– — the absence of rain. — – complete! new readers welcome!
Aug 1, 2016 18:27:32 GMT -5
𝓑𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐫 ♥, mickle, and 16 more like this
Post by eph 💕 on Aug 1, 2016 18:27:32 GMT -5
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– — prologue — –
Nothing.
Then, all at once —
He is alive, and the world comes back to him in bits and pieces.
Silence.
Rain.
The wet air, heavy on his skin.
Gentle raindrops peppering his cheek.
He wants to lift his head but he can't. His body is a weight he cannot seem to bear.
Pain comes, dull at first, then crashes across his face in a searing wave. He realizes he cannot see anything on his right side. He closes his left eye.
Blackness.
He opens his eye again, abruptly, as realization hits.
He failed.
He failed, and he is still alive.
His eye blinks closed. He is empty. Ashamed.
This is not what he wanted.
What he gets, instead:
Blackness.
Rain.
Silence.
Then, all at once —
Nothing.
.
.
.
– — one — –
It's raining.
It's been raining, on and off, for the past two moons. A day without rain is a lucky thing: Pinestar can send out a hunting patrol to scout for food among the dripping ferns. The kits can leave the nursery to bounce in the puddles that cover the camp, boisterous after being cooped up so long. The medicine cat, snaggletoothed Garjaw, can leave his herbs out to dry in the cloud-scattered sunshine.
In the absence of rain, all the Clan prospers.
That is, all except for Mudstream.
It's been two moons. Two moons since her son died. Does StarClan think she doesn't know why they send the rain? It's her fault, really. Her fault she wasn't watching. She should have been there for Rainpaw, should've stopped him from going out to hunt in the first of the rain. But he was so handsome, there, in the rain: his gray-and-white fur sticking up in damp tufts, his blue eyes shining, hopeful.
"Please, Mother," he'd said.
And who was she to refuse him?
He was the last of his litter, her precious only son. His brother, Fernkit, was stillborn, and his sister, Fawnkit, lasted little more than a day before her heart gave out. But Rainpaw — Rainpaw lived.
He lived as fully as anyone could, joyful and energetic and vivacious. He loved the rain, his namesake. He was always the first to race out into the storm to dance among the raindrops, to tempt the lightning's cold fingers, to wail along with the thunder. He was like water, lithe and quick, always moving, always glittering in the light.
But every river must meet the sea. Every puddle dries up. Every storm passes.
Rainpaw's life ended in a cruel instant: an instant of terror and panic and bewilderment — alone.
For there was a fox waiting there in the rain-soaked woods, a flicker of crimson between the forest's weeping blues and greens. There was a fox, and it was hungry and ragged and angry, and as the rain fell, it attacked. It did not strike the nursery. It did not fall upon an unsuspecting rabbit.
It took Rainpaw instead. It took Rainpaw, on the day before he was to be made warrior.
And with Rainpaw's passing, Mudstream's life ended.
It hasn't stopped raining since, not really — there are days when the sun penetrates the neverending canopy of clouds, but sooner or later it is shoved back behind the curtain of gray, and the rain falls again.
Mudstream knows it's her punishment. She knows it's typical to blame herself for this, but she knows somehow, deep down, that she should have stopped him. Should have put her foot down. What else is a mother for? To cherish and encourage, yes — but to protect.
And she failed.
She failed him in a way that she hadn't even failed her other children. Fernkit and Fawnkit were beyond her control, but Rainpaw — Rainpaw was so close.
It was her mistake that cost him his life. And now she will pay the price.
The rains come to make sure she never forgets.
And she promises herself she never will.
I won't forget, she whispers to the damp mound where her son is buried. A hundred flowers lie there, crumpled and in various states of decay, their colors washed saccharine-bright by the neverending rain.
I will never forget.
She joins the crowd, eager for the prognosis. Curious to see what this new charity case looks like. They say he's a loner, and a young one, but the warriors are starving for something to take their minds off of this rain.
"So?" someone finally asks.
"He's alive," Garjaw begins.
"Oh, thank StarClan."
"Don't thank StarClan too soon," the medicine cat snaps. "He's not out of the woods quite yet. There's an infection in his face. He must've been out on that Thunderpath since last night. Fox-hearted Twolegs and their monsters. But with their eyeshine, I'm surprised he didn't see them coming. Running from something, I'll bet." A sharpness passes over Garjaw's face, not unlike his usual prickly expression, and he adds, "Wonder what it was."
"Can we see him?"
"Yes, just a peek. We won't bother him."
"You will, too," Garjaw huffs, but concedes, "Make it quick. No more than two of you in there at once, hear?"
When they exit, they're quiet, passing glimpses between themselves. Mudstream catches their eyes, but they look away quickly, their ears flattening. Finally everyone has sated their curiosity — everyone but Mudstream, whose concern has only grown.
She enters the medicine den alone, the last of the curious onlookers. At once Garjaw, already inside, moves fluidly around her, trying to block her view as much as he can, pretending he needs to grab a few herbs lying in front of her.
But she sees anyway.
A young cat, missing half of his face. His right eye is little more than a sunken hole now, covered in cobwebs after cobwebs to try and staunch the bleeding. His right ear is largely gone, and all that's left are a few tattered ribbons of flesh. His pelt is covered in little wounds, and two rushes bind his broken right front leg. But despite all this — she recognizes him. It's all wrong, his face shape is different, and she knows it can't be him, she watched them lower him into the ground, but still, somehow — it's him.
It's her son.
"Rainpaw."
.
.
.
Mudstream finally leaves the medicine den, unable to spend another moment in its stifling confines. Unable to tolerate Garjaw's taut expression, his incessant hovering, the sterile scent of his breath.
Outside, the rain has stopped, and brilliant shafts of sunlight cut their way through the treetops, settling in warm golden pools on the damp earth. It's the kind of sunlight the Clan hasn't seen in a long time — two moons, even. For the first time since Mudstream can remember, the salt smell of the nearby sea is stronger than the clean scent of rain. It seems to call to her, the sea, so she picks her way through the woods until the only trees left are the scraggly conifers and stubborn pines, the only trees bold enough to straddle the boulders lining the rocky shore.
Rainpaw loved the sea. He loved to hop between the rocks, searching for tidepools. Loved to taunt the lapping tide, leaping away from its reach at the last second. Loved the way the water cradled the sun on the far horizon, how the sunset bled into the sea every night.
They told her, when Rainpaw died, that he wasn't really gone. That he still lived on in her heart.
But she didn't believe them. Because there was nothing in her heart. Nothing but an aching kind of missing. A gaping hole where her son used to be.
He wasn't there. He was — somewhere else. That was all she knew.
But now — something's stirring there, in the space she never thought could be filled.
Love.
Rainpaw.
Garjaw insists it's not him. Not Rainpaw. She didn't even say anything, just looked — but Garjaw knew, as Garjaw seems to know everything.
"Rainpaw is with StarClan now," the medicine cat had said, softly. "Not even all the power of the stars could bring him back. No matter how much you want it."
But he's wrong. He must be — because how else could he explain it, that this mysterious cat should be just Rainpaw's age, should have the same coat pattern, the same scar on his lip from where a crab's pincer snagged it?
"That scar could've come from anything," Garjaw said, but Mudstream knows the truth.
She knows it's him.
Because she can't even fathom the alternative: that Rainpaw is dead, and he's never coming back.
It has to be him, it —
It has to be.
She crouches on the shore, tucks her paws beneath her, and watches the waves until the tide comes in and the pipers skitter frantically away from the water's edge.
By the time she rises to return to camp, there's not a cloud in the sky.
Five weeks.
It takes five weeks for the young cat to recover, for his leg to be whole again, for the fur to start growing back on his disfigured face.
He hasn't spoken since the accident. Garjaw doesn't know if he ever learned how, but he seems to understand when he's spoken to. Maybe it's just choice. Maybe he'll speak when he's ready. But it seems that might be a long time coming.
It's hard for Mudstream to call him Gullpaw — the new name Pinestar gave him. Since he's never given away his real name, they had to call him something.
She wants to call him Rainpaw. She did, once, on accident — and he just looked at her, squinting with his good eye. And it strikes her, suddenly —
He doesn't know.
He doesn't know who he is.
She doesn't want to confuse him, so she forces herself to swallow his old name whenever it rises to her lips. Forces herself to stifle every instinct that screams for her to lick his matted cheek, as a mother should.
Because to everyone else, he isn't her son.
Only Garjaw knows what she's thinking. He just keeps insisting she's wrong, which is bothersome. Shouldn't she know her own son when she sees him?
But doubts nibble away at her, like little minnows.
When Gullpaw is healed enough to walk, she takes him to his old favorite place — the shore, where the tidepools are nestled among the rocks.
Nothing. His face is like stone. He surveys the sea with seriousness, maybe a bit of resigned melancholy — but no recognition.
And somewhere inside Mudstream, a little voice whispers, It's not him.
But she flattens her ears against the voice, refuses to listen.
It's him.
He just doesn't know it yet.
The sixth week, Gullpaw is formally apprenticed to Mudstream.
"You're a strong warrior and a commendable hunter," Pinestar tells her. "But you've been holding back since" — he trips over his words — "since Rainpaw. I know you'll do a good job with Gullpaw. I hope you can overcome this." He fixes her with his earnest amber gaze. "I know you will."
Across the camp, Garjaw clenches his jaw and looks away.
Mudstream pretends not to notice.
.
.
.
It's raining.
It's been raining, on and off, for the past two moons. A day without rain is a lucky thing: Pinestar can send out a hunting patrol to scout for food among the dripping ferns. The kits can leave the nursery to bounce in the puddles that cover the camp, boisterous after being cooped up so long. The medicine cat, snaggletoothed Garjaw, can leave his herbs out to dry in the cloud-scattered sunshine.
In the absence of rain, all the Clan prospers.
That is, all except for Mudstream.
It's been two moons. Two moons since her son died. Does StarClan think she doesn't know why they send the rain? It's her fault, really. Her fault she wasn't watching. She should have been there for Rainpaw, should've stopped him from going out to hunt in the first of the rain. But he was so handsome, there, in the rain: his gray-and-white fur sticking up in damp tufts, his blue eyes shining, hopeful.
"Please, Mother," he'd said.
And who was she to refuse him?
He was the last of his litter, her precious only son. His brother, Fernkit, was stillborn, and his sister, Fawnkit, lasted little more than a day before her heart gave out. But Rainpaw — Rainpaw lived.
He lived as fully as anyone could, joyful and energetic and vivacious. He loved the rain, his namesake. He was always the first to race out into the storm to dance among the raindrops, to tempt the lightning's cold fingers, to wail along with the thunder. He was like water, lithe and quick, always moving, always glittering in the light.
But every river must meet the sea. Every puddle dries up. Every storm passes.
Rainpaw's life ended in a cruel instant: an instant of terror and panic and bewilderment — alone.
For there was a fox waiting there in the rain-soaked woods, a flicker of crimson between the forest's weeping blues and greens. There was a fox, and it was hungry and ragged and angry, and as the rain fell, it attacked. It did not strike the nursery. It did not fall upon an unsuspecting rabbit.
It took Rainpaw instead. It took Rainpaw, on the day before he was to be made warrior.
And with Rainpaw's passing, Mudstream's life ended.
It hasn't stopped raining since, not really — there are days when the sun penetrates the neverending canopy of clouds, but sooner or later it is shoved back behind the curtain of gray, and the rain falls again.
Mudstream knows it's her punishment. She knows it's typical to blame herself for this, but she knows somehow, deep down, that she should have stopped him. Should have put her foot down. What else is a mother for? To cherish and encourage, yes — but to protect.
And she failed.
She failed him in a way that she hadn't even failed her other children. Fernkit and Fawnkit were beyond her control, but Rainpaw — Rainpaw was so close.
It was her mistake that cost him his life. And now she will pay the price.
The rains come to make sure she never forgets.
And she promises herself she never will.
I won't forget, she whispers to the damp mound where her son is buried. A hundred flowers lie there, crumpled and in various states of decay, their colors washed saccharine-bright by the neverending rain.
I will never forget.
– — –
Waits. Waits until the Clan stirs outside — Garjaw has left his den.It's raining when they bring him in.
The morning patrol found him on the edge of the Thunderpath, barely alive. By the time Mudstream hears, a crowd has gathered around the medicine den, where Garjaw works feverishly to save his life.
Try as she might, Mudstream cannot catch even a single glimpse of him. Even when the crowd disappates, Garjaw snaps at her to leave him alone, else she wants to be responsible for this cat's death, too.
So she retreats to her den under the birch tree, where her mate, Petalthroat, sleeps on days when it's raining — and on days when she lets him. These days they're distant, and she can't blame him. Today, though, she curls up beside him and rests her head on her paws.
The morning patrol found him on the edge of the Thunderpath, barely alive. By the time Mudstream hears, a crowd has gathered around the medicine den, where Garjaw works feverishly to save his life.
Try as she might, Mudstream cannot catch even a single glimpse of him. Even when the crowd disappates, Garjaw snaps at her to leave him alone, else she wants to be responsible for this cat's death, too.
So she retreats to her den under the birch tree, where her mate, Petalthroat, sleeps on days when it's raining — and on days when she lets him. These days they're distant, and she can't blame him. Today, though, she curls up beside him and rests her head on her paws.
She joins the crowd, eager for the prognosis. Curious to see what this new charity case looks like. They say he's a loner, and a young one, but the warriors are starving for something to take their minds off of this rain.
"So?" someone finally asks.
"He's alive," Garjaw begins.
"Oh, thank StarClan."
"Don't thank StarClan too soon," the medicine cat snaps. "He's not out of the woods quite yet. There's an infection in his face. He must've been out on that Thunderpath since last night. Fox-hearted Twolegs and their monsters. But with their eyeshine, I'm surprised he didn't see them coming. Running from something, I'll bet." A sharpness passes over Garjaw's face, not unlike his usual prickly expression, and he adds, "Wonder what it was."
"Can we see him?"
"Yes, just a peek. We won't bother him."
"You will, too," Garjaw huffs, but concedes, "Make it quick. No more than two of you in there at once, hear?"
When they exit, they're quiet, passing glimpses between themselves. Mudstream catches their eyes, but they look away quickly, their ears flattening. Finally everyone has sated their curiosity — everyone but Mudstream, whose concern has only grown.
She enters the medicine den alone, the last of the curious onlookers. At once Garjaw, already inside, moves fluidly around her, trying to block her view as much as he can, pretending he needs to grab a few herbs lying in front of her.
But she sees anyway.
A young cat, missing half of his face. His right eye is little more than a sunken hole now, covered in cobwebs after cobwebs to try and staunch the bleeding. His right ear is largely gone, and all that's left are a few tattered ribbons of flesh. His pelt is covered in little wounds, and two rushes bind his broken right front leg. But despite all this — she recognizes him. It's all wrong, his face shape is different, and she knows it can't be him, she watched them lower him into the ground, but still, somehow — it's him.
It's her son.
"Rainpaw."
.
.
.
– — two — –
Mudstream finally leaves the medicine den, unable to spend another moment in its stifling confines. Unable to tolerate Garjaw's taut expression, his incessant hovering, the sterile scent of his breath.
Outside, the rain has stopped, and brilliant shafts of sunlight cut their way through the treetops, settling in warm golden pools on the damp earth. It's the kind of sunlight the Clan hasn't seen in a long time — two moons, even. For the first time since Mudstream can remember, the salt smell of the nearby sea is stronger than the clean scent of rain. It seems to call to her, the sea, so she picks her way through the woods until the only trees left are the scraggly conifers and stubborn pines, the only trees bold enough to straddle the boulders lining the rocky shore.
Rainpaw loved the sea. He loved to hop between the rocks, searching for tidepools. Loved to taunt the lapping tide, leaping away from its reach at the last second. Loved the way the water cradled the sun on the far horizon, how the sunset bled into the sea every night.
They told her, when Rainpaw died, that he wasn't really gone. That he still lived on in her heart.
But she didn't believe them. Because there was nothing in her heart. Nothing but an aching kind of missing. A gaping hole where her son used to be.
He wasn't there. He was — somewhere else. That was all she knew.
But now — something's stirring there, in the space she never thought could be filled.
Love.
Rainpaw.
Garjaw insists it's not him. Not Rainpaw. She didn't even say anything, just looked — but Garjaw knew, as Garjaw seems to know everything.
"Rainpaw is with StarClan now," the medicine cat had said, softly. "Not even all the power of the stars could bring him back. No matter how much you want it."
But he's wrong. He must be — because how else could he explain it, that this mysterious cat should be just Rainpaw's age, should have the same coat pattern, the same scar on his lip from where a crab's pincer snagged it?
"That scar could've come from anything," Garjaw said, but Mudstream knows the truth.
She knows it's him.
Because she can't even fathom the alternative: that Rainpaw is dead, and he's never coming back.
It has to be him, it —
It has to be.
She crouches on the shore, tucks her paws beneath her, and watches the waves until the tide comes in and the pipers skitter frantically away from the water's edge.
By the time she rises to return to camp, there's not a cloud in the sky.
– — –
Five weeks.
It takes five weeks for the young cat to recover, for his leg to be whole again, for the fur to start growing back on his disfigured face.
He hasn't spoken since the accident. Garjaw doesn't know if he ever learned how, but he seems to understand when he's spoken to. Maybe it's just choice. Maybe he'll speak when he's ready. But it seems that might be a long time coming.
It's hard for Mudstream to call him Gullpaw — the new name Pinestar gave him. Since he's never given away his real name, they had to call him something.
She wants to call him Rainpaw. She did, once, on accident — and he just looked at her, squinting with his good eye. And it strikes her, suddenly —
He doesn't know.
He doesn't know who he is.
She doesn't want to confuse him, so she forces herself to swallow his old name whenever it rises to her lips. Forces herself to stifle every instinct that screams for her to lick his matted cheek, as a mother should.
Because to everyone else, he isn't her son.
Only Garjaw knows what she's thinking. He just keeps insisting she's wrong, which is bothersome. Shouldn't she know her own son when she sees him?
But doubts nibble away at her, like little minnows.
When Gullpaw is healed enough to walk, she takes him to his old favorite place — the shore, where the tidepools are nestled among the rocks.
Nothing. His face is like stone. He surveys the sea with seriousness, maybe a bit of resigned melancholy — but no recognition.
And somewhere inside Mudstream, a little voice whispers, It's not him.
But she flattens her ears against the voice, refuses to listen.
It's him.
He just doesn't know it yet.
– — –
The sixth week, Gullpaw is formally apprenticed to Mudstream.
"You're a strong warrior and a commendable hunter," Pinestar tells her. "But you've been holding back since" — he trips over his words — "since Rainpaw. I know you'll do a good job with Gullpaw. I hope you can overcome this." He fixes her with his earnest amber gaze. "I know you will."
Across the camp, Garjaw clenches his jaw and looks away.
Mudstream pretends not to notice.
.
.
.
– — three — –
They don't think he can speak. They think he doesn't remember who he is. They think he's fine with joining their Clan.
They're wrong.
But they can't know that, can they?
Not if he refuses to tell them.
But he can't tell them — can't face the things he left on the other side of that Thunderpath.
Because if he looks back —
If he looks back, all he'll see is darkness.
Darkness, swarming, like a cloud of locusts. Corporeal, stifling, starving darkness.
If he looks back, he'll remember —
He isn't supposed to be alive.
That night he dreams.
He's standing on the shore, watching the tide come in.
He blinks — it's still far out.
Blinks again — it's licking timidly at his toes.
Blinks and — the water's at his neck, his chin. It bubbles, froths, washed silver by moonlight. His throat is cold.
He closes his eyes, knowing that if he opens them again the water will be above his head. But if he keeps them closed —
Maybe if he keeps them closed, he won't drown. Not tonight.
Not again.
But the water creeps up on him. Salt fills his nostrils, his mouth, burrows under his tongue. He chokes, tries to stand, to swim, anything, but it's too late.
He is nothing. His body is gone, and he is nothing but a mind and a pair of lungs and a heart pounding wildly with fear. A thousand pounds of water crush him. Currents pulse and dance all around him, threatening to wash him away. Something brushes against him.
He opens his eyes — darkness.
Thick, inky, choking darkness. It coils around his neck, claws pricking his shoulders. He feels the brush of fangs against his throat.
