint to them, showing that the paranormal was growing scared.







Her answer comes in a squeak, “Oliva knows where you’re going; she wants to come. And if she’s going, so am I.”







Will unwraps her tail from Marick’s neck. Will’s face is still only a whiskers’ breath from Marick’s muzzle so her fear does not decrease.







“Why,” says Will, her voice still dripping with cold distrust and anger. “Do my personalities want to come along on a real cat’s job?”







“Well, I thought I could be of some help, because I have the power to teleport. But I just think Oliva wants to see the Master go down as much as you do.”







Marick doesn’t seem annoyed at Will calling her less then a cat, her eyes, no longer speckled with damask, are burning with hero worship, it didn’t matter that she is still afraid of Will at the same time.







Will takes a step back to consider Marick, her head cocking at a slight angle, a new plan forming in her mind and a smile starting to make its steady way across her face.







“Alright,” she says, laughter bubbling up at the genius of her plan, “Oliva, you, and I are going to see the Chessmaster.”







----







Will drops down the hole into the Chessmaster’s room, her legs shuddering on the impact. It was a very far drop. It was way too easy and she soon found out why. The room has no guards, the only thing in the room is the chessboard on a plain gray three-legged table, and there isn’t any doors.







Will stares up at the long drop, the hole far above her head. She curses; she had fallen for the Master’s tricks on the first try. She looks around the room, trying to see if there are anymore unpleasant traps. On her first careful step, she finds out.







There is a soft chuckle, then the wall on the other side of the chessboard moves aside with a soft swish to reveal another entrance. The rattlesnake on the other side of the wall slithers forward. If a snake could smile, it would have had a smug grin plastered across its face.







“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Will C. Morgen. Has the little pawn on the board of life come to face her fate?” The Chessmaster, in the form of a snake, gestures it’s rattle-tipped tail at the chessboard







His tongue flicks out, tasting the air. But he doesn’t sense fear, as he expects. A look of confusion crosses very briefly over his eyes.







“I see you have overcome your phobia of snakes, my dear Will. How very noble of you, it must have taken guts to face down your worst fear.”







Will looks nonplussed, “Have I ever been afraid of snakes?”







“Yesss,” Now the Chessmaster is confused, a small hiss escaping his mouth. “When you were a small kit one tried to attack you, you have been afraid of them ever since.”







Will shrugs, looking bored, her eyes drifting lazily around the empty room, “Not me, I was never a kit.”







The Chessmaster’s tail rattles, light dawning in his eyes, “You are not Will; you are someone else. Then that means…”







“That I’m right here,” says the real Will’s voice from behind the Chessmaster.







Will has a smile of glee on her muzzle. Marick also looks happy, her pelt still shimmering with damask colored mist. She was still a little transparent from her teleporting power.







“Nice to see you again, Master. I thought it was time we traded places.” Will’s eyeteeth gleam in the light from her burning red eyes.







The Chessmaster slowly turns, Will’s fear of snakes taints her scent, but it is swamped by her gleeful pride in overcoming a long time adversary.







“This is your last chance,” she says. “Give full control of the board to me and I let you live. Otherwise, Oliva over there just steals it. Your choice.”







The Chessmaster hisses as he attacks, his answer unspoken but very clear. Will flinches, but a streak of light, hissing even more then the snake, hits it square in the head and he freezes mid strike. The snake collapses to the ground, its small body shuddering from the electricity that slowly starts to make its body smoke. Will watches as the Chessmaster dies, too happy seeing her enemy dead to be curious as to what has caused his demise. Marick was the only cat to see the smoke rising from Oliva’s pelt and the small pieces of lightning flickering in her eyes.







When Will was finished watching, she moves to look at the chessboard. A small grin flicks across her face to see that a pawn has cornered the king, placing it in checkmate.







----







The chessboard is heavy and it’s hard for Will to carry.



The chess pieces won’t come off and it looks like they might be glued on. Marick and Oliva trail behind her, Marick is feeling left out and her ears are pressed against her head with look of a dog whose master has just kicked it. Oliva is still bored, her eyes drift listlessly over the tunnel walls with only the occasional swift look at Will.







It took about an hour for the trio to reach the aboveground world. Oliva was bored out of her mind, so much so that about a half-hour ago she had started throwing small pebbles at Marick, who either didn’t notice or didn’t care. Will didn’t tell Oliva to stop until a wayward stone had hit her in the back of the head, making the chessboard bump heavily into her chest. Getting the breath knocked out of her meant she had a hard time yelling at Oliva, but Will managed.







