Ƭнє Ɯff Oηєѕнσт Ƥяσנєcт || Up and running!

The grey disheveled long-haired old she-cat peered intently down at the lake and its surrounding Clan territories from her perch in StarClan. She wiped her snub nose and big yellow eyes with a paw, clearing her vision. She watched her old Clan, drawn to a new ThunderClan cat’s litter of huge fluffy kits. One drew her like a moth to flame. Something about him intrigued her, and in the fuzzy kit, she sensed latent power and a unique gift.

“You can’t interfere,” someone mewed, and the old she-cat started. Yellowfang whipped her head around, coming face to face with Bluestar. The ThunderClan leader’s blue eyes shone, and silvery highlights played along her blue pelt.

“I can’t help it,” Yellowfang retorted irritably. “That little one calls to me, even if he doesn’t know it.”

“There is no prophecy involving him,” Bluestar warned.

Oh, really?” Yellowfang slanted back her short ears. “How do you know he’s not part of his parents’ prophecy? I know this little one is important. He needs my guidance, or he may not stand up for himself and be who he needs to be.”

“You can’t know that yet,” Bluestar replied softly, her tail twitching.

“But you knew his parents came from fire, and did long before it happened” Yellowfang argued, yellow eyes blazing with indignation. “We can see into the near future and you know it.”

“Yes, we can, but, not all of us see the same thing.” Bluestar sat down. “But in that case, we did. How do Spottedleaf and Cinderpelt feel about your obsession?”

“I haven’t. . .” Yellowfang’s words cut off as something grabbed her and flung her down. Her last glimpse of Bluestar’s wide eyes and dropped jaw went dark, as she landed in deep snow, amidst a shrieking blizzard. She leaped to her feet, realizing from long experience she walked someone else’s dream. She scented the screaming winds, and peered into the snow, and saw him, a fluffy brown tabby kitten barely a moon old. He sat in the icy-cold snow, his kitten-blue eyes blinking in confusion and fear. Yellowfang recognized him immediately and sauntered up to him.

“Ah, little one,” she meowed, her voice gravelly, thrilled to sense the tremendous potential in the young kit. “You show such a strong mind so early.”

“I’m scared!” The kit wailed. “I want my Kyemama!”

“Don’t be such a coward,” Yellowfang snapped with irritation, then softened her features. Maternal instincts, long forgotten, flared up in her ancient soul.“Sorry Little One. I’m not used to seeing such young ones here.”

“Where am I?” The kit mewed, shaking with cold. “Who are you?”

“I am Yellowfang, from StarClan.” The old cat sat down. “Don’t fret, Gentlekit. This is but a vision from your own future you brought with you. But to conquer what will be, you must speak up for yourself, and have confidence in your abilities.”

“I don’t understand,” Gentlekit wailed, fear paralyzing his big tufted paws.

“Your nature is soft, and gentle, but you must learn, in some instances to be unrelenting, and harsh to get cats to obey your commands.” Yellowfang tilted her head, her gold eyes blazing like beacons in the frigid winds. “As medicine cat, you must be harsh sometimes, like the very snow you sit in.”

“How? Med-med-i-cine-cat?” Gentlekit asked, and Yellowfang sensed he struggled to calm himself.

“That’s it, little one. This is in your mind after all. You have the control,” Yellowfang purred, and felt a sharp pull from above. She knew her time in his mind ended, so she whirled away from him, feeling pleased.

“NO! Come back!” Gentlekit leaped up, and Yellowfang glanced back through the murk.

Be strong, Gentlekit,” she meowed, laughter shaking her voice. “Or they will call you Gentlemouse as a warrior one day!”

“Gentlemouse?” He hissed in sudden outrage, and before Yellowfang uttered another laugh, she found herself sprawled on the emerald grass in StarClan. She blinked, focusing on three pairs of eyes, recognizing Firestar, Bluestar and Blackstar.

“What under StarClan happened to you?” Firestar demanded, ears slanted back, green eyes baleful.

“Someone needed me,” Yellowfang grumbled, and stood up, shaking her messy pelt.

“Bluestar said you just fell and vanished!” Blackstar exclaimed, curling back his lip.

“Did you see the kit?” Bluestar asked, narrowing her eyes. Yellowfang growled.

“Yes, I did. So what?”

“He’s too young,” Spottedleaf remarked, coming up behind Firestar.

“He’s powerful,” Yellowfang retorted with a hiss. “You don’t think I know what I’m doing?”

“Just be cautious,” Firestar said.

“I will,” Yellowfang snapped, and stalked away, heading toward a burbling sparkling stream. She tried not to look in on Gentlekit, but ThunderClan kit always drew her, and his emotions spiraled to her. Unable to ignore those tugs on her soul, she watched the kit and his family. She witnessed the great fox battle when Gentlekit’s mother trounced a big dogfox in maternal fury. She trembled but stayed put, knowing danger never threatened Gentlekit, but felt pleased when his thoughts drifted to her as he slumbered beside his mother later that day. His fears ebbed, and cold certainty settled over his heart. He vowed to not only fight well, but learn all possible to heal and help valiant warriors like his parents and clanmates. Heal! The word resonated with Yellowfang and she slapped the water in her favorite stream, peering past the streambed into ThunderClan.

She waited impatiently as the young kit grew and developed, watching every day, forgoing the luxuries of her existence in StarClan, and one warm day, she heard the words she longed to hear as the kitsplayed with Gentlekit’s enormous father.

“I’m gonna be the strongest little warrior ever!” Greykit, Gentlekit’s milk brother, announced.

“No, I am!” Rainkit, Greykit’s brother, retorted, sitting beside Greykit on Demonstone’s flank.

“I’ll be a medicine cat,” Gentlekit insisted. Yellowfang felt joy jolt through her body.

“All right. But you still need to train so you can defend yourself and the Medicine den one day. You heard her, my kits.” his Kyemama answered, leveling a stern gaze on Indikit. “You need not be gentle, but do not hurt anyone on purpose.”

“Yes, Kyemama!” Demonkit and Phantomkit answered, and in moments, the eight kits rolled, leaped, and climbed all over Demonpoppa. Rainkit merrily rolled around with Indikit, not allowing her to keep him off Demonpoppa. Briarlight joined in the fun, balancing on one foreleg to engage the kits with the other. Gentlekit held back his swats, and Yellowfang scowled.

“Too sweet and gentle for his own good,” she hissed, and focused on him, until he filled her vision. She hissed in his ear. “Stop being so nice!”

To her delight, Gentlekit growled and joined the fray, careful to keep his claws sheathed, but he used his weight and size as advantages to aid Rainkit against Indikit’s attacks. She knew he realized if he wanted to be a great medicine cat, he needed to also be a good warrior as well. That pleased her, and she relished the emotion until someone slapped her rump. She leaped up with a snarl, and whirled on her attacker. Cinderpelt stood there, humor in her eyes.

“You’re lucky the others didn’t see you,” Cinderpelt warned.

“Why? I’m doing no wrong.”

“Influencing that kit without any prophecy.”

“Not everything needs a prophecy!” Yellowfang snapped, and stalked off upstream. She fumed that her Clan members doubted her. She kept to herself, unable to ignore the kit.

A moon later, Yellowfang settled on her favorite rock, basking in the sun in the middle of the stream, and peered past its waters, as always, watching her obsession. Late New Leaf growth in the trees waxed in a variety of wondrous shades of spring greens. Brush and bushes in and around camp sprouted leaves and blooms, and new growth carpeted the forest floor. Warm noonhigh sun warmed the ground, shining out of a clear deep blue sky. A few puffy white clouds floated on the breezes. Yellwofang watched, feeling a pang of longing, but quickly squashed the emotion, not wanting to attract any attention.

Down below, Blossomfall carried a large mouse in her jaws to the kits “They will be formidable warriors. But for now, they must learn to eat fresh kill.”

“Kits!” Kyestorm called. Gentlekit’s siblings stopped playing and gazed at her. “Blossomfall brought you prey. Come see.”

Phantomkit led Gentlekit and his littermates to the tortoiseshell and white she-cat, who placed the mouse on the ground. All the kits stared at the prey. Gentlekit sniffed the air, wrinkling his lip.

“What do we do with it?” Gentlekit asked, and Indikit prodded the mouse with a paw. The prey suddenly jerked, and rolled over.

“Its trying to get away!” Demonkit squeaked, and leaped on the incapacitated mouse. Phantomkit joined him and both grabbed the mouse, playing tug-o-war.

“I wanna play!” Indikit squealed and joined her brothers. She tried to rip it free of their jaws. Smokekit and Bluekit rushed forward, each taking hold of a leg. Greykit and Rainkit grabbed the long tail. They growled, mewed and squeaked in excitement. Gentlekit sat, watching with interest, but his siblings hogged the furry toy. He yawned, ready for a nap.

“Why not play, too?” his Kyemama asked.

“No room for me,” Gentlekit purred, then lifted his head as scents from the medicine cat den drifted on the breeze. He glanced over to see Jayfeather carrying new herbs into the den. He forgot the mouse, and his littermates. “I’d rather go see what Jayfeather is doing.”

“Really?” Kyesmama eyed Gentlekit. “But you must learn to eat fresh kill. In a moon or so I won’t have any more milk.”

“I know,” Gentlekit answered. “I’ll learn to hunt.”

Yelowfang’s heart sang as Gentlekit looked his littermates, who tore the prey into pieces, and merrily ran around the camp with them.

“Well, well, do I hear right?” Jayfeather joined the group, sitting behind Briarlight. He glared at the youngsters with sightless blue eyes. “A kit wants to take my job?”

“I’ll learn,” Gentlekit braved Jayfeather’s stern gaze, rising to greet the Medicine cat with a touch to the nose. “I want to be like Alderpaw!”

“You are way too friendly for your own good!” Jayfeather’s expression turned to delight. “Do you promise to behave if I allow you into the Medicine den?”

“Of course,” Gentlekit answered, his tail flopping to and fro in his only display of underlying emotion.

Jayfeather led Gentlekit to the Medicine den, and Yellowfang withdrew, satisfied, ready for a nap. The prophecy for his parents involved Gentlekit! She knew this, even if StarClan did not. She watched Gentlekit learn and grow, but she also worried, well aware ShadowClan’s ancient medicine cat’s health failed She watched her old friend and colleague grow weaker, without choosing an apprentice.

“What is he thinking?” she muttered, at least once per day. As Gentlekit’s knowledge and skills increased, hope sprouted in Yellowfang’s soul. Time ticked by, and soon Gentlekit’s apprenticeship loomed in mere sunrises. Yellowfang paced on the flat rock she normally snoozed on, unsure of what to do, until ShadowClan’s leader finally went to ThunderClan for help. The old she-cat swooped down, looking for a reason to prod Gentlekit to action. She sensed the power within him, the gift needed to save her old friend.

Gentlekit worked in the medicine den, while his siblings raced and played games out in camp. Young Twigkit leaped gracefully, playing with a leaf, and his his mentors talked about the kit, urging her to play with Briarlight,. They moved outside after Briarlight called to Demonstone. Yelowfang paced, unsure of what to do. Gentlekit watched his father carry Briarlight to her rock. Twigkit pranced alongside, her short fluffy tail high. Gentlekit returned to his sorting, but Graystripe poked his head into the den, interrupting his concentration.

“Bramblestar wants to see Leafpool and Alderpaw. ” Gentlekit slanted back his ears to concentrate, but Graystripe added, “Rowanstar is here.”

Gentlekit’s pelt bristled, and he turned, creeping to the mouth of the den. He dare not sneak out, but Yellowfang sensed his desperate need to hear what ShadowClan’s leader wanted. He closed his eyes and Yellowfang heard his mind call. *Littlecloud?*

Yellowfang felt a sudden surge of panic from her old friend, and saw it mirrored in Gentlekit’s face. His amber eyes widened and his developing ruff mantled around his face. Littlecloud’s labored breathing and erratic heartbeat pounded in her senses.. Leafpool returned with Alderpaw, and they quickly gathered up herbs.

“Can I help?” Gentlekit asked boldly.

“No, stay here and continue your work,” Leafpool said sternly. “This is not time for kit sitting.”

Gentlekit glared at her in indignation, but sat silent, paws shifting with agitation. As the two left the den, Yellowfang exploded with exasperation, and hissed in his ear.

*Mousekit*

“I am not!” he growled, recognizing Yellowfang’s gravelly tones.

*Then what do you wait for? Help them.*

“Do as she says,” Jayfeather’s voice startled both of them. Gentlekit gazed at his mentor in shock.

“How? Did you hear her?”

“Just go. Follow your instincts,” Jayfeather answered , his voice uncharacteristically low. “This is just between us.”

Gentlekit grabbed a large leaf, tossed a mixture of Catmint, Coltsfoot, Juniper berries, tansy and thyme. He squeezed some water out of a piece of moss, and with his large paws, kneaded the pile into a soft paste. He glanced at Jayfeather, who scented the air, but said nothing. Yellowfang approved of the youngster’s herb choices, but wondered about his concoction. He quickly wrapped it up, and grabbing it in his jaws, hurried from the den. Yellowfang stood in the den, fear bristling her tangled fur, and Jayfeather faced her.

“You’ve been right about that one,” he muttered, his voice a mere whisper. “But will this shatter him if he fails?”

“He won’t,” Yellowg fang insisted, though doubt gnawed her gut.

“Then use your StarClan connection and show both of us what happens!” Jayfeather snapped, lashing his tail.

“Okay! Don’t alert the whole camp that I’m here,” Yellowfang hissed, and stood beside him, and let part of herself follow the kit. Skirting the camp, Gentlekit furtively avoided everyone, slipping out the dirtplace exit, and raced down the hill, following Leafpool and Alderpaw. He tracked them, keeping far enough back, treading with great care, and caught up to them as they entered ShadowClan’s camp. He watched, as they both worked on Littlecloud, with no affect. Yellowfang trembled all over, heart racing, almost breaking her concentration, as Littlecloud’s life choked out of him right before her eyes.

“We can only help make this less painful,” Leafpool mewed sadly, and Gentlekit almost dropped his bundle. Denial swept through him as Littlecloud closed his eyes, drawing one ragged breath. Yellowfang flicked out a paw, to slap Gentlekit, but before she moved, the five moon old brown tabby Maine Coon plunged out of the brush.

“Gentlekit?” Alderpaw exclaimed.

“Gentlekit!” Leafpool admonished, but he ignored them. Defying his elders and ignoring the startled gasps from ShadowClan cats, Gentlekit dropped his bundle at Littlecloud’s paws, pushed past Dawnfeather, then pounced on the old cat’s chest. Yellwofang joined him, feeling what he experienced, struggling not to interfere. From somewhere deep inside, Gentlekit channeled his wild emotions, obeying some deep instinct. Static energy gathered around him, and he pulled it with strength of will into very strong sparks that snapped from the tips of his claws, zapping Littlecloud’s chest. Before anyone moved a muscle to intervene, Littlecloud’s body jerked, his heart started beating again, and he gasped for air. He turned wild eyes to Gentlekit, but Gentlekit ignored him, clawed open his bundle, scooped up some paste out of the leaf, and shoved it against Littlecloud’s muzzle.

“Eat this!” His normally soft voice roared from his chest in command. Littlecloud coughed, but opened his mouth and allowed Gentlekit to push the paste into his jaws. Obediently Littlecould swallowed, grimacing at the taste, and Gentlekit thought about putting honey into that mess next time. Yellowfang agreed, stonished pride sweeping through her. Silence fell over the camp, as Littlecloud gasped for air, but soon breathed a little easier, and as Gentlekit kept his huge paw on the old cat’s chest, Littelcloud’s heartbeat stabilized.