And then —
Stars. Living, moving things, they bob and weave around him. But the darkness is still there, hovering between the pinpricks of light. It lunges —
The stars are fleeing. Getting fainter. He screams but no sound escapes his lips. Tries to follow them, to move, anything — but he can't. His vision is fading. The stars grow farther and farther away, until —
He is alone in the darkness.
And the weight on his shoulders gets heavier and heavier, like the whole universe is balanced on his spine. He wants to move, to escape, but one step and the precarious balance will be lost, and the universe will come crashing down around him.
He's scared — terrified. But it's a faraway kind of feeling. The darkness stifles it, eats away at it, keeps it always distant from him. Every pinprick of fear fades as soon as it comes. And he knows he ought to be more afraid, but he can't.
He can't feel anything.
Nothing but the terrible weight on his shoulders, and the chokehold of darkness growing ever tighter around his throat.
Tighter and tighter, heavier and heavier, until he thinks he'll burst —
And just when everything is over and he is nothing —
He is awake, and he is alive, and the darkness —
It's still there. Still lingering on his breath, in the back of his throat, even here in the light of day.
He can't escape it.
Even now, he can't escape it.
There are days he wishes that monster had killed him, that day on the Thunderpath.
Because that's what he wanted in the first place.
Because lying here with his face on fire makes him feel too alive.
There are nights he wishes the water would drown him.
Not that he's not afraid to die —
But sometimes, living is much scarier.
.
.
.
They don't think he can speak. They think he doesn't remember who he is. They think he's fine with joining their Clan.
They're wrong.
But they can't know that, can they?
Not if he refuses to tell them.
But he can't tell them — can't face the things he left on the other side of that Thunderpath.
Because if he looks back —
If he looks back, all he'll see is darkness.
Darkness, swarming, like a cloud of locusts. Corporeal, stifling, starving darkness.
If he looks back, he'll remember —
He isn't supposed to be alive.
– — –
That night he dreams.
He's standing on the shore, watching the tide come in.
He blinks — it's still far out.
Blinks again — it's licking timidly at his toes.
Blinks and — the water's at his neck, his chin. It bubbles, froths, washed silver by moonlight. His throat is cold.
He closes his eyes, knowing that if he opens them again the water will be above his head. But if he keeps them closed —
Maybe if he keeps them closed, he won't drown. Not tonight.
Not again.
But the water creeps up on him. Salt fills his nostrils, his mouth, burrows under his tongue. He chokes, tries to stand, to swim, anything, but it's too late.
He is nothing. His body is gone, and he is nothing but a mind and a pair of lungs and a heart pounding wildly with fear. A thousand pounds of water crush him. Currents pulse and dance all around him, threatening to wash him away. Something brushes against him.
He opens his eyes — darkness.
Thick, inky, choking darkness. It coils around his neck, claws pricking his shoulders. He feels the brush of fangs against his throat.
And then —
Stars. Living, moving things, they bob and weave around him. But the darkness is still there, hovering between the pinpricks of light. It lunges —
The stars are fleeing. Getting fainter. He screams but no sound escapes his lips. Tries to follow them, to move, anything — but he can't. His vision is fading. The stars grow farther and farther away, until —
He is alone in the darkness.
And the weight on his shoulders gets heavier and heavier, like the whole universe is balanced on his spine. He wants to move, to escape, but one step and the precarious balance will be lost, and the universe will come crashing down around him.
He's scared — terrified. But it's a faraway kind of feeling. The darkness stifles it, eats away at it, keeps it always distant from him. Every pinprick of fear fades as soon as it comes. And he knows he ought to be more afraid, but he can't.
He can't feel anything.
Nothing but the terrible weight on his shoulders, and the chokehold of darkness growing ever tighter around his throat.
Tighter and tighter, heavier and heavier, until he thinks he'll burst —
And just when everything is over and he is nothing —
He is awake, and he is alive, and the darkness —
It's still there. Still lingering on his breath, in the back of his throat, even here in the light of day.
He can't escape it.
Even now, he can't escape it.
There are days he wishes that monster had killed him, that day on the Thunderpath.
Because that's what he wanted in the first place.
Because lying here with his face on fire makes him feel too alive.
There are nights he wishes the water would drown him.
Not that he's not afraid to die —
But sometimes, living is much scarier.
.
.
.
– — four — –
"Petalthroat?"
"Mudstream, please. Not now."
"I didn't even say anything."
A labored sigh. "Fine. What is it?"
"I just wanted to know how your apprentice is doing."
Warily, "Robinpaw? He's fine, why?"
"I mean, has he said anything about Gullpaw?"
His ears flatten. "I knew it would come to this."
"Petalthroat, I was just asking."
"Yes, but you're always asking, Mudstream."
Quietly, "I — I am?"
"You — You haven't realized? Mudstream, you're obsessed with him."
She's indignant, a little hurt. "I am not."
"Not Robinpaw. Gullpaw."
"For StarClan's sake, I just wanted to know if Robinpaw mentioned anything to you about him. I mean, they are denmates."
"Nothing, Mudstream. And if he had, it wouldn't be your business, now would it?"
"He's my apprentice!"
"So talk to him yourself if you're so worried! What's so hard about that?"
"He hasn't spoken a word to me. Not even once."
"Wait, really?"
"I've tried everything. I've asked him about his family — nothing. I've told him stories — nothing. I've given him the silent treatment — and he still won't speak to me! Not a single word."
"Mudstream..."
"I — Am I doing something wrong, Petalthroat? What am I doing wrong?"
"So he's mute. It's not your fault."
"But Garjaw said — "
"Garjaw can guess, just like the rest of us. But at the end of the day, it's been two moons. If he hasn't spoken yet, he's not going to."
"..."
"Look, I'm sorry I snapped. I'm just tired. Been a long day."
"No, it's not your fault. I — I have been a little distant. I just — I miss Rainpaw." Her voice cracks, breaking into a sob.
"Oh, Mudstream." He moves closer, pressing his shoulder against hers.
"I miss him so much," she chokes out.
"I know." He rests his chin on her head, and she buries her face in his neck. "I miss him, too."
She sniffles muffledly into his fur.
"I miss his smile. He was such a cheerful kit." Petalthroat's voice is a low rumble against her cheek. "He never got into trouble, either. Not like Robinpaw and Frogpaw — remember when Frogpaw stuck his head in that bee's nest? Rainpaw was the first one to come running."
She laughs, and it's a rasp in her throat. "I remember that."
"They looked up to him so much," Petalthroat continues.
"Robinpaw was always following him around," Mudstream puts in.
"And Frogpaw would try to outdo him at everything. He didn't understand that Rainpaw was four moons older. But Rainpaw just played along."
"Mm-hmm." She sighs, shuddering, and presses her nose to his chin. "He loved his littermates, too. He never even knew them, didn't even remember them, but he loved them just the same."
"He lived a good life," Petalthroat says, and the past tense stabs her like a branch.
"Why did he have to die?" she wonders aloud, not for the first time.
"It wasn't fair," Petalthroat agrees. "It wasn't his time. I know they say it was, but honestly — he wasn't even twelve moons."
"I wish I could just know for sure," Mudstream whispers. "Know for sure he made it to StarClan."
"Oh, Mudstream. He did." Petalthroat presses closer, closing his eyes. "He did."
She's sobbing again, and he's curling his tail around her, holding her close, and by the time she's composed herself she's ready to say the things she hasn't said in moons.
"Thank you."
And, "I'm sorry."
And, as they curl up for the night, "I love you."
And he replies, "Me, too."
.
.
.
Follow the coast to the south, past Rainpaw's beloved tidepools, past the forests of birch and pine, to the place where the land rises in steep shafts above the crashing tide, where broken rock paints the sea floor, rising in crooked spires at the base of the towering cliffs.
Here you will find the place known as Gutter's Leap.
Once, perhaps not so long ago, another broken apprentice was taken in by the Clan. And perhaps this apprentice, too, did not want to live this life, did not want to be the cat they wanted him to be, did not want to be, at all.
So, perhaps this apprentice followed the coast to the south, past the tidepools, past the forests, to the place where the cliffs that fell away into the sea's fanged maw. To the place where, for a single heartbeat, this apprentice flew. And here, in the place between the adrenaline of the leap and the terror of the fall, this apprentice knew perhaps the only true peace in his life.
Perhaps.
They say history repeats itself. Time always favors its original course. So here, perhaps, the river of time is flowing, back to the cliffs, with the living being borne along like dead leaves. Perhaps, here, another apprentice will fly, and find his peace, and fall into the waiting arms of the sea.
Perhaps.
But perhaps not.
The funny thing about rivers is their tendency to meander, to branch off from their mothers to follow a new, different course.
Who is to say what will happen?
Ultimately, in the end, the choice will fall to him: whether to trade a lifetime of tumult for a single, fleeting instant of peace.
Once, perhaps not so long ago, there was an apprentice who loved the rain. An apprentice who had his whole life ripped away from him in an instant.
There was another apprentice who lived. An apprentice who had never loved anything in his life, until he loved the rain. And then, this, too, was taken from him.
For each who dies, another will live.
So here our story waits for its ending. Two dead, two living.
If you had the chance to rewrite history, would you?
.
.
.
Leaf-fall arrives late and unseasonably warm, the air hot and miserably dry even as Mudstream wakes for the dawn patrol. The fresh-kill pile consists of little more than a runty shrew and a sun-scorched sparrow carcass, but Mudstream reassures herself that it's just because it's early; the food supply will grow with the return of the day's hunting patrols.
Or so she hopes.
The lingering greenleaf heat is reluctant to give way to cooler weather, and the Clan hasn't seen a good rain since the two moons of downpour that preceded Gullpaw's arrival. It's unusual, Garjaw has admitted, for the weather to fluctuate so drastically in so short a time span, but he also concedes StarClan has sent no warning, and his herb stocks are well-dried. He is prepared for anything the weather might throw at them.
Or so he says.
Shaking these dismal thoughts from her head, Mudstream pads quietly across the still-dark camp to the honeysuckle bush that serves as Robinpaw and Gullpaw's den. The other apprentices share a hollowed-out area among the roots of a dead birch just a few tail-lengths away. This sleeping arrangement is ideal for the hot, stuffy greenleaf moons; when leaf-bare creeps in, the apprentices will move to a single den under an overgrown mulberry to better share body heat through the punishing cold.
The soft, wheezing sound of Robinpaw's breathing is the first thing she hears when she pokes her head under the low-hanging honeysuckle fronds to rouse her apprentice. Robinpaw is curled close to the bush's trunk, his back facing her. Gullpaw sleeps closer to the edge of the den, his face almost angelic in its peacefulness. Mudstream watches his flank rise and fall, her gaze fond, before reaching out a paw to tap his shoulder.
"Gullpaw, it's time to get up. The dawn patrol will leave soon."
His eye, clear and blue as the sky, blinks open, and he lifts his head to regard her groggily. "Dawn patrol," she repeats softly, careful not to wake Robinpaw, and Gullpaw blinks the blurry remains of sleep from his eye. He shifts, sitting up, and begins to groom himself, and Mudstream retreats from the den.
Across the camp, only one other cat waits: Petalthroat's brother Slatewave. The gray tom rises to his paws, his green eyes warm. "Good morning," he calls. "Looks like it's just us for the dawn patrol. Ternfeather wants to get as many cats out hunting as he can today."
"That's a good idea," Mudstream replies, casting a glance over at the pitiful remains of the fresh-kill pile.
Slatewave breathes in deeply, exhaling with a purr. "Nothing like a nice morning walk to get the blood pumping," he says brightly.
Mudstream can't help but purr too. Slatewave has that effect.
Gullpaw picks his way across the camp to join them, his good eye weary.
"Morning, Gullpaw," Slatewave greets him, and Gullpaw just stares sullenly. Slatewave's whiskers twitch in amusement. "Cheer up, there. It's an honor to be assigned to the dawn patrol, you know."
Gullpaw looks like he could care less about honor, so Slatewave shrugs and turns to Mudstream. "Shall we head out?"
"Sure," she replies. "You lead. Gullpaw, why don't you take the rear?"
They leave camp, Slatewave chatting conversationally to Mudstream.
"Have you heard about Larchwing and Owlfeather? They're expecting kits."
"Bluewing caught the biggest finch the other day. I was astonished!"
"How's Petalthroat doing? Good? Good."
"We received word from a passing loner that there's a gang of rogues about. This drought's no good for anyone, but it seems they're using it as an excuse to steal territory from the farm cats. We'd better keep a lookout; that loner said they're a nasty bunch."
They sweep along the western border, where the forest meets a swath of farmland. It's here that Slatewave stops abruptly to scent the air.
Slatewave is alert, tense, his ears pricked, mouth open to scent the air. "Rogues," he mutters softly, narrowing his eyes. "I'd say four or five of them at least. Must be that gang the loner was talking about."
The scent is recent, Mudstream realizes. "I don't like this," she whispers.
"Me either," Slatewave replies, hushed. "We should head back to report this. I don't want to get caught out here alone."
They're turning to head back when a twig cracks thunderously nearby. Slatewave freezes.
"Could be a squirrel," he says softly. "But I don't think so."
"Gullpaw," Mudstream murmurs, her voice low. "Run back to camp and get help. You aren't ready for a fight."
He looks at her doubtfully, as though he thinks she isn't ready to fight either. And maybe she isn't. Two moons of training with a crippled apprentice won't be enough to protect her in a fight like this: outnumbered, outranked, alone.
But she has no choice.
"I said run!" she hisses, swiping at her apprentice with barely sheathed claws. He startles and leaps back, peering at her intensely through his good eye, before swinging around and breaking into a run, vanishing into the undergrowth like a shadow.
"StarClan guide his paws," Slatewave breathes. Mudstream instinctively backs closer to him until her pelt brushes his.
The forest is quiet. Somewhere, a sparrow trills, and another answers it. Then the birds fall silent, and all Mudstream can hear is the wind in the leaves and her own heart pounding in her ears.
"Slatewave," she begins.
And then the rogues are upon them. Mudstream catches a flash of ginger fur as she's knocked to the ground; she snarls furiously, only for the paws holding her down to sink their claws into her flesh.
"Shut up," her assailant hisses.
From the corner of her eye, she can see Slatewave being held down by two rogues, a lithe white she-cat and a stocky brown tabby tom. Slatewave struggles, thrashing in their grip, but the she-cat spits and slashes his face, and he goes still, blood welling in three parallel cuts in his cheek.
Three more cats emerge from the undergrowth, a gray-and-white she-cat, a small black tom, and a golden tabby she-cat. The two smaller cats flank the gray-and-white she-cat on either side.
The she-cat scents the air. "There was another cat here," she meows. "They must have sent for help. Selkie, make sure he doesn't get there."
"Right," the golden she-cat replies, haring off in the direction that Gullpaw ran. Mudstream feels her heart sink to her stomach.
Slatewave begins struggling again, lashing out at the cats who hold him down. For a moment his hind paws are free, and he kicks out at the ginger cat holding Mudstream. The ginger cat screeches and tumbles over, and Mudstream scrambles to her paws, leaping back from the black tom, who darts in to intercept her. She parries his quick attacks, countering with a blow of her own, aiming her claws for his eyes. He lets out a sharp gasp and falls back, pawing delicately at his bleeding face.
The gray-and-white she-cat has leapt in to pin Slatewave down again, and she and the other two rogues are quickly overpowering Slatewave's attempts to free himself. Mudstream moves to help him, but Slatewave howls, "Go! Help Gullpaw!"
"Slatewave, no!" she screeches in horror, but he insists, "Go!" The gray-and-white she-cat slaps him hard, and he hisses in pain.
"Shut him up!" the rogue orders, and Mudstream hears Slatewave cry out in agony.
"No!" she wails, but the ginger cat that held her down has recovered and now hurtles toward her, claws outstretched. The rogue slashes at her, but she turns and runs, ignoring the pain that wells up in her side. The ginger cat calls to the black cat, and they follow for what seems like forever, crashing loudly through the forest behind her, but Mudstream knows this territory better than the rogues, and she eventually outpaces them.
Her breath rasps in her throat, and she longs to stop for a moment to catch her breath, but she knows if she stops Gullpaw will stand no chance, and without help, neither will Slatewave. The thought of leaving him behind makes her sick, but she can't turn back now.
Her apprentice needs her.
The sound of a fight reaches her ears, and she leaps over a fallen tree, fearing the worst. On the other side of the tree she sees only a whirling mass of fur, gray and white and gold, and she can't tell who's winning. Just as she prepares herself to leap in to help, Gullpaw pins the golden rogue to the ground, his teeth in her throat. The she-cat wails in rage and pain, writhing beneath him, but Gullpaw's jaws are closed tight. After a few heartbeats, Mudstream realizes what is happening and leaps at Gullpaw, knocking him off the rogue, but the she-cat takes several strained, shuddering breaths and falls silent, her flanks going still.
Beside her, Gullpaw pants softly, his muzzle painted red with the rogue's blood. Mudstream looks at him, emotions battling within her. The warrior code is strict on the subject of killing, and she wants to remind him of this, but she remembers Slatewave, outnumbered at the border, and she leaps to her paws.
"Gullpaw! Back to camp, now! I have to help Slatewave!" Without turning to see if he obeys, she races away, her heart in her throat.
Please let me get there in time.
Please, StarClan, let me get there in time.
Darkness.
He's not moving.
And then he blinks awake.
Garjaw stirs in his nest, clinging desperately to the last vestiges of sleep, but the noise in camp becomes too much, and he rises in irritation to see what the fuss is about.
A small crowd has gathered around the entrance of camp, but for Garjaw they step aside. He catches the scent of blood and moves a little faster, until he sees what's happened.
Gullpaw is huddled in the center of the crowd, blood dripping from his face onto the newly fallen leaves below his feet. The look in his only eye is distant and haunted, but when Garjaw approaches, his chin whips up and he fixes the medicine cat with a desperate stare.
And for the first time, he speaks.
"Rogues," he says quietly, his voice low. His teeth are stained red, Garjaw notices.
"Th-the border," the apprentice adds shakily, and then his eye goes wide, and a name escapes his lips like a sigh.
"Slatewave."
Mudstream crashes toward the border, not even caring if the rogues hear her coming. Maybe they'll think she's brought reinforcements, and they'll scatter. Maybe they'll run away without another fight. Maybe —
But when she arrives, the rogues are already gone. All that's left of their attack are two bodies, lying side by side on the forest floor.
One is the white she-cat, her eyes wide and blank, her limbs splayed awkwardly in death.
The other is Slatewave.
.
.
.
That night he dreams, as he has dreamt before. He stands by the shore, paws on the sand; night has stolen all of the sun’s warmth from the grains beneath his pads, and the chill seems to seep up his legs, cold settling into his very core.
It is dark. There is no moon, no stars, not even a Twoleg light blinking in the empty sky. All is encompassed in shadow, and he can just barely make out the water’s edge, rising and falling a few tail-lengths away. Its foamy lip inches in and out, gradually growing closer as the tide comes in, as it does every night.
But tonight, it’s as if everything is in slow motion. Usually the water rushes up to him, overtaking him in an instant. Tonight, it remains distant. He thinks it’s coming closer, but in this thick darkness he can’t say for sure.
The only thing he knows is the taste in his mouth, heavy on his tongue, clinging to the roof of his mouth, filling his nostrils. It’s an odd, briny flavor; half like salt, half like the metal that makes up Twoleg monsters. Slowly the taste becomes overwhelming. He looks around, frantic for water, but sees only the sea, lapping at the sand far away. He moves to take a step and suddenly the water is at his toes, as if he blinked and missed the part where he walked closer.
He bends to lap at the water; and because this is a dream, it is sweet and clear, and he exhales in relief as he drinks. The moment he lifts his head, however, the taste is back in his mouth, strong and salty and overwhelming. Blinking back tears, he lowers his chin to drink again. But now the water rises, all at once, and his face is plunged into the surf.
He opens his eyes slowly; then they go wide at what he sees. Floating just beneath the water’s surface are bodies, their limbs stiffened in rigor mortis, their faces frozen in grotesque expressions of pain and horror. One drifts by: a golden she-cat, a gaping hole where her throat should be. Instead of gore, the night sky fills the wound, dotted with pinpricks of light. Stardust, thick and viscous, drips from her mouth. Her eyes are black and empty, reflecting constellations he can’t see.