To say the least, no one was in a very good mood as they reach the end of their long walk. The forest at the end of tunnel looks dark and rain drops are dripping into the tunnel. When they exit into the heart of the storm, it got worse. Will yells over the pounding rain, her voice nearly lost in the downpour, “We didn’t take a long enough time; the storm isn’t over!”







Oliva and Marick just barely hear her. Oliva starts to head back inside the tunnel and the others take it as a good idea. As they make their way deeper into the labyrinth, Will realizes their mistake, “This whole place was made by the sea, with this rain and the sea together this is going to be flooded.”







The three are on high ground, but the side tunnels on either side both lead downward and Will can hear water lapping down both. She turns to Marick, “We may have five minutes before it reaches us, can you teleport us out of here?”







Marick looks worried, “We’re pretty far down, it will take time to get back to the surface.”







“But will we make it?” ask Will, her paws closing protectively over the chessboard at her feet.







Marick studies the ceiling, then looks at both Will and Oliva, “If I take you one at a time, maybe, otherwise it will be too slow.”







Will nods and passes the chessboard to Marick, “Take this and Oliva first.”







Marick looks at the chessboard at her paws in shock, “We should leave this, I don’t know if I can make it with both it and Oliva.”







“Try,” says Will.







Marick nods her head, damask colored sparks start to form and drift around her pelt, Oliva quickly steps forward and grabs Marick’s scruff just before she and the chessboard vanish. Both of them fade out with a very faint whoosh as air fills the empty space.







Will has to wait almost three minutes before damask colored sparks appear, Marick quick to follow. With teeth firmly planted in Will’s scruff Marick teleports her back to the surface. It feels like seconds to Will, but it was most likely longer.







Marick arrives gasping, her chest heaving in short bursts. Will stumbles on her first few steps before the dizziness passes. She looks around to see that she is inside the old school house now, the one she had been standing on before all of this had transpired. However, the door is open, letting in the rain and the wind with gusto. Oliva is gone. So is the chessboard.







Will spins around to face Marick, “Were is she?!” Her voice rings through the building, only a little overshadowed by the outside noise. Marick shrugs, looking unconcerned.







Will turns, heading for the door, set on chasing after Oliva, even if it meant being struck by lightning. She stops in the doorway.







Rain lashes her grey fur with an icy caress, but Will doesn’t seem to notice. There, in the doorstep, is a chess piece. It looks like one of the piece from the board, but none of those pieces could be removed. But it wasn’t the old Chessmaster’s piece; it wasn’t even her piece. No this piece was different.







It was in the shape of Oliva, carved as the black queen. It was a like a calling card to Will, saying: I no longer belong to you. Today I belong to myself. And this is who I intend to be in the world.

Will C. Morgen poisoned Marick.



It all started about a month ago, when Marick was a short of medicine cat. She was wherever sick or hurt cats were, helping them when she could. She had seen it all, greencough and bellyache, frostbite and snakebite. But one day Marick treated a new kind of sickness, a sickness that affected the mind as much as the body. The fur on the she-cat was discolored, as if a bit of the sea's green had rubbed off in her pelt. But it was more then that, she babbled and shook, like something was chasing her but she couldn't speak to say what. High fever racked her body on some days; on others she almost seemed normal. On those days Marick thought she was making progress, she would mix a new batch of herbs and hope that this time it was the cure. But the she-cat's condition only worsened. Her mind finally broke like a dried up twig, leaving her hollow, not even babbling. Her fur was now tinged with discolorations and her skin had turned the color of dying leaves.







Marick could do nothing to stop her dying.







Marick had left the old barn, hoping that the she-cat was the only cat affected.







Then she had started to feel strange, her chest hot and skin feverish.







That was when she got Will's call. It started out as a faint whining in the back of her skull, leaving her with a headache. Marick ignored it because she didn't want to follow Will; Oliva had told her not to.







But the call continued throughout the day and finally Marick was both feed-up and tired of getting headaches, so she answered the call.







Flinging back her head she sang, her underground room ringing with the song that was the reply.







It wasn't a song that could be heard with the ear, even the sharp ears of cats. It was a song that only three cats in Seaside knew.



It was followed shortly after by Oliva's signature song. Apparently she had given in. The came Will's reply, carried into Marick's head by the bond that connected them.







Meet me in the border forest at sunrise.







****







Marick wasn't feeling well at all as she limped her way into the trees of the border forest. She had already realized that the she-cat had been contagious, a green tint already glazing her skin.