“Great StarClan,” Littlecloud finally spoke in a rasping voice. “What did you do? How did you do this?”

“I, I knew your heart was bad. Lungs ,too.” Gentlekit stammered, static electricity prickling his fur. “I just acted.”

“You could have killed him,” Rowanstar spoke up, a snarl in his voice.

“He took his final breath,” Gentlekit braved the angry Clan leader. “I couldn’t let him die!”

“What is in this?” Leafpool asked sharply, but her eyes glinted with approval and surprise.

“I mixed coltsfoot, tansy, juniper berry, catmint and thyme. All things good for breathing and heart. Next time I’ll add honey so it won’t taste so bad,” Gentlekit answered with confidence, but flattened his ears under the glare of many baleful eyes. Yellowfang resisted the urge to blurt “Gentlemouse” in his brain.

“A very good mixture.” Littlecloud broke the tension. “Never thought to use them all at once. Thank you, young apprentice, thank you.”

“Yes, thank you for your help,” Rowanstar stepped up, his pelt rippling, his eyes boring into Leafpool.

“Keep the paste,” Leafpool stated, and lifted her head. “Alderpaw, Gentlekit, let’s go. We’re not needed any longer.”

“Gentlekit,” Littlecloud called. “Next Gathering you’ll be an apprentice. Please give me your recipe for this paste.”

“I will,” Gentlekit meowed back, following Leafpool and Alderpaw out of camp. They walked in silence, until they crossed the border into ThunderClan territory. Yellowfang broke from the young tom, fleeing to her rock, heaving for air, thankful her friend lived, amazed at Gentlekit’s achievement. As they admonished him, her temper flared, but she refused to look back and risk revealing herself to the medicine cats. She settled on her favorite place, and waited for his apprenticeship, ready to fully interfere should he be denied.

The day finally arrived and Yellowfang lay on her sunny rock, rooted to the scene below. Gentlekit and his siblings received their new names. Gentlepaw accepted repercussions of his stunt that saved Littlecloud, and Yellowfang felt pride, thinking he deserved no punishment at all. Happiness enveloped the camp, until a fight erupted between Kyestorm and Millie. Yellowfang focused through the drizzle and mist, alert. She saw Kyestorm raise a huge paw over Millie’s head, and focused, pulling herself in to hear the strife, coming in on the middle of the argument.

“That is not fair!” Millie wailed. “My milk dried up!”

“So?” Kyestorm thundered. “You still could have continued to groom them, love them, long after they weaned. Instead you left the nursery and went back to the Elder’s den! ! You should never, ever, reject your kits or treat them badly, ever!”

“Kyestorm, please! STOP!” Graystripe stood up, back arched.

Yellowfang harrumphed, a growl in her chest, and muttered, “Even I would’ve never done that.”

“And YOU!” Kyestorm’s bellow shattered her thought. “Allowing Millie to continue this behavior when she has other kits! Coddling her! I will not STAND to see Rainpaw and Greypaw treated with such disrespect, and lack of love!” Kyestorm faced Millie. “You should be happy for him, not annoyed!”

Blossomfall moved over to Kyemama, her expression woebegone, and her touch on Kyemama’s flank stopped the Maine Coon’s tirade. Gentlepaw, his fellow apprentices, and their mentors gaped in disbelief. Yellowfang muttered to herself, miffed that this ruined Gentlepaw’s day.

“Thank you,” Blossomfall mewed softly. “She needed to hear that, but it may be too late for her. I wish I had a milk-mother that stood up for me as you have my brothers. Maybe the Dark Forest wouldn’t have lured me so easily.” Blossomfall gazed at her parents. “Mother, I wish you remembered you have other kits besides our sister. I understand it’s too late for me, but please don’t make the same mistake with Greypaw and Rainpaw.”

Millie stood, in silence, then leaned into Graystripe and closed her eyes. Her body trembled. Graystripe flattened his fur, and licked Millie’s head. Graystripe whispered to both and Yellowfang struggled to hear him, but missed what he said. Bramblestar wore a stunned expression.

“I am so tired,” Millie mewled in shaking tones.

“Your Clan honors you and all the service you have given us,” Bramblestar assured her. Bramblestar stepped down the rocks, and stood beside Millie, laying his tail across her shoulders. Purdy stepped forward, greeting the old she-cat, giving Kyestorm a glance. Yellowfang perked up, watching the old tom.

“One day, old one, you’ll be with me in StarClan,” she muttered.

“Stop frettin’, Millie. Yer youngin’ is in good paws.” Purdy purred, giving Kyestorm a wink. “I’ll tell stories to keep yer mind off o’ her.”

“I’m sorry,” Kyestorm walked up to Millie, and laid her thick furry tail over the old she-cat’s back. Yellowfang strained to hear the rest, but voices mingled with the murmuring that erupted around camp.

Millie sagged against Graystripe. He nodded, then lead her to the snug warm Elder’s den. Yelowfang inhaled sharply, seeing two shimmering red shapes weave around Graystripe.

“Firestar, Sandstorm,” Yellowfang growled, curling herlips back. One starry red shape turned to the Clan Leader green eyes blinking once, as he nodded, before fading away. Bramblestar slowly nodded at Kyestorm, and with Squirrelflight, disappeared into their den.

“Well, if you two can go and comfort someone, so can I!” Yellowfang hissed, and leaped from her sunning rock, diving down into camp. Gentlepaw recognized her, and his eyes widened. Her yellow eyes blazed, but a feline smile briefly crosse her visage, and she infused him with her utter approval in his actions.

*Bravepaw* she rasped in his ear. Nobody else saw her, but Jayfeather’s head turned in that direction, ears twitching. She whispered, “You sense me, and know I’m right.”

Jayfeather slowly nodded. Yellowfang grinned with triumph, and she returned to her rock. The feeling vanished when many familiar faces met her there.

“Meddling again?” Blackstar drawled.

“Oh stop pestering me! Can’t you see I’m right? Nothing wrong with guiding a gifted youngsterr!”

“We agree that you were right,” Firestar meowed. “All of us will attend his ceremony.”


A half moon later, after coyotes attacked ShadowClan, Yellowfang watched with pride as Gentlepaw briefly fought as brave as any warrior before rushing to the injured. His sister’s new beau, Snowpaw, fretted over the prone body of his sister.

“She’s alive!” Gentlepaw’s meowed, joy in his voice. Littlecloud now stood outside the medicine cat den, his breathing easier. Puddlepaw, Littlecloud’s new apprentice, and Gentlepaw worked on Pinepaw. Gentlepaw skillfully performed every action Littlecloud rasped out, sometimes starting a needed task before instructions came. Gentlepaw suddenly left Pinepaw in Puddlepaw’s care and stalked to Littlecloud, ordering him to lie prone. To Yellowfang’s delight, the frail elder obeyed and Gentlepaw ran deft, skilled paws over the old cat’s chest, kneading and pushing. She thought she saw his claws unsheath, but realized she witnessed flashing sparks, part of that innate skill he possessed which caused the wizened old ShadowClan medicine cat to cling to life.

The little black she-cat moaned, shifting Yellowfang’s attention. Snowpaw raced to his sister’s side. Indipaw followed, and Rowanstar bowed his head in relief. Yellowfang wanted to go to Gentlepaw, but stayed on her sunny rock.

“When are they going to take him to the Moonpool?” she grumbled. “He’s ready.”

A mere half moon later, Yellowfang waited impatiently as Gentlepaw climbed the trail up the stony, icy path, following Leafpool and Alderfrost to the sacred Moonpool. The half moon bathed the world in silver light, as they moved out of the forest onto the open moors. Yellowfang shifted her paws of the ledge, waiting with eagerness. Gentlepaw climbed the trail up the stony, icy path, following Leafpool. The wind moaned over the rocks, and Gentlepaw scented the air, eyeing the clouds that gathered on the northwestern horizon. Yellowfang agreed with his uneasiness, fully aware of the approaching storm. The other medicine cats, Littlecloud, Willowshine, Pudddlepaw,and Kestrelflight followed. Willowshine walked behind Littlecloud, who picked his way up the trail with shaky steps. He paused every few strides to shake the snow from his tiny paws, and to catch his breath.

Gentlepaw followed Leafpool and Alderfrost into a small clearing, and Yellowfang purred with anticipation. The Moonpool shimmered, as the wind blew snow from a drift across its glassy frozen surface. Rocky cliffs rose up behind the pool, and and deep snows clung to the ledges and outcrops. Leafpool halted in a small sandy spot beneath the cliff, and faced her apprentice. Three of the medicine cats sat behind her, watching respectfully, expressions full of delight. Littlecloud sat down in front of Puddlepaw, and Yellowfang nodded approval, only briefly aware of Littlecloud’s raspy voice speaking to Puddlepaw, and understood why Littlecloud came to the Moonpool tonight. Gentlepaw halted and sat down in front of Leafpool, who took Jayfeather’s place as mentor. Leafpool raised her voice so it echoed over the Moonpool.

“I, Leafpool, medicine cat of ThunderClan, call upon my warrior ancestors to look down on this apprentice, Gentlepaw.He has trained hard to understand the ways of a medicine cat, and with your help, Gentlepaw will serve his Clan, as he has already done since kithood, for many moons.”

“Gentlepaw, do you promise to uphold the ways of a medicine cat, to stand apart from rivalry between Clans, and to protect all cats equally, even at the cost of your life?

“Yes, I do.” Gentlepaw answered, amber eyes shining, his voice soft.

“Then by the powers of StarClan, I give you your true name as a medicine cat. Gentlepaw, from this moment, you will be known as Gentleoak. StarClan honors your intelligence, intuitiveness, empathy, stoic strength, gentle touch, and skills. We welcome you as a full medicine cat of ThunderClan.”

Leafpool rested her chin on Gentleoak’s, head, and he licked her shoulder. Alderfrost, Kestrelflight, Puddlepaw, Littlecloud, and Willowshine walked up to Gentleoak.

“Only a matter of formality,” Alderfrost said with a beaming feline smile. “Welcome, Gentleoak.”

“Gentleoak, we are happy to see you here this half moon,” Willowshine said.

“Gentleoak, we welcome you.” Littlecloud greeted Gentleoak, stretching his muzzle up to his. Gentleoak lowered his head to touch noses. Littlecloud’s sunken eyes slanted into a smile. “You’re so opposite your sister. But we all love Indiclaw. She is a fine warrior.”

“I’m glad she is happy. My brothers and I do miss her.” Gentleoak replied, then sensed another moving up beside Littlecloud.

“I am happy you finally joined our ranks,” Puddlepaw mewed. “We’ve all known you would. I too, have received my true medicine cat name this night. I am Puddlefoot.”



“I welcome you, Gentleoak,” Kestrelflight meowed, his eyes squinting into a smile. “I know you miss Smokewind, too, but she is a fine asset to WindClan. She can outrun us all, and can ****** a rabbit up before it dives into its burrow. And I don’t think I need to embellish what she has taught us in catching those fleet deer.”

“I welcome you, too.” Willowshine interjected, her eyes twinkling. “Your sister Bluefrost is a fine addition to RiverClan. She can break holes in the ice where no cat has done before. She says her father taught her to throw rocks for fun! We are in your parents’ and Clan’s debt for allowing her to join us.”

“I don’t think anyone was going to stop my sisters from following their hearts,” Gentleoak meowed, a laugh shaking his voice. The others nodded in full agreement.

“Come. Time to meet StarClan and receive your blessings.” Leafpool interrupted, and gestured at the frozen pool with her tail. “Place your paws on the ice and touch the pool with your muzzle.”

Yellowfang felt Gentleoak’s eagerness as he obeyed and stepped onto the edge of the pool. Ice crackled and tinkled, and the clear ice reflected the moonlight and starlight which filled the small gorge. He placed his huge golden-brown paws with the black toe tufts on the ice and lay on his belly. He dropped his muzzle to the ice, and closed his eyes. Yellowfang blinked, bringing herself into StarClan.

The Moonpool shone, released from its icy grip, reflecting Silverpelt, the half moon and hundreds of starry figures poised on the stones and craggy cliffs. Firestar, Bluestar, Blackstar and Tallstar and all leaders past shimmered on the ledges. Medicine cats from seasons past joined them, followed by warriors and even young kits who never grew up befor joining StarClan.. Yellowfang leaped from her ledge, to join the throng gathering in front of Gentleoak. Gentleoak reacted with recognition as Firestar led the StarClan cats to Gentleoak.

“Welcome, young Medicine cat, of new blood born of fire and smoke,” Firestar said. “We’re more than thrilled to finally meet you here, and not in your dreams.”

“About time you arrived here,” the old she-cat grumbled, eyeing him. “I’m Yellowfang. Perhaps you’ve heard of me?”

“I’m honored, and you’re no stranger to me,” Gentleoak replied, and the tales of ThunderClan’s medicine cat who served the clan before they moved to the lake so many seasoncycles ago flashed through his mind. Yellwofang gave her life for her Clan in a horrible fire, and she shivered atr the memory as gentleoak continued. “I will work hard and never give you reason to doubt your trust in me, and my family.”

“I know that. Your destiny sealed itself the day I met you as a tiny kit. Just remember what I’ve told you about your abilities. Never use it for harm on another cat,”” The old she-cat insisted, then gazed sharply into Gentleoak’s eyes, flicking her ears before uttering a sharp mroow of mirth. “Carrying a visitor are we?” Yellowfang bared the tips of her yellowed eyeteeth. “I’m impressed, but not sure I like this.”

“Sorry, “Gentleoak parroted his mother’s thoughts. “I, I had to see this important event in his life. Don’t be angry with us.”

“I’m not angry,” Yellowfang snorted with amusement.

“You have never disappointed us, Gentleoak” Firestar nodded slowly. “Nor you, Kyestorm. We know he lets you see through your dreams.”

“We understand,” Bluestar spoke up, shooting a glance at Yellowfang, stopping a retort. “It only shows how powerful your mind is, Gentleoak, to allow your beloved mother to witness. Show caution in revealing this, since some may wish to use it for ambitious purposes, but this shall be a wondrous aid to healing no other medicine cat has known.”

“I would never use it to hurt anyone,” Gentleoak assured Bluestar.

“We know,” Yellowfang reassured him, then leveled her piercing amber gaze on him. amusement and cantankerousness flashing through her. “Kyestorm is it? Haarumph. Don’t fret yourself over my ancestry. My mother consorted with a pretty boy who blessed me with this wretched pelt. If I had a coat like yours or your son’s, . . .ahhh, no use wishing. Its done and over.”

“Sorry!” Gentleoak whispered. “Tell her I’m sorry.”

“No need,” Yellowfang lifted a lip, confident in her actions, knowing she did right by this fine young tom and his mother. She peered into Gentleoak’s amber eyes, spotting a flicker of copper-gold -Gentleoak’s mother . She spoke directly to Kyestorm. “You birthed a fine medicine cat, and your kind bring good blood to our Clans. We’ve needed it for a long time.” Yellowfang drew back, meeting Gentleoak’s gaze, proud that he faced her, tall tufted ears up, whiskers forward, brimming with inner strength and confidence. “Gentleoak, my protégé, use your sharp mind and wit in your life as a medicine cat. We shall watch your path, always.”

Hopeheart lifted up her head and danced. She felt as free, no paths to walk, not choices to make. Just her and the wind.