It is now that he realizes what he’s tasting.
It’s blood.
He licks his lips frantically, trying to rid his mouth of the taste, but to no avail. As bodies drift past him, he realizes in horror that he recognizes them: Mudstream, stars bleeding from her stomach; Robinpaw, a galaxy where his heart should be; Petalthroat, torn in two, his body holding the sky.
And others, cats he recognizes from before.
His mother, her jaw floating separate from her body, her tongue lolling as constellations pour from her mouth.
His father’s decapitated body, a black hole in the stump of his neck.
His sister, spine snapped in two, a comet streaming from the break.
His brother, his eyes twin moons in a mangled face.
Himself. A gray-and-white cat with two eyes and two ears, floating in space.
The body approaches, and he realizes that it’s not him. There’s a deep wound in this cat’s chest, and a heart spills from his chest cavity, pumping out the cosmos.
As he stares, the cat’s eyes flash with life, and he looks right at him.
And that’s when he recognizes those eyes, the color of Petalthroat’s stern gaze, the shape of Mudstream’s worried glances.
Rainpaw.
“Look what you’ve done.” A voice, soft and terrible, emanates from the other apprentice’s mouth, though his jaws don’t move. “See what you’ve created.”
And one more corpse drifts toward him. He tries to scramble backward, but he’s frozen, he can’t move, and he knows this cat, he knows —
Slatewave.
It barely even looks like him anymore, his body’s so broken. Stardust slips from wounds all over him, and his limbs are crooked in all the wrong ways, and a nova explodes in the huge gash in his throat.
“This is all your fault,” Rainpaw’s voice sighs. “This is what you wanted.”
“No,” he whispers.
“Isn’t it?” Rainpaw insists. “You bring death with you wherever you go. You cannot escape it. But you cannot grasp it, either. It haunts you. You should be the one floating here. But you’re not.”
He’s shuddering now, his body wracked with barely constrained sobs. “I’m sorry,” he gasps out.
“Are you?” Rainpaw’s voice breathes out. “Are you really?”
“I’m sorry,” he repeats, the words just audible.
“Live, then,” Rainpaw murmurs. “Live for those of us who can’t.”
The bodies vanish, swallowed up by the dark, and he is left alone in the vast expanse of stars.
.
.
.
“Gullpaw.”
A voice wrenches him from the dark, and he blinks open his eye to see Robinpaw peering down at him.
“Sorry,” his denmate murmurs apologetically, “but they’re starting the vigil for Slatewave.”
Oh.
He rises to his paws, nodding gratefully to Robinpaw, and slips out of the den and into the dim moonlight. Those who were close to Slatewave are gathered around the body in the center of camp, and the scent of rosemary and mint hangs heavily in the air, masking the scent of death. Petalthroat is hunched in grief over his brother’s body, Mudstream pressed against his side. She looks up when Gullpaw pads past, and he lowers his head in respect. Her eyes, dull with sorrow, follow him as he passes, and it’s only after he’s settled at Slatewave’s shoulder that she looks away.
Garjaw has arranged Slatewave’s body so that the worst of his wounds are hidden from view. What injuries could not be hidden are covered with cobwebs and rosemary blooms. Gullpaw focuses on each flowering wound as long as he can bear, feeling the weight of Slatewave’s death on his shoulders. With a sigh, he extends his forepaws until he’s lying down, resting his chin on his paws.
Sorrow gnaws at his soul, but it’s a different kind of sadness than he’s accustomed to; it’s grief, deep and clear as a pool of water. For a moment he lets himself be pulled under, allowing the grief to swallow him whole, and yet he can’t seem to focus on his sorrow. Something else pulses beneath his skin, hot as flame.
Guilt, perhaps. Or something darker. Hatred. He squeezes his eyes shut, determined not to succumb to emotion. Not here. Not now.
Now is the time for grief, for remembering.
There will be time for the rest in the morning.
For now, he presses his nose into Slatewave’s cold fur and remembers one thing: this is his fault.
Morning comes, pale sun filtering through the trees to settle on the dusty earth. The days are growing shorter and colder now; the leaves on the trees surrounding the Clan’s camp are slowly exchanging their vibrant greens for the limp yellows and stark reds of leaf-fall. Even now a few trees are dropping their early leaves, the dry husks flitting to the ground to land, soft as a kiss, on the forest floor below.
Slatewave’s body is carried out for burial, and grief turns into anger. Sleep-deprived warriors huddle in groups across camp, fervidly debating how or whether to retaliate against the rogues. Two dawn patrols are sent out to strengthen the scent marks at the western border. Eventually Pinestar calls a Clan meeting, but even this can’t calm the frantic warriors.
“We have to fight back,” the young warrior Saltbreeze argues. “If we appear weak to outsiders, nothing will stop them from attacking. We have to make a statement.”
Garjaw faces him, ears flattened. “And how am I supposed to treat you when you come back wounded? I’m already short-stocked on herbs as it is. We can’t afford a battle, not now.”
“Then what do you propose we do?” the warrior hisses. “Just sit here, and watch our Clanmates get picked off one by one?”
“Of course not,” Garjaw growls. “But there’s got to be a better way to go about this.”
Saltbreeze stands, facing Garjaw with his hackles raised. “We have to fight! We’re warriors, aren’t we? I have a mate and kits to protect,” he continues. “If you want to hide in your den and count your berries, then fine. But I’m not going to sit around doing nothing.” A cheer of approval goes up at this, and Saltbreeze lifts his chin in triumph.
Garjaw turns his head and spits in anger. “StarClan, help these fools,” he hisses under his breath.
Mudstream sits at the edge of the crowd, watching silently as Pinestar attempts to regain control over the meeting. His deputy, Ternfeather, stalks over to Saltbreeze and cuffs his ear, hissing a reprimand. Saltbreeze bares his teeth but falls silent, tail lashing. Mudstream searches the crowd and realizes Gullpaw’s scarred face is nowhere to be found.
“The senior warriors and I will deliberate over this matter,” Pinestar decides. “Your concerns have been heard, and they will be taken into account. When we have reached a suitable solution, I’ll call another meeting to let you know. You are dismissed.”
As he and the senior warriors file into his den, Saltbreeze sniffs and disappears into the nursery. Ternfeather sends out another patrol to help the younger warriors burn off their aggression. And only now does Gullpaw appear, emerging from the undergrowth at the edge of camp.
Mudstream approaches him, noticing that the blood-stained cobwebs covering his injuries are coming loose. “Where were you?” she demands, but he looks away, declining to answer. She detects the scent of salt on his fur and says, “The shore, then? Gullpaw, you know I don’t like it when you leave camp without telling anyone.” He’s silent, unrepentant; his good eye is dark with exhaustion. Mudstream sighs. “You missed the Clan meeting,” she tells him. “But you really didn’t miss anything important. Just a lot of arguing.”
He twitches an ear, looking distracted, so Mudstream presses, “Are you alright?”
He meets her eyes briefly and blinks once as an affirmative. Even now, when it’s been proven he can speak, he refuses to say a word to her. She pushes down her frustration, but it’s only replaced by an unsettled feeling in her gut as she remembers his teeth in the rogue’s throat, the wild emptiness in his good eye.
“Go have your dressings replaced,” she says at last, “and take the day off to rest. I know yesterday must have been hard on you.”
He simply flicks an ear and pads off to Garjaw’s den, his head low. Mudstream watches him go, concern heavy on her chest.
Sometimes she can’t believe she ever thought he was Rainpaw. And yet, looking at him now, she doesn’t see Gullpaw.
All she sees is her son.
And that — he’s so far away from her, she can’t lose him again — scares her.
Mudstream is eating a skinny water vole when Garjaw settles beside her.
“If I told you there was a prophecy…”
“No,” she says without looking up.
“I’m sorry?”
“Let him be young, Garjaw. Let him be normal, or as normal as he can be. Don’t confine him to a certain fate just because StarClan said it should be so. Don’t steal his youth away from him.”
“Mudstream.”
“The second you mention a prophecy, he’ll lose his choice. Don’t you see that? His free will will be gone. Any choice he makes will have to lead to the same end. It’ll steal his hope, and he already has so little.” She fixes Garjaw with a stare that’s equal parts stern and pleading. “Please, Garjaw.”
He clears his throat, suddenly uncomfortable. “Actually, Mudstream…”
A pause. His eyes are sorry as he sighs at last, “The prophecy is about you.”
.
.
.
It’s sun-high, and Robinpaw’s already cleaned the elder’s den, treated their ticks with mouse bile, and fetched water for the queens and their kits. Since his mentor, Petalthroat, is taking a few days off to grieve, he’s stuck in camp for now. And already he’s out of things to do.
He tries lying in a warm pool of sunlight, but a chill breeze blows in a bank of clouds to block out the sun. The same wind thwarts his attempts to sweep the camp’s fallen leaves into a neat pile. Eventually he gives up and retreats into his den, the breeze chasing after him, cold tendrils of air nipping at his heels like fangs.
He blinks, his eyes adjusting to the dimmer light of his den; it takes him a moment to realize that Gullpaw’s there, too, curled in his nest. Fresh cobwebs cover his wounds from the rogue attack, and his good eye is closed. After a moment, though, he blinks it open, feeling Robinpaw’s stare.
“Uh,” Robinpaw mumbles, “sorry.”
Gullpaw sighs. “’S fine.”
Right. He talks. That’s new.
Robinpaw’s not entirely sure how to go about a conversation, but Gullpaw’s watching him expectantly.
“Um, sucks about Slatewave,” Robinpaw begins, then cringes. Great way to start off his first real conversation with his denmate. He amends himself, “I mean, since our mentors are off and we’re stuck here. I’m already so bored.”
“Yeah,” Gullpaw agrees softly. He tilts his head. “But we’re not really stuck here.”
“What, you mean we could go out?” Robinpaw blinks, astonished. “Where would we go?”
“West,” Gullpaw murmurs. Robinpaw knows what he’s implying; west to the border, to the farmland beyond. West to rogue territory, to the place where the treeline meets sprawling fields and growling monsters. West to the cats who killed Slatewave. West to the cats whose member Gullpaw killed.
Robinpaw realizes at once what Gullpaw intends to do.
“I’ll come,” he decides. It’s the first time he’s ever had the opportunity to do something with his denmate, and he’s not about to waste it. Besides, he adds out loud, “I don’t want you getting killed out there.”
Gullpaw rises to his paws, looking at Robinpaw closely. “It doesn’t matter,” he says softly, “but alright.” He slips from the den, tossing one more phrase over his shoulder, “I know a secret way.”
Robinpaw follows, trying not to think too hard about what he just got himself into.
“A prophecy?” Mudstream repeats slowly. “About me?”
“Yes,” Garjaw replies, patient. He ducks his head almost in embarrassment. “I… actually received it some moons ago, but I wasn’t sure what it meant until just recently, and I didn’t want to make it widely known, in case it caused a panic.” Looking up at her again he continues, “Since you’ve made your stance on prophecies quite clear to me”—he narrows his eyes wryly—“I won’t tell you if you don’t want to hear it. But I thought it might lend a little clarity to… er, recent events. And it might help you make a decision regarding these matters.”
Mudstream blinks once, twice, considering. “Tell me,” she says at last.
And he does.
And she listens.
And suddenly, the whole world makes sense.
Robinpaw’s head hurts. Like, really hurts. Throbbing, pulsing, hot pain. But he tells himself he’s just tired from staying up for the vigil last night. The pain will pass. It has to go away eventually.
It has to, right?
Gullpaw’s secret way out of camp has led them deep into their territory. At one point their trail forks; the more well-worn path to the east leads to the sea, but Gullpaw veers west, following a barely-noticeable track through tall grass and weeds. Robinpaw follows wordlessly, pushing quietly through the undergrowth behind his denmate.
Instead of gradually thinning as they would when bordering a meadow, the trees abruptly stop at the edge of the farmlands. The border with Clan territory is a thin strip of shorn grass between the forest and the fields, and it’s here that Gullpaw pauses, swiveling his head so his good eye can gather as much information about their surroundings as it can. Suddenly he pricks his ears and stares at something. Robinpaw follows his gaze.
Where one field borders another, there’s a row of scrubby trees, their leaves just beginning to change. Hidden away among the trees is the remains of a weathered Twoleg barn, mostly caved in on itself. Ivy covers what roof is left; the structure is almost imperceptible at first glance.
“That’s got to be their base,” Gullpaw whispers, as if to himself. It’s not a bad conjecture; the structure would provide shelter from the elements, but it’s not easy to find, and clearly the Twolegs have no use for it now.
Robinpaw unsheathes his claws and digs them into the grass beneath him, steeling himself. “So… what’s the plan?” he murmurs.
“Scout it out,” Gullpaw hisses, narrowing his eye.
“What, you mean now?” Robinpaw stares at him. “We can’t take them alone!”
“They’ll be out hunting,” Gullpaw says. “Look.” He twitches his ears at a field in the distance where a Twoleg monster crawls, eating long golden stalks. Dust rises in its wake, the wind blowing it away. “Harvest,” Gullpaw explains. “The mice in the fields’ll be running from the monster. That’s why they’re attacking us now. They don’t want their food source escaping into our territory.”
“Really?” That makes sense. Robinpaw blinks, trying to think despite his headache. “So, what? We go in there while they’re out? What would be the point?”
Gullpaw turns his head to look at him. “So they know we know where they are. They’ll be on edge. Won’t know if we’re going to attack.”
“Oh,” Robinpaw says, impressed. “I’ll have to remember that.”
Gullpaw doesn’t seem to hear. His eyes are fixed on the wavering golden stalks before them. “The fields are so dry,” he meows quietly. “I’ve always wondered what it would be like to watch them burn.”
Robinpaw considers this. “It’d go up really fast.”
“Exactly,” Gullpaw murmurs. For a moment it looks like firelight is reflected in his eye, but he blinks and the illusion is gone. “We’d better be quick before anyone misses us back at camp.”
“Right,” Robinpaw agrees, a bit nervously, and follows Gullpaw along the belt of grass that leads around the field’s edge. They keep low so as to not draw attention to themselves, but Gullpaw seems confident that the nearby harvest will be enough to keep the rogues occupied.
As they walk, Robinpaw begins to realize just how utterly unbelievable this whole thing is. He’s hanging out with Gullpaw, who’s always been kind of a loner. Gullpaw’s making conversation like it’s suddenly normal for him to do that. They’re scouting out a dangerous location by themselves, and somehow Robinpaw’s just going along with it, totally fine.
He hasn’t felt this ridiculously alive since before Rainpaw died.
This was the kind of thing they always did: some daring, meaningless escapade while their mentors weren’t looking, just to do it, to say they did it. Because they were apprentices, and that was just the kind of thing apprentices did with their denmates. Rainpaw was always trying to escape the idea that he was perfect, because he knew Robinpaw held him up as an ideal. Their little missions, however, only further convinced Robinpaw that Rainpaw was perfect: brave, caring, always trying to be better, always trying to lift others up with him.
And that only made him fall more in love with him.
He didn’t mean to fall in love with Rainpaw. It was just something he realized one day, when they were sneaking back to camp one night. He looked over at Rainpaw, saw his eyes glinting excitedly in the moonlight, saw his pelt disheveled and dirty, heard his breath quick and low in his throat, and he knew. He loved him. That was it. It was as though he had always known it.
And it only made it harder that he never told him. He was going to. He had it all planned out: they’d be made warriors at the same time, and then, during their vigil, he’d tell him. They weren’t supposed to talk during their vigil, but no one would know. It was the kind of thing he wanted to say bathed in moonlight and silence, with only Rainpaw there to hear it.
But he never got to say it.
A moon after Rainpaw’s death, he failed his first assessment. The moon after that, he failed his second. Then Gullpaw showed up and Pinestar decided it would be best for Robinpaw to wait a little longer, so Gullpaw would have a denmate.
And that was that.
A new denmate, a new partner on some crazy excursion, a new gray-and-white cat sitting next to him during their vigil.
And three words he’d never get to say to the cat who was supposed to hear them.
They arrive at the abandoned barn, and Robinpaw shakes his head briefly, to clear it of thoughts. Right on cue his headache returns in full force, effectively clearing his mind of anything but the pain. He narrows his eyes, focusing even harder on the building before them, trying to ignore the blur at the edge of his vision.
Beside him, Gullpaw scents the air, his chin raised to catch the wind. “Clear,” he murmurs, and signals with his tail to Robinpaw to go in first. Robinpaw nods jerkily and creeps through the tangle of weeds toward a gap in the rotten boards. He pauses briefly to scent the air himself, then squeezes through the gap and into the barn.
Inside, light spills from the collapsed ceiling, boards and dusty straw strewn everywhere. An old Twoleg monster, the kind they’d harvest with, sits in the corner like a dilapidated guard.
Robinpaw turns to signal to Gullpaw to come in.
And that’s when he’s tackled, and his vision goes black.
.
.
.
Blinking away the white noise swimming at the edges of his vision, Robinpaw tries to get to his paws but can’t; there’s a weight on his spine, claws pricking his shoulders. Thrashing, he manages to dislodge his assailant, but he’s immediately shoved down again, rolled onto his stomach by a small black tom. The rogue perches on his stomach, snarling.
“Clan cat!” the tom spits. “You thought you’d take our barn while we were away, did you? You didn’t think there’d be anyone left at home. Your mistake.”
“I— I didn’t—” Robinpaw stammers, but the rogue slaps him viciously, sending stars spiralling across his vision.
“Maybe now Renka will finally respect me,” the black rogue huffs. “I knew you’d come, and here you are! Who’s the smartest now? Not you, little warrior.”
Robinpaw struggles feebly, but his head’s spinning, and he can’t seem to gather enough strength in his limbs to fight back. He wonders distantly where Gullpaw is, but at that moment his denmate barrels into the rogue, knocking him off of Robinpaw.
The rogue screeches in fury and alarm, but Gullpaw has him pinned, and despite the tom’s best efforts, he can’t free himself.
Robinpaw staggers to his feet, shaking his head. Meanwhile, the black rogue wails angrily. “Let me go, you scum! Let go of me!”
Gullpaw snarls and grabs the tom’s ear in his teeth, wrenching his head back so the thin flesh tears, sending a spray of blood across the barn floor. The rogue screams in pain.
“You’ll attack us, easy, but you don’t like it when we fight back, do you,” Gullpaw hisses softly, blood smearing his muzzle. The rogue thrashes desperately, paws scrabbling against Gullpaw’s chest, but Gullpaw doesn’t loosen his grip.
“Gullpaw,” Robinpaw calls hoarsely. “That’s enough. He’s just a guard.”
Gullpaw turns his head, ears flat against his skull. “He was there,” he whispers. “When they killed Slatewave.” He turns back to the rogue, his good eye a furious slit. “You killed him,” he snarls.
The rogue blinks in recognition. “You,” he spits. “I remember you. The little coward they sent for help. What did your Clan do to Selkie, you one-eyed freak?”
“The golden she-cat?” Gullpaw growls. “She’s dead.” The black tom curls his lip in disgust, but Gullpaw leans in and hisses, “I’m the one who killed her.”
“You?” A twinge of fear breaks through the rogue’s voice, but he lifts his chin in defiance. “No way.”
“What, you need me to prove it to you?” Gullpaw lunges, sinking his teeth into the rogue’s throat, not breaking the skin. The tom mewls in terror.
Robinpaw darts up to him, placing a paw on Gullpaw’s shoulder. “Wait, don’t kill him! The warrior code—”
Gullpaw releases the cat’s throat and whips his head around to stare at Robinpaw. “The warrior code? You think these cats know anything about the code?” he demands. “They killed Slatewave. He was outnumbered, helpless. He gave up his life, and for what? They won’t stop until they have what they want.”
Robinpaw flicks his ears at the rogue tom. “Gullpaw, he’s outnumbered, helpless. You don’t have to kill him. A good warrior shows mercy.”
Gullpaw breathes hard, staring in fury down at the writhing rogue. “Fine,” he sighs at last, releasing the cat. The black tom scrambles away, blood dripping from his torn ear. He presses himself to the wall, his back arched, fur raised along his spine.