Her front legs had started to fail, that being a sign that Marick's faze of the sickness was progressing faster then the she-cat's.







Will sat under the tallest oak tree in the woods. She sat in a dappled patch of light that shown though the leaves. It was very weakly lit under the tree and Marick's night vision failed her as she tried to make sense of the jumbled shadows that only revealed themselves to be Oliva after close scrutiny.







Will coughed, aiming to bring Marick's attention back to her. Marick turned her head to look and noticed right away Will's guilty face. Oliva noticed as well and immediately jumped to the right conclusion. Stalking out of the shadows, anger blazing from her pelt, she snarled at Will, "What have you done?"







Will's guilty look disappeared, leaving only a defensive blankness, "I did what it took Oliva, that's what I did."







"What did it take?" asked Marick, her voice barely a whisper.







Will turned to her, "The paranormal's are winning. I'm simply giving the normal's a chance."



"What are you talking about Will! Stop playing Chessmaster," snarled Oliva, her voice making the fur on Marick's back stand on end. Oliva rarely showed other emotions other then anger or hate, but under it all they all knew she was scared. Will was deadly when she wanted to be.







"I defeated the old Chessmaster," responded Will, her eyes looking at Oliva but it was the most glass like look Marick had ever seen. Like Will was trying extra hard to hide her feelings.







"I have a right," continued Will. "I'll act like the Chessmaster if I care to. The chessboard is mine and the cats that play on it as well. The paranormal cats of Seaside belong to me and there are to many of them. The pawns may not outnumber the queen in value."







Oliva's fur was standing up like the mountains against the sky. "Look, we killed the Chessmaster so that type of thing wouldn't happen again. You promised you wouldn't step into his shape-shifter paw steps, no matter if he was your father."







Will's mask broke like shattering ice, "Never speak to me like that or I may just follow him further! Like when he started the Toxic War!"



"So," said Marick, interrupting what would otherwise become a full out fight. "What have you done?" Her voice was surprisingly calm; even as she swayed on her paws.







Will finally looked at Marick and in a quite, mysterious voice she said, "I poisoned the sea."

I trust the shadows. Not because they hide me from those who wish me harm, but because they hide something in them; something far worse then I could ever be.







Something that is mine. Mine to tell what to do. Mine to tell when to kill.







But I swear he wants to kill me.







So it wasn't hard to guess who pushed me of the roof.







++++







"Well," chuckles the shadow cat. "This is indeed a problem; is it not?"







I was hanging from the roof by one brown paw, my firm, strong, sweat covered claws digging into the shingles. My body swung slowly left and right, making the world spin before my eyes. I was perspiring heavily and my breath rang in my ears only a little louder then my heartbeat.







The shingles felt like the sand on the shores of the town's beach. They were hard to grip and my claws were barely holding on. I was terrified that I would lose my hold on the roof and plummet the many tree lengths down. But it wasn't the fall that scared me; it was what was waiting afterward.







I could hear the jeers even from up on the rooftop. The gathering of cats far below looked up with cruel hope, waiting for me to fall so they could get a chance to finish me. I would have yelled at them, I was their leader, their ruler. They were normals. I was a paranormal, I was more intelligent then them, faster then them, stronger then them, better in every way to them. Yet they wished to overthrow me, wished to hurt me. They would pay when I got off this roof.







I felt my claws slip a degree and it made a harsh scrapping sound against the hard slating. My breath started to come in huffing gasps. The shadow cat sat perched on the lip of the roof, grinning at me, his glowing yellow eyes mocking me with drollest mirth. A small growl escaped my mouth and I waved the forepaw not hanging on to the edge at him, hoping, that for once, I will be able to touch his worthless hide.







The shadow laughs, his head bent back, the shadowy tendrils that make up his body swirl around like mist and it makes hypnotic whorls of black, gray, and deep purple. My paw sails through him and I overbalance.







My claws give a long, drown out screech as they are pulled off of the roofing. Gravity takes me from there and I make a last futile grab for the side of the building. Many tree lengths below the crowd cheers as my body plunges down to their waiting claws. I hear their cries of joy as I rush headlong for the ground. My tail whips out behind me like a gray banner and my amber eyes are closed, waiting for the bone shaking collision, and then the rebel cat's blows.







It never happens; the rushing plunge downwards is stopped with icy teeth closing around my tail. A sharp, burning ache scorches down my tail's length. It hurts so bad it was as if I had just stuck it into acid. I don't know whether I screamed or not; I also couldn't say what the crowd did. All I know is I blacked out as quickly as my body would allow. It still didn't stop the pain.