She was dancing for joy, for no more reason then because she was alive. Her life had been full of ups and downs, hard times and good times. But through it all Hopeheart had known that whoever pushed her down, whatever made her sad, she could overcome it all.

Who knew where her life would go for here, but Hopeheart couldn't wait to find out. Why should she worry? Why worry when you could dance? She could be joyful that she was alive, that her differences made her perfect.

Hopeheart smiled up at the birds in the sky as she spun in a dizzying circle over the moorland grass. The sky was as blue as a robin’s egg, but a storm would have let Hopeheart dance even more. When you could dance in rain or shine, be joyful in good and hard times, then she would never be broken.

The grass moved like water as Hopeheart jumped and pranced, leaping to try and touch the clouds. She laughed as grasshoppers leaped ahead of her.

In the distance she heard someone calling her, a clanmate, and Hopeheart spun to look at them, smiling.

"I'm coming!" she called.

Spinning around one more time, she followed her clanmate home.

When Silverpelt created felinekind, she gave them the impenetrable love of a mother. She would set her crying children down by the river when the water did not yet know what it meant to surge or to splash or to swell. She would bestow upon her Most Beloved Creation an impregnable nest of God's Grace and Glory and the river would gently ripple and wane to lull her children to sleep. Under her perfect night sky, she would suckle her children and run her tail down their heads, their flanks, and as long as the forest stood so peaceably and her Creation slept so soundly, she decided that everything would be fine for the seasons to come.

But instead her children rebelled. They decided that they were too good for their mother, that they would be Mothers and Fathers bestowing their own grace and glory. But Silverpelt forgave them, because one day they would again realize that without her there would be no them.

But they did not, until it was far too late. Instead her children went on to create great Clans and great discord. Her Most Beloved Creation had ravaged her peaceful forests with war and gluttony and sin. The sky would always cloud as she howled at them thunderous, earth-shaking cries to stop and wept tears of rainwater when her children's blood, her blood, had been spilled from slaughter.

They tear away from her, and Silverpelt hates it when they tear away from her because they stop suckling, clamp down with their teeth, and pull. It turns her nest of God's Grace and Glory red, the color of hatred and pain and rebellion, the color that she hated, and it left her all alone in her home of stardust and moonlight to experience a blinding, searing pain that no god should ever know.

When her Most Beloved Creation tears away from her and wreaks havoc on her world below, Silverpelt decides that she no longer likes her children, a bunch of ungrateful little things who were happy to grind grace and glory into the bones of a long-dead, rotting, worthless skeleton, just as long as they got what they wanted in the end. Silverpelt had no children. Silverpelt never had children.

But still Silverpelt weeps for her Most Beloved Creation to return to her nest of unconsciousness and safety when raindrops fall from the heavens.

The camp was quiet. There were a few murmurs, rustles in the dens; but it was too early for any cat to be up. The deputy sat outside the leader's den, lightly grooming her ginger paws.

The silence was interrupted by a flame, shooting from the top of the warriors den, towards the log where the elders slept. A bubble of water, acting as a shield, formed out of thin air, blocking the tom sitting on the den from being scorched. The fire stopped abruptly, and the water dropped and splashed away, aside from a few drops still hovering around the blue tabby on the log.

"That was a bit rude," he scoffed, flicking an ear.

"You're the one who splashed me." The tom which the fire had came from spat back.

"Drama queen," the first tabby snorted.

More flames engulfed him, but he shoved them away with his wall of water, unscathed.

"What're you gonna d-"

"Excuse me,"

Both toms turned. A black she-cat stalked over. Her tail-tip, which had the only white on her pelt, flicked in irritation.

"Are you two idiots gonna burn the camp down?" She hissed, her green eyes narrowing. "You know where to go. I'm tired of being your stupid damage control." Her tail lashed.

"Yeah, yeah. Whatever, Shadey~"

"Watch your mouth, Waterberry."

The two toms stared each other down once more before leaping off of their spots and shoving each other out of camp. Shadestep followed, seemingly pulling shadows from the camp walls to cover her. Her black pelt disappeared from sight.

The trio had left camp. The deputy narrowed her eyes, slipping into the leader's den as warriors only now emerged from their dens.

--

Shadestep sat by the waters edge, the waves lapping at her paws. She sighed.

Her peaceful moment was interrupted by a laugh, and a large wave forming, about to crash onto the shore. Shadestep simply rolled her eyes in irritation, ducking down and letting a small shield encircle her. It was faint, but visible, rippling, as the water crashed down. She waited a few heartbeats, then sat up, coat completely dry.

Brackenflame wasn't.

He roared in anger, fire rising from where he was sitting- a dock- and it was a miracle he didn't burn the whole thing- and attempted to aim at Waterberry. The blue tom just laughed and sunk under the water, to where the fire couldn't get him.

Shadestep stood and lightly padded to the dock. "Honestly, Bracken, you may have a few anger issues. And Water, are you trying to get yourself killed?"

"I don't know, mom." Waterberry scoffed, emerging up from the water and perching himself on the docks edge. "So, Mr. Bracken, even Shadey agrees. You seem to have a few problems up in there." He flicked a few droplets of water at his head.

Brackenflame's fur dried instantly. Shadestep stepped back, sensing the heat emerging from his pelt.

"What're you gonna do, set me on fire?" Water said, the edge to a hiss on his voice. The corner of his mouth still twitched upward. "You're so salty. I'm so scared of what you'll do."

"Waterberry." Shadestep growled, her head lowering, eyes flashing.

"If you're gonna get mad at everything, go ahead. Burn me. Just like you did to your parents."

"Waterberry!" The she-cat snarled, but she was cut off by a yowl. The most fire she'd ever seen coming from the tom had appeared. She was almost cold, as if he had pulled every bit of heat from the air. Her eyes widened in fear, and she had to dive off the dock, skidding through the water on the shore."Brack-"

The flames had spread, igniting everything in sight. She looked to the side, seeing Waterberry's form slinking through the water. Shadestep tried to push the fire, sparks, smoke, everything, back. Away from the direction of camp. Invisible forces, shadows, all shoving back, but like glass shattering, the fire broke through, and Shadestep fell to the ground despite being away from the fire. She rolled through the shallow water, standing and sprinting into the direction of the fire. She prayed Waterberry was doing something as she hurtled towards the camp.

She already saw a steady stream of the Clan cats running out of the entrance. "Go to the lake!" Shadestep yowled, trying to shield the cats from fire and flaming debris.

Again, she had to turn and run ahead of them. She turned to look over her shoulder, only to see- the cats cowering away from her shield. She hesitantly lowered it, turning the shadows on herself, and she was invisible to the other cats now. They slowly trekked towards the lake now.

There was a crack, and a branch fell from a tree above, landing on a small cat.

"Rookpaw!" Shadestep ran towards the bi-colored cat, her disguise slipping away. She reached forward to lift the apprentice to her paws, but she turned away in terror.

"Don't touch me!" Her yellow eyes flashed, and she scrambled up and streaked away.

Meanwhile, Brackenflame had stopped. Stopped to take a breath, but before he could quite literally explode again, he saw the damage. Flaming, falling trees, ash clouding the air. He froze, staring into the cloudy air. His amber eyes slowly turned to the shore, where the Clan huddled.

The black she-cat appeared next to him. The warm lighting shone on her back, revealing the faint stripes that were barely ever visible. Waterberry sulked in the water behind him. Angry, but guilty.

Shadestep slowly walked over to the large brown tom in the Clan, who coughed out a cloud of ash.

"Duskstar,"

"Do not speak to me," the leader spat. "Ever since you mouse-brains were born, we kept you in control. As much as we could."

Shadestep's eyes burned into his. She was holding down every remark. "I'm nearly as old as you are." She growled.

"The Clan as a whole! Have you known how terrified every cat has been? We've never trusted you, and now, this? No ShadowClan cat, gifted or not, would never do this. No true ShadowClan cat."

"You almost named me deputy." Shadestep's temper was rising. She was the most mature of the three. Waterberry and Brackenflame still sat away from them. "Don't say you don't trust me."

"And that was apparently the largest mistake I've ever thought. Leave."

"Excuse me?" Shadestep breathed, her body barely moving.

"Leave."

"You've kept us here all this time? And now to just exile us?"

"You've destroyed our territorry!"

"Do you remember the times we've saved the Clan?"

"Get off of my territory. Never come back."

"Do you remember," She took a breath from gritted teeth, her pelt almost seeming to grow darker, "Everything we- even I, have done?"

"I'm giving you one more warning." Duskstar hissed.

Her eyes lifted to meet his once again, a dark shade. She didn't say a word for heartbeats that seemed to draw out moons, before a thick, sarcastic, "Thank you for your service."

She walked past him, her shoulder nearly brushing his, and she disappeared as she passed the burnt tree line. The leader snapped his head up to look at where the other two powered toms had sat before.

They were gone, eight paw prints where they had been, the only spots not covered in ash.

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.

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.

"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.

I - Dillon

I was fighting a losing battle with myself.

The rational part of me was calm, collected and oh-so-convincing, telling me exactly what I wanted to believe. There's no such thing as ghosts, you mouse-brain - you're way too old to believe in nonsense like that. You've been imagining things. It was at least partly a dream, and now you're awake again you can forget it and carry on like nothing has happened. Because nothing has happened.

Those were the thoughts that had been running through my head since the full moon two nights ago, a steady, comforting stream of common sense. But common sense hadn't stopped me from avoiding the crumbling, white-painted Twoleg house like it was infectious. It hadn't stopped me from running in the other direction every time a hauntingly familiar silhouette caught my eye, or from leaving town that morning, making my second fresh start in half a moon.

Because another part of me, a deeper, truer part of me, knew that something had happened that night, something I could never begin to understand. There was no easy, logical reason why I'd been warned away from the abandoned dwelling so many times; there was no reason, either, why I'd felt compelled to ignore the warnings and tried to spend the night there anyway. There was certainly no reason for what had happened that night, for what I'd seen…

But it had happened, I was certain. Even the most polished logic can't win out against the truth.

II - Shadepetal

I was fading in and out, like one of those old twoleg lights they hang outside their dens.

I was like dry leaves, blowing in the wind. I didn't feel the pain, only the loneliness.

I stood on a crumpled box, staring through the glass over the hole in the twoleg’s den wall. I had started to do this ever since I had caught a glimpse of a tom outside, in the weed-covered excuse for a garden, looking up at me.

He had run off that first time, I thought he had only been a little braver then most, brave enough to come into the garden, and he would never be back again.

But the next time I looked through the glass, he was looking up at the old house again.

I paused for a moment, looking back, wondering why he had returned. Surely, he had heard the warnings. I shook my head, pushing my concern for the tom out of my head; he did not matter. If he wanted to stare, it was up to him, he could throw away his life at his choosing.

But I could not help throwing him another glance as I walked away.

Over the next few weeks, I started to give myself little excuses to look out onto the garden, some part of me hoping to see him again. Something fluttered in my chest each time I did.

Was this it? Was this finally it? Was he the cat who would brave all the odds to-?

I cut off that thought; it was useless. No cat could help me, not even a curious tom that had ignored the warnings, all he could do was learn the dangers or die because of them. But a small part of me thought: Or, he could succeed.

The house felt hollow, old, and moldering. It was empty of the hope I had first felt when I came here, oh so many years ago. It had started out with me thinking it would be only a day or two; my family would come and save me.

My family died some years later, I knew because their ghosts were here, in my head and my heavy soul, weighing me down with our combined crimes.

Deserter…

Traitor…

Heartbreaker…

Murderer!…


III - Dillon

The night of the full moon, three days after I tried to enter the house and failed - I preferred to use the word 'failed' rather than 'bottled out' - I crept down the semi-deserted street just after sunfall. I say crept; actually, I just kind of strolled along to the peeling wooden gate, then slipped in. Nobody noticed, that was what made it scarier.

I'd been warned away from the house so many times since arriving in that part of Twolegplace a quarter-moon ago: by a 'friendly' loner who clearly devoted his time to scaring newcomers; by the painfully skinny grey she-cat I'd met while scavenging for food; by the gaggle of kits I'd spotted playing beside the Thunderpath. But I was braver than a bunch of ghost stories. Tonight was meant to prove that.

Pushing through clumps of shoulder-height grass and drifts of rusty fallen leaves, I approached the smashed, dusty window that I'd discovered last time. In the growing darkness, every crumbling brick and warped plank looked sinister. It was my last chance to turn back, and I don't deny I was tempted.

Instead, I took a deep breath, and leapt up to the windowsill. Behind me, the chill breeze tossed the leaves into a frantic, whirling, endless dance.

Never one for superstition, I didn't stop to watch.

Inside, the bottom floor of the house was entirely deserted. I didn't know much about Twoleg homes - it had been a long, long time since I was last a kittypet - but even I could see that this one wasn't fit to live in. Rats had got in and left scratch marks and foul-smelling droppings. Dirty rainwater puddled over the rottting floorboards. Somebody had left a long brown streak of dried blood along one wall.

I settled down to sleep regardless.

What happened next - well, I want to explain it away as a dream.

I think an elderly tomcat climbed in through the window where I'd entered - scruffy and ginger, with mad, staring eyes. "Wait 'til Petal comes."

He walked away, deeper into the house. I didn't follow.

I wasn't sure if I wanted to know who or what Petal was.

I was almost asleep again when: "Wait 'til Petal comes." In the same low, hoarse voice, but he'd been joined by another tom, whose tones echoed hollowly. They spoke in exact unison.

A shiver ran down my spine, cold and sharp as ice, and I didn't dare lift my head to look.

Go away go away go away…

"Are you listening? Wait 'til Petal comes, or you'll regret it." Both of them with identical threat in their voices.

Go away!

I think they went, but I'm not sure; I was kept awake for hours by creaks and thuds that I feared were pawsteps. I didn't recognise the tom I'd seen, and I'd never once spotted any cat leaving or entering the house. So what were they doing here?

I don't know why I didn't leave right then, as quickly as possible. I should've, probably.

But I waited. I waited for Petal to come.

IV - Shadepetal

Wait till Petal comes...

Those words rang in my head like a songbird's call. It had been years since I had been called by any other name. I wondered if it was the tom who had come back, it seemed unlikely after the last time.

But what if it was?

Would I be lying if I sad my hopes had started to grow?

Whoever it was had outlasted both of my brothers and all the warnings of the town cats. But would they outlast the last test? I sighed as I prepared.

The last test, the one that would decide both of our fates.

The hallway I walked was long, a set of stairs behind me reminding me at every glance backwards that I was on the first floor. Old plaster dust congregated in the corners, covering my paws in a fine layer of dust.

At the end of the hallway a old, half open door hung.

I hesitated, my pelt tingling. This was it. Now or never.

I didn't bother with the door, I simply stepped right through the wall.

As my transparent body flouted through the wall ghostly flames appeared all over my body. This was the first of my tests. The flames burn like real fire, making me cry out in pain. The form huddled inside the room spins around, still crouched on the ground. Through the haze of flames and pain I saw the scared eyes of the tom.

With each pawstep my mind fought me, You should be upstairs.

"I know," I gasped, taking another wavering step forward.

The tom shied away, but didn't run, whether he was to afraid to move or not was hard for me to tell.

You'll die if you stay down here, whispered the voice, continuing its constant stream of protest.

One more pawstep.

The house seemed to bend around me, responding to the pain and the fear. I was almost to the tom now, frozen stiff with terror.

"But it doesn't matter," I gasped to the voice, mustering one more faltering pawstep. And the flames cleared and the house stopped twisting, but I continued, my voice a gasp, blackness at the edge of my vision.