“Let’s get out of here,” Gullpaw hisses, expression dark.
Robinpaw backs away from him, looking one more time at the black tom, whose teeth are showing, glinting white in the half-light.
Beside him, Gullpaw curses softly under his breath, and Robinpaw turns around, realizing at once the reason for Gullpaw’s agitation.
The rogues are back.
Mudstream lies in the clearing, her water vole untouched beside her. She hasn’t moved since Garjaw spoke with her. It’s as if his words drained her of herself: all her sorrow, all her guilt, all the weight on her soul.
It’s as though the world has fallen into place, every piece finally united to make a clear picture.
She has to tell him. Gullpaw. Has to tell him what this means for her, for him.
A dark gray she-cat pads by: Sootpaw, Ternfeather’s apprentice, Frogpaw’s sister. Mudstream lifts her head and beckons for Sootpaw to come nearer.
"Sootpaw, can you get Gullpaw for me?" Mudstream closes her eyes. "I… I need to talk to him."
"Sure." The apprentice hurries off, and a few moments later Mudstream hears her footsteps approach again.
"Mudstream!"
She opens her eyes. Sootpaw stands before her, fur lifting in worry.
"He's not there," the apprentice says slowly. "Robinpaw either."
“No.” Mudstream rises to her paws, unease filling up the empty places inside her like the tide.
Sootpaw’s eyes are wide. “They’re gone.”
“Well, would you look at that.” Five rogues block the gap in the barn’s side, four of them hauntingly familiar to Gullpaw: the gray-and-white she-cat, the stocky brown tabby tom, the lithe white she-cat, the ginger tomcat. Another she-cat, unfamiliar to him, hovers at the back of the group, a petite calico. The gray-and-white she-cat steps forward into a pool of sunlight, her narrow eyes fixed on Gullpaw. “Harry, why didn’t you tell us we had visitors?”
The black tom skitters up to her, panting. “Renka! I told you they’d come!”
“You did,” Renka muses. “Yet I didn’t believe you.” She bends her head to inspect his ear. “And look at that, you’re hurt. How irresponsible of me.”
“I’m fine,” Harry brushes her off, his bravery restored with the return of his leader. “Besides, you’re here now.” He moves around her to stand at her left shoulder, his face smug as he looks at the apprentices.
The ginger tomcat pads to Renka’s right shoulder, eyes curious. “They’re just kids. What are they doing here?”
“It seems they don’t come in peace, whatever their mission is,” Renka observes, staring at the blood painting Gullpaw’s muzzle. He stares at her, tail lashing, mind racing. He has to get out of here. He has to get out of here right now.
“This is bad,” Rainpaw breathes, moving closer to him so their pelts just brush. Gullpaw flinches at the touch, leaping away. Robinpaw stares at him, eyes wide. Gullpaw stares back, flanks heaving, fur electric.
Renka chuckles softly. “Poor babies. They’re scared.” She pads up to Gullpaw, circling him slowly. He stares at her, mind racing. Her expression is sharp and carefully guarded, her eyes travelling up and down his form as she sizes him up. The ginger cat does the same to Robinpaw, who trembles in terror.
Gullpaw tenses, waiting for an opportunity to run, to fight, to do something, anything.
“This one’s no threat,” the ginger tom reports. He swipes experimentally at Robinpaw, who leaps back with a hiss of alarm.
Renka looks over at him. “Indeed.”
Now. She’s distracted, her attention momentarily away from him, so he takes the opportunity and hurls himself at her. She catches his movement in the corner of her eye, however, and dodges so his claws catch only the tips of her fur. The other rogues hiss in alarm, but Renka lashes her tail, signalling for them to stay back. The ginger tom herds Robinpaw back, and a grin splits Renka’s lips.
“Oh, you want to fight me, little one?” she murmurs. “Well—” He launches himself at her again mid-sentence, but she dodges aside once more, counter-attacking immediately. Claws sc**** his side, and he snarls, whirling to face her. He rears up, lashing at her face, catching her cheek in a raking blow. She leaps back, eyes filled with new respect. She scans his stance, looking for weak points, and he charges again. They dance around each other, taking swipes, but neither is immediately at an advantage.
“Renka,” the ginger cat calls in warning, but she doesn’t take her eyes off Gullpaw this time.
“I can handle this,” she replies. “Just keep the other one from getting away.” She continues to give orders as she fights, “Marx, Olivia, take Harry to retrieve the mice we caught. Fae, stand guard outside.” The other rogues slip out as she lunges, catching Gullpaw’s chest fur in her teeth; but she misses his flesh and rears back, spitting fur. While she splutters, Gullpaw dives at her, raking his claws across her forehead, intending to blind her. Blood wells in the cuts, beginning to drip toward her eyes. She shakes her head, drops of blood flying, and takes up a defensive stance, waiting for his next move. He circles her, refusing to charge in again. For a moment they stare at each other, panting.
The sounds of a scuffle break out behind Gullpaw, and he turns his head so his good eye can see. Robinpaw has tackled the ginger tom, and the two snarl as they tussle, a rolling ball of teeth and claws.
Pain rips through Gullpaw’s side; Renka attacked in his blind spot. He faces her again before racing around her, slicing at her hind leg. She squeals in pain, immediately lifting it off the ground. He takes the opportunity to ram his shoulder into her; unbalanced, she falls, and he’s on her immediately, grabbing her throat in his jaws while his hind legs pummel her soft belly.
“Renka!” the ginger cat screams, shoving Robinpaw off. He begins to move toward them, but Gullpaw flattens his ears threateningly and tightens his grip on the rogue’s throat, and the tom halts, tail lashing. Renka pounds her hind legs against his own stomach, but her blows are weakening; she gasps for air, unable to fill her lungs while her throat is in Gullpaw’s vice-like grip.
Robinpaw stares; Gullpaw meets his eyes, and slowly, Robinpaw nods, just once. Gullpaw blinks, astonished, then blinks again to regain his senses.
These rogues will never harm his Clan again.
He bites down, the taste of blood filling his mouth, and doesn’t let go. Not when Renka screams, not when she thrashes, not when she falls still. Not when the ginger rogue launches himself at him, and not when Robinpaw fights the tomcat off. The sounds of battle are muted, somehow; all he can see is red, all he can taste is salt. The tide roars in his ears, drowning out all sound. He closes his eyes.
A heartbeat or an eternity later, he feels Robinpaw shake his shoulder, far away. He blinks, and the world slowly comes back to him, the sea retreating.
“We have to get out of here,” Robinpaw hisses. “He’s gone for now, and the guard, too, but the others will be back soon.”
Breathing in deeply, shudderingly, Gullpaw lets go. Blood drips from his mouth, his wounds, his blood mixing with the rogue leader’s on the barn floor. He looks down at the body, one gray-and-white cat looking at another.
Once, this was what he wanted.
But now…
He’s not sure what he wants, anymore.
“Gullpaw?” Robinpaw mews softly, eyes full of concern.
Gullpaw shakes out his coat and faces him. “Let’s go home.”
.
.
.
Mudstream sends Sootpaw to fetch Petalthroat, and together they follow their apprentices’ scent trail through the forest.
“They’re probably just exploring,” Petalthroat argues, in a tone of voice that says he thinks she’s worrying too much.
But Mudstream can’t seem to shake the panic that clings to her pelt. As the scent trail gets deeper into their territory, she knows something’s wrong. “Petalthroat, what if they went after the rogues?” she asks, her voice shrill with worry.
“Why would they?” he replies. “Robinpaw’s not that foolhardy.”
“I’m afraid Gullpaw is.” Mudstream crashes through the undergrowth, noticing the trees thinning around them. “We’re almost at the border, Petalthroat,” she says, her tone accusatory. “Where else would they have gone?”
“I don’t know.” He’s quiet now, realizing the seriousness of the situation.
“They’re going to get themselves killed!” Mudstream wails, half angry at Gullpaw and half angry at herself. “I should have watched him closer. He’s so unpredictable these days, I should have seen this coming!”
“I just can’t believe Robinpaw went along with it,” Petalthroat growls. “He knows better than that.”
They reach the border, and Mudstream sees nothing but an ocean of gold before her. “They didn’t go through this, did they?”
Petalthroat scents the air, then sniffs a tussock of grass. “They went around it,” he says.
Mudstream looks at her mate. He looks so put-together, even after just losing his brother. Perhaps it’s adrenaline, the determination not to lose another cat he loves. But she can’t help but worry as she follows him. Gullpaw’s never done anything like this before. He’s always been so obedient. Is he trying to tell her something? Is this just how he’s grieving for Slatewave? But she can’t understand it; he wasn’t close with him. It doesn’t make sense.
“There they are!” Petalthroat calls. Mudstream looks up to see two figures approaching along the green path, one brown tabby and one gray-and-white. Relief washes over her, and she races toward them; she slows, however, when she sees the blood on their fur.
Blood on Robinpaw’s side, on Gullpaw’s chest, on Gullpaw’s chin. Blood dripping onto the grass, another cat’s blood.
“What happened?” she demands of Gullpaw, but he ignores her, head down. Knowing it’s useless to press him, she looks to Robinpaw, who replies, “The rogues.”
“Why were you out here?” Petalthroat asks, leading them back to the border. His voice is heavy with disapproval.
Robinpaw ducks his head, guilty. “We were just going to scout out their base. But we went inside and they attacked us.”
“What did you think would happen when you went inside?” Petalthroat demands incredulously, tail lashing.
“We… we didn’t think,” Robinpaw admits. “We just—”
“Their leader is dead,” Gullpaw interrupts. He lifts his chin, meeting Mudstream’s horrified gaze. “They won’t bother us again.”
“Gullpaw!” she hisses. “You can’t just walk into their territory and fight them. That’s not how the Clan works.”
“That’s how they work, though,” he argues, and she realizes this is the first time he’s spoken to her, just to argue. She flattens her ears.
“I don’t care,” she snaps. “That was foolish and irresponsible. You could have gotten yourselves killed out there. And what you do outside our borders reflects on the whole Clan. We are not the kind of cats who go out and kill just because we have a conflict. What if those rogues want revenge for their leader?” They’ve reached the border, and Petalthroat leads Robinpaw into the trees, but Mudstream whirls on Gullpaw, searching his gaze for any remorse. “Why did you do this, Gullpaw? You’ve only made things worse!”
He stares back at her, defiant. He’s fallen back into silence again, refusing to answer. Mudstream pushes down her anger, letting her fur fall flat again.
“Fine,” she says. “We’ll see what Pinestar has to say about this.”
“Reckless though your actions were, you have rid the Clan of a formidable enemy. I want to honor your bravery,” Pinestar decides, once he’s heard the story. “You will both be made warriors at sundown.”
“What?” Mudstream stares at her leader, shocked. “Aren’t you going to punish them?”
Petalthroat remains silent, though from the expression on his face it’s clear he agrees.
“Technically, nothing they did was against the code,” Pinestar reasons. “A warrior shall not kill to win his battles, unless his enemies are outside the code and he must do so in self-defense. These rogues are responsible for the death of Slatewave, and by taking action against them these apprentices have saved Clan lives. Besides,” he looks at Robinpaw, “this was just the kind of bravery I was waiting to see from you.”
Robinpaw ducks his head, abashed. “I… thank you.”
“I still disagree with this,” Mudstream declares, “but you are my leader, so I won’t go against your orders.”
“I wouldn’t ask you not to have an opinion just because you disagree with me,” Pinestar rumbles. “I think it’s good for you to finally get worked up about something.”
“Very well,” Petalthroat meows. “Robinpaw, I’m proud you’ve made warrior. I’ll help you groom for the ceremony.” They file out, Petalthroat first, Robinpaw following more slowly.
“You’d better see Garjaw,” Pinestar says to Gullpaw. “Those gashes don’t look good.”
Gullpaw dips his head and begins to leave the den. Mudstream looks away as Gullpaw passes; he pauses in front of her, but when she says nothing he goes on his way.
Mudstream rises to her paws, but Pinestar says, “Wait.” She turns to look at him, and he dips his head, indicating she should sit again. “I’m proud of how well you’ve done with Gullpaw,” he meows. “He’s at a difficult age, and he’s disabled at that. And yet you’ve made him into a fine asset to the Clan. He clearly values his Clanmates’ lives over his own, to the point where he was willing to die to get rid of those rogues.” His eyes are warm with approval. “I understand these weren’t the best of circumstances, but I truly believe he is ready to become a warrior. Before now, he was just another mouth to feed. But now? This proves his loyalty more than any assessment could. He thinks on his feet. I’m very pleased with his progress. And it’s all thanks to you, Mudstream.” She blinks in surprise as he continues, “Not to dredge up old wounds, but I know losing Rainpaw was hard on you. I wanted to see if you would be able to move past your grief. That’s why I gave Gullpaw to you. And you did wonderfully. Now that he’s to be made a warrior, you’ll be able to resume life as usual.”
It’s not that easy, Mudstream thinks, but nods anyway.
“That’s all,” Pinestar says. “Go and rest now. There will be much to celebrate tonight.”
“Yes, Pinestar,” Mudstream murmurs. “Thank you.”
As she leaves the den, she still can’t help but feel that something’s wrong about this. But she forces herself to shake off her apprehension.
After tonight, she won’t have to worry anymore.
When Robinpaw returns to the den to wait for sundown, Gullpaw’s already there, curled in his nest with his back to the entrance. Robinpaw opens his mouth to greet him, but then he notices Gullpaw’s shoulders shaking in silent sobs.
Quietly, he backs out of the den. He can wait somewhere else.
Slowly, the sun sets, sinking beneath the treetops. As the camp is washed in the dying light of the red sun, Pinestar leaps onto a branch in the pine tree above his den and yowls the summons.
“All cats old enough to catch their own prey gather for a Clan meeting!”
In the clearing, warriors mill about, finding places to sit. The Clan deputy, Ternfeather, settles himself at the roots of the pine, and Garjaw sits beside him, watching in interest. Mudstream, Petalthroat, Robinpaw, and Gullpaw wait apart from the others. Robinpaw has groomed himself thoroughly so that his fur is smooth and clean, and his eyes are alight with excitement; Gullpaw looks the same as ever, a little unkempt, a little distant, his good eye squinting up at Pinestar.
From his perch on the branch, Pinestar begins the ceremony. “I, Pinestar, call upon StarClan to look down upon these apprentices. They have trained hard to understand the ways of your noble code, and I commend them to you as warriors in their turn.”
“Robinpaw.” Pinestar’s amber eyes glow in the fading light. “Do you promise to uphold the warrior code and to protect and defend this Clan, even at the cost of your life?”
“I do.” Robinpaw’s eyes are shining. Petalthroat looks on.
“Then by the powers of StarClan, I name you Robinheart. We honor your perseverance and selflessness, and we welcome you as a full warrior in the sight of StarClan.”
“Robinheart! Robinheart!”
Mudstream notices distantly that as the Clan cheers Robinheart’s new name, Gullpaw remains silent.
“Gullpaw.” Pinestar turns to him. “Do you promise to uphold the warrior code and to protect and defend this Clan, even at the cost of your life?”
Gullpaw is silent, tail twitching, eye flickering rapidly back and forth.
“Gullpaw?” Mudstream prompts softly.
Pinestar begins to repeat himself, “Gullpaw, do you—”
Gullpaw murmurs something under his breath. It’s so quiet Mudstream half thinks she imagined it.
Pinestar pricks his ears. “What was that?”
Gullpaw lifts his chin, eye wild. “I don’t know,” he repeats, louder. His voice breaks. “I don’t— I don’t know.”
“What is the meaning of this?” Ternfeather mutters.
“Gullpaw, I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Pinestar murmurs. “Are you saying—”
“I don’t— I can’t!” With a strangled wail, Gullpaw turns and flees, hurtling blindly into the undergrowth at the edge of camp.
The Clan watches in shocked silence; the bushes tremble where Gullpaw vanished, then fall still once more. All at once the warriors begin to whisper amongst themselves, some astonished, others scandalized.
“I knew we should never have taken him in. He was trouble from the get-go. Nothing but a burden, a freak.”
“I can’t believe he just did that. Isn’t that a crime against the code? He denied his warrior name in the sight of StarClan! What do we do?”
“We have to go after him.”
“Good riddance, if you ask me.”
“Mudstream!” Petalthroat faces her, eyes cold slits. “Did you know about this?”
“No,” she gasps. “I had no idea—”
“Enough!” Pinestar caterwauls over the din. “I asked him a question and he answered. I shall force no cat to become a warrior against his will. Mudstream, Petalthroat, Robinheart, go after him. Make sure he doesn’t do something he might regret.” He lashes his tail. “This Clan meeting is over. Dismissed.”
.
.
.
He runs.
Runs along the coast to the south, past the shore where tidepools are nestled among the rocks, through the forests of birch and pine.
He runs.
Runs to the place where the land rises in steep shafts above the crashing tide, where broken rock paints the sea floor, rising in crooked spires at the base of the towering cliffs.
He runs, paws winging over the land. He runs, flashing between the trees, a streak of gray and white. He runs, because he is confused, and it hurts, and he doesn’t know what to do or who he’s supposed to be or why they’d ever want to reward him for something he detests.
So he runs.
And though his mind doesn't know where he's going, his paws do.
Gutter's Leap.
They run.
They run in a pack, a cluster, three beings with one purpose. They run, through the woods and down the coast, following a trail of fear-scent and broken twigs, searching for him, only for him.
And as they chase him southward, ever southward, Petalthroat realizes this is all too familiar. A desperate chase, a gray-and-white apprentice, a choice driven by fear. And all at once he knows where this will end.
“Shalepaw,” he breathes, and he remembers.
Three years ago…
A long-furred black-and-white she-cat struggles through a snowbank. By Clan terms, she is a loner, a former kittypet. In her terms, she is abandoned. She is alone.
And she is heavy with kits.
Her name is Luna, and she never asked for this. She never asked for her mate to die, mauled to death by a dog in the alley behind her Twoleg nest. She never asked for her Twolegs to abandon her simply because she was pregnant. She never asked to be left in the cold, in the snow.
Yet here she is.
She limps, freezing, through the snow along the side of the Thunderpath, following it south toward the ocean. More than once she stumbles, and she is forced to stop and lick the ice from between her toes.
Finally, after what seems like hours of walking, she stops, scenting the air. She smells other cats. And perhaps they’re savage wild cats, like from the stories her mama told her once, long ago. But right now, they are her only hope.
She stumbles onto the territory of the cats she later learns are called a Clan. There, the medicine cat assists with the birth of four kits. Luna names them, one by one, as they arrive. First comes a black-and-white she-kit, whom she names Reina, the word for queen in her mama’s language. Luna prays that this little reina will grow up to be strong and courageous, a true queen.
Next come two boys, one with long gray fur and one with short gray-and-white fur: Slate and Shale, she calls them, so they will be tough as stone in the face of adversity.
The final kit is a little gray tom with a white flower-petal-shaped marking on his throat; so she names him Petal, a sign of her hope that spring will come, and with it, the sun. A name for the Clan’s kindness.
When her kits are old enough to walk on their own and the snow begins to melt, Luna prepares to leave the Clan. But a terrible sickness called greencough has left their nursery bare; so, to repay their kindness, Luna takes only her firstborn with her, leaving her sons to the Clan, to help it grow strong. In Clan fashion they are renamed Slatekit, Shalekit, and Petalkit. Here she leaves them, licking their faces in turn, hoping they will understand that she loves them, no matter where she goes.
And with the end of winter, she leaves.
Her sons grow older and stronger, made apprentices as the trees begin to grow their first tiny green leaves. As the spring goes on, Petalpaw and Slatepaw grow ever closer to the code of the Clan; but Shalepaw, restless and discontent, strays ever further. In the end, his path leads him only to loss and confusion, and his mind grows dark. He blames his mother for leaving him with strangers, then blames himself for not being good enough for her to take with her. He blames his brothers for being so obedient, for not seeing the situation for what it is, then he blames the Clan for not understanding him. Finally, at the brink of despair, he runs. Runs to the top of the highest cliff, his brothers following, calling for him to return. But he pays them no heed, and he jumps, and for an instant he flies — and then he falls, falls into the mouth of the sea.
So Petalthroat knows what this is like: this helplessness, this fear, this hurt. And he may not know what’s driving Gullpaw’s paws this night, but he knows one thing: he’s not about to lose another cat to the cliffs.