Maybe, I thought, dreamily, the pain induced sleep making my head swim. I'm dead and I don't have to face the conquered citizens of Seaside. I was the one to conquer them, right? I think I did. Ha, ha, boy, am I going to wake up with a bump. I just have to hit the ground, then it's bye-bye Oliva, and hello uprising.







As I woke up, my soft head really couldn't blame Marick for joining them, they were slowly growing more powerful every day, maybe more powerful then me.







I couldn't believe I had just thought that, maybe I had hit my head really hard. Maybe I was dead then I wouldn't have to kill myself for even thinking something remotely forgiving about Marick.







A voice screamed in my ear and I couldn't hear the words over the buzzing in my brain. I didn't have the strength to cover my ears, plus, I still felt like I was hovering halfway down the building. My eyes felt glued shut and I would rather have eaten carrion then open them. I felt it might break whatever spell was keeping me from hitting the ground if I did. The voice didn't like that, it screamed again and this time I made out the words. My ears weren't the only thing that felt numb; I couldn't feel my tail either.







"OLIVA P. MORGAN! OPEN YOUR EYES THIS MINUTE!" shouted Marick.







I hated her more, in that second, then I had ever had my very short period of life away from my "sister". That's what Seaside was calling me, Marick, and Will. That's when I noticed something in my head didn't feel right, like I was forgetting something... Oh, Starclan.







Slowly, I opened one amber eye; then closed it very fast because I was still hundreds of feet in the air. Why did I suddenly have such a fear of heights?







Well, said a little voice inside my head. It sounded annoyingly and agonizingly like Will's voice. Maybe it's because you've been having a lot f life threatening adventures up on roofs, on cliff edges, and on the sides of deep pits. Maybe it's time you started reviewing your life choices. How about a nice, safe hunting job. Don't get very many cliffs in the forest. Or roofs. In fact, after this why don't you think about getting a safe job like that.







"If I get out of this without having to talk to that mob down there," I muttered, too low for anyone to hear over the wind. "I might even consider nursery duties."







I slowly felt my body rise, but I still didn't feel anything in my tail. It was like it was still there and I could still move it, like I could just twitch the right muscles and it would lengthen, or wrap around something. But I had a gloomy suspicion that I wouldn't be using it anytime soon. Maybe never again.







my flank scraped on the tiling of the roof as I was dragged and I flinched which added my skinned right side to my growing list of aches and pains. My cheek was cut on the edge of the roof and blood dripped from the abrasion onto my lips. The salty taste woke me up a little and bile rose in my throat with protest.







Now that I wasn't hanging off a side of the building, I was a tad more willing to open my eyes.







Funny, really, I should have known it wasn't Marick.



It was Will.

Behind the Masks, you're all cowards.

“So, you’re like the embodiment of the saying, ‘evil wears many faces?’” joked Seedpaw.



Soot turned his face to him and Seedpaw flinched, still not used to his appearance. “No,” said Soot, a little tersely. “I’m not. Evil doesn’t have a face.”



Seedpaw hurriedly nodded in agreement, “Of course not, you can’t see evil, so it wouldn’t have a face.”



Soot turned to look at the apprentice again, halting so he could respond. “No that’s not what I meant.”

Seedpaw had to stop to listen to him.



“I meant evil doesn’t have a face because there is no such thing as evil.”



Seedpaw cocked his head in confusion, not understanding. Soot shook his head, sighing, “I’m probably not making any sense to you. It’s how you were raised.”



He started walking again. “Evil means something that causes harm to someone else. But can you really say that word fits one cat all the time? I believe that choices are evil, not cats. So a choice cannot wear a face. I knew a cat, long ago, who was murderer. Would you say she was evil?”



Seedpaw was listening intently now, maybe just out of curiosity, maybe more. When Soot asked the question he shook his head, “Depends on who she murdered.”



“One of your clanmates it seemed,” replied Soot. “I heard it was a personal matter, so I don’t really know if your clan liked his passing.”



“Then…yes?” It was plane Seedpaw was trying to decide things for himself. He wanted to please Soot, but knew what his clanmates would say.



Soot shrugged, “I would label her neither good nor evil. She made evil choices and she made good choices. She was a cat, and cats are creatures who make mistakes.”



“Murder is a pretty big mistake,” said Seedpaw, walking a little ahead of Soot.