"Because I'm Shadepetal, and I'm already dead."

V - Dillon

I watched the she-cat - Petal, it had to be Petal - approach, flinching at something I couldn't see, talking to something I couldn't hear. I wanted to run, I wanted to run, I wanted to run but I couldn't; I was too scared to move.

I heard her voice through the fog of terror that filled my mind "...And I'm already dead. So you can't hurt me!"

"I-I'm not going to hurt you," I stammered. "What do you want from me?"

Her eyes burned, like twin fires. "You know. You have to save me."

"How?"

"Stay here. Stay here for a year and a day. You'll be safe, I'll be safe, and in the end we'll both be free."

Her words, her desperation struck a chord somewhere within me. For a moment, I could see the life she was promising: Only a year, one in ten or eleven, and at the end she would find peace from whatever was tormenting her. I could do that, right?

"Will you?" She looked so hopeful. But I couldn't do it. I couldn't stay in that house. If I didn't leave now, it would be in a day, a week, a moon, and the disappointment would only be worse.

Mutely, I shook my head.

"You can't - you don't understand!" I hated to hear the agony in her voice, the agony I was causing. "You don't know what it cost me to come here tonight! I've been waiting here for years, centuries - ever since my Clan cast me out. I didn't mean to do anything, but I've been paying for it all these years. You have to help me!"

"No, I don't," I was backing away, back towards the broken window I'd entered by. "I'm a coward, okay? I came here to prove I wasn't scared of a load of ghost stories, but I am, and I want out, okay?"

"What about me? Can't I want out? I've been here longer than you'll ever be, and if you don't help it'll be longer."

I averted my eyes. "I'm sorry. You'll find someone else."

I climbed back out through the window, and she didn't try to stop me.

This is probably obvious, but I never saw her again. I never went back to that house, back to the area. Not for years. I don't know whether someone else found her and saved her, or what. Maybe nobody ever came.

Years later, when I returned to the Twolegplace once more, I decided to visit the house for old time's sake. By then I had almost convinced myself that what had happened was a dream. But when I arrived, the house was cordoned off, and a Twoleg monster stood in the weed-filled garden, swinging at the walls with a cruel metal arm.

As the roof collapsed and sank, I could imagine her smile.

Smokewind hunched in a clump of heather with four other warriors, eying a small herd of Roe deer grazing the windswept moors. The creatures pawed away the snow to reach the dried grasses and brush. The brisk breeze blew into her face, carrying the strong scent of prey, and she glanced up at the clear skies, then back at her black-smoke coat which glittered with a coating of snow. Satisfied that her camouflage held, the Maine Coon of WindClan twitched the tip of her bushy tail.

“You’re crazy,” Crowfeather growled. “We’ll never ever catch one of those! Especially being so dark against the snow.”

“Yes, we can,” Smokewind insisted in a whisper. “We’re downwind. They can’t scent us. Move very slowly.” Smokewind glared the WindClan deputy.“We rolled in the snow, right? It’ll hide us perfectly.”


“And cold, but it’s your hunt, warrior,” the dark gray tom grumbled, and nodded, a glint of approval in his eyes. He and Gorsetail exchanged glances. Smokewind eyed Weaselfur, the fourth cat in the hunting patrol, and dipped her head with approval. The ginger tom gave away his position by blinking his green eyes. A thick mantle of snow covered his body. To her satisfaction, even Crowfeather’s dark pelt appeared pale in its coat of snow. Gorsetail’s pale-grey and white pelt disappeared under his camouflage.

“We’ve never ever caught a deer before,” Gorsetail murmured. “I know you did in ThunderClan but, we have no trees to ambush them from. How do you expect to even get near them?”

“Attacking from the trees is not the only technique. Just copy me.” Smokewind dropped into the snow, and crept forward, burrowing like a rabbit. She kept her tall ears flat to her massive head, eyes on the prey at all times. Her hunting patrol followed behind her. She stopped every time one of the little Roe deer lifted a head, then crept forward as they grazed. Smokewind and her patrol inched closer to the herd. When they reached but a few fox-lengths away, two bucks raised their heads, looking away from them. To her dismay, one bleated an alarm and the herd scattered.

“Mouseedung!” Smokewind spat. “Something spooked them. Attack now!”

Smokewind exploded from the snow, her long legs blurring as she raced ahead of her clanmates, a arc of snow sparkling in her wake. She focused on a small young buck that ran her way, and out of her peripheral vision, she spotted Harespring and Furzepelt running after a doe which swiftly outdistanced them. She knew now why the deer shied away and outrage flooded her.

“Fox-hearted saboteurs!” she hissed. Anger put springs in Smokewind’s large paws and she charged the little buck. It dodged, but she spun on toetip, spraying snow into the air, and launched herself at it, landing on its back. The buck sagged under her weight, but struggled to run, trying to toss her off. Smokewind snarled, wishing she possessed the weight of her big brothers, as she latched her long claws into the deer’s neck. She glanced back at her patrol, lead by Crowfeather.

“Assistance please! Hurry!” she yowled, before sinking her fangs into the back of the Roe deer’s neck. It bucked and kicked, but she sank her claws deeper, riding the little deer across the moor, slowing it down. Crowfeather caught up first and attacked from the side, leaping onto the prey’s shoulder. The buck staggered sideways as Gorsetail and Weaselfur leaped at the deer’s haunches. Gorsetail yowled in sudden pain, and Smokewind rolled an eye, never loosening her grip. Gorsetail hung onto to the buck’s hind leg, but blood trickled from a cut down his chest where the prey’s hoof struck him. Crowfeather dropped to the snow, and launched himself again at the buck’s shoulder. The prey stumbled and its hind end finally collapsed under Smokewind’s weight and her patrolmate’s ceaseless slashing claws. Smokewwind caught sight of Harespring and Furzepelt hurrying toward them, and rage flashed through her body. She shifted her grip, braving the buck’s front hooves, and sank her fangs into the soft throat, using all her anger to drive her jaws shut. The buck thrashed, then sagged to the snow, going limp in moments. Smokewind let go, sneezing the blood from her nostrils.

“Well done!” Crowfeather panted, rising to his feet. Smokewind caught her breath, noting, not for the first time, her clanmates’ gaunt bodies. She growled deep in her chest, thinking how close they came to losing a much needed meal for the clan.

“I told you we could do it,” Smokewind muttered, shaking out her ruff. She slanted her ears back, hearing Harespring’s pawsteps crunching the snow.

“Hey, you took our prey,” Harespring sneered, lashing his tail. “We saw the deer first.”

“You spooked them so we’d fail!” Smokewind spat in fury, whirling to face him. Her bottlebrush tail whipped snow into the air.

“No, we didn’t,” Harespring drawled, contempt in his voice. “You interrupted our hunt.”

“How dare you claim what you could never catch!” Smokewind yowled, glancing at Crowfeather, who sat beside the buck, watching, eyes narrowed into slits. He gave Smokewind a barely imperceptible nod. She stepped up to the buck. “I’ll be taking this to camp, not you.”

“No you won’t,” Harespring retorted, and reached down to grab a hind foot in his jaws. Furzepelt grabbed the other hind hoof.

“Let it go,” Smokewind advanced on Harespring, coat bristling, fangs bared, claws unsheathed.

“No, you stupid offspring of a worthless kittypet. We flushed it. Its ours,” Harespring jeeerd, and Smokewind caught Crowfeather rolling his eyes, before he met Smokewind’s glance.

“The one you spooked is long gone,” Smokewind snapped. “This is our kill. I’ll not let you take credit for it.”

“Really?” Harespring tugged the little buck, and Smokewind lost her temper. With an inarticulate screech, she plowed into Harespring, bowling him over in the snow. She sheathed her claws at the last moment, and pummeled his head, then pounced on his back, grabbing the scruff of his neck. He yowled like a terrified kit, eyes wide, unable to move a muscle under her grip and weight.


“Stop disrespecting me in front of our Clanmates, or I’ll do more than rattle your mouse-brains!” she growled through clenched teeth, dragging him away from the kill. Furzepelt bristled, and hissed.

“Leave him alone,” the she-cat minced toward Smokewind, who released Harespring, then slapped his head a few more times, hard enough to slam it deeper into the snow. She lifted a paw toward Furzepelt, toes spread, claws gleaming from between silver tufts of fur. Harespring lay prone in the snow, eyes unfocused, dazed, and battered.

“You want some of this?” Smokewind hissed at Furzepelt, who whirled and raced back to camp, her yowls echoing on the cold air.

“Oh, no,” Smokewind mewed, and sagged, the rage draining from her when she realized what she committed. “I’m in trouble for attacking a Clanmate.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Crowfeather finally spoke. “Onestar will know what happened up here. Come, let’s get your fresh kill into camp.”

“What about him?” Smokewind glanced at Harespring, a growl rising in her chest.

“Let him make his own way back to camp,” Crowfeather meowed, a chuckle in his voice. “Don’t worry about him.”

Smokewind lay down in the snow and allowed her clanmates to pull the buck over her back. She stood up with effort, and Crowfeather in slipped beside her, taking some of the weight. Gorsetail and Weaselfur steadied the fresh kill on either side as they walked back home.

“He’s so wrong about you and your family,” Weaselfur commented, steadying the buck’s head. “I’m so glad you’re here, to teach us to catch such excellent prey.”

“That fleapelt needed a good smack down,” Gorsetail added. “I can’t believe he chased those deer to make us fail. If not for your speed, we’d be coming home empty.”

“Thank you,” Smokewind replied, and met her clanmate’s gaze. As they entered WindClan’s camp, she lowered her eyes, feeling a flash of dismay. Onestar stood beside the meager fresh kill pile. She and her patrol carried the prey to the pile, then slipped out from under the buck. Did he mean to punish her? What if he believed Harespring’s and Furzepelt’s lies? Her legs trembled, and she felt a stab of homesickness for her former home in ThunderClan, and missed her mother and brothers.

“Nice catch,” Onestar commented. Smokewind lifted her head, and noticed Furzepelt standing behind Onestar. “Someone tells me this is her and Harespring’s rightful prey?”

“No,”Smokewind meowed, as a tremor lifted the fur along her back. Crusted snow crackled, and a few clumps fell from her flanks. She then noticed the twinkle in her leader’s eyes, and stopped the snarl before it curled her lips. “Its my patrol’s catch.”

“Crowfeather?” Onestar addressed his deputy.

“Smokewind speaks the truth.” Crowfeather scowled. “They almost ruined our hunt, and I think they did it on purpose. If not for this warrior’s great speed and skill, the hunt would have failed. I allowed Smokewind to, uh, defend her catch.”

“Though I can’t condone fighting with a clanmate,” Onestar said, the humor leaving his golden copper eyes. “I also despise lying, and almost depriving the clan of food because of a personal grudge.”

“He isn’t injured,” Crowfeather grumbled. “And if Furzepelt told you otherwise, she lies.”

“I see,” Onestar tilted his head, sparing Furzepelt a glance. He lashed his tail, and she ducked her head away. “How close did they get to a catch, and where is Harespring?

“Those two couldn’t catch a Roe deer if it walked up and presented its throat to them.” Crowfeather shook himself, and Smokewind realized he struggled not to laugh. “Harespring will be along shortly, but don’t be surprised if he doesn’t remember much.”

Gorsetail and Weaselfur guffawed. Smokewind allowed herself a toothy grin when she understood her clanmates supported her, and she felt accepted by her adopted clan. She relaxed her guard.

“I may have smacked him silly,” she admitted. “Like Kyemama once did to Furzepelt. But I never unsheathed my claws.”

“Well done, young warrior.” Onestar returned her smile, then glanced past Smokewind. She turned her head, and she bristled with agitation. Harespring stumbled into camp, weaving to and fro, tail dragging behind him, his eyes unfocused. Furzepelt ran up to him, mewing and fawning, then assisted him to the warrior’s den. Smokewind relaxed, feeling a short pang of remorse for striking him so hard, which evaporated with Onestar’s next words.

“Come, all cats to this feast! Make sure elders, queens and kits are fed first,” he yowled, delight in his tone. Smokewind tore off a huge chunk, and carried it to the Elder’s den. Both of them lost their cranky expressions and gaped at the gargantuan fare before them. Whitetail moved forward, her ragged white pelt hanging on a gaunt frame.

“Excellent catch, young one,” she purred. “Perhaps we elders won’t die this leaf bare after all.”

“So,” Whiskernose grumbled, his eyes straying to the warrior’s den. “Since that young fool almost blew your hunt, may I have his share?”

“If it were up to me,” Smokewind meowed at the brown tabby tom as she exited the den “I’d give you his share of the entire kill.”

Cackling raspy laughter followed her out into the center of camp. Oatclaw and his hunting patrol loped through the entrance, returning empty-jawed. His light brown tabby coat covered a thin frame. He paused in shock, spotting the new fresh kill. Smokewind hurried to greet her mate, and he eyed her.

“Your patrol caught that, didn’t they?” he purred.

“Yes, but we almost didn’t, thanks to Harespring,” Smokewind grumbled, just as the former deputy emerged from the warrior den, still unsteady, led by Furzepelt. Harespring kept his head down and avoided her gaze, but Furzepelt glared at her as they moved to the fresh kill. Smokeiwnd bumped Oatclaw. “Come on. No way do they eat before us. Not after they almost sabotaged our hunt!”

Smokewind ran to the deer, and brazenly took a place. Oatclaw settled in beside her, forcing Harespring and Furzepelt to wait their turn. She pointedly ignored both of them, filling her stomach, and taking more pieces for the elders.

“No,” Onestar’s voice growled, and Smokewind glanced backward. The Clan leader stood, his expression stony, one paw on Furzepelt. “You two wait until everyone is finished. Then you may take your share.”

“But we . . . “ Furzepelt protested.

“But nothing,” Onestar thundered, his anger causing both cats to cringe. “You two purposely disrupted your own Clanmates’ hunt. I won’t tolerate such behavior. So you’ll wait until everyone is filled to the brim, and has a second meal before you can eat. Go to the warrior’s den and wait until I say you eat.”

Smokewind’s heart swelled with satisfaction as Harespring shuffled back to the warrior’s den with Furzepelt. He glanced back once, and hate glittered in his eyes. Furzepelt looked back, and disdain gleamed in her eyes. Smokewind growled so deep in her chest her whole body vibrated. Oatclaw uttered a hiss.

“They’re such fluffheads. Even mice have more brains,” the lanky tom murmured, nuzzling Smokewind’s ruff. She ignored him, her attention on Harespring and Furzepelt, who turned away quickly and disappeared into the den.

“Next time,” she muttered. “Next time, you flea brains, next time we meet as adversaries, I’ll kill you and not regret a thing.”

Smokewind trotted with her patrol down the WindClan border, her large black paws squelching in the slushy snows of early New Leaf. Breezepelt, Nightloud, and Slightfoot accompanied her.

“Do you think we’ll find a Roe deer?” Nightcloud asked, green eyes shining. Her black pelt gleamed with health, a big change from when Smokewind joined WindClan during the gauntness of Leaf Bare.

“It’s always possible,” Smokewind answered the she-cat, and glanced at Breezepelt, who blinked gold eyes at her. The black tom looked hopeful. Slightfoot lashed his tail.

“It’s hard,” he complained, before his eyes shone. “But they are tasty! Worth the effort.”

“Only if you don’t have Harespring and Furzepelt in your hunting patrol,” Smokewidn scoffed. “Can you ever see them catching even a fawn?

“When cats fly!” Breezepelt uttered a mrrow of laughter. “But I sure could enjoy one about now.”