Not today.
Never again.
So he runs, outstripping Mudstream and Robinheart, runs because he’s seen what the rocks at the bottom of this cliff can do to a cat’s body. And no cat deserves such a fate.
So he runs.
He runs, and he prays to StarClan that he will be fast enough this time.
.
.
.
At his paws, the land falls away to the sea before him, high tide masking the dark, fanged rocks that lurk just below the surface of the water. A chill wind blows in from the sea, tendrils of icy air ripping through him as though his fur is nothing; he shivers, contemplating.
They are coming. He knows they’ll follow. But what is it he wants? Something deep inside him wills him to jump now, to end it before they can see him do it. Because he knows to watch would break their hearts. And he wouldn’t wish that on them. No one should feel the same pain he does. No one deserves that. Only him.
A small part of him longs for them to appear between the trees, longs to hear their arguments, longs to live. But he’s so tired. Tired of the weight of the darkness in his mind. Tired of the pain, the guilt, the confusion, the hurt. Tired of living, mostly. Because it’s hard, harder than anyone ever said it would be. And to everyone else, it seems so easy: to wake up every day without a cloud surrounding their mind, to accomplish things and not feel exhausted, to live without trying.
It’s not fair.
It’s not fair and it hurts and he’s so tired and it’s his fault, all his fault—
He takes a step forward.
And that’s when Petalthroat bursts through the trees.
“Gullpaw!”
He’s going to jump. Oh, StarClan, Gullpaw’s going to jump and he’ll be too late to stop him.
“Gullpaw!” Petalthroat screams again, streaking out of the last of the scraggly trees lining the clifftop. “Wait, please wait!”
The apprentice turns, his gaze unreadable. The wind buffets his fur; the tatters of his torn ear ripple, and he flattens his good ear against the rush of cold air.
Petalthroat slows, noticing Gullpaw’s wary stance. “Please, Gullpaw, listen to me,” he pants, breathless. “You don’t have to do this.” Gullpaw’s eye flashes dangerously, and Petalthroat quickly continues, “You have a choice. I know it doesn’t feel like you do, but you have a choice. Okay? There are cats who really care about you and we’ll help you get through this, I promise. Mudstream, me, Robinpaw—er, Robinheart—we all care about you. Really,” he adds, seeing Gullpaw’s expression of disbelief. “You’re not alone, Gullpaw. I know it’s hard. It really is. And you’re so young. It’s not fair, it isn’t. Please, we can talk about this. Or something, anything. Please.”
Gullpaw trembles, eye rolling wildly as he struggles to decide. He takes a step back, tail lashing, his hind paw less than a tail-length away from the cliff’s edge now. Petalthroat takes a step forward, urgent.
“Gullpaw,” he begins, trying to keep the fear out of his voice. “Don’t move. Mudstream and Robinheart will be here in a heartbeat. Just…wait. Please.” He lifts one paw, wishing to move closer but not wanting to spook the apprentice into falling. His heart’s pounding in his ears now, sounding like the roaring surf below. “It’s okay,” he murmurs, half to himself. “Everything’s going to be okay.”
“Petalthroat!” Mudstream pelts out of the woods, Robinheart on her heels. They skid to a halt beside Petalthroat. Mudstream’s eyes are wide and wild with alarm as she stares at Gullpaw’s quivering form. Robinheart’s face is equally horrified, his ears pressed flat against his skull.
“Gullpaw,” Mudstream whispers, then meows loudly, “Gullpaw, I’m sorry! Please don’t do this!” Her voice is too loud, too insistent. Gullpaw rears his head back as if stung. Petalthroat presses against her warningly, and she tenses, closing her mouth.
Wordlessly, Robinheart pads toward his former denmate, his steps slow and calm. Gullpaw’s body is wracked with tremors, and Petalthroat can’t tell if he’s shivering from the wind or if it’s sobs that are causing the shaking. But the gray-and-white apprentice doesn’t move, just crouches ever lower to the ground as Robinheart nears. Finally, the newly-made warrior presses himself against Gullpaw, curling his tail around him comfortingly.
“I know,” he whispers, and Gullpaw finally vocalizes his pain, letting out an eerie cry as he huddles against Robinheart’s side.
Petalthroat and Mudstream slowly walk closer, until Petalthroat can make out words in Gullpaw’s strained wail.
“I’m so s-sorry,” Gullpaw sobs, chest convulsing as he cries. “I—I didn’t—say anything—I should’ve—”
“Shh,” Robinheart comforts him, licking Gullpaw’s face. “It’s okay. You’re okay. I’m right here.”
“It’s m-my fau-ault,” Gullpaw says shudderingly, his face wretched with regret. “I could—could have—and I d-didn’t—stop them—”
“Didn’t stop who?” Robinheart prompts gently.
“M-my pare-parents. I should’ve—th-they fought—and I should’ve s-said something—helped them get ove-over it—they didn’t have to split up—” Gullpaw’s voice grows quieter as he presses his muzzle into Robinheart’s fur. “Sh-should—should have—”
“It’s not your fault,” Mudstream offers, padding to Gullpaw’s other side. He raises his head and looks at her, eyes watery with grief. She bends to draw her tongue over his ear, adding, “Sometimes those things happen. And it had nothing to do with you, I promise. It wasn’t your fault.”
His whimpers start again, and he crumples, sobbing and sobbing. Petalthroat joins Mudstream and Robinheart, gesturing quietly for them to guide Gullpaw away from the cliff. Slowly, with Gullpaw nestled between them, they edge forward, Mudstream continuing to lick Gullpaw’s ear.
“I—I can’t—” he begins, but Mudstream soothes him, “Hush, baby. It’s not your fault. Oh, honey, you blamed yourself. You didn’t cause it, okay?”
He quivers, unable to believe it. “Then why—” He lifts his head, begging, “Why am I broken?”
Mudstream’s eyes are shocked. “Broken? You mean your face?”
He shakes his head, adamant. “No. No, my head. It’s—dark. It hurts. Hurts so bad.”
“What hurts?” Mudstream presses. “Honey, what hurts?”
“To live,” he replies. “It hurts to live and I don’t—I don’t want to live anymore.”
“Oh, honey. Baby.” Mudstream melts against him, her own shoulders shaking with sobs. “I didn’t know.” She nestles her face against the top of his head, eyes squeezed shut. “I didn’t know.”
“You should have told us,” Robinheart speaks up. “You—you could have told me.”
“I know, I just—” Gullpaw gasps for air, trying to catch his breath. “I wanted this.”
“Gullpaw,” Mudstream murmurs sadly, but he goes on, “Th-that’s why I didn’t talk. I—I wanted you to get rid of me. I wanted—I didn’t want to be in your Clan. I—It made me feel im-important. A-and I didn’t know what to do—” He squeezes his eye shut. “It felt so wr-wrong. I-I’m bad. And you made me feel—like I’m not.”
“Honey, you’re not bad,” Mudstream insists.
He ignores her. “I—I killed a cat. God, I killed someone and you let me stay with you! A-and I did it again—and you were gonna—make me a warrior? W-why won’t you just—why won’t you just let me—” He breaks off, choking back a sob. “Let me—die? I—I deserve it! Why won’t you—”
“Because you’re worth so much more than that,” Robinheart cuts in immediately. “You—StarClan, you—Gullpaw, you don’t deserve that!”
“Then—”
“You deserve so much,” Mudstream murmurs. “A life, a family—”
“And you already have these things,” Petalthroat insists, looking Gullpaw in the eye. “A life. A family.” He looks at Mudstream and Robinheart, and they nod. “Because you deserve them. And you can’t do anything to deserve them. You just do. And nothing you do will make you stop deserving them.”
Gullpaw looks ready to protest, but then he hangs his head, sighing. “I don’t know,” he says at last.
“You don’t have to know,” Mudstream tells him. “Just—come back home, okay? You don’t have to be a warrior if you don’t want to. You don’t have to stay with the Clan. You can do whatever you want to. Just—live. Please.” She twines her tail with his. “For me?”
Gullpaw heaves a breath. “O-okay.” He lifts his head, repeating himself. “Okay.” His eye is brighter now, though still dark with sadness. “I’m so tired,” he breathes, closing his eyes. He rests his head on Robinheart’s shoulder.
“Sleep, then,” Robinheart murmurs. “I’ll stay in the den with you, so you won’t be alone.”
Mudstream licks the top of Gullpaw’s head. “You don’t ever have to alone. Not if you don’t want to be.”
As they guide him back to camp, Petalthroat turns and regards the horizon. The wind buffets his fur, drawing dark stormclouds on the horizon ever closer. Thunder rumbles in the distance, echoing the crash of the rising tide.
“Looks like rain,” Petalthroat whispers, then turns and disappears into the forest after his family.
.
.
.
"Petalthroat?"
"Mudstream, please. Not now."
"I didn't even say anything."
A labored sigh. "Fine. What is it?"
"I just wanted to know how your apprentice is doing."
Warily, "Robinpaw? He's fine, why?"
"I mean, has he said anything about Gullpaw?"
His ears flatten. "I knew it would come to this."
"Petalthroat, I was just asking."
"Yes, but you're always asking, Mudstream."
Quietly, "I — I am?"
"You — You haven't realized? Mudstream, you're obsessed with him."
She's indignant, a little hurt. "I am not."
"Not Robinpaw. Gullpaw."
"For StarClan's sake, I just wanted to know if Robinpaw mentioned anything to you about him. I mean, they are denmates."
"Nothing, Mudstream. And if he had, it wouldn't be your business, now would it?"
"He's my apprentice!"
"So talk to him yourself if you're so worried! What's so hard about that?"
"He hasn't spoken a word to me. Not even once."
"Wait, really?"
"I've tried everything. I've asked him about his family — nothing. I've told him stories — nothing. I've given him the silent treatment — and he still won't speak to me! Not a single word."
"Mudstream..."
"I — Am I doing something wrong, Petalthroat? What am I doing wrong?"
"So he's mute. It's not your fault."
"But Garjaw said — "
"Garjaw can guess, just like the rest of us. But at the end of the day, it's been two moons. If he hasn't spoken yet, he's not going to."
"..."
"Look, I'm sorry I snapped. I'm just tired. Been a long day."
"No, it's not your fault. I — I have been a little distant. I just — I miss Rainpaw." Her voice cracks, breaking into a sob.
"Oh, Mudstream." He moves closer, pressing his shoulder against hers.
"I miss him so much," she chokes out.
"I know." He rests his chin on her head, and she buries her face in his neck. "I miss him, too."
She sniffles muffledly into his fur.
"I miss his smile. He was such a cheerful kit." Petalthroat's voice is a low rumble against her cheek. "He never got into trouble, either. Not like Robinpaw and Frogpaw — remember when Frogpaw stuck his head in that bee's nest? Rainpaw was the first one to come running."
She laughs, and it's a rasp in her throat. "I remember that."
"They looked up to him so much," Petalthroat continues.
"Robinpaw was always following him around," Mudstream puts in.
"And Frogpaw would try to outdo him at everything. He didn't understand that Rainpaw was four moons older. But Rainpaw just played along."
"Mm-hmm." She sighs, shuddering, and presses her nose to his chin. "He loved his littermates, too. He never even knew them, didn't even remember them, but he loved them just the same."
"He lived a good life," Petalthroat says, and the past tense stabs her like a branch.
"Why did he have to die?" she wonders aloud, not for the first time.
"It wasn't fair," Petalthroat agrees. "It wasn't his time. I know they say it was, but honestly — he wasn't even twelve moons."
"I wish I could just know for sure," Mudstream whispers. "Know for sure he made it to StarClan."
"Oh, Mudstream. He did." Petalthroat presses closer, closing his eyes. "He did."
She's sobbing again, and he's curling his tail around her, holding her close, and by the time she's composed herself she's ready to say the things she hasn't said in moons.
"Thank you."
And, "I'm sorry."
And, as they curl up for the night, "I love you."
And he replies, "Me, too."
.
.
.
– — five — –
Follow the coast to the south, past Rainpaw's beloved tidepools, past the forests of birch and pine, to the place where the land rises in steep shafts above the crashing tide, where broken rock paints the sea floor, rising in crooked spires at the base of the towering cliffs.
Here you will find the place known as Gutter's Leap.
Once, perhaps not so long ago, another broken apprentice was taken in by the Clan. And perhaps this apprentice, too, did not want to live this life, did not want to be the cat they wanted him to be, did not want to be, at all.
So, perhaps this apprentice followed the coast to the south, past the tidepools, past the forests, to the place where the cliffs that fell away into the sea's fanged maw. To the place where, for a single heartbeat, this apprentice flew. And here, in the place between the adrenaline of the leap and the terror of the fall, this apprentice knew perhaps the only true peace in his life.
Perhaps.
They say history repeats itself. Time always favors its original course. So here, perhaps, the river of time is flowing, back to the cliffs, with the living being borne along like dead leaves. Perhaps, here, another apprentice will fly, and find his peace, and fall into the waiting arms of the sea.
Perhaps.
But perhaps not.
The funny thing about rivers is their tendency to meander, to branch off from their mothers to follow a new, different course.
Who is to say what will happen?
Ultimately, in the end, the choice will fall to him: whether to trade a lifetime of tumult for a single, fleeting instant of peace.
– — –
Once, perhaps not so long ago, there was an apprentice who loved the rain. An apprentice who had his whole life ripped away from him in an instant.
There was another apprentice who lived. An apprentice who had never loved anything in his life, until he loved the rain. And then, this, too, was taken from him.
For each who dies, another will live.
So here our story waits for its ending. Two dead, two living.
If you had the chance to rewrite history, would you?
.
.
.
– — six — –
Leaf-fall arrives late and unseasonably warm, the air hot and miserably dry even as Mudstream wakes for the dawn patrol. The fresh-kill pile consists of little more than a runty shrew and a sun-scorched sparrow carcass, but Mudstream reassures herself that it's just because it's early; the food supply will grow with the return of the day's hunting patrols.
Or so she hopes.
The lingering greenleaf heat is reluctant to give way to cooler weather, and the Clan hasn't seen a good rain since the two moons of downpour that preceded Gullpaw's arrival. It's unusual, Garjaw has admitted, for the weather to fluctuate so drastically in so short a time span, but he also concedes StarClan has sent no warning, and his herb stocks are well-dried. He is prepared for anything the weather might throw at them.
Or so he says.
Shaking these dismal thoughts from her head, Mudstream pads quietly across the still-dark camp to the honeysuckle bush that serves as Robinpaw and Gullpaw's den. The other apprentices share a hollowed-out area among the roots of a dead birch just a few tail-lengths away. This sleeping arrangement is ideal for the hot, stuffy greenleaf moons; when leaf-bare creeps in, the apprentices will move to a single den under an overgrown mulberry to better share body heat through the punishing cold.
The soft, wheezing sound of Robinpaw's breathing is the first thing she hears when she pokes her head under the low-hanging honeysuckle fronds to rouse her apprentice. Robinpaw is curled close to the bush's trunk, his back facing her. Gullpaw sleeps closer to the edge of the den, his face almost angelic in its peacefulness. Mudstream watches his flank rise and fall, her gaze fond, before reaching out a paw to tap his shoulder.
"Gullpaw, it's time to get up. The dawn patrol will leave soon."
His eye, clear and blue as the sky, blinks open, and he lifts his head to regard her groggily. "Dawn patrol," she repeats softly, careful not to wake Robinpaw, and Gullpaw blinks the blurry remains of sleep from his eye. He shifts, sitting up, and begins to groom himself, and Mudstream retreats from the den.
Across the camp, only one other cat waits: Petalthroat's brother Slatewave. The gray tom rises to his paws, his green eyes warm. "Good morning," he calls. "Looks like it's just us for the dawn patrol. Ternfeather wants to get as many cats out hunting as he can today."
"That's a good idea," Mudstream replies, casting a glance over at the pitiful remains of the fresh-kill pile.
Slatewave breathes in deeply, exhaling with a purr. "Nothing like a nice morning walk to get the blood pumping," he says brightly.
Mudstream can't help but purr too. Slatewave has that effect.
Gullpaw picks his way across the camp to join them, his good eye weary.
"Morning, Gullpaw," Slatewave greets him, and Gullpaw just stares sullenly. Slatewave's whiskers twitch in amusement. "Cheer up, there. It's an honor to be assigned to the dawn patrol, you know."
Gullpaw looks like he could care less about honor, so Slatewave shrugs and turns to Mudstream. "Shall we head out?"
"Sure," she replies. "You lead. Gullpaw, why don't you take the rear?"
They leave camp, Slatewave chatting conversationally to Mudstream.
"Have you heard about Larchwing and Owlfeather? They're expecting kits."
"Bluewing caught the biggest finch the other day. I was astonished!"
"How's Petalthroat doing? Good? Good."
"We received word from a passing loner that there's a gang of rogues about. This drought's no good for anyone, but it seems they're using it as an excuse to steal territory from the farm cats. We'd better keep a lookout; that loner said they're a nasty bunch."
They sweep along the western border, where the forest meets a swath of farmland. It's here that Slatewave stops abruptly to scent the air.
Slatewave is alert, tense, his ears pricked, mouth open to scent the air. "Rogues," he mutters softly, narrowing his eyes. "I'd say four or five of them at least. Must be that gang the loner was talking about."
The scent is recent, Mudstream realizes. "I don't like this," she whispers.
"Me either," Slatewave replies, hushed. "We should head back to report this. I don't want to get caught out here alone."
They're turning to head back when a twig cracks thunderously nearby. Slatewave freezes.
"Could be a squirrel," he says softly. "But I don't think so."
"Gullpaw," Mudstream murmurs, her voice low. "Run back to camp and get help. You aren't ready for a fight."
He looks at her doubtfully, as though he thinks she isn't ready to fight either. And maybe she isn't. Two moons of training with a crippled apprentice won't be enough to protect her in a fight like this: outnumbered, outranked, alone.
But she has no choice.
"I said run!" she hisses, swiping at her apprentice with barely sheathed claws. He startles and leaps back, peering at her intensely through his good eye, before swinging around and breaking into a run, vanishing into the undergrowth like a shadow.
"StarClan guide his paws," Slatewave breathes. Mudstream instinctively backs closer to him until her pelt brushes his.
The forest is quiet. Somewhere, a sparrow trills, and another answers it. Then the birds fall silent, and all Mudstream can hear is the wind in the leaves and her own heart pounding in her ears.
"Slatewave," she begins.
And then the rogues are upon them. Mudstream catches a flash of ginger fur as she's knocked to the ground; she snarls furiously, only for the paws holding her down to sink their claws into her flesh.
"Shut up," her assailant hisses.
From the corner of her eye, she can see Slatewave being held down by two rogues, a lithe white she-cat and a stocky brown tabby tom. Slatewave struggles, thrashing in their grip, but the she-cat spits and slashes his face, and he goes still, blood welling in three parallel cuts in his cheek.
Three more cats emerge from the undergrowth, a gray-and-white she-cat, a small black tom, and a golden tabby she-cat. The two smaller cats flank the gray-and-white she-cat on either side.
The she-cat scents the air. "There was another cat here," she meows. "They must have sent for help. Selkie, make sure he doesn't get there."
"Right," the golden she-cat replies, haring off in the direction that Gullpaw ran. Mudstream feels her heart sink to her stomach.
Slatewave begins struggling again, lashing out at the cats who hold him down. For a moment his hind paws are free, and he kicks out at the ginger cat holding Mudstream. The ginger cat screeches and tumbles over, and Mudstream scrambles to her paws, leaping back from the black tom, who darts in to intercept her. She parries his quick attacks, countering with a blow of her own, aiming her claws for his eyes. He lets out a sharp gasp and falls back, pawing delicately at his bleeding face.
The gray-and-white she-cat has leapt in to pin Slatewave down again, and she and the other two rogues are quickly overpowering Slatewave's attempts to free himself. Mudstream moves to help him, but Slatewave howls, "Go! Help Gullpaw!"
"Slatewave, no!" she screeches in horror, but he insists, "Go!" The gray-and-white she-cat slaps him hard, and he hisses in pain.
"Shut him up!" the rogue orders, and Mudstream hears Slatewave cry out in agony.