“Yes,” said Soot. “But I think that who a cat is tells them whether a choices is evil or not. And you can tell who a cat is if you learn how they view those choices.”



Seedpaw’s face wrinkled in confusion, “I don’t understand. I heard stories about Tigerstar and how he didn’t feel bad about what he did. How can he not be evil?”



Soot sighed, the apprentice had hit the complicated bit. “I don’t know much about your ancestors, Wint. But from what I heard Tigerstar had….many things in his background that reflected what he did. All I can do is compare him to cat who I once knew. He was raised by unpleasant cats and was taught what they did to others was right and had to be done if he was going to survive. When he was taken away from these cats he still had that teaching. He was lucky. After many years he learned different. Maybe your Tigerstar had something like that happen to him. Only he never got the same chances. I wouldn’t know.”

Seedpaw looked back at him with a question in his eyes, “Who was that cat in your story? He does sound a little like some of the cats in our clan’s nursery tales.”



Soot chuckled as he came to walk besides Seedpaw. “You may not believe this, Wint. But that cat used to be me. I was…I a very dark place then. But I’ve met many cats who helped me and I owe then everything. Now I try to help others still in that dark place and cat who are making dark choices to go with it. I can no more call those cats evil then I can call myself evil.”



Seedpaw looked surprised at the twist in the story. “But if that’s true…”

Soot knew what the apprentice was thinking. If I believe that then what do I have left to stand by?

It was like braking down a wall. You could no longer say a cat was evil. That he deserved to die for what he had done. It was hard on this apprentices mind to think that cats could change even as they looked into the darkness. Or even when they had stepped in to it.



“Look at it this way,” said Soot. “Cats make good and bad choices. Those choices slowly change how the cat thinks. Too many evil choices and the cat will start to make more of those choices because their mind has changed so much they think that those choices are right. But that cat could just as easily make choices that are good. If enough of these choices are made that cat could change back for the better. That possibility is always there.”



Seedpaw seemed to understand Soot’s point of view now and was nodding. Soot knew that his explanation was missing some things, but he would let Seedpaw make up his own mind if he wanted to believe what Soot had said.



Turning the two cats started back to camp.

Round and round it goes
And oh don't you know
This is the game that we came here for
Round and round it goes
Ah oh don't you know...

She was dying.

He was alive.

She was a peasant.

He was a king.

There were rules. And they existed for a reason. They existed so the strong could stay strong and the weak would stay weak. There were rules. And the condemned her to death.

He should have obeyed. He should have followed orders. The others had moved on, their mission completed. The rebels were dead.

Only this time, one of the rebels was a mother.

Only this time, one of the rebels had a daughter.

Barely two moons old, the little she-cat, a soot-coloured she-cat, would die.

The third snow was falling. The third snow was the one that stuck. The third snow was the one that killed.

The little she-cat huddled by the body of her mother. Pitiful. Cold. For the first time in his long career, his heart twisted in his chest.

The others were impatient. The others were restless. The others shouted at him to come on! Leave it be!

He was a murderer.

An assassin.

But he would not leave an innocent kit to die.

He pulled her away. He lifted her by the scruff of her neck. She protested, then hung. Limp. Defeated.

He had saved one life. He had saved one life out of the dozens he had killed. One small and fragile life.

His superiors didn't understand.

But he was never any trouble.

And he was an asset. A soldier. A fighter. Perhaps the greatest to ever enforce their tyrants' rule.

He watched.

She grew.

Time passed.

— — —

She was in limbo.

He was in abeyance.

She was a student.

He was a teacher.

She became one of them. One of the hated. One of the wolves.

She was trained to hunt and fight and kill. He was a good teacher. The best of the best. Gruff. Intimidating. Legendary.

She knew nothing of her former life. Her world was before and after. The before was bad. But the after was good. Before was fire and famine and flood. After was riches and royalty. All she had to do was serve.

She would lie and kill in the service of liars and killers.

All she had to do was offer her service.

All she had to do was offer her sanity.

It was a game, she decided. We fight to live, she decided. The others threaten our way of life, she decided.

She trained harder than the others, until she was bigger, better, faster, stronger.

She became an enforcer before the others. She could live. She could serve. She could protect.

She had purpose again.

She had ambition again.

She would be feared, a legend in her own right. Even more of a legend then her teacher had been. In the back of her mind it sat, a poisoned idea. If she could kill the city's most feared cat... She would be a legend.

Time passed.

— — —

She was a renegade.

He was a veteran.

She was refractory.

He was proud.