“Keep your nose, ears and eyes alert for them. I. . . ” Smokewind meowed, as a screech echoed over the lake, stuffing the rest of her words back down her throat.

“Trickery! Cowardice! You betray the warrior code of honor,” someone hissed in outrage, and Smokewind recognized her mother’s voice. She bounded downhill and gazed across the ice, focusing in on the cry. Rage inflamed her entire body as she spotted her beloved mother stuck in a mud hole along the defrosting shoreline. Harespring and Furzepelt hovered there, and then, with a yowl of glee, Harespring jumped on Kyestorm’s back.

Smokewind forgot the patrol, forgot the hunt. Nothing mattered but her mother. She opened her jaws and uttered the shrieking alarm of distress, as Harespring pushed Kyestorm under the mud. Her mother fought her assailant, broke the surface, and threw her head back. Smokewind zeroed in on the spot and exploded down the hill, flinging slush in her wake. She hit the lake at full stride, trusting her instincts to keep her away from weak ice.



“DEMON BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!” The desperate cry reverberated across the lake, echoing in the hills, cutting into Smokewind’s heart, fueling her churning legs. Her mother sank deeper into the mud as Harespring shoved her head down again with both paws. She screamed again, but her voice cut off when her head went under again. Kyestorm reared against Harespring with all of her strength, fighting for her life.

“Kyemamaaaaaaaaaaa!” Smokewind’s anguished yowl echoed across the lake.

“Kyemamaaaaaaaaaaa!” The cry repeated, this time from across the swamp from RiverClan territory, and Smokewind recognized her sister Bluefrost’s shriek.

Smokewind’s mother uttered an inarticulate wail, struggling to buck Harespring off her back. The mud crept higher on her body with each move. Smokewind raced like a deer across the slush-covered ice. She barely acknowledged her brothers, who ran with ThunderClan and her fellow WindClan warriors responding many many foxlengths behind her. Slush and ice shards flew up behind the black-smoke Maine Coon warrior, sparkling in the late after-noon-high sun.

“Kyemama! Hold on!” Smokewind cried.

“Kyemama!” She heard Bluefrost’s yowl again from inside the swampland, and saw her blue-smoke sister ripping across the tussocks, followed by Mistystar and RiverClan. From over the lake she heard Indiclaw’s answering wail, as her brown tabby and white sister led ShadowClan across the ice. Smokewind knew her sisters would never reach their mother in time. She drew more speed out of her long legs.

Kyeee!” Smokewind’s father’s high pitched screech reverberated in the hills, and she saw him charging from far across the lake. Lionblaze and his patrol followed, flanking the giant black-smoke and white Maine Coon tom, who ran with surprising speed, despite his old injuries. His claws flashed as he gripped the ice, propelling himself across the frozen surface with all the strength in his massive legs. Cats converged on the spot from all sides of the lake, but Smokewind feared Harespring might succeed in drowning her mother before anyone reached them. She concentrated, and found yet more speed from within her body.


“Stupid kittypet,” Harespring snarled, and shoved Kyestorm’s head down again. She inhaled a breath before he held her head down, and exhaled in big sloppy bubbles. Smokewind’s heart leaped with dread, and she lowered her head, closing the distance with startling speed. Harespring raised his head, and alarm widened his eyes.

“Get off her you useless piece of foxdung!” Smokewind yowled in fury and triumph. She reached the shore, and barreled across the open land, snow spraying like a huge tail in her wake, followed distantly by Oatclaw, Demonstreak, Phantomstrike, and the rest of WindClan. Greywind led the rest of ThunderClan foxlengths behind.

Harespring leaped up on shore, and Kyestorm flung her head up, gasping and coughing. Satisfied of her mother’s safety, Smokewind concentrated on Harespring, who tried to evade her charge. He ran up the hill back toward WindClan land, avoiding the arriving cats responding to the cry for help. Smokewind bounded up the long hill, gaining on Harespring with every flying leap. He glanced backward, his eyes widening with shock. To evade the tall smokey black Maine Coon warrior’s charge, Harespring swerved back down toward the broken bridge, following the snow-covered thunderpath alongside the Horseplace.


“He’s mine! Help Kyemama!’ Smokewind screamed at her mate and brothers, who arrived, ready to help chase him. They halted near the fencing where Furzepelt cowered, and gaped at her. Unable to match Smokewind’s great speed, all the cats stopped to watch Smokewind’s fury. All four Clan leaders stared, exchanging glances, but nobody moved. Onestar glanced Smokewind, and only nodded.


At the hilltop, Smokewind turned on a clawtip, and chased down the former WindClan deputy. She smashed into a desperate Harespring at the halfbridge, and before his body barely struck the wood, she snapped him up by the scruff of the neck. Without a slowdown in stride, Smokewind flew to the end of the wooden structure, massive paws pounding, dragging and bouncing Harespring on the icy wood, ignoring his screaming and hissing. Her fangs broke skin and she tasted his blood in her mouth, taking satisfaction in it. She skidded to a halt on the very edge of the bridge, and, with a twist of her head, flung Harespring out onto the lake. Skin tore free of her teeth, and she watched, heaving for breath. He screeched in terror, flying through the air, then hit the lake with a thud. His head thwacked against the hard ice beneath the slush, and he slid along the surface like fresh kill, until the slush covered him, stopping his momentum. He lay motionless, bleeding from the back of his neck.

Furzepelt stood up near the fences lining the Horseplace, eyes wide in astonishment and fear. Smokewind looked back at her, fangs bared, eyes blazing, pelt bristling until she resembled a bear from the land across the Great Waters. Furzepelt dropped to the ground, in complete submission from afar.

“Help me.” Kyestorm gasped for air. Demonstreak and Phantomstrike left the terrified Furzepelt, and hurried down the hill. Smokewind panted, her whole body trembling from exertion, and watched her siblings, clanmates and father pull her mother from the trap. Demonstone galloped over to Kyestorm, his golden eyes ablaze. Bluefrost hopped from tussock to tussock until she sat close. Demonstone reached over and grasped Smokewind’s mother by the scruff and pulled. The mud yanked back. His muscles rippled under his thick pelt as he hauled backward, and Kyestorm kicked her legs, but the muck held her in place like cement.

“Its gonna kill me!” Kyestorm wailed. “Help! My kits!”

“Kits?? Kyemama’s pregnant?” Smokewind mewled, and her legs quivered. A stab of fury sparked some adrenaline into her exhausted body, but she stayed still, unable to move a step, realizing she almost killed a Clan member. She gasped for breath, and her heart raced. Slowly, she recovered, watching her family and Clans rescue her mother from the mud’s deadly grasp. She growled, her guilt evapoarting. "No, she mewed. "He deserved it for almost killing Kyemama."

“Kyemama, relax everything,” Bluefrost said, drawing Smokewind's full attention. “ Splay your toes a few times, then paddle your feet very slowly, like you’re swimming.”

Kyestorm obeyed and to Smokewind’s relief, the swimming motion and her father’s strength released the mud’s hold on her mother with each tug he took. Indiclaw grasped Kyestorm’s nape right beside her father, and helped to pull. Bluefrost pushed, with leverage from big blue hind paws planted firmly on the tussock behind the mudhole. Troutleap nimbly jumped up beside her to help. Phantomstrike amd Demonstreak joined their sister on the tussock, obeying her every command. Their enormous paws joined Bluefrost’s and Troutleap’s and they pushed. Demonstone and Indiclaw pulled. Kyestorm’s forelegs broke free of the trap in a spray of muck and a resounding pop. She hooked her claws in the exposed grass clumps, and hauled herself out of the hole and lay still, gasping for air.

Smokewind saw the gashes furrowing her mother’s beautiful red tabby face, and she growled deep in her chest, glancing at the unmoving lump of fur on the lake, suddenly not giving a mouse tail about breaking the warrior Code to save Kyemama.

“Kyemama!” Indiclaw cried, Snowsquall at her side. Most of ShadowClan stood behind her. “Who did this? Who slashed you face?”

“Harespring,” Kyestorm answered in a gravelly snarl. “I hope he’s dead!”

Kyestorm staggered to her feet, and moved slowly, to join Smokewind on the bridge. She leaned her head against her daughter’s chest. Smokewind purred and licked her mother’s head.

“Thank you, thank you, my beautiful, swift, daughter.” she purred raggedly, shivering, with mud covering everything except her back. Her tail hung limp, soaked with icy muck.

“I heard your first hiss of anger and saw you from up on the hill. I sounded the alarm call and came to you as fast as I could run. That piece of crowfood jumped off you when he saw me coming closer!” Smokewind inhaled a sobbing breath, licking the mud and blood off of Kyestorm’s face. “But I was almost too late! ”

“Come now,” Gentleoak, Smokewind’s brown tabby brother, and a ThunderClan medicine cat, spoke up, pushing his way forward, amber eyes stern. “We have to get Kyemama home and in the medicine den. She’s carrying kits.”

“What about him?” Oatclaw asked, eyes narrowed, as he walked up beside Smokewind. He pointed his tail at Harespring, overriding the surprised murmurs of delight at the news of Kyestorm’s pregnancy.

“I’ll take him back to camp,” Kestrelflight answered. “If he’s alive, we care for him. If he’s dead, we bury him.”

“He deserves no warrior’s vigil,” Kyestorm snarled suddenly. “He and Furzepelt tried to kill me and my kits!”

“He deserves banishment or death,” Bramblestar snapped, uncharacteristically harsh. He stepped up beside Kyestorm, and met Onestar’s gaze.

“I agree,” Onestar nodded, glancing at Smokewind. “But allow us to bring him back to camp and deal with him, and his accomplice.” Onestar raised his voice. “Furzepelt!”

The terrified she-cat crept down the slope to Onestar, shaking, ears flat, fear scent radiating from her like stench off carrion. Smokewind growled deep in her chest, anger flaring, despite her tired legs. Furzepelt dropped and exposed her stomach to Kyestorm and Smokewind.

“Please! I’m so sorry! I didn’t know you carry kits!” Furzepelt babbled in desperation. “I’d never ever kill kits! Don’t kill me!”

“Give me good reason why not?” Smokewind stepped up to Furzepelt and planted a huge black paw on the she-cat’s belly. She spread her long toes, revealing white tufts, and unsheathed wicked claws, poking them into the she-cat’s belly. She struggled not to rip open the she-cat’s stomach. Furzepelt wet herself, and wailed.

“He was deputy! I was loyal to him, wanting to be his mate one day.” Furzepelt lost control of her bowels in terror. “I don’t now! I’m sorrrrryyyyyyyyy!”

“Ugh.” Smokewind withdrew her paw, and grimaced with loathing. “Glad you two never mated and had kits! We need warriors, not fox-hearted cowards.”

“If you are truly sorry,” Onestar growled. “Then you will not only take care of the elders for moons to come, but be at Smokewind’s beck and call for seasons to come. She meows, you leap. Understood?”

“Yes,” Furzepelt squeaked like a scared kit, and Smokewwind slanted her ears back, liking the idea of Furzepelt as her subservient apprentice.

“Then get up, and clean yourself,” Onestar commanded. “Get back to camp and tend the elders. Nightcloud, please escort Furzepelt to camp.”

“Yes, Onestar,” Nightcould wrinkled her nose, then gave Smokewind an approving glance. but walked back to WindClan camp with Furzepelt, who stopped often to groom herself. Nightcloud refused to share tongues, and waited with flattened ears, until the disheveled she-cat decided to keep walking.

“He is still alive,” Kestrelflight announced, dragging a sodden Harespring up the shore and deposited him at the edge of the bridge. Smokewind growled, her entire body trembling. “He’s out cold. I can’t in good conscience, just leave him to freeze to death.”

“If that ice cracked, he’d be just where I wanted him,” Smokewind snapped, baring her teeth, energy returning to her body. “The piece of rotten nasty stinking crow-food he was.”

“Sister,”Gentleoak interrupted, and a glint off humor swirled in his amber yes. “If he does come to, he may not be the same cat he was. He may have brain damage, or physical handicaps. Those might be a punishment worse than death or banishment. Let Kestrelflight take him.” Gentleoak turned to look at Bramblestar. “If you agree?”

Bramblestar nodded, a scowl on his face. Smokewind gazed at her brother a long moment, then flattened her fur. Her tail deflated, and she looked down at her unconscious enemy.

“Fine, take him.” Smokewind curled her lip, meeting Kestrelflight’s gaze. “But if he ever speaks ill of, or tries to hurt Kyemama again, he dies.”

“Agreed,” Onestar nodded, then glanced at Crowfeather. “Escort them home and get him in the medicine den. When he wakes, he has much to answer for.”

“Yes, he does,” Crowfeather nodded, and moved off.

“If he ever is a problem ever again to you, your clanmates, or your kin,” Onestar said, leveling his gaze on Smokewind. “ He is yours to do with as you wish.”

Smokewind responded with a purr of approval, nodding at her Clan Leader. Kyestorm moved past Smokewind to the end of the broken bridge, and shook out her thick fur. Yowls of surprise echoed over the lake as those closest to her moved hastily out of the rain of muck. Her thick fur stuck out in, and the breeze sliced its way past the wet clumps. She shivered, and coughed, spitting out mucous and mud. Smokewind flattened her ears, anger at Harespring returning in a rush.

“We gotta get you home,” Demonstone said. “Before you catch green cough.”

“Come on, Kyemama,” Phantomstrike pressed against her side. “Let’s go.”

Indiclaw dashed up to Kyestorm, uncharacteristically demonstrative, rubbing her face on Kyestorm’s and licked the furrows on her mother’s face that just missed the eyes. Smokewind gazed at Indiclaw in surprise, but said nothing to her cantankerous sister. Indiclaw flashed her a feline smile, before burying her face in their mother’s wet ruff.

“I love you, Kyemama,” she mewed, then turned and returned to Rowanstar, and moved off with ShadowClan. Rowanstar caught Smokewind’s gaze, eyes solemn, and he nodded. Indiclaw glanced back several times, and Smokewind raised her tail over her back in salute. Smokewind caught sight of RiverClan vanishing into the swamp. Bluefrost paused to look back, waving her bottlebrush tail, then followed her clanmates. The Clans slowly drifted apart, going back to their camps.

The sun balanced on the treetops, and the slush crunched underfoot as temperatures plummeted below freezing as WindClan veered off toward home. Smokewind paused before following her clanmates. She waved her tail in a farewell to everyone, before bounding up the hill toward WindClan’s camp, satisfied her mother nestled in safe paws. Up ahead, Kestrelflight disappeared into camp with Harespring;s limp form.

“Smokewind should have killed him on the spot,” Slightfoot growled. “He’s been nothing but a mouse-brained fool since that day we met your mother on patrol.”

“He sure has been a fluffbrain,” Weaselfur meowed, a smile closing his eyes. “But Smokewind made a cat fly today.”

“Too bad the ice didn’t break when he came in for the landing,” Smokewind grumbled.

“Don’t worry,” Gorsetail chortled, before his features turned serious. “He’s never going to be the same.”

“True,” Breezepelt added. “Harespring has feared you since he almost botched your deerhunt. You put the fear of StarClan in him today! And almost sent him there.”

“If they’d take him.” Smokewind joined in the feline laughter which echoed over the lake, exchanging glances with her mate. Oatclaw gazed at her with pride.

“I knew you were special the day we met,” he purred. “Yeah, when cats fly! Does this mean he’ll actually catch a Roe deer one day? Because there has never been a cat in all the Clans that flies like you, Smokewind, a true WindClan warrior with wings on her paws !”