"No!" she wails, but the ginger cat that held her down has recovered and now hurtles toward her, claws outstretched. The rogue slashes at her, but she turns and runs, ignoring the pain that wells up in her side. The ginger cat calls to the black cat, and they follow for what seems like forever, crashing loudly through the forest behind her, but Mudstream knows this territory better than the rogues, and she eventually outpaces them.
Her breath rasps in her throat, and she longs to stop for a moment to catch her breath, but she knows if she stops Gullpaw will stand no chance, and without help, neither will Slatewave. The thought of leaving him behind makes her sick, but she can't turn back now.
Her apprentice needs her.
The sound of a fight reaches her ears, and she leaps over a fallen tree, fearing the worst. On the other side of the tree she sees only a whirling mass of fur, gray and white and gold, and she can't tell who's winning. Just as she prepares herself to leap in to help, Gullpaw pins the golden rogue to the ground, his teeth in her throat. The she-cat wails in rage and pain, writhing beneath him, but Gullpaw's jaws are closed tight. After a few heartbeats, Mudstream realizes what is happening and leaps at Gullpaw, knocking him off the rogue, but the she-cat takes several strained, shuddering breaths and falls silent, her flanks going still.
Beside her, Gullpaw pants softly, his muzzle painted red with the rogue's blood. Mudstream looks at him, emotions battling within her. The warrior code is strict on the subject of killing, and she wants to remind him of this, but she remembers Slatewave, outnumbered at the border, and she leaps to her paws.
"Gullpaw! Back to camp, now! I have to help Slatewave!" Without turning to see if he obeys, she races away, her heart in her throat.
Please let me get there in time.
Please, StarClan, let me get there in time.
– — –
Darkness.
He's not moving.
And then he blinks awake.
Garjaw stirs in his nest, clinging desperately to the last vestiges of sleep, but the noise in camp becomes too much, and he rises in irritation to see what the fuss is about.
A small crowd has gathered around the entrance of camp, but for Garjaw they step aside. He catches the scent of blood and moves a little faster, until he sees what's happened.
Gullpaw is huddled in the center of the crowd, blood dripping from his face onto the newly fallen leaves below his feet. The look in his only eye is distant and haunted, but when Garjaw approaches, his chin whips up and he fixes the medicine cat with a desperate stare.
And for the first time, he speaks.
"Rogues," he says quietly, his voice low. His teeth are stained red, Garjaw notices.
"Th-the border," the apprentice adds shakily, and then his eye goes wide, and a name escapes his lips like a sigh.
"Slatewave."
– — –
Mudstream crashes toward the border, not even caring if the rogues hear her coming. Maybe they'll think she's brought reinforcements, and they'll scatter. Maybe they'll run away without another fight. Maybe —
But when she arrives, the rogues are already gone. All that's left of their attack are two bodies, lying side by side on the forest floor.
One is the white she-cat, her eyes wide and blank, her limbs splayed awkwardly in death.
The other is Slatewave.
.
.
.
– — seven — –
That night he dreams, as he has dreamt before. He stands by the shore, paws on the sand; night has stolen all of the sun’s warmth from the grains beneath his pads, and the chill seems to seep up his legs, cold settling into his very core.
It is dark. There is no moon, no stars, not even a Twoleg light blinking in the empty sky. All is encompassed in shadow, and he can just barely make out the water’s edge, rising and falling a few tail-lengths away. Its foamy lip inches in and out, gradually growing closer as the tide comes in, as it does every night.
But tonight, it’s as if everything is in slow motion. Usually the water rushes up to him, overtaking him in an instant. Tonight, it remains distant. He thinks it’s coming closer, but in this thick darkness he can’t say for sure.
The only thing he knows is the taste in his mouth, heavy on his tongue, clinging to the roof of his mouth, filling his nostrils. It’s an odd, briny flavor; half like salt, half like the metal that makes up Twoleg monsters. Slowly the taste becomes overwhelming. He looks around, frantic for water, but sees only the sea, lapping at the sand far away. He moves to take a step and suddenly the water is at his toes, as if he blinked and missed the part where he walked closer.
He bends to lap at the water; and because this is a dream, it is sweet and clear, and he exhales in relief as he drinks. The moment he lifts his head, however, the taste is back in his mouth, strong and salty and overwhelming. Blinking back tears, he lowers his chin to drink again. But now the water rises, all at once, and his face is plunged into the surf.
He opens his eyes slowly; then they go wide at what he sees. Floating just beneath the water’s surface are bodies, their limbs stiffened in rigor mortis, their faces frozen in grotesque expressions of pain and horror. One drifts by: a golden she-cat, a gaping hole where her throat should be. Instead of gore, the night sky fills the wound, dotted with pinpricks of light. Stardust, thick and viscous, drips from her mouth. Her eyes are black and empty, reflecting constellations he can’t see.
It is now that he realizes what he’s tasting.
It’s blood.
He licks his lips frantically, trying to rid his mouth of the taste, but to no avail. As bodies drift past him, he realizes in horror that he recognizes them: Mudstream, stars bleeding from her stomach; Robinpaw, a galaxy where his heart should be; Petalthroat, torn in two, his body holding the sky.
And others, cats he recognizes from before.
His mother, her jaw floating separate from her body, her tongue lolling as constellations pour from her mouth.
His father’s decapitated body, a black hole in the stump of his neck.
His sister, spine snapped in two, a comet streaming from the break.
His brother, his eyes twin moons in a mangled face.
Himself. A gray-and-white cat with two eyes and two ears, floating in space.
The body approaches, and he realizes that it’s not him. There’s a deep wound in this cat’s chest, and a heart spills from his chest cavity, pumping out the cosmos.
As he stares, the cat’s eyes flash with life, and he looks right at him.
And that’s when he recognizes those eyes, the color of Petalthroat’s stern gaze, the shape of Mudstream’s worried glances.
Rainpaw.
“Look what you’ve done.” A voice, soft and terrible, emanates from the other apprentice’s mouth, though his jaws don’t move. “See what you’ve created.”
And one more corpse drifts toward him. He tries to scramble backward, but he’s frozen, he can’t move, and he knows this cat, he knows —
Slatewave.
It barely even looks like him anymore, his body’s so broken. Stardust slips from wounds all over him, and his limbs are crooked in all the wrong ways, and a nova explodes in the huge gash in his throat.
“This is all your fault,” Rainpaw’s voice sighs. “This is what you wanted.”
“No,” he whispers.
“Isn’t it?” Rainpaw insists. “You bring death with you wherever you go. You cannot escape it. But you cannot grasp it, either. It haunts you. You should be the one floating here. But you’re not.”
He’s shuddering now, his body wracked with barely constrained sobs. “I’m sorry,” he gasps out.
“Are you?” Rainpaw’s voice breathes out. “Are you really?”
“I’m sorry,” he repeats, the words just audible.
“Live, then,” Rainpaw murmurs. “Live for those of us who can’t.”
The bodies vanish, swallowed up by the dark, and he is left alone in the vast expanse of stars.
.
.
.
– — eight — –
“Gullpaw.”
A voice wrenches him from the dark, and he blinks open his eye to see Robinpaw peering down at him.
“Sorry,” his denmate murmurs apologetically, “but they’re starting the vigil for Slatewave.”
Oh.
He rises to his paws, nodding gratefully to Robinpaw, and slips out of the den and into the dim moonlight. Those who were close to Slatewave are gathered around the body in the center of camp, and the scent of rosemary and mint hangs heavily in the air, masking the scent of death. Petalthroat is hunched in grief over his brother’s body, Mudstream pressed against his side. She looks up when Gullpaw pads past, and he lowers his head in respect. Her eyes, dull with sorrow, follow him as he passes, and it’s only after he’s settled at Slatewave’s shoulder that she looks away.
Garjaw has arranged Slatewave’s body so that the worst of his wounds are hidden from view. What injuries could not be hidden are covered with cobwebs and rosemary blooms. Gullpaw focuses on each flowering wound as long as he can bear, feeling the weight of Slatewave’s death on his shoulders. With a sigh, he extends his forepaws until he’s lying down, resting his chin on his paws.
Sorrow gnaws at his soul, but it’s a different kind of sadness than he’s accustomed to; it’s grief, deep and clear as a pool of water. For a moment he lets himself be pulled under, allowing the grief to swallow him whole, and yet he can’t seem to focus on his sorrow. Something else pulses beneath his skin, hot as flame.
Guilt, perhaps. Or something darker. Hatred. He squeezes his eyes shut, determined not to succumb to emotion. Not here. Not now.
Now is the time for grief, for remembering.
There will be time for the rest in the morning.
For now, he presses his nose into Slatewave’s cold fur and remembers one thing: this is his fault.
– — –
Morning comes, pale sun filtering through the trees to settle on the dusty earth. The days are growing shorter and colder now; the leaves on the trees surrounding the Clan’s camp are slowly exchanging their vibrant greens for the limp yellows and stark reds of leaf-fall. Even now a few trees are dropping their early leaves, the dry husks flitting to the ground to land, soft as a kiss, on the forest floor below.
Slatewave’s body is carried out for burial, and grief turns into anger. Sleep-deprived warriors huddle in groups across camp, fervidly debating how or whether to retaliate against the rogues. Two dawn patrols are sent out to strengthen the scent marks at the western border. Eventually Pinestar calls a Clan meeting, but even this can’t calm the frantic warriors.
“We have to fight back,” the young warrior Saltbreeze argues. “If we appear weak to outsiders, nothing will stop them from attacking. We have to make a statement.”
Garjaw faces him, ears flattened. “And how am I supposed to treat you when you come back wounded? I’m already short-stocked on herbs as it is. We can’t afford a battle, not now.”
“Then what do you propose we do?” the warrior hisses. “Just sit here, and watch our Clanmates get picked off one by one?”
“Of course not,” Garjaw growls. “But there’s got to be a better way to go about this.”
Saltbreeze stands, facing Garjaw with his hackles raised. “We have to fight! We’re warriors, aren’t we? I have a mate and kits to protect,” he continues. “If you want to hide in your den and count your berries, then fine. But I’m not going to sit around doing nothing.” A cheer of approval goes up at this, and Saltbreeze lifts his chin in triumph.
Garjaw turns his head and spits in anger. “StarClan, help these fools,” he hisses under his breath.
Mudstream sits at the edge of the crowd, watching silently as Pinestar attempts to regain control over the meeting. His deputy, Ternfeather, stalks over to Saltbreeze and cuffs his ear, hissing a reprimand. Saltbreeze bares his teeth but falls silent, tail lashing. Mudstream searches the crowd and realizes Gullpaw’s scarred face is nowhere to be found.
“The senior warriors and I will deliberate over this matter,” Pinestar decides. “Your concerns have been heard, and they will be taken into account. When we have reached a suitable solution, I’ll call another meeting to let you know. You are dismissed.”
As he and the senior warriors file into his den, Saltbreeze sniffs and disappears into the nursery. Ternfeather sends out another patrol to help the younger warriors burn off their aggression. And only now does Gullpaw appear, emerging from the undergrowth at the edge of camp.
Mudstream approaches him, noticing that the blood-stained cobwebs covering his injuries are coming loose. “Where were you?” she demands, but he looks away, declining to answer. She detects the scent of salt on his fur and says, “The shore, then? Gullpaw, you know I don’t like it when you leave camp without telling anyone.” He’s silent, unrepentant; his good eye is dark with exhaustion. Mudstream sighs. “You missed the Clan meeting,” she tells him. “But you really didn’t miss anything important. Just a lot of arguing.”
He twitches an ear, looking distracted, so Mudstream presses, “Are you alright?”
He meets her eyes briefly and blinks once as an affirmative. Even now, when it’s been proven he can speak, he refuses to say a word to her. She pushes down her frustration, but it’s only replaced by an unsettled feeling in her gut as she remembers his teeth in the rogue’s throat, the wild emptiness in his good eye.
“Go have your dressings replaced,” she says at last, “and take the day off to rest. I know yesterday must have been hard on you.”
He simply flicks an ear and pads off to Garjaw’s den, his head low. Mudstream watches him go, concern heavy on her chest.
Sometimes she can’t believe she ever thought he was Rainpaw. And yet, looking at him now, she doesn’t see Gullpaw.
All she sees is her son.
And that — he’s so far away from her, she can’t lose him again — scares her.
– — –
Mudstream is eating a skinny water vole when Garjaw settles beside her.
“If I told you there was a prophecy…”
“No,” she says without looking up.
“I’m sorry?”
“Let him be young, Garjaw. Let him be normal, or as normal as he can be. Don’t confine him to a certain fate just because StarClan said it should be so. Don’t steal his youth away from him.”
“Mudstream.”
“The second you mention a prophecy, he’ll lose his choice. Don’t you see that? His free will will be gone. Any choice he makes will have to lead to the same end. It’ll steal his hope, and he already has so little.” She fixes Garjaw with a stare that’s equal parts stern and pleading. “Please, Garjaw.”
He clears his throat, suddenly uncomfortable. “Actually, Mudstream…”
A pause. His eyes are sorry as he sighs at last, “The prophecy is about you.”
.
.
.
– — nine — –
It’s sun-high, and Robinpaw’s already cleaned the elder’s den, treated their ticks with mouse bile, and fetched water for the queens and their kits. Since his mentor, Petalthroat, is taking a few days off to grieve, he’s stuck in camp for now. And already he’s out of things to do.
He tries lying in a warm pool of sunlight, but a chill breeze blows in a bank of clouds to block out the sun. The same wind thwarts his attempts to sweep the camp’s fallen leaves into a neat pile. Eventually he gives up and retreats into his den, the breeze chasing after him, cold tendrils of air nipping at his heels like fangs.
He blinks, his eyes adjusting to the dimmer light of his den; it takes him a moment to realize that Gullpaw’s there, too, curled in his nest. Fresh cobwebs cover his wounds from the rogue attack, and his good eye is closed. After a moment, though, he blinks it open, feeling Robinpaw’s stare.
“Uh,” Robinpaw mumbles, “sorry.”
Gullpaw sighs. “’S fine.”
Right. He talks. That’s new.
Robinpaw’s not entirely sure how to go about a conversation, but Gullpaw’s watching him expectantly.
“Um, sucks about Slatewave,” Robinpaw begins, then cringes. Great way to start off his first real conversation with his denmate. He amends himself, “I mean, since our mentors are off and we’re stuck here. I’m already so bored.”
“Yeah,” Gullpaw agrees softly. He tilts his head. “But we’re not really stuck here.”
“What, you mean we could go out?” Robinpaw blinks, astonished. “Where would we go?”
“West,” Gullpaw murmurs. Robinpaw knows what he’s implying; west to the border, to the farmland beyond. West to rogue territory, to the place where the treeline meets sprawling fields and growling monsters. West to the cats who killed Slatewave. West to the cats whose member Gullpaw killed.
Robinpaw realizes at once what Gullpaw intends to do.
“I’ll come,” he decides. It’s the first time he’s ever had the opportunity to do something with his denmate, and he’s not about to waste it. Besides, he adds out loud, “I don’t want you getting killed out there.”
Gullpaw rises to his paws, looking at Robinpaw closely. “It doesn’t matter,” he says softly, “but alright.” He slips from the den, tossing one more phrase over his shoulder, “I know a secret way.”
Robinpaw follows, trying not to think too hard about what he just got himself into.
– — –
“A prophecy?” Mudstream repeats slowly. “About me?”
“Yes,” Garjaw replies, patient. He ducks his head almost in embarrassment. “I… actually received it some moons ago, but I wasn’t sure what it meant until just recently, and I didn’t want to make it widely known, in case it caused a panic.” Looking up at her again he continues, “Since you’ve made your stance on prophecies quite clear to me”—he narrows his eyes wryly—“I won’t tell you if you don’t want to hear it. But I thought it might lend a little clarity to… er, recent events. And it might help you make a decision regarding these matters.”
Mudstream blinks once, twice, considering. “Tell me,” she says at last.
And he does.
And she listens.
And suddenly, the whole world makes sense.
– — –
Robinpaw’s head hurts. Like, really hurts. Throbbing, pulsing, hot pain. But he tells himself he’s just tired from staying up for the vigil last night. The pain will pass. It has to go away eventually.
It has to, right?
Gullpaw’s secret way out of camp has led them deep into their territory. At one point their trail forks; the more well-worn path to the east leads to the sea, but Gullpaw veers west, following a barely-noticeable track through tall grass and weeds. Robinpaw follows wordlessly, pushing quietly through the undergrowth behind his denmate.
Instead of gradually thinning as they would when bordering a meadow, the trees abruptly stop at the edge of the farmlands. The border with Clan territory is a thin strip of shorn grass between the forest and the fields, and it’s here that Gullpaw pauses, swiveling his head so his good eye can gather as much information about their surroundings as it can. Suddenly he pricks his ears and stares at something. Robinpaw follows his gaze.
Where one field borders another, there’s a row of scrubby trees, their leaves just beginning to change. Hidden away among the trees is the remains of a weathered Twoleg barn, mostly caved in on itself. Ivy covers what roof is left; the structure is almost imperceptible at first glance.
“That’s got to be their base,” Gullpaw whispers, as if to himself. It’s not a bad conjecture; the structure would provide shelter from the elements, but it’s not easy to find, and clearly the Twolegs have no use for it now.
Robinpaw unsheathes his claws and digs them into the grass beneath him, steeling himself. “So… what’s the plan?” he murmurs.
“Scout it out,” Gullpaw hisses, narrowing his eye.
“What, you mean now?” Robinpaw stares at him. “We can’t take them alone!”
“They’ll be out hunting,” Gullpaw says. “Look.” He twitches his ears at a field in the distance where a Twoleg monster crawls, eating long golden stalks. Dust rises in its wake, the wind blowing it away. “Harvest,” Gullpaw explains. “The mice in the fields’ll be running from the monster. That’s why they’re attacking us now. They don’t want their food source escaping into our territory.”
“Really?” That makes sense. Robinpaw blinks, trying to think despite his headache. “So, what? We go in there while they’re out? What would be the point?”
Gullpaw turns his head to look at him. “So they know we know where they are. They’ll be on edge. Won’t know if we’re going to attack.”
“Oh,” Robinpaw says, impressed. “I’ll have to remember that.”
Gullpaw doesn’t seem to hear. His eyes are fixed on the wavering golden stalks before them. “The fields are so dry,” he meows quietly. “I’ve always wondered what it would be like to watch them burn.”
Robinpaw considers this. “It’d go up really fast.”
“Exactly,” Gullpaw murmurs. For a moment it looks like firelight is reflected in his eye, but he blinks and the illusion is gone. “We’d better be quick before anyone misses us back at camp.”
“Right,” Robinpaw agrees, a bit nervously, and follows Gullpaw along the belt of grass that leads around the field’s edge. They keep low so as to not draw attention to themselves, but Gullpaw seems confident that the nearby harvest will be enough to keep the rogues occupied.
As they walk, Robinpaw begins to realize just how utterly unbelievable this whole thing is. He’s hanging out with Gullpaw, who’s always been kind of a loner. Gullpaw’s making conversation like it’s suddenly normal for him to do that. They’re scouting out a dangerous location by themselves, and somehow Robinpaw’s just going along with it, totally fine.
He hasn’t felt this ridiculously alive since before Rainpaw died.
This was the kind of thing they always did: some daring, meaningless escapade while their mentors weren’t looking, just to do it, to say they did it. Because they were apprentices, and that was just the kind of thing apprentices did with their denmates. Rainpaw was always trying to escape the idea that he was perfect, because he knew Robinpaw held him up as an ideal. Their little missions, however, only further convinced Robinpaw that Rainpaw was perfect: brave, caring, always trying to be better, always trying to lift others up with him.
And that only made him fall more in love with him.
He didn’t mean to fall in love with Rainpaw. It was just something he realized one day, when they were sneaking back to camp one night. He looked over at Rainpaw, saw his eyes glinting excitedly in the moonlight, saw his pelt disheveled and dirty, heard his breath quick and low in his throat, and he knew. He loved him. That was it. It was as though he had always known it.
And it only made it harder that he never told him. He was going to. He had it all planned out: they’d be made warriors at the same time, and then, during their vigil, he’d tell him. They weren’t supposed to talk during their vigil, but no one would know. It was the kind of thing he wanted to say bathed in moonlight and silence, with only Rainpaw there to hear it.