She was slowly taking his place on the streets. Their tyrant was pleased with her. The rebels, the peasants, the opposition feared her. More so, perhaps, than they had feared him.


He wandered the city, the snow, the underground network. She was young and strong. He was ageing, passing his prime.

He would not be jealous.

He would not spend the rest of his life hidden away, beneath the city, all that remained of a once fearsome legacy.

He was loyal. She was not.

Opposition lurked. It was real, and in the shadows it grew. They came from the forest, proud and rebellious, seeking to overthrow the tyrant. A new system would emerge. The old one would fall.

It was a game.

The shadows whispered to her. As they'd once whispered to him.

It was a game and he was loosing.

It was a game and he was winning.

She left. He stayed.

Time passed.

— — —

She was a hunter.

He was a target.

She was a victor.

He was a loser.

A new power had arisen. A new tide washed through the city. Pushing and pulling. Wearing away the edges of the old one.

A new player had emerged. And she was their most lethal weapon. An instrument of death.

She was feared. She was bold. She had more power than she'd ever dreamed of.

She tried to ignore the part of her that still felt alive.

There was no room for remorse.

Not in her line of work.

Not now.

She would hunt him, as he taught her to hunt. After she'd left, he had reclaimed his throne. A throne of rock. A throne of shadows. A throne of blood.

He was her mission.

He was her target.

She would not fail, no matter what she felt for her father-figure. For her brother. Her her teacher.

Sorrow, pain, regret battled for a place inside her soul.

She was not weak.

Anger, rage, determination found a place inside her soul.

Time passed.

— — —

She was alive.

He was dying.

She was a queen.

He was a peasant.

After months of evasion, he had been found. He knew she hunted him. He knew she would find him.

He had taught her well.

She had followed him to the edge of the city. She had ambushed him on the edge of the city.

He was fiercely proud. She had shattered that pride.

In a game of shadows, he had lost. In a game of shadows, she had won.

She had left him to die, oozing red, oozing blood. She had left him to die, stranded on the edge of the city.

For two nights, he lay there. For two nights, he waited to die.

She had taken everything from him. His pride, his strength, his reputation.

In a game of shadows, the city would burn.

For two nights, he thought. Of love, of hate, of the one life he had chosen to save. For the first time in two nights, he stirred his sluggish body. He stirred his great red bulk.

He staggered through the city, through the snow, through the underground network. He would not die today. He would not die by her doing.

She had taken everything he was.

She had been crowned the winner.

No matter.

A second game would begin.

Time passed.

This love, it is a distant star
Guiding us home wherever we are
This love, it is a burning sun
Shining light on the things that we've done

Is it strange that I think of you now? I stare into the face of death, the face of my own destruction, and yet, my only thoughts are for you.

You.

You.

My first and greatest friend; a very special kind of love. A bond that will never be broken, not even by death.

My earliest memories are of you. Not Father, not even Mother, but of you. It's your smile that I remember most. Not your moon eyes, nor the darkness that lurked, carefully hidden, in your heart, but the way your smile could light up the darkest nights.

I remember the way your words wove stories, how you held me close on stormy nights, how you'd taught me to run and jump and climb.

I remember how excited you were to learn to control the magic. You thought it would help slow the darkness in your heart. And it did, for a while, but it wasn't enough.

I remember that I loved you, and that you loved me, in that fierce way that only sisters can. You were my playmate, my friend, my protector.

It changed in your tenth summer. I had barely seen six years, and I didn't understand why you didn't smile anymore. Why you didn't play, or hold me close, or tell me stories anymore.

You didn't learn magic anymore. Instead, you learned to fight. There was a ferocity in your gaze that wasn't there before. Mother worried. Father consulted the magicians, the high priestess, the gods themselves, but received no answer, or none that he wanted to hear. There was nothing they could do.

The darkness in your heart was consuming you.

I see now that it's not your fault. You were so young, too young to cope with the lioness that raged inside you, trying to expend her energies through you.

Mother said Sekhmet was strong, but you were stronger. For a long time, I didn't see it. If you were stronger, why didn't you fight back? Why did you let her consume you? I see it now. You are far stronger than I ever imagined.

You were good at fighting, better with the sword than you ever were with magic. It worried me at first. I though the darkness would simply grow, but instead, you'd given it an outlet.

If anyone thought it was strange - the heir to the throne playing with swords - they didn't say.

That was the summer I began my training, as a healer and a priestess. The magic in my own soul had awoken, and I was the light to your darkness, the hope to your despair. I hosted Hathor as you hosted Sekhmet, although she was far easier to control.