“If Harespring ever catches a Roe deer, as StarClan is my witness, I’ll sprout real wings and fly like an eagle!” Smokewind purred with mirth, and followed her clanmates into camp, looking forward to a big meal and a good night’s sleep.

Enraged, Kyestorm plunged ahead across the ice, racing to cut the thieves off. Her thundering paws hit soft ice beneath the slush a foxlength from shore, and she thrust her legs forward to stop. Her momentum carried her ahead, and she slid along, breaking through into a pool of thick, sticky, nasty muck.

Kyestorm uttered a yowl of dismay, and scrambled, but her paws and legs stuck fast, with mud up to her belly. The muck slurped and squelched, holding her in a firm grasp, soaking into her thick pelt. She gasped for breath, as Harespring and Furzepelt stalked toward her, eyes baleful, jaws split in pleased grimaces. She bared her teeth in fury, yanking herself against the mud, which sucked at her body relentlessly. She realized they planned this, trapping her like a mouse in a warrior’s jaws.

“Cowards!” she snarled in fury, twitching her legs. Cold seeped into her paw and legs, creeping up her limbs. Harespring advanced, bristling, eyes gleaming with malice.

“Yes, yes, for many sunrises we fussed with this little hole,” Harespring sneered.

“Trickery! Cowardice! You betray the warrior code of honor,” Kyestorm hissed in outrage.

“No, we rid the clans of you!” Harespring jeered, balancing on a tussock, and reached out with a forepaw. Kyestorm snapped her jaws, trying to catch his paw in her teeth. She missed, and his paw slapped down on her head, shoving her muzzle into the mud. Alarm shot through her and she jerked her head free, realizing her total vulnerability. She railed at herself, for allowing such mousebrains to trick her. Harespring pushed her whole face in the mud, and uttered a guttural growling guffaw.

“This is for the sand in my eye!”

Kyestorm attempted to hiss, but inhaled gritty thick mud. Her entire body convulsed with terror, and something kicked in her belly, sending another wave of shock through her. Kits! That sure knowledge lanced through her, and she flung her head back in desperation, closing her eyes as Harespring’s claws raked her face. She shrieked to the skies, hoping someone might hear her.

“Nobody will get here in time,” Harespring yowled in glee, and jumped on her back, shoving her head down with both paws. She screamed again, but her voice cut off. She flattened her ears, but icy muddy water trickled in. Her kits kicked, reacting to the threat, and Kyestorm reared again, desperate to save herself and her kits, but with every move, the mud crept higher on her body. Defeated and exhausted, Kyestorm sagged under Harepring.

Suddenly, she spotted Smokewind racing like a deer across the lake, and weight lifted from her back. Slush and ice shards flew up behind the black smoke Maine Coon warrior, sparkling in the late after-noon-high sun. Exhaling in relief, Kyestorm watched Smokewind barrel across the open land, snow spraying like a huge tail in her wake, as help arrived, just in time, on the huge paws and long legs of her swift daughter.

Rattlesnake heaved a great sigh and started, "I was what I consider at this point in time to be a young tom. I was still coming into my powers and I was in...unpleasant company. My group was wild and uncontrollable; I was leader.

One day a group of my cats attacked a family of loners that were living in the area. I knew nothing about the attack and didn't learn about it until they came back to camp with blood on their fur.

When a new cat came and asked if she could join our group I knew almost right away that she was one of the loners. My cats had chased her family away from there home and this cat's mother was now very hurt. Knowing this cat would try to overthrow my leadership I let her in anyway. After all, what was one more disloyal cat in my group.

But as she slowly started to fit into my group I noticed how she had started to look at me. A look that I could not return.

She had fallen in love.

Now we were working together, her having realized that my hold over my cats was weak and the attack was not my fault. She traveled with me and one day she met a cat that would soon change my life and destroy all chance of her staying with me.

I the forest she found Dream.

He joined my group and suddenly my hold was stronger when he was around. He was amazing. He enchanted me. He was kind and willing to listen.

He became my everything.

And suddenly the she-cat was the odd one out. She was left alone. I could never return the love she had felt for me. And suddenly any friendship I had had with her was...broken.

And she left. Alone. Hurt."

Rattlesnake turned his head away, "I had known when she first joined that she had been pregnant. Her mate long gone from her life. Maybe I was his replacement. Maybe she really loved me. But rumors I now hear say she has taken to calling the kit mine. She named her Will. And she will have more power then any cat I will ever know."

Mapleshade stared ahead at the Dark Forest. She had been holding on for a very long time now, waiting for the moment to strike the Clans for revenge. Everyone treated her wrongly, when all she tried to do was to love. When she had been exiled from her own Clanmates, she began to plot her revenge on them, and her revenge on her former mate, Appledusk.

Appledusk kept her mind occupied for so many moons before she discovered the lies about him. But when the medicine cat, Ravenwing, figured out the truth about her kits' father, her Clan exiled her, and Appledusk wanted nothing to do with her when she went to RiverClan. He had blamed her for her kits' deaths, and she felt betrayed. All this time, she believed that he loved her, but it was all a lie.

The Dark Forest wanderer remembered seeing a cat called Reedshine at the Gatherings when she tried to reach her former mate. She envied the RiverClan warrior, the cat who wanted to have another litter of his kits. Mapleshade remembered giving birth to her own kits, Patchkit, Petalkit and Larchkit, but they all drowned in the river when she tried to take them into a new home.

Mapleshade stared at her pale paws. She can now see the ground through herself. She knew that her time is nearly over. She held on for so many years, only to have her goals uncompleted. She wanted to hurt the Clans, but she failed to do so. She never finished them.

But, even though she failed to succeed, she did want to see her kits, one last time.

Mapleshade turned and headed for StarClan, ignoring her weak muscles that were screaming for her to stop and rest, so she could fade in peace. I cannot leave, she thought. I have to see my kits one last time. No matter what she went through, or what she did, she will always love her kits. They were the most precious beings that ever appeared to her in her life. Before she dies, she wants them to know that she loves them with all her heart.

Mapleshade panted as she finally reached StarClan. She glanced over her shoulder and stared at her pelt, which was glittering with the stars on her fur. Mapleshade curled her lip. She hated this Clan, the Clan she put so much faith into, and only ended up betraying her. She believed in the warrior code and StarClan, that they would both protect her and her kits when she told the truth, but that belief shattered her heart, making her lose everything, and her loved ones. The fools who believed in StarClan and the warrior code were weak. She felt pleased that she lived in the Dark Forest during the rest of her afterlife. But she knew that her kits lived here, so Mapleshade had no choice.

The orange and white cat sat down, her legs trembling a bit from weakness and wrapped her white, fluffy tail around herself and patiently waited for the kits to arrive and see her.

To her surprise, her former mate, Appledusk, arrived. Mapleshade flattened her ears and bared her teeth into a snarl when her former mate kept padding toward her. What's he doing here? she thought with disgust. She wanted nothing to do with him, or any member in ThunderClan. She only wanted to see her kits.

"Mapleshade." Appledusk's eyes were cold when he stared at her, his voice icy. "What are you doing here?"

Mapleshade returned his glare. You have no right to feel any bitterness against me. You lied to me and blamed me for my kits' deaths. You didn't even ask me their names. You betrayed me! But she kept her jaws shut from blurting out all of her hatred toward her former mate. She didn't want to lose the only chance to see her babies, no matter how much she hated him.

"I want to see my kits," Mapleshade hissed. "If you will let me."

Appledusk hesitated for a moment, then stared at his former mate. He seemed to notice that she is very pale now, and Mapleshade blinked with surprise when he nodded.

"Fine. Stay here." Appledusk headed deep into the territory while Mapleshade patiently waited for her babies to arrive. After a few moments, her heart swelled with love when three tiny, helpless kittens came up to her.

"My babies.." Mapleshade reached out with her paw, but one of her kits, Patchkit, flinched, and backed away with his tail tucked underneath himself. Mapleshade felt a prickle of worry. "What is wrong, my love? Have they been kind to you here?"

Patchkit didn't respond, looking at her with a terrified gaze in his eyes. Mapleshade felt alarmed when her two other kits were looking at her in horror too. "My dears? What is wrong? You can tell me anything."

"They fear you, Mapleshade."

Mapleshade turned to Appledusk and curled her lips. "What right do you have to be here? I am trying to have alone time with my kits during my final moments."

"You're the one with no rights here," Appledusk pointed out. "But I see no harm in you wanting to see your kits."

Mapleshade felt a puff of laughter. I chose the Dark Forest, you fool. I want no part of this Clan. You all betrayed me!

Mapleshade turned to see her three kits. But not my babies. They have done nothing to me. When the fading cat tried to pad even closer to her babies, they shuffled away from her. Mapleshade frowned. "Patchkit, what is wrong? I am your mother!" Patchkit always seemed closer to her than the rest of her kits. So she didn't understand why he kept moving away from her now.

"I'm scared," Patchkit whimpered, backing away from her. "I don't want you to hurt me."

Mapleshade frowned. "I wouldn't hurt you, love. Come closer." She leaned forward, but Patchkit hid behind Appledusk. Mapleshade felt a stab of alarm. What was wrong with her kits? Didn't they love her, like how she loved them?

"Mama hurt other cats," Petalkit whimpered. "She killed cats."

Mapleshade blinked. "I wanted to avenge you! And I have! You were in my dreams, telling me that you needed my help. And now I have given you that help!"

"That wasn't your kits, Mapleshade," Appledusk told her. "That was you and your own mind. Your kits would never want death upon those other cats. They were all nothing but a hallucination."

"I saw them!" Mapleshade mewed, desperately. "They had to be free! And you all treated us terribly! You blamed me for their deaths and wanted nothing to do with me!"

She felt a stab of satisfaction when Appledusk flinched. Was that guilt in his gaze? But he mewed, "You caused the Dark Forest battle and many lives have been lost because of you. You killed many living cats and cats who have done nothing to hurt you. Do you really think your kits would feel safe or trust you again after this?"

Mapleshade stumbled forward, feeling a trace of fear rising in her pelt. "They would trust me," she hissed. "I am their mother and I love them. The Clans needed to be punished."

Finally, Patchkit came over to her, and Mapleshade felt a surge of hope. Was he going to forgive her after all?

"You've hurt innocent cats," Patchkit murmured. His voice surprised her because he sounded so wise, as if he had grown older since he died. "You should have let go of that grudge, Mapleshade, and moved on to a healthier, happier live. We were fine in StarClan."

"How could I have moved on, knowing what everyone has done to me?" Mapleshade argued, feeling her desperation rising.

"Cats like Crookedstar moved on and didn't hold a grudge against you." Now it was Larchkit who spoke.

Mapleshade began to feel herself growing weak and she collapsed onto her belly, her chin laying on the ground. She tried to stand up, but sleep began to take over her body. But she didn't want to leave. She had to spend her last moments with her kits.

"Please," Mapleshade pleaded, reaching her paw forward to touch Patchkit.

But, to her horror, Patchkit turned away with the rest of his siblings, Appledusk leaving behind them. But the StarClan warrior glanced over his shoulder, glaring at her. "You should have never kept a grudge against the Clans, Mapleshade," he hissed. Then the StarClan warrior turned and headed away from her.

Mapleshade felt her heart crack. Her kits have left her, left her for their father. They were scared of her because what she has done. She will die here alone, in the Clan she hated so much, with no cat to love her, no cat to comfort her or be there for her during her final moments.

I have truly lost everything. I have nothing to live for now.

The Dark Forest warrior felt her eyes closing with fatigue, and she was beginning to lose conscious. Mapleshade let out a sigh and blackness surged through her and began to disappear entirely. The orange and white cat was gone.

How can you love someone who hurts you with the color of his eyes?

There is something; Crowfeather isn't able to place exactly what, about his kit, that becomes familiar to him at the worst of moments. It's the amber hue - the vivid shade, the gentle light - tender and wondrous in his young age. The kit is the sort of painful constant he has tried to avoid - has avoided - for months, as one might avoid flames, tight spaces, or sunlight. It doesn't take much more than a single look from him.

At these moments, Crowfeather feels as though he is living in a world of ice. Any movement had been frozen out of him, and any breath would be enough to drive thousands of ice shards through his skin. He becomes painfully aware of how destructive is the life he leads; a life of constant restraint, of minute control, of erratic heartbeats and an unpredictable, terrible need when he sees her. He feels himself slipping in between his own claws. He must hold on all the tighter. His kit makes that necessary all but daily. The kit forces him deeper in.

The child stared at him with eagerness and curiosity once, waiting for him to be like the other fathers of WindClan and indulge in the sparse moments that he's able to spend with his kit, share a mouse or two and even teach him a few battle moves behind mama's back. Crowfeather could never look him in the eye at these times.

His kit hates him, of course.

He is young, and there isn't much he knows. His beginnings were flawed, and his future is practically nonexistent. He fails to comprehend the power he has by his mere being, over this inscrutable, frigid, dark-clad tom that he calls his father, there to be blamed and hated. Unaware, as he very well should be, that there are nightmares behind those eyes.

But he cannot slip into weakness again, in front of his family and Clanmates. He has no time to maintain the fragile border that separates him from a loveless nothingness. He wants his kit away from him.

And so he hurts his boy. He turns a blind eye to success, and berates him for his failures. When the child speaks, he does not listen, and so he does not hear. And it was his mate that filled their child with spite meant for him over a tryst settled long ago. He knew that it was his fault, however, that he was never there when he was needed, and though he acknowledges it, he doesn't bother putting in effort to change the fact. He can't.

Crowfeather angers and alienates, and it hurts. He has always been much better at that than anything else. It's easy, and it works, because his boy now hates him.

He remembers his son running after him one day as he walks off, desperate, with a familiar angry edge to his young voice as he demands - pleads - for his father to, for once in his life, look at me, in the eye! Don't ignore me!

And as he does, he regrets it. In his boy's eyes, there is a flame, as well as a desperation, need, and fragility that a cat like his son would hardly ever know. An expression and a maelstrom of emotions that didn't belong to him, but her. Crowfeather feels his composure diminish.

The child looks at him and sees empty eyes, and Crowfeather wills himself to see nothing back - but that doesn't matter, of course. Even when the wall cracks, and he feels warm blood and breath inside of him, he seems to see, faintly, something short of a ghost within the tom. Something that had once been different with him, to him. Even then, tighter now, his throat constricts, and he cannot, will it as he may, open his mouth to speak to his son and say any one of those words.

You look so much like her.

"Breezepelt, don't stare at me like that. Ever again."

My name is Dream and I'm looking down at a clan that will fall. Such a small clan, compared to our numbers. It will only be the first to wither under Rattlesnake’s army.

“Today a sun is setting. And out of the night will come a new dawn. Our dawn. I, and many like me, have infiltrated the clans. The first to fall will be Windclan. Dream,” he looked at me and I raise my head to gaze at him. My gray fur stands out against the green grass and my deep blue eyes rival even the sky.

“Yes, sir?” I ask, wondering how I can bring about this new dawn.

Rattlesnake looks at me, his cold dark eyes giving me the courage to stand taller. He expects much from his followers and I wish to give much. “You have served me well dream, and because of this I wish to give you something…when we attack Riverclan I want you to look after Windclan and see that nothing goes amiss. We need those cats if we wish to win over the territory.”

I nodded, understanding the important weight behind his words. Before he can say anything else though I say, “Rattlesnake, sir, I wanted to ask something…” I paused, wondering if he was going to protest or tell me I couldn’t speak. But he didn’t.