But he never got to say it.
A moon after Rainpaw’s death, he failed his first assessment. The moon after that, he failed his second. Then Gullpaw showed up and Pinestar decided it would be best for Robinpaw to wait a little longer, so Gullpaw would have a denmate.
And that was that.
A new denmate, a new partner on some crazy excursion, a new gray-and-white cat sitting next to him during their vigil.
And three words he’d never get to say to the cat who was supposed to hear them.
They arrive at the abandoned barn, and Robinpaw shakes his head briefly, to clear it of thoughts. Right on cue his headache returns in full force, effectively clearing his mind of anything but the pain. He narrows his eyes, focusing even harder on the building before them, trying to ignore the blur at the edge of his vision.
Beside him, Gullpaw scents the air, his chin raised to catch the wind. “Clear,” he murmurs, and signals with his tail to Robinpaw to go in first. Robinpaw nods jerkily and creeps through the tangle of weeds toward a gap in the rotten boards. He pauses briefly to scent the air himself, then squeezes through the gap and into the barn.
Inside, light spills from the collapsed ceiling, boards and dusty straw strewn everywhere. An old Twoleg monster, the kind they’d harvest with, sits in the corner like a dilapidated guard.
Robinpaw turns to signal to Gullpaw to come in.
And that’s when he’s tackled, and his vision goes black.
.
.
.
– — ten. — –
Blinking away the white noise swimming at the edges of his vision, Robinpaw tries to get to his paws but can’t; there’s a weight on his spine, claws pricking his shoulders. Thrashing, he manages to dislodge his assailant, but he’s immediately shoved down again, rolled onto his stomach by a small black tom. The rogue perches on his stomach, snarling.
“Clan cat!” the tom spits. “You thought you’d take our barn while we were away, did you? You didn’t think there’d be anyone left at home. Your mistake.”
“I— I didn’t—” Robinpaw stammers, but the rogue slaps him viciously, sending stars spiralling across his vision.
“Maybe now Renka will finally respect me,” the black rogue huffs. “I knew you’d come, and here you are! Who’s the smartest now? Not you, little warrior.”
Robinpaw struggles feebly, but his head’s spinning, and he can’t seem to gather enough strength in his limbs to fight back. He wonders distantly where Gullpaw is, but at that moment his denmate barrels into the rogue, knocking him off of Robinpaw.
The rogue screeches in fury and alarm, but Gullpaw has him pinned, and despite the tom’s best efforts, he can’t free himself.
Robinpaw staggers to his feet, shaking his head. Meanwhile, the black rogue wails angrily. “Let me go, you scum! Let go of me!”
Gullpaw snarls and grabs the tom’s ear in his teeth, wrenching his head back so the thin flesh tears, sending a spray of blood across the barn floor. The rogue screams in pain.
“You’ll attack us, easy, but you don’t like it when we fight back, do you,” Gullpaw hisses softly, blood smearing his muzzle. The rogue thrashes desperately, paws scrabbling against Gullpaw’s chest, but Gullpaw doesn’t loosen his grip.
“Gullpaw,” Robinpaw calls hoarsely. “That’s enough. He’s just a guard.”
Gullpaw turns his head, ears flat against his skull. “He was there,” he whispers. “When they killed Slatewave.” He turns back to the rogue, his good eye a furious slit. “You killed him,” he snarls.
The rogue blinks in recognition. “You,” he spits. “I remember you. The little coward they sent for help. What did your Clan do to Selkie, you one-eyed freak?”
“The golden she-cat?” Gullpaw growls. “She’s dead.” The black tom curls his lip in disgust, but Gullpaw leans in and hisses, “I’m the one who killed her.”
“You?” A twinge of fear breaks through the rogue’s voice, but he lifts his chin in defiance. “No way.”
“What, you need me to prove it to you?” Gullpaw lunges, sinking his teeth into the rogue’s throat, not breaking the skin. The tom mewls in terror.
Robinpaw darts up to him, placing a paw on Gullpaw’s shoulder. “Wait, don’t kill him! The warrior code—”
Gullpaw releases the cat’s throat and whips his head around to stare at Robinpaw. “The warrior code? You think these cats know anything about the code?” he demands. “They killed Slatewave. He was outnumbered, helpless. He gave up his life, and for what? They won’t stop until they have what they want.”
Robinpaw flicks his ears at the rogue tom. “Gullpaw, he’s outnumbered, helpless. You don’t have to kill him. A good warrior shows mercy.”
Gullpaw breathes hard, staring in fury down at the writhing rogue. “Fine,” he sighs at last, releasing the cat. The black tom scrambles away, blood dripping from his torn ear. He presses himself to the wall, his back arched, fur raised along his spine.
“Let’s get out of here,” Gullpaw hisses, expression dark.
Robinpaw backs away from him, looking one more time at the black tom, whose teeth are showing, glinting white in the half-light.
Beside him, Gullpaw curses softly under his breath, and Robinpaw turns around, realizing at once the reason for Gullpaw’s agitation.
The rogues are back.
– — –
Mudstream lies in the clearing, her water vole untouched beside her. She hasn’t moved since Garjaw spoke with her. It’s as if his words drained her of herself: all her sorrow, all her guilt, all the weight on her soul.
It’s as though the world has fallen into place, every piece finally united to make a clear picture.
She has to tell him. Gullpaw. Has to tell him what this means for her, for him.
A dark gray she-cat pads by: Sootpaw, Ternfeather’s apprentice, Frogpaw’s sister. Mudstream lifts her head and beckons for Sootpaw to come nearer.
"Sootpaw, can you get Gullpaw for me?" Mudstream closes her eyes. "I… I need to talk to him."
"Sure." The apprentice hurries off, and a few moments later Mudstream hears her footsteps approach again.
"Mudstream!"
She opens her eyes. Sootpaw stands before her, fur lifting in worry.
"He's not there," the apprentice says slowly. "Robinpaw either."
“No.” Mudstream rises to her paws, unease filling up the empty places inside her like the tide.
Sootpaw’s eyes are wide. “They’re gone.”
– — –
“Well, would you look at that.” Five rogues block the gap in the barn’s side, four of them hauntingly familiar to Gullpaw: the gray-and-white she-cat, the stocky brown tabby tom, the lithe white she-cat, the ginger tomcat. Another she-cat, unfamiliar to him, hovers at the back of the group, a petite calico. The gray-and-white she-cat steps forward into a pool of sunlight, her narrow eyes fixed on Gullpaw. “Harry, why didn’t you tell us we had visitors?”
The black tom skitters up to her, panting. “Renka! I told you they’d come!”
“You did,” Renka muses. “Yet I didn’t believe you.” She bends her head to inspect his ear. “And look at that, you’re hurt. How irresponsible of me.”
“I’m fine,” Harry brushes her off, his bravery restored with the return of his leader. “Besides, you’re here now.” He moves around her to stand at her left shoulder, his face smug as he looks at the apprentices.
The ginger tomcat pads to Renka’s right shoulder, eyes curious. “They’re just kids. What are they doing here?”
“It seems they don’t come in peace, whatever their mission is,” Renka observes, staring at the blood painting Gullpaw’s muzzle. He stares at her, tail lashing, mind racing. He has to get out of here. He has to get out of here right now.
“This is bad,” Rainpaw breathes, moving closer to him so their pelts just brush. Gullpaw flinches at the touch, leaping away. Robinpaw stares at him, eyes wide. Gullpaw stares back, flanks heaving, fur electric.
Renka chuckles softly. “Poor babies. They’re scared.” She pads up to Gullpaw, circling him slowly. He stares at her, mind racing. Her expression is sharp and carefully guarded, her eyes travelling up and down his form as she sizes him up. The ginger cat does the same to Robinpaw, who trembles in terror.
Gullpaw tenses, waiting for an opportunity to run, to fight, to do something, anything.
“This one’s no threat,” the ginger tom reports. He swipes experimentally at Robinpaw, who leaps back with a hiss of alarm.
Renka looks over at him. “Indeed.”
Now. She’s distracted, her attention momentarily away from him, so he takes the opportunity and hurls himself at her. She catches his movement in the corner of her eye, however, and dodges so his claws catch only the tips of her fur. The other rogues hiss in alarm, but Renka lashes her tail, signalling for them to stay back. The ginger tom herds Robinpaw back, and a grin splits Renka’s lips.
“Oh, you want to fight me, little one?” she murmurs. “Well—” He launches himself at her again mid-sentence, but she dodges aside once more, counter-attacking immediately. Claws sc**** his side, and he snarls, whirling to face her. He rears up, lashing at her face, catching her cheek in a raking blow. She leaps back, eyes filled with new respect. She scans his stance, looking for weak points, and he charges again. They dance around each other, taking swipes, but neither is immediately at an advantage.
“Renka,” the ginger cat calls in warning, but she doesn’t take her eyes off Gullpaw this time.
“I can handle this,” she replies. “Just keep the other one from getting away.” She continues to give orders as she fights, “Marx, Olivia, take Harry to retrieve the mice we caught. Fae, stand guard outside.” The other rogues slip out as she lunges, catching Gullpaw’s chest fur in her teeth; but she misses his flesh and rears back, spitting fur. While she splutters, Gullpaw dives at her, raking his claws across her forehead, intending to blind her. Blood wells in the cuts, beginning to drip toward her eyes. She shakes her head, drops of blood flying, and takes up a defensive stance, waiting for his next move. He circles her, refusing to charge in again. For a moment they stare at each other, panting.
The sounds of a scuffle break out behind Gullpaw, and he turns his head so his good eye can see. Robinpaw has tackled the ginger tom, and the two snarl as they tussle, a rolling ball of teeth and claws.
Pain rips through Gullpaw’s side; Renka attacked in his blind spot. He faces her again before racing around her, slicing at her hind leg. She squeals in pain, immediately lifting it off the ground. He takes the opportunity to ram his shoulder into her; unbalanced, she falls, and he’s on her immediately, grabbing her throat in his jaws while his hind legs pummel her soft belly.
“Renka!” the ginger cat screams, shoving Robinpaw off. He begins to move toward them, but Gullpaw flattens his ears threateningly and tightens his grip on the rogue’s throat, and the tom halts, tail lashing. Renka pounds her hind legs against his own stomach, but her blows are weakening; she gasps for air, unable to fill her lungs while her throat is in Gullpaw’s vice-like grip.
Robinpaw stares; Gullpaw meets his eyes, and slowly, Robinpaw nods, just once. Gullpaw blinks, astonished, then blinks again to regain his senses.
These rogues will never harm his Clan again.
He bites down, the taste of blood filling his mouth, and doesn’t let go. Not when Renka screams, not when she thrashes, not when she falls still. Not when the ginger rogue launches himself at him, and not when Robinpaw fights the tomcat off. The sounds of battle are muted, somehow; all he can see is red, all he can taste is salt. The tide roars in his ears, drowning out all sound. He closes his eyes.
A heartbeat or an eternity later, he feels Robinpaw shake his shoulder, far away. He blinks, and the world slowly comes back to him, the sea retreating.
“We have to get out of here,” Robinpaw hisses. “He’s gone for now, and the guard, too, but the others will be back soon.”
Breathing in deeply, shudderingly, Gullpaw lets go. Blood drips from his mouth, his wounds, his blood mixing with the rogue leader’s on the barn floor. He looks down at the body, one gray-and-white cat looking at another.
Once, this was what he wanted.
But now…
He’s not sure what he wants, anymore.
“Gullpaw?” Robinpaw mews softly, eyes full of concern.
Gullpaw shakes out his coat and faces him. “Let’s go home.”
.
.
.
– — eleven. — –
Mudstream sends Sootpaw to fetch Petalthroat, and together they follow their apprentices’ scent trail through the forest.
“They’re probably just exploring,” Petalthroat argues, in a tone of voice that says he thinks she’s worrying too much.
But Mudstream can’t seem to shake the panic that clings to her pelt. As the scent trail gets deeper into their territory, she knows something’s wrong. “Petalthroat, what if they went after the rogues?” she asks, her voice shrill with worry.
“Why would they?” he replies. “Robinpaw’s not that foolhardy.”
“I’m afraid Gullpaw is.” Mudstream crashes through the undergrowth, noticing the trees thinning around them. “We’re almost at the border, Petalthroat,” she says, her tone accusatory. “Where else would they have gone?”
“I don’t know.” He’s quiet now, realizing the seriousness of the situation.
“They’re going to get themselves killed!” Mudstream wails, half angry at Gullpaw and half angry at herself. “I should have watched him closer. He’s so unpredictable these days, I should have seen this coming!”
“I just can’t believe Robinpaw went along with it,” Petalthroat growls. “He knows better than that.”
They reach the border, and Mudstream sees nothing but an ocean of gold before her. “They didn’t go through this, did they?”
Petalthroat scents the air, then sniffs a tussock of grass. “They went around it,” he says.
Mudstream looks at her mate. He looks so put-together, even after just losing his brother. Perhaps it’s adrenaline, the determination not to lose another cat he loves. But she can’t help but worry as she follows him. Gullpaw’s never done anything like this before. He’s always been so obedient. Is he trying to tell her something? Is this just how he’s grieving for Slatewave? But she can’t understand it; he wasn’t close with him. It doesn’t make sense.
“There they are!” Petalthroat calls. Mudstream looks up to see two figures approaching along the green path, one brown tabby and one gray-and-white. Relief washes over her, and she races toward them; she slows, however, when she sees the blood on their fur.
Blood on Robinpaw’s side, on Gullpaw’s chest, on Gullpaw’s chin. Blood dripping onto the grass, another cat’s blood.
“What happened?” she demands of Gullpaw, but he ignores her, head down. Knowing it’s useless to press him, she looks to Robinpaw, who replies, “The rogues.”
“Why were you out here?” Petalthroat asks, leading them back to the border. His voice is heavy with disapproval.
Robinpaw ducks his head, guilty. “We were just going to scout out their base. But we went inside and they attacked us.”
“What did you think would happen when you went inside?” Petalthroat demands incredulously, tail lashing.
“We… we didn’t think,” Robinpaw admits. “We just—”
“Their leader is dead,” Gullpaw interrupts. He lifts his chin, meeting Mudstream’s horrified gaze. “They won’t bother us again.”
“Gullpaw!” she hisses. “You can’t just walk into their territory and fight them. That’s not how the Clan works.”
“That’s how they work, though,” he argues, and she realizes this is the first time he’s spoken to her, just to argue. She flattens her ears.
“I don’t care,” she snaps. “That was foolish and irresponsible. You could have gotten yourselves killed out there. And what you do outside our borders reflects on the whole Clan. We are not the kind of cats who go out and kill just because we have a conflict. What if those rogues want revenge for their leader?” They’ve reached the border, and Petalthroat leads Robinpaw into the trees, but Mudstream whirls on Gullpaw, searching his gaze for any remorse. “Why did you do this, Gullpaw? You’ve only made things worse!”
He stares back at her, defiant. He’s fallen back into silence again, refusing to answer. Mudstream pushes down her anger, letting her fur fall flat again.
“Fine,” she says. “We’ll see what Pinestar has to say about this.”
– — –
“Reckless though your actions were, you have rid the Clan of a formidable enemy. I want to honor your bravery,” Pinestar decides, once he’s heard the story. “You will both be made warriors at sundown.”
“What?” Mudstream stares at her leader, shocked. “Aren’t you going to punish them?”
Petalthroat remains silent, though from the expression on his face it’s clear he agrees.
“Technically, nothing they did was against the code,” Pinestar reasons. “A warrior shall not kill to win his battles, unless his enemies are outside the code and he must do so in self-defense. These rogues are responsible for the death of Slatewave, and by taking action against them these apprentices have saved Clan lives. Besides,” he looks at Robinpaw, “this was just the kind of bravery I was waiting to see from you.”
Robinpaw ducks his head, abashed. “I… thank you.”
“I still disagree with this,” Mudstream declares, “but you are my leader, so I won’t go against your orders.”
“I wouldn’t ask you not to have an opinion just because you disagree with me,” Pinestar rumbles. “I think it’s good for you to finally get worked up about something.”
“Very well,” Petalthroat meows. “Robinpaw, I’m proud you’ve made warrior. I’ll help you groom for the ceremony.” They file out, Petalthroat first, Robinpaw following more slowly.
“You’d better see Garjaw,” Pinestar says to Gullpaw. “Those gashes don’t look good.”
Gullpaw dips his head and begins to leave the den. Mudstream looks away as Gullpaw passes; he pauses in front of her, but when she says nothing he goes on his way.
Mudstream rises to her paws, but Pinestar says, “Wait.” She turns to look at him, and he dips his head, indicating she should sit again. “I’m proud of how well you’ve done with Gullpaw,” he meows. “He’s at a difficult age, and he’s disabled at that. And yet you’ve made him into a fine asset to the Clan. He clearly values his Clanmates’ lives over his own, to the point where he was willing to die to get rid of those rogues.” His eyes are warm with approval. “I understand these weren’t the best of circumstances, but I truly believe he is ready to become a warrior. Before now, he was just another mouth to feed. But now? This proves his loyalty more than any assessment could. He thinks on his feet. I’m very pleased with his progress. And it’s all thanks to you, Mudstream.” She blinks in surprise as he continues, “Not to dredge up old wounds, but I know losing Rainpaw was hard on you. I wanted to see if you would be able to move past your grief. That’s why I gave Gullpaw to you. And you did wonderfully. Now that he’s to be made a warrior, you’ll be able to resume life as usual.”
It’s not that easy, Mudstream thinks, but nods anyway.
“That’s all,” Pinestar says. “Go and rest now. There will be much to celebrate tonight.”
“Yes, Pinestar,” Mudstream murmurs. “Thank you.”
As she leaves the den, she still can’t help but feel that something’s wrong about this. But she forces herself to shake off her apprehension.
After tonight, she won’t have to worry anymore.
– — –
When Robinpaw returns to the den to wait for sundown, Gullpaw’s already there, curled in his nest with his back to the entrance. Robinpaw opens his mouth to greet him, but then he notices Gullpaw’s shoulders shaking in silent sobs.
Quietly, he backs out of the den. He can wait somewhere else.
– — –
Slowly, the sun sets, sinking beneath the treetops. As the camp is washed in the dying light of the red sun, Pinestar leaps onto a branch in the pine tree above his den and yowls the summons.
“All cats old enough to catch their own prey gather for a Clan meeting!”
In the clearing, warriors mill about, finding places to sit. The Clan deputy, Ternfeather, settles himself at the roots of the pine, and Garjaw sits beside him, watching in interest. Mudstream, Petalthroat, Robinpaw, and Gullpaw wait apart from the others. Robinpaw has groomed himself thoroughly so that his fur is smooth and clean, and his eyes are alight with excitement; Gullpaw looks the same as ever, a little unkempt, a little distant, his good eye squinting up at Pinestar.
From his perch on the branch, Pinestar begins the ceremony. “I, Pinestar, call upon StarClan to look down upon these apprentices. They have trained hard to understand the ways of your noble code, and I commend them to you as warriors in their turn.”
“Robinpaw.” Pinestar’s amber eyes glow in the fading light. “Do you promise to uphold the warrior code and to protect and defend this Clan, even at the cost of your life?”
“I do.” Robinpaw’s eyes are shining. Petalthroat looks on.
“Then by the powers of StarClan, I name you Robinheart. We honor your perseverance and selflessness, and we welcome you as a full warrior in the sight of StarClan.”
“Robinheart! Robinheart!”
Mudstream notices distantly that as the Clan cheers Robinheart’s new name, Gullpaw remains silent.
“Gullpaw.” Pinestar turns to him. “Do you promise to uphold the warrior code and to protect and defend this Clan, even at the cost of your life?”
Gullpaw is silent, tail twitching, eye flickering rapidly back and forth.
“Gullpaw?” Mudstream prompts softly.
Pinestar begins to repeat himself, “Gullpaw, do you—”
Gullpaw murmurs something under his breath. It’s so quiet Mudstream half thinks she imagined it.
Pinestar pricks his ears. “What was that?”
Gullpaw lifts his chin, eye wild. “I don’t know,” he repeats, louder. His voice breaks. “I don’t— I don’t know.”
“What is the meaning of this?” Ternfeather mutters.