Everything changed again in your sixteenth summer. That was the year he arrived. The dark and mysterious stranger, who never showed his face. The raven. You were drawn to him, and he to you. He didn't speak, so you learned to talk without words.

If I was a candle, he was a fire.

He banished the darkness in a way I never could. The magic in him was - is - stronger than anything I've ever sensed.

I wasn't your best friend anymore, he was. But it was a price I was willing to pay, because you were my sister again. You were smiling and laughing and nothing would ever tear us apart again.

We grew, side by side. You were spending more and more time with Mother, because you would be queen one day, but that sword was always close to paw. You were a warrior princess and your magic was long forgotten.

While you learned to rule, I learned to serve. I learned to heal wounds, fix problems, speak to the gods. I learned to read the cards, and I foresaw destruction. I tried to read your future once, and all I saw was death.

The Magician is your card. You don't want it to be, but it is.

The High Priestess is mine, and it makes perfect sense.

And we are both marked for death.

It's not your fault. You'd forgotten the darkness within. The lioness lay slumbering, her spirit spent, kept at bay by the light Mother said I provided and the burning sun who shadowed you. Even if I had to leave you, your companion was always there. I tried to read his future, but I can't see it. It scares me, sister.

The Hierophant. That's his card.

It happened today, in your twentieth summer. It's not your fault. I tell myself it's not mine, either. The creature I face was sent for you, but I'm in it's way. You spent your life protecting me, now it's time I returned the favour.

Do me a favour, sister. Don't let the darkness consume you. Remember the early years, how much you love me, how much I love you. Promise me you'll continue to smile, and laugh, and tell stories. Promise me you'll have a shoulder to cry on, a hand to hold, someone else to love as only you can.

I owe much of my happiness to you.

So I'll face your demons for you, because you'd do the same for me. Because I am life and you are death. Because you were born to destroy.

I'll face your demons for you, because they are mine as well. Because we are intertwined. I am your opposite, and you are mine.

I will face destruction, because this is the only way. Oblivion is coming. I have foreseen it, and in times of war, our kingdom needs a warrior. Our kingdom needs you.

I will face the demon.

I will face destruction.

I will face the darkness in your heart.

I ask one thing in return, sister.

Please...

Avenge me.

ONE SHOT || CURSE

You're off the edge of the map, mate. Here there be monsters.

Do you know what's hard about knowing death stalks you?

It's not the pain that will come.

It's not saying goodbye to this world, so vast and green and lush.

It's not even saying goodbye to the one who holds your heart.

It's knowing that soon, your life will expire and your soul will be sent to the depths of the seven realms, and there is nothing quite as frightening as oblivion.

They say nothing lasts forever, and death is only a certainty in this life.

But this is getting good, now...

My heart belongs to you, and always will, but Great StarClan, Rushstorm, I'm dragging you down with me. My death is inevitable, and I fear it's closer than we think. Do you know what that means, my love?

I know in my heart you do.

You are my life now, and the one who did this to me, to us, is determined to strip my life from me before my death. I am cursed, Rushstorm, and I am cursed to die alone. Ha! That is the hard part of knowing death follows in your shadow.

There's a reason why I'm afraid to love.

I remember before, my love. When my family was whole and strong and unbroken, when there was no such thing as love, only friendship, stronger than any avalanche, and the weight of knowledge did not threaten the crush the life from me.

You should stay away from me, Rushstorm, but I can't bear to let you go.

That is the great paradox of this curse.

I am fated to love and fated to suffer for it.

But that is our nature, isn't it?

Everything that kills me makes me feel alive.

They say I had a fighting chance. That I had the right name, the right generation, the right marking. They say that chance was destroyed by my bloodline. Love is but a bane, Rushstorm. Had my mother not mated for love, maybe I would have a chance to break this.

Problems lead to problems, don't they?

First this, now Snow, and all the poison she brings. She's after me, you know. I'm like crowfood in a freshwater spring; I'm slowly poisoning this clan. Have been for generations. My blood, my very being, is poisoned.

We got bad blood between us, baby, and we've doomed our kits to such a life.

It would be easier for me to leave, but a mother's love is fiercer than any monster this curse can conjure. I finally understand what has urged my predecessors to fight the way they did.

You've strayed into dangerous territory by falling in love with me, Rushstorm.

I'm a monster, hunted by monsters.

You thought you knew me.

I'm sorry you're suffering for loving me. Already, our small family is being torn apart, played with by unseen forces like prey.