“Sir,” I continued. “In honor of this new dawn I wish to change my name. I no longer wish to be called Dream. I wish to be called Nightmare.”

Rattlesnake nodded slowly, understanding, “I see…the sun is setting on the clans, with it comes the night, with the night comes bad dreams, nightmares… Very well, Dream. From now on that shall be your name.”

Late evening settled over a forest and the first stars began to shine as two loners found a place to bed down for the night.

"Mama! Tell me again, tell me about the wild cats!" Fern bounded in circles around her mother, her small tabby tail waving wildy in excitement.

"Alright, alright," her mother purred. "Come settle down for bed and I'll tell you." She finished pawing leaves into a cozy nest at the base of a sheltering oak, and folded up into it.

Fern quickly curled up next to her mother. Her mother began. Fern listened to the stories about the nearby clans of cats and how they were comprised of fierce, loyal warriors, persevering through all trials and braving merciless enemies. She imagined herself as one of them, and the thought made her now-sleepy eyes grow bright again.

"Mama, if anything ever tried to hurt you, I'd turn into a warrior for you. I'd SLASH whatever hurt you! I don't know what I would do without you. That's why I wouldn't even let anything get to you," she mewed, hoping she sounded very bold and caring and that her mother would be proud of her.

"That's very sweet, dear," her mother replied. "But although we would all like to protect those we love from harm, sometimes we can't control what happens. Sometimes bad things happen, and we don't know why. But we have to carry on anyway, and fight like a warrior even after it seems like we've lost all hope. Hope is what gets you through. Every day there is new hope, just like every day the sun rises and brings us new light. Don't ever give up hope, love, and you will always be able to carry on like a warrior." She licked Fern's little ears affectionately, hoping her daughter understood.

Fern nodded, thinking about the warmth of the sun. Did hope feel the same way? Was it bright like the sun too? But before she could ask her mother those questions, she slipped into sleep. That night she dreamed of carrying on hope like a true warrior, defending her mother from all harm, all under the warm, determined glow of the sun.


One moon later~


It had happened so fast. Fern hardly realized what was going on until it was already over.

One moment there was only the darkness and silence of the night, and then so suddenly there was noise and light, stench and hot metal, a giant monster in the way, and then screeching and bumping and oh, the panic, and then it was all over, and everything faded back into silence and darkness, and Fern found herself sobbing into her mother's broken pelt on the edge of the Thunderpath.

Her mother... her sweet, sweet mama. All hurt and small and barely hanging on. They'd just been out hunting at night. This wasn't supposed to happen. Fern felt her insides twist and collapse into a dark pit of fear and grief.

"P-please don't g-go, mama," Fern sobbed into her mother's fur. "You can't go, you can't. Somebody has to help, somebody, oh mama, what am I gonna do without you?" That thought sent her into more sobs, her still-young voice rising almost into squeaks. Her mother was always going to be there. They were both going to be warriors! How was she supposed to do that now? And -- "I wanted to protect you, mama! I'm supposed to be a warrior for you! I can't - "

Her mother cut her off, wheezing out a pained reply. "Dear, dear, hush. Remember when I told you about how sometimes we can't control things, even bad things? Now, listen. When the light fades each night, like now, and just as you feel like all the hope is leaving you now, look up at the stars. They appear every night, right?"

Fern glanced up at the smattering of stars above her. "Yes," she sobbed.

"Do you know what they're doing?" her mother whispered.

"What are they doing?" Fern whispered back, trying to calm her panicked heart and absorb her mother's every word.

"They're reminding you of the countless suns left to rise, the infinite number of hopeful beginnings awaiting you," she coughed feebly, somehow managing a small smile for her daughter. "Now, go and find the clans of cats. They'll take you in, and you'll become a fierce and beautiful warrior. I know you will make me proud. Don't be afraid, my love. I will always be with you, and you will always find hope, just as the sun will always rise again." And with that, she closed her eyes, exhaled one last little breath, and was gone.

Fern pressed into the last of her precious mother's warmth as it faded into the stillness of the night. She still felt the emptiness of the darkness in her heart. But she also made a promise. "I will, mama. I will be your sun. And I will rise for you."~

“In rivers, the water that you touch is the last of what has passed and the first of that which comes; so with present time.” –Leonardo da Vinci

Sometimes, we try to rush things in life. We want to go our own path, but that isn’t an option. Life is like a river; it takes us where we are lead. My life has been an example of that.

The sun was setting as I trekked along, following the winding, dusty path that led to my temporary home. It danced on my silvery-grey pelt, causing illusions and patterns. Shadows were cast all along the ground, as if they were just waking up to celebrate the night. My pawsteps were heavy, and I was tired. It had been a long day, and I was ready to rest. As I passed by scattered trees on the moorland, my blue gaze flickered to the forest, where I once roamed. Now, it seems, that time is gone. As I continue along my solitary journey, I prick my ears for the familiar sound of running water. The Life River… always continuing its course. Despite the recent events that had happened near there, it still went on, as if nothing had happened.

“I’m still haunted by those memories,” I meow out loud, glaring in the direction of the forest. The River did not respond. Flicking my tail in annoyance, I was relieved when I came upon the abandoned Tallbeast barn that I called home. Not bothering to enter my home, I decided to settle near the door and rest. Indeed, the river kept on running, its course not interrupted. Even if it was blocked, it would find a way to navigate and keep on going.

Indeed, the river did not care of Shellblade’s death by the paws of a JumpingClan warrior, nor did it care that I was accused. It kept on running. “You’re like life,” I said out loud, knowing that the river would listen. “You don’t care what happens. You just keep on going and find a way.” The Life River trickled its agreement. Indeed, I needed to follow its path. Forget Shellblade, Rootstar, and RunningClan. Forget Shellblade’s unborn kits that rested inside of me. Even forget Dullfur and my plot for revenge. I was going to run like the river. I would navigate life without being stopped. I would stumble, I would cry, I would feel anger. I would eventually die, and my course of life be put on hold. But I would not stop. I am Riverheart, and I am unstoppable.

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.

Before you die, I want to tell you about my fort, my secret place.

I found it when I was an apprentice and I was angry at my mentor and I ran away. In a far corner of our territory where nobody ever really goes, right where the ravine ends, there is an old dead tree with only the thickest branches left and no leaves at all. There is a great big hollow if you climb up a little bit and that is where I like to hide. There are also holes under the roots which are fun to play in and you can pretend that badgers live there. It was the perfect spot for a fort, a secret place.

I called it my fort because I thought of all sorts of things I could build to make it more protected. Whenever I had a chance I would go and work on my fort. Soon it became perfect to me but I still worked on it because it was fun to have a fort, a secret place.

Nobody ever found out about it. I never told anyone where it was, not my littermates or my parents or my mentor or even your father. If he had asked I would have told him because I love him, but he knew it was special to me so he never asked. That is why my fort is called my secret place.

When you were still growing in my belly I found a thing that smelled like it had tasty food in it and I went into it to get at the food. There was food but then there was a loud clanging sound and I was trapped. Then the Twolegs came and took me away and squeezed me and prodded me and stuck sharp things in me, and oh how I wished I could flee to my fort, my secret place.

I would much rather that you were born in that old hollow tree than in the Twolegplace but there was no choice. I was taken away from the place where I was poked and we lived in a Twoleg nest that was comfortable but not home. When you were strong enough to travel I picked you up in my mouth and ran away from the Twolegs, wanting so much to get back to the Clan and my fort, my secret place.

Do you remember coming to the camp for the first time and seeing your father? He was so happy to see us safe and he loved you right when he saw you because he knew you belonged to both of us. Your father was scared of losing us again so I couldn't leave camp till you became an apprentice. Even though I knew staying in camp made your father feel better I missed my fort, my secret place.

I could have gone to see the lonely but happy spot where the ravine ended and nobody went when you became an apprentice, except I didn't dare go. My mother was sick and so was my sister. My brother had died before I was taken by the Twolegs, and to let myself grieve in that time I went to my fort, my secret place.

You were busy being an apprentice and you didn't understand why I was so scared about my mother and sister. Now you probably do and I wish you didn't. My mother and sister died of the sickness and then my father did too. Next came your father and if it could have kept him from getting sick I would have taken him to my fort, my secret place.

He was too ill to move and when he died I wanted to run and hide in the hollow in the old dead tree but I couldn't leave you. I promise I will never leave you, even if all the Clan dies before you do I will never abandon you to die alone. You are my only family now and that is the one thing lacking in my fort, my secret place.

When I was an apprentice and even a young warrior I would go there whenever I was sad or angry or even joyful sometimes. I went there when my brother died and in the old, dead wood of the tree I felt like he was still there. Maybe it is silly to think like that since he is in the stars and not in a tree but truly I felt like my brother was in my fort, my secret place.

If you die before the rest of the Clan I will probably go there even though I am the only cat fit to hunt anymore. I am sorry to tell you this and it breaks my heart to hear myself say it but I know that nothing can stop the Clan from dying around me. I will be the last one left, all alone in my fort, my secret place.

I know I never showed anyone where it is before but if you weren't sick and dying I would take you there because you are all I have left. I love you so much and I would take your place if I could. But oh, my dear kit, I am powerless and so I will go to my fort, my secret place.

I hope there is something like it in StarClan so you can see what I mean. When I lie in the hollow in the tree I can hear the birds singing and I can smell the rotting leaves that have gathered in the hollow and I can see a little black beetle crawling across the wood in front of my nose. There is nothing so peaceful that I know of as falling asleep curled up in my fort, my secret place.

Your breathing grows harder and harder and I can see the pain in your eyes. Just listen to what I say and maybe you won't have to think about the pain as much. This is all I can do to help you even though I would give up anything to help you more. If it would save you I would even give up my fort, my secret place.

Just a little longer, my dear kit. Look into my eyes as I tell you I love you. Look into my eyes and I will tell you again about my fort, my secret place.


Author's notes: Writing is a funny business. I wrote this last night when I was sleepy, and I like it a lot better than some of the one-shots I've written when I was more alert. I think it's because when I'm tired I don't overthink things as much. This was originally just going to be an apprentice soliloquizing about his little hideout, but it somehow morphed into a mother's goodbye instead. I got the idea when I saw my dog curled up on the pile of blankets behind the couch, and I thought he looked like he was in his own little fort, a secret place.

{ 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.

.
.
.

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.

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?

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.

"Doom, death, destruction, and darkness. Doom, I say. Doooom!" —The old rabbit, Mattimeo, p. 314



"We're all that's left now." The solemn meow rang across the rocks overlooking the dead forest.

That's what it was, dead. The trees were bare and blackened, and the undergrowth had vanished.

Five cats stood looking over the ruins of their home. The Night Claws had once been powerful and fearsome, but no more. They were gone, with only a pawful of cats who had escaped the roaring wildfire alive.

These five cats had, through various circumstances, managed to make it out onto the black rocks where no trees grew, and there they had weathered the fierce heat, intensified by the fire nearby. Though they had tried to burrow into snowy patches, all of them still managed to come away with sunburned ears.

Sparrowhunter, Icerunner, and Ravencatcher had been out hunting, as was their duty. Wrenwatcher had been out on a patrol, making sure that the coyotes really had left. And Pinesayer had been searching for herbs to add to the store back at camp. They had each smelled the smoke, seen it rising—and realized there was no way they could make it home, based on where the fire was moving.

Every one of them was burdened with guilt for abandoning their friends and family to the inferno, but what could they have done? Wrenwatcher's fellow patroller, Stoneguard, had run to help the cats back at camp. He'd never returned.

It was Pinesayer who had spoken those somber words. His green eyes were full of grief and exhaustion as he gazed at the wreckage of the forest.

"What will we do now?" Sparrowhunter mewed plaintively. The small tabby was the youngest of the surviving cats, having only received her full name a quarter moon ago. She looked haunted by the ordeal she had just endured.

Automatically, the others turned their eyes to Wrenwatcher, who was the oldest and wisest of them. She likely would have retired from her duties in a season or two, as her joints couldn't handle long patrols like they used to anymore. Her long life experience made it natural that others should treat her as their new leader.

"We won't go back to camp," the brown tabby she-cat stated firmly. "That would be too terrible to see, and we must not disturb it now—it the final resting place of the Night Claws."

"But we're still Night Claws, though, aren't we?" Ravencatcher challenged, her eyes flashing. "We have hunters, and a guard, and a healer. We may need to find more cats, but we aren't gone yet!"

It was Pinesayer who answered, a grim tone in his voice. "Where will we find other cats, Ravencatcher? The only place there might be cats is the Twolegplace, and no kittypet is dumb enough to wander around outside where there are hawks and coyotes and bobcats. Face it, we were an anomaly in this land. The Night Claws only existed because we were a large group."

Sparrowhunter winced each time he said "were". The thought of the Night Claws being truly gone was terrifying. But their future certainly looked bleak.

Wrenwatcher nodded solemnly to affirm the healer's words.

Icerunner shook his head in disbelief. "Are you really going to give up just like that? We can eke out a living here, I know it."

"Do you really know it, or do you just hope?" Wrenwatcher murmured doubtfully. Icerunner could give no reply other than to lash his tail.

The cats sat together silently for quite some time, until Icerunner could no longer bear it. He burst out angrily, "I'm not going to sit here waiting to die! I'll hunt, if anyone else wants to eat!"

Wrenwatcher settled herself more firmly into a dip in the jumbled black rocks and shook her head. Pinesayer and Ravencatcher said nothing, just huddled closer together. Sparrowhunter glanced at the others, then timidly padded forward.

"I'll go with you, Icerunner."

The skeletal trees cast long shadows in the rays of the setting sun. Sparrowhunter shuddered as she and Icerunner trotted between the trees, her heart aching for the scorched pines, and more sharply, her lost campmates. There was not a scent of prey in the air, only the harsh odor of burned plants and... Best not to think about it.

Icerunner's tail flicked with anger at first, but soon it stopped and hung low, the tip almost brushing the ground. He was just as affected by the destruction as his companion. The white tom said nothing, but he was plainly devastated.

It was all Sparrowhunter could do to keep from reaching out and touching the proud tom's pelt with her muzzle in a comforting gesture. She knew he wouldn't appreciate her recognition of what he would term as weakness.

Search as they might, there simply was no prey to be found, and so as it neared midnight, they trekked back to their friends, who were sound asleep in a tight cluster for protection against the bitter cold of the night. Bellies rumbling with hunger, the two young cats curled up with the others and fell into an uneasy sleep.

~

Pinesayer's and Wrenwatcher's pessimism began to fulfill itself. Although the cats had discussed venturing out into the rockfield and finding one of the tunnels to live in, it just didn't seem feasible to trek all over the rough stones more than was necessary. All of the cats already had raw, abraded pads from looking for snow patches to get water from, but Ravencatcher insisted that their paws would toughen up in time.

None of the others cared to test that theory, so instead they managed to erect a sort of wall with the stones down where they were to act as a camp boundary. They had a steady supply of water from the snow, but food was a problem.

Icerunner and Sparrowhunter had spent nearly all of the past few days and nights searching for prey, and so far had managed to only turn up one wren. Ravencatcher helped sometimes, but she was more interested in finding a camp that would be easier to defend.

Wrenwatcher grew weaker and weaker from the combination of exposure to the searing heat of the day, and the lack of food. Pinesayer spent nearly all of his time looking after her, but without herbs, there wasn't much he could do besides bring snow for her to lap at.

Today, finally, the three hunters combined brought down a nutcracker. The large black-and-gray bird would provide more than just a bite for each of them. Sparrowhunter, who'd made the actual kill, was extremely pleased with herself.