Sometimes I wonder why me, of all my siblings.

Maybe I'm the strongest, with the best chance of succeeding it.

Or the weakest, and it will infect me the most.

It's clever like that, you see. It's a parasite, feeding off my strength. And to be honest, Rushstorm, I'm not sure how much longer I can fight for. I'll keep going for now. I have allies, after all. You, Eaglefrost, Darkmoon.

You didn't see that coming, did you?

It's all in the eyes. They are windows to our tainted souls.

I've fallen off the edge of the map, Rushstorm, and I've discovered the end of the world is a grim and desolate place.

It's hopeless, and I'm helpless.

I'm either helpless or strong, and don't know how to make the next move.

Maybe that's the plan - to tear us apart from the inside. I can see it now, why some of my ancestors chose to take their own lives. Maybe, despite the shame, it was the easiest way out.

The most painless way out.

You don't need to worry though, my love. I don't plan on taking that path. I have too much to live for.

I wonder - have you seen my tormentor? No. Only the cursed can see the dead. Thank StarClan you can't.

Stay away from me, Rushstorm.

I don't want to have to drive you away, like I chased away my best friend.

I've already lost him. My sister. My brother. My parents.

I couldn't stand to loose you, too.

Lend me strength, Rushstorm.

You're off the edge of the map, my love.

And here there be monsters.

ONE SHOT || SALT WATER PROLOGUE

You promised you'd never leave, yet you've gone where I can't follow.

I was never supposed to fall in love with you.

Was never supposed to meet you.

But if I hadn't. If I hadn't been such a stubborn, rebellious, rule-breaking fox-heart, you would still be here. You'd still be a brother to the wind and a child of the mountains.

I'd still have a home to return to.

Why did you leave me, Nightmask?

We were friends, then we were more than that.

We had such high hopes, such wild ideas, such big plans.

I can't do that alone. We planned our life for two, not one. Why did you have to go? Why, why, why?

Can I come with you now?

They say I have so much to live for. But I don't. Not anymore. Not without you. You were my sun and moon and stars and I never should have fallen in love with you, but I did. And it hurts like heck to let you go.

I can barely stand to watch the sun set now. It reminds me too much of you. Everything does. The night was your domain, your kingdom and your clan. The night was more of a family to you than your actual clan was.

Jaggedstar blames me for your death. He blames me for what happened to you - Great StarClan, Nightmask, I started a war with your family. They're hunting us, now. Your clan is hunting my tribe. My mother and father banished me in hope it would save them.

It didn't.

They're coming.

I remember the first time I saw you. It was the first time I'd disobeyed. I'd left our territory and had found yours. You found me there, hunting your prey. I ran, you chased me.

Now, I guess, this time I'm chasing you.

I brought you to the river, Nightmask, and told you your eyes were the same colour. They're not. Your eyes were as blue as the sky in summer and so deep I could drown in them. Now they're closed for good, and I'll never see you smile again.

You used to smile so brightly.

My mother told me the ones who were the most broken smiled the brightest. You were living proof of that, I suppose. I liked to think I could heal you, although you were too broken for me to fix.

Are you whole now? Wherever you are? At least you're safe from everyone who's trying to hurt you now.

They never caught your killer, Nightmask.

That's because they say it's me.

I know better, though, and I hope you know it, too. Someone else was there that day. Eyes as red as blood, blood as red as eyes. I'll find them. And when I do, they'll be sorry. I'll make them pay. The skies will heave and roar, and they will weep blood before I'm through with them.

Funny, isn't it.

I've never been one for vengeance. Although, I suppose this is more like revenge. Two different words, with the same meaning, although one is far more noble.

This is both.

It's vengeance because you died.

Revenge because your killer will pay.

They say I started the avalanche. I should have believed you when you said there was someone following us, although it was so like the games we used to play that I didn't believe you. If I had, you'd still be alive. I wouldn't be an outcast.

That is precisely what this is, isn't it. A game.

I suppose it's my turn, now.

I was always very good at games.

I'll avenge you, Nightmask.

And then I'll go. I'll go to the sea like we always planned. I'll walk and walk until there's no more land to cross. I'll find the place where waves beat the shore and birds swarm over the cliffs. When I get there, I'll build you a fort of sand. I'll sit and watch the sun go down and I'll think of you.

You were supposed to come to.

You promised.

I promised.

A fitting escape, don't you think. I'll leave this place behind. I'll start my own clan. My own tribe. I'm not going to break my promise.

I miss you, Nightmask.

Do you miss me?