They were just about to take it back when a sudden growl stopped them in their tracks. A skinny coyote crept out from behind a rock, plainly interested in the fresh-kill.

Ravencatcher knew they wouldn't be able to outrun it, for although the coyote was obviously weak, so were they. There was only one option. "Run!" the black she-cat shrieked urgently. "I'll hold it off."

"Ravencatcher, no!" Sparrowhunter wailed. "Let's leave the bird and run!"

"No way," Ravencatcher hissed. "Wrenwatcher needs that food. Who knows when we'll find something that good again? I'll... I'll catch up to you later..." Her voice trailed away, as she knew that last statement was a lie.

Icerunner nudged Sparrowhunter. "It's now or never. Let's go."

"But—"

"We need to start moving, or Ravencatcher's sacrifice will be for nothing." His yellow eyes seemed to burn into Sparrowhunter's amber.

With another anguished look at the black she-cat, who was stalking aggressively toward the coyote, Sparrowhunter nodded.

Icerunner snatched up the nutcracker in his jaws, and together the two hunters fled, with the yowls and barks of the fight sounding in their ears.

~

It was with great sorrow that Sparrowhunter and Icerunner reported the death of Ravencatcher; poor Sparrowhunter was so shaken that she did little more than add an emphatic comment here and there while Icerunner related the tale.

But the hardest blow was yet to come.

In spite of Ravencatcher's brave sacrifice to bring a good meal to Wrenwatcher, it wasn't enough. Just one day later, the last guard of the Night Claws died in a spasm of coughing. The smoke had damaged her old lungs beyond repair, and even a freshly caught meal could not prevent death from visiting the tabby she-cat.

What cruel irony! Sparrowhunter was distraught, even though Pinesayer attempted to soothe her by explaining why Wrenwatcher's death was inevitable.

"Ravencatcher made her own choice," the healer added. "Respect it. And even if Wrenwatcher is dead, that meal gave us a little extra strength to carry on." But the bleak expression on his face betrayed the fact that he didn't believe they would carry on very long.

He was right, of course. In such a harsh environment, with so little prey, three cats just couldn't survive. Especially not when their spirits were utterly crushed by the loss of their whole culture and some of the friends who had made it through the fire.

Sparrowhunter's hope that the Night Claws may yet persevere was dashed when Wrenwatcher died. Before, they still had had one representative of each main rank in the Night Claws. But with Wrenwatcher gone, who would train new guards? The answer, of course, was nobody.

Pinesayer started trying to hunt, but he had never been trained to hunt for anything but herbs, so he failed miserably. He rarely found anything (well, that was the same with Sparrowhunter and Icerunner), but when he did, he always missed it. His technique was all over the place; however, Icerunner decided that the two hunters' time would be better spent hunting rather than teaching the healer to hunt.

One day while Pinesayer was hunting alone, a hungry golden eagle spotted the weak and skinny cat scrambling over the rough black rocks. He didn't even stand a chance. In fact, he didn't even know what hit him when the dark bird plunged from the sky.

The bloodstains on the stones and scraps of fur told enough of the story for Sparrowhunter to realize that their healer friend was gone forever.

That night, as she and Icerunner curled up together in their little rocky shelter, she whispered sadly, "The Night Claws really are gone, aren't they? Without any leaders or healers or guards, we're just two cats all alone..."

"Two cats all alone who will survive, Sparrow. We have to believe that." His yellow eyes were soft as he gazed at the tabby she-cat.

Sparrow. He had called her by her short name, something only close family and mates did. Affection swelled in her heart as she buried her face in his fur. It was so like the proud white tom to never admit defeat.

She was aware of a feeling of rare contentment in spite of the day's tragedy as she drifted off to sleep.

~

The next day, they dared to plan a fragile future together. They would have one last good meal, then set off across the rockfield to find the tunnels. It had been rumored among the Night Claws that one of them opened into a whole different part of the land.

Once they made it into the new place, they would build a den... Hunt... Possibly even raise a family... It all seemed so incredible to Sparrowhunter. Just last night, she had felt such despair, and today—new hope!

They had the phenomenal luck of finding a raven scooping up snow in its beak to get water, and while the bird was focused on its task, they took it down. It was so huge that they couldn't even eat all of it, and had to leave some behind.

The journey across the rockfield was deeply exhausting. They constantly had to adjust their gait to accommodate the uneven terrain, and the sun beating down on their pelts didn't help at all. Their only respite was whenever they reached a patch of snow. Then they would gleefully gobble mouthfuls of it, and once their thirst was quenched, roll in it to cool off.

They reached the highest point at sunset and marveled at the spectacular view. Sparrowhunter was very tired, and her paws hurt like crazy, but she was very happy with the results of the day.

Morning came, and with it, tragedy.

Icerunner jumped onto a rock near the edge of the steep side of the peak and yowled, "This is amazing! I know we will find—"

"Ice!" Sparrowhunter's shriek split the air.

The rock wobbled under the white tom's weight, and suddenly rolled. Both the rock and Icerunner went tumbling down the steep rocky slope.

The brown tabby she-cat scrambled after him as fast as she dared, but she knew it was hopeless from the moment Icerunner came to a stop and never moved. Her pads were bleeding from her race across the jagged rocks, but she didn't care.

"Icerunner..." She crouched by her would-have-been mate and touched her muzzle to his fur. "What will I do without you?" A wild screech of grief tore itself from her throat.

She hadn't just lost a dear cat, she had lost the last cat. Sparrowhunter was all alone.

The little tabby she-cat wandered aimlessly across the rockfield, neither knowing nor caring where she was going. She grew careless and tripped countless times. But what did it matter? There was no one there to notice.

She had lost everything; her world was destroyed.

Her territory.

The Night Claws.

Her fellow survivors.

Icerunner...

Her future.

There was nothing left but death and destruction for a skinny tabby cat alone in this hot, dry, wasteland of a place.

Nothing.

[1]

The lifespan of the island was finite, we all knew that.

Twenty cats living on a small island far, far out to sea - of course we knew what erosion was. Our great great grandparents, the ones who came to the island in the first place after the fabled Twoleg shipwreck, were probably the first cats to discover it. You can't live on an island not a horizon across without noticing how the beaches shrink every storm, how waves nibble away at the low cliffs. There was a tall, limpet-covered rock, quite far out when I knew it, that was at the top of the beach in our ancestors’ day.

The island grew smaller every season, every moon, every day. And I guess we were used to it. We all knew the island would crumble away some day, but that didn't stop the prey running now. It was such an inevitable force that there was no point stopping it - so we ignored it. Lived out our lives in the hope that our generation wouldn't be the one to get it, that the next generation would be the ones to figure out some kind of solution. We shoved the problem to the back of our minds, but few could forget it entirely.

It was surprising, though, how used one got to the idea of almost certain doom.

[2]

The year I was born, at the beginning of new-leaf, the island measured five thousand paces across, end to end. Three thousand if you walked across widthways. It was the first thing they told my father after my mother went into labour: “The kits should be born around sunhigh, and we've lost another couple of paces from the south beach.”

As kits, my two littermates and I memorised the numbers that came back from patrol, begged the older cats for stories about what would happen if the island did collapse into the sea. The answers ranged from the optimistic “Twolegs will come back to rescue us” from our mother; to the gloomy “We're all going to die, stupids” from our crazy old grandfather Garth; to the blithe “Don't worry, darlings, that's not going to happen anytime soon” from almost everyone else. Oddly enough, I found Garth's the most reassuring. At that age, I prized honesty above all things, and I suspected he was the only cat on the island willing to give us a straight answer.

I spent a lot of time with Garth when I was a kit; I was the only tom kit on the island, and quickly grew bored of my sisters’ endless games about dramatic Twoleg rescues and the mysterious mainland. Primrose and Mayflower were always closer to each other than they were to me, anyway. I guess that was natural. But I was the only one who had a special friendship with an adult, and I'd often abandon my sisters’ playing to go and talk with Garth and the other elder, Linnie.

“How's it going, Eagle?” he'd ask. “Thought of any grand schemes lately?”

“Oh, hundreds,” I'd reply. They were mostly about challenging my sisters to races or climbing the huge boulder at the back of camp or sneaking off to visit the sea on my own. “How about you?”

“Hundreds,” Garth would say softly. “Hundreds and thousands and millions. More schemes than can possibly fit on just this one island.”

[3]

All of greenleaf passed in that peaceful fashion, and all of leaf-fall. The copse of trees at the north end of the island gained their new-season colours almost on the same day, a kaleidoscope of fiery reds and oranges and yellows. I was coming up to nine moons old now, old enough to explore outside camp by myself as long as I remembered to bring back some prey, and I spent an entire afternoon lying on my back on the carpet of discarded leaves, marvelling at the brightness and intensity of these new colours. There wasn't much colour on the island, otherwise; the landscape was painted in muted greens and browns, and all us cats’ pelts were black or white or grey.

I still remember the day a piece of Twoleg junk washed up onto the south beach and it was bright raw violet, a colour so rare we barely had a word for it.

I remember thinking, one of the many days I spent in the copse - sometimes with my sisters, sometimes with Garth, but mostly alone - that it was almost the only place on the island where you couldn't see the horizon. Everywhere else was so flat, so open: you could watch a patrol of cats from the other end of the island. It was really a very small island, I thought. I knew Garth shared the same opinion.

It was a small island, and shrinking all the time, but as I said, no-one really gave it that much thought. At least, not until the storm came.

I was with my sisters that day, showing off our fighting moves on the wide expanse of the beach at the southern tip of the island, and despite the wide horizon and empty troubled sea none of us spotted the warning signs that bad weather was about to arrive. Mayflower had just tipped me flat onto the sand during our third bout, and I’d shaken the sand from my fluffy pelt all over her in revenge, and we were all laughing so hard that none of us even noticed that it had begun to rain.

We came so close to not noticing at all, so close to being swept away by the sudden force of the wind and the waves and the grasping undersea currents, so close to being dashed against the western cliffs or sucked beneath the surface and nobody ever knowing what had happened to us.

“Run!” Primrose screamed suddenly, and the fear in her voice was such a strange contrast to the laughter that had been there moments ago that I obeyed her instantly, sprinting forward even before I looked around to see the enormous, peaked wave bearing down on us, high tide multiplied by a thousand. I tasted salt in my mouth, felt the spray on my face and my chest. Breathing hard, I turned and began to run again, my paws slipping in sand and then in mud, my pelt heavy with rain and dragging me down. I could hear Mayflower panting behind me, could hear Primrose -

No, I couldn’t hear Primrose. Couldn’t see her, when I turned round to look. I could see Mayflower looking as well, her amber eyes slits against the lashing rain… I couldn’t see our other sister anywhere. And then I could, and I wished I couldn’t, because she was caught up in the trough of a retreating wave, and her mouth was open, screaming, and I hadn’t heard her, neither of us had, and now it was all too late. We couldn’t go back for her.

[4]

Later, they told us that almost all the south beach had been swallowed by the storm, and some of the lower-lying grasslands above it. One thousand five hundred paces lost.

“There was nothing you could’ve done,” Garth said to me later. “Bad things happen. Cats die. You know how many of us were living on the island when I was born? Forty-two. You know how many of us are living here now?”

For some reason, I didn’t find Garth’s straight-talking as comforting as usual.

One thousand eight hundred paces. That was a lot on an island as small as ours, bringing the remainder to just over three thousand square. Water lapped where grass used to be. The adults were talking about moving the camp further to the north and the west; the dens had been damaged so badly by the storm that moving them wouldn’t take any more work than rebuilding where we were.

There was another storm that same moon, and another the moon after. Not as fierce as the first, but the cliffs were already so damaged that the rock crumbled as soon as the first waves hit. Two and a half thousand square. Two and a half by two.

Suddenly, the steadily receding shoreline stopped being the problem we all pushed to the back of our minds, and started being the problem we all frantically tried to solve.

“You know what, Eagle?” Garth said the day after the third storm, when we were gathering driftwood and washed-up junk from the shoreline to begin repairing the dens yet again. “I think we’re the last of us. The last generations. The ones who’ll live to see it all end.”

[5]

One unexpected upshot of the storm was that I ended up spending a whole lot more time with Mayflower. She’d taken losing Primrose much worse than I had, or even our parents had. I was angry, tear-streaked, guilt-ridden. She was devastated.

It was worse once our father died after a clifftop gave way beneath him.

That leaf-bare, she took to following me places, spending all the time with me that she’d used to spend giggling with Primrose and I’d spent alone. I never had the heart to turn her away. She’d talk a lot, and I’d try to listen, all about our kithoods and Primrose and the world before the storm hit. Sometimes Garth would be there, and he’d chime in with stories about the early days of the island, and Mayflower would seem lulled for once, and we’d be three cats huddled in the copse or on the beach or under the boulder in camp, sharing a small moment of respite from our awful reality.

But mostly it was just me, and her, and her grief, and no matter what I said there was no way to make it better.

I hated the island then, really hated it. It was my home and my prison and the only place I knew and the only place I could ever know, all at once. I’d lie in the copse and stare up at the bare, bare branches just like I’d done in leaf-fall and vow that if I ever could, I would find a way off this forsaken island.

I couldn’t, though.

No-one could.

[6]

Garth was right.

We were the last generations, the last cats ever to see the island before it disappeared for good. All that leaf-bare, into new-leaf, the storms kept coming and the land was powerless to resist. Two and a half by two thousand paces turned into two by one thousand, seven hundred by four hundred. We drowned. The prey drowned. We were all so hungry.

It was about then that cats started leaving the island, just jumping into the waves and swimming away. They all swore that if they found land, they’d come back and show us. They didn’t. But that didn't stop more cats from going.

I couldn't, somehow. I hated the island, hated it more every day, but- somehow- I just wasn't quite ready to throw my life away so dramatically.

It was me and Garth and Mayflower and our mother.

Then it was me and Garth and Mayflower.

Then it was just me and Garth.

We stayed until almost the end, eking out the last prey, drinking rainwater, eating leaves and grass when there was nothing else to fill our stomachs. We lived in the copse; that was all that was left of the island that had been our entire world. We didn't talk much.

I remember the last day as if it were yesterday, the images like scars on my retina. The wind, the tide, the rapidly rising sea level… Garth still refused to leave.

At last resigned to our fate, I'd chosen a dead branch that had fallen off its tree in one of the earlier storms and dragged it out past the start of the water, grabbing onto it tightly and waiting for the waves to take me away. I begged Garth to do the same. But he wouldn't. The cat who'd once bragged that he had more schemes than could fill an island had chosen to confine them all to a patch of land not ten paces square.

“Don't be a fool,” I said to him. “At least try and save yourself. Come on!”

But he wouldn't.

He watched as the sea took me, kept eye contact as I was swept further and further away. Back over where the old camp had been, back over the grassland where I'd learnt to catch my first prey, back past the rock off the end of the south beach. And further, over territory that I'd never walked but maybe my ancestors had. And further, out into the deep blue sea.

I lost eye contact then, and couldn't find it again. Tears splashed from my eyes straight into the sea, salt into salt. Suspended by my frail grip over bottomless ocean, I imagined that I was floating over the drowned corpse of every cat I’d ever loved.

I don't think I was expecting to ever reach land, if there was even any land to hit. I think I just reckoned that this was a better, less futile death than the way Garth had chosen. Lulled by the death cold of the seawater, I slowly relaxed my grip on the branch.

I was on the cusp of letting go when I felt the grittiness of sand under me, the surety of solid ground, the sea's hold on me loosening at last.

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?