“Gullpaw, I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Pinestar murmurs. “Are you saying—”
“I don’t— I can’t!” With a strangled wail, Gullpaw turns and flees, hurtling blindly into the undergrowth at the edge of camp.
The Clan watches in shocked silence; the bushes tremble where Gullpaw vanished, then fall still once more. All at once the warriors begin to whisper amongst themselves, some astonished, others scandalized.
“I knew we should never have taken him in. He was trouble from the get-go. Nothing but a burden, a freak.”
“I can’t believe he just did that. Isn’t that a crime against the code? He denied his warrior name in the sight of StarClan! What do we do?”
“We have to go after him.”
“Good riddance, if you ask me.”
“Mudstream!” Petalthroat faces her, eyes cold slits. “Did you know about this?”
“No,” she gasps. “I had no idea—”
“Enough!” Pinestar caterwauls over the din. “I asked him a question and he answered. I shall force no cat to become a warrior against his will. Mudstream, Petalthroat, Robinheart, go after him. Make sure he doesn’t do something he might regret.” He lashes his tail. “This Clan meeting is over. Dismissed.”
.
.
.
– — twelve. — –
He runs.
Runs along the coast to the south, past the shore where tidepools are nestled among the rocks, through the forests of birch and pine.
He runs.
Runs to the place where the land rises in steep shafts above the crashing tide, where broken rock paints the sea floor, rising in crooked spires at the base of the towering cliffs.
He runs, paws winging over the land. He runs, flashing between the trees, a streak of gray and white. He runs, because he is confused, and it hurts, and he doesn’t know what to do or who he’s supposed to be or why they’d ever want to reward him for something he detests.
So he runs.
And though his mind doesn't know where he's going, his paws do.
Gutter's Leap.
– — –
They run.
They run in a pack, a cluster, three beings with one purpose. They run, through the woods and down the coast, following a trail of fear-scent and broken twigs, searching for him, only for him.
And as they chase him southward, ever southward, Petalthroat realizes this is all too familiar. A desperate chase, a gray-and-white apprentice, a choice driven by fear. And all at once he knows where this will end.
“Shalepaw,” he breathes, and he remembers.
– — –
Three years ago…
A long-furred black-and-white she-cat struggles through a snowbank. By Clan terms, she is a loner, a former kittypet. In her terms, she is abandoned. She is alone.
And she is heavy with kits.
Her name is Luna, and she never asked for this. She never asked for her mate to die, mauled to death by a dog in the alley behind her Twoleg nest. She never asked for her Twolegs to abandon her simply because she was pregnant. She never asked to be left in the cold, in the snow.
Yet here she is.
She limps, freezing, through the snow along the side of the Thunderpath, following it south toward the ocean. More than once she stumbles, and she is forced to stop and lick the ice from between her toes.
Finally, after what seems like hours of walking, she stops, scenting the air. She smells other cats. And perhaps they’re savage wild cats, like from the stories her mama told her once, long ago. But right now, they are her only hope.
She stumbles onto the territory of the cats she later learns are called a Clan. There, the medicine cat assists with the birth of four kits. Luna names them, one by one, as they arrive. First comes a black-and-white she-kit, whom she names Reina, the word for queen in her mama’s language. Luna prays that this little reina will grow up to be strong and courageous, a true queen.
Next come two boys, one with long gray fur and one with short gray-and-white fur: Slate and Shale, she calls them, so they will be tough as stone in the face of adversity.
The final kit is a little gray tom with a white flower-petal-shaped marking on his throat; so she names him Petal, a sign of her hope that spring will come, and with it, the sun. A name for the Clan’s kindness.
When her kits are old enough to walk on their own and the snow begins to melt, Luna prepares to leave the Clan. But a terrible sickness called greencough has left their nursery bare; so, to repay their kindness, Luna takes only her firstborn with her, leaving her sons to the Clan, to help it grow strong. In Clan fashion they are renamed Slatekit, Shalekit, and Petalkit. Here she leaves them, licking their faces in turn, hoping they will understand that she loves them, no matter where she goes.
And with the end of winter, she leaves.
Her sons grow older and stronger, made apprentices as the trees begin to grow their first tiny green leaves. As the spring goes on, Petalpaw and Slatepaw grow ever closer to the code of the Clan; but Shalepaw, restless and discontent, strays ever further. In the end, his path leads him only to loss and confusion, and his mind grows dark. He blames his mother for leaving him with strangers, then blames himself for not being good enough for her to take with her. He blames his brothers for being so obedient, for not seeing the situation for what it is, then he blames the Clan for not understanding him. Finally, at the brink of despair, he runs. Runs to the top of the highest cliff, his brothers following, calling for him to return. But he pays them no heed, and he jumps, and for an instant he flies — and then he falls, falls into the mouth of the sea.
So Petalthroat knows what this is like: this helplessness, this fear, this hurt. And he may not know what’s driving Gullpaw’s paws this night, but he knows one thing: he’s not about to lose another cat to the cliffs.
Not today.
Never again.
So he runs, outstripping Mudstream and Robinheart, runs because he’s seen what the rocks at the bottom of this cliff can do to a cat’s body. And no cat deserves such a fate.
So he runs.
He runs, and he prays to StarClan that he will be fast enough this time.
.
.
.
– — thirteen. — –
At his paws, the land falls away to the sea before him, high tide masking the dark, fanged rocks that lurk just below the surface of the water. A chill wind blows in from the sea, tendrils of icy air ripping through him as though his fur is nothing; he shivers, contemplating.
They are coming. He knows they’ll follow. But what is it he wants? Something deep inside him wills him to jump now, to end it before they can see him do it. Because he knows to watch would break their hearts. And he wouldn’t wish that on them. No one should feel the same pain he does. No one deserves that. Only him.
A small part of him longs for them to appear between the trees, longs to hear their arguments, longs to live. But he’s so tired. Tired of the weight of the darkness in his mind. Tired of the pain, the guilt, the confusion, the hurt. Tired of living, mostly. Because it’s hard, harder than anyone ever said it would be. And to everyone else, it seems so easy: to wake up every day without a cloud surrounding their mind, to accomplish things and not feel exhausted, to live without trying.
It’s not fair.
It’s not fair and it hurts and he’s so tired and it’s his fault, all his fault—
He takes a step forward.
And that’s when Petalthroat bursts through the trees.
“Gullpaw!”
– — –
He’s going to jump. Oh, StarClan, Gullpaw’s going to jump and he’ll be too late to stop him.
“Gullpaw!” Petalthroat screams again, streaking out of the last of the scraggly trees lining the clifftop. “Wait, please wait!”
The apprentice turns, his gaze unreadable. The wind buffets his fur; the tatters of his torn ear ripple, and he flattens his good ear against the rush of cold air.
Petalthroat slows, noticing Gullpaw’s wary stance. “Please, Gullpaw, listen to me,” he pants, breathless. “You don’t have to do this.” Gullpaw’s eye flashes dangerously, and Petalthroat quickly continues, “You have a choice. I know it doesn’t feel like you do, but you have a choice. Okay? There are cats who really care about you and we’ll help you get through this, I promise. Mudstream, me, Robinpaw—er, Robinheart—we all care about you. Really,” he adds, seeing Gullpaw’s expression of disbelief. “You’re not alone, Gullpaw. I know it’s hard. It really is. And you’re so young. It’s not fair, it isn’t. Please, we can talk about this. Or something, anything. Please.”
Gullpaw trembles, eye rolling wildly as he struggles to decide. He takes a step back, tail lashing, his hind paw less than a tail-length away from the cliff’s edge now. Petalthroat takes a step forward, urgent.
“Gullpaw,” he begins, trying to keep the fear out of his voice. “Don’t move. Mudstream and Robinheart will be here in a heartbeat. Just…wait. Please.” He lifts one paw, wishing to move closer but not wanting to spook the apprentice into falling. His heart’s pounding in his ears now, sounding like the roaring surf below. “It’s okay,” he murmurs, half to himself. “Everything’s going to be okay.”
“Petalthroat!” Mudstream pelts out of the woods, Robinheart on her heels. They skid to a halt beside Petalthroat. Mudstream’s eyes are wide and wild with alarm as she stares at Gullpaw’s quivering form. Robinheart’s face is equally horrified, his ears pressed flat against his skull.
“Gullpaw,” Mudstream whispers, then meows loudly, “Gullpaw, I’m sorry! Please don’t do this!” Her voice is too loud, too insistent. Gullpaw rears his head back as if stung. Petalthroat presses against her warningly, and she tenses, closing her mouth.
Wordlessly, Robinheart pads toward his former denmate, his steps slow and calm. Gullpaw’s body is wracked with tremors, and Petalthroat can’t tell if he’s shivering from the wind or if it’s sobs that are causing the shaking. But the gray-and-white apprentice doesn’t move, just crouches ever lower to the ground as Robinheart nears. Finally, the newly-made warrior presses himself against Gullpaw, curling his tail around him comfortingly.
“I know,” he whispers, and Gullpaw finally vocalizes his pain, letting out an eerie cry as he huddles against Robinheart’s side.
Petalthroat and Mudstream slowly walk closer, until Petalthroat can make out words in Gullpaw’s strained wail.
“I’m so s-sorry,” Gullpaw sobs, chest convulsing as he cries. “I—I didn’t—say anything—I should’ve—”
“Shh,” Robinheart comforts him, licking Gullpaw’s face. “It’s okay. You’re okay. I’m right here.”
“It’s m-my fau-ault,” Gullpaw says shudderingly, his face wretched with regret. “I could—could have—and I d-didn’t—stop them—”
“Didn’t stop who?” Robinheart prompts gently.
“M-my pare-parents. I should’ve—th-they fought—and I should’ve s-said something—helped them get ove-over it—they didn’t have to split up—” Gullpaw’s voice grows quieter as he presses his muzzle into Robinheart’s fur. “Sh-should—should have—”
“It’s not your fault,” Mudstream offers, padding to Gullpaw’s other side. He raises his head and looks at her, eyes watery with grief. She bends to draw her tongue over his ear, adding, “Sometimes those things happen. And it had nothing to do with you, I promise. It wasn’t your fault.”
His whimpers start again, and he crumples, sobbing and sobbing. Petalthroat joins Mudstream and Robinheart, gesturing quietly for them to guide Gullpaw away from the cliff. Slowly, with Gullpaw nestled between them, they edge forward, Mudstream continuing to lick Gullpaw’s ear.
“I—I can’t—” he begins, but Mudstream soothes him, “Hush, baby. It’s not your fault. Oh, honey, you blamed yourself. You didn’t cause it, okay?”
He quivers, unable to believe it. “Then why—” He lifts his head, begging, “Why am I broken?”
Mudstream’s eyes are shocked. “Broken? You mean your face?”
He shakes his head, adamant. “No. No, my head. It’s—dark. It hurts. Hurts so bad.”
“What hurts?” Mudstream presses. “Honey, what hurts?”
“To live,” he replies. “It hurts to live and I don’t—I don’t want to live anymore.”
“Oh, honey. Baby.” Mudstream melts against him, her own shoulders shaking with sobs. “I didn’t know.” She nestles her face against the top of his head, eyes squeezed shut. “I didn’t know.”
“You should have told us,” Robinheart speaks up. “You—you could have told me.”
“I know, I just—” Gullpaw gasps for air, trying to catch his breath. “I wanted this.”
“Gullpaw,” Mudstream murmurs sadly, but he goes on, “Th-that’s why I didn’t talk. I—I wanted you to get rid of me. I wanted—I didn’t want to be in your Clan. I—It made me feel im-important. A-and I didn’t know what to do—” He squeezes his eye shut. “It felt so wr-wrong. I-I’m bad. And you made me feel—like I’m not.”
“Honey, you’re not bad,” Mudstream insists.
He ignores her. “I—I killed a cat. God, I killed someone and you let me stay with you! A-and I did it again—and you were gonna—make me a warrior? W-why won’t you just—why won’t you just let me—” He breaks off, choking back a sob. “Let me—die? I—I deserve it! Why won’t you—”
“Because you’re worth so much more than that,” Robinheart cuts in immediately. “You—StarClan, you—Gullpaw, you don’t deserve that!”
“Then—”
“You deserve so much,” Mudstream murmurs. “A life, a family—”
“And you already have these things,” Petalthroat insists, looking Gullpaw in the eye. “A life. A family.” He looks at Mudstream and Robinheart, and they nod. “Because you deserve them. And you can’t do anything to deserve them. You just do. And nothing you do will make you stop deserving them.”
Gullpaw looks ready to protest, but then he hangs his head, sighing. “I don’t know,” he says at last.
“You don’t have to know,” Mudstream tells him. “Just—come back home, okay? You don’t have to be a warrior if you don’t want to. You don’t have to stay with the Clan. You can do whatever you want to. Just—live. Please.” She twines her tail with his. “For me?”
Gullpaw heaves a breath. “O-okay.” He lifts his head, repeating himself. “Okay.” His eye is brighter now, though still dark with sadness. “I’m so tired,” he breathes, closing his eyes. He rests his head on Robinheart’s shoulder.
“Sleep, then,” Robinheart murmurs. “I’ll stay in the den with you, so you won’t be alone.”
Mudstream licks the top of Gullpaw’s head. “You don’t ever have to alone. Not if you don’t want to be.”
As they guide him back to camp, Petalthroat turns and regards the horizon. The wind buffets his fur, drawing dark stormclouds on the horizon ever closer. Thunder rumbles in the distance, echoing the crash of the rising tide.
“Looks like rain,” Petalthroat whispers, then turns and disappears into the forest after his family.
.
.
.
– — fourteen. — –
“This still doesn’t feel real.”
Two days have passed, and Gullpaw’s in Garjaw’s den amid the sprawling lower branches of an old spruce tree; a weak sort of sunlight filters through the needles, deceptively warm-looking for the chill that pervades the air. For once, he feels calm, like things are falling into place. And he still can’t wrap his mind around that.
“I still feel like… like it’s not going to last.”
“Maybe it won’t.” Garjaw sits by the spruce’s roots, where the knotted wood forms a basin in which the morning’s rain has gathered. The snaggletoothed tabby continues, “Life’s like the tide. Happiness comes and goes, rises and falls. It’s never constant. You just have to make do with what you’ve got.”
“Maybe.” Gullpaw pads closer to the water,, watching his reflection ripple dimly amidst the roots. He blinks, and his reflection blinks back, a gray-and-white cat with half a face. The fur still hasn’t grown back properly on the scar tissue, and Garjaw doesn’t know if it will ever go back to the way it used to look. It’s a gruesome reminder of the things he’s felt, the things he’s done, the things he’s overcome. “Garjaw, will I ever be rid of it?” He looks up at the medicine cat. “The hurt?” He means the unnamed dark of his mind, but Garjaw seems to understand.
The medicine cat sighs. “I can’t tell you that. For some cats, it passes. Like Mudstream. She was in a tough place, but she got through it. But for others, it’s not so easy. It’s part of them. It’s for life. Still, I’ve always got a few herbs I can try, to help ease the burden.” He nods at his store among the roots, and Gullpaw considers this. The poppy and chamomile Garjaw gave him yesterday did seem to help.
“I’ll think about it,” he says at last.
“That’s all I ask,” Garjaw replies. “Just think about it. If you think you can make do without, by all means. No need to diminish my supplies. But they’re here for you if you ever need them. That’s what herbs are for, after all.” He huffs, a sort of chuckle, and his lips curl upward, one slanted fang peeking out.
“It’s just weird,” Gullpaw admits. “To think about tomorrow. I never thought—never thought I’d make it this far, I guess.”
“That’s normal.” Garjaw rises to his paws. “Like I said, do your best. It’ll take some getting used to, I’ll bet.”
“Alright.”
“Go on, then.” Garjaw nods toward the den’s entrance. “I’m through with you. Come back if you feel like you’re regressing, or if you need to talk about anything. But right now”—his eyes glint—“you’ve got someone waiting for you.”
“Ah. Right.” Gullpaw dips his head to the medicine cat and pads out into the main camp, blinking against the morning sunshine. Clouds drift across the sky overhead, the remnants of the storm that came in two nights before, but for now the sun shines with all its might, and pools of light dapple the damp forest floor. Saltbreeze’s kits Morningkit, Piperkit, and Flowerkit play with Ternbreeze’s only son, Tidekit, leaping into a soggy pile of fallen leaves as their mothers, Haymeadow and Juniperleap, look on. Warriors are gathered in little groups here and there, hunched over fresh-kill or talking quietly amongst themselves. As Gullpaw pads across camp, several eyes follow him, watching as he heads over to Mudstream and Petalthroat. The two warriors are seated below the birch tree that shelters their den, and Mudstream rises to her paws as he approaches.
“Gullpaw!” she greets him, touching her nose to his. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine,” he tells her, for once meaning it. Usually “fine” means less than okay, but today “fine” is just… fine. He’s been better, but he’s certainly been worse.
“I’m glad,” Mudstream sighs, relieved. A quiet purr builds in her throat. “We were so worried. You were in there a whole day, after all, and Garjaw wouldn’t let anyone see you until he was sure you were okay.”
Gullpaw instinctively hunches his shoulders. “Sorry. I… I just needed some time.”
“No, no,” Mudstream reassures him, “don’t apologize. It’s our job to worry.”
“We’re just glad you’re alright,” Petalthroat adds, his gaze warm.
Gullpaw looks up at them, and realizes there’s an air of expectancy hanging between them. “What?”
Petalthroat gestures for him to sit down, so Gullpaw slowly lowers himself to his haunches, gauging the other tom’s expression. “There’s something I wanted to ask you,” Petalthroat begins, and Mudstream’s eyes light up. The gray-and-white warrior looks over at his mate, expression amused. “Not yet,” he tells her, and turns back to Gullpaw as she kneads her paws in anticipation.
Petalthroat narrows his eyes, expression all at once serious. “I wanted to know,” he meows, “what’s your mother’s name?”
Gullpaw blinks, suddenly forced back into those other days, the before days, on the other side of the Thunderpath. His mother’s face swims into view, and he answers, stumbling, “R-Reina.”
“I thought so.” Petalthroat closes his eyes.
“How—” Gullpaw begins, but Petalthroat cuts him off.
“She was—is—my sister.”
Gullpaw stares as Mudstream crows in delight, “He’s your uncle! We really are your family!”
“I—how—” Gullpaw’s cut off as Mudstream curls around him, pressing her pelt against his.
Petalthroat watches in amusement. “My mother was taken in by the Clan before I was born. After we were old enough to be on our own, she went back to Twolegplace, and she took Reina with her.”
“So you’re really—” Gullpaw can hardly say it. “My family?”
“Yes,” Petalthroat purrs. “By blood and everything.”
Mudstream chirps with delight, nuzzling the top of Gullpaw’s head before stepping back, her eyes shining. Petalthroat glances at her, his eyes warm, then looks at Gullpaw again. “There’s something else Mudstream wanted to tell you.”
Gullpaw narrows his eyes at her; there’s got to be a reason she’s so chipper this morning. But all at once his mentor shrinks in on herself, suddenly self-conscious, though her eyes are still bright. She glances up at him, almost bashful, then says at last, “I’m expecting kits.”
“What? Really?” Gullpaw can’t help but stare at her belly, though he knows it won’t be noticeably larger for some time.
“Really,” Mudstream confirms, leaning against Petalthroat. Worry and sorrow fight the joy in her expression. “I just hope it goes well.”
“It will,” Petalthroat reassures her.
“I… wow,” Gullpaw stammers. “Um, congratulations.”
“Thank you,” Mudstream murmurs, her eyes on Petalthroat.
Gullpaw shifts on his paws, suddenly feeling out of place. Petalthroat notices. “Did you need anything else?”
There’s a brief moment of silence before Gullpaw speaks up again. “Actually, there’s something I wanted to ask you.”
– — –
“Birch tree, birch tree.” He mumbles it under his breath, threading his way through the undergrowth just outside of camp. The trees thin for a moment, curling around a small clearing where flowers pop up among the fallen leaves: asters, monkshood, witch hazel. Gullpaw scans the edge of the clearing, looking for the distinctive white bark of birch, and, noticing a small copse of birch on the far side, pads over, skirting the edge carefully. Here, at the bottom of the birches, he stops; here, the fallen leaves cover a gentle mound of earth, but a fresh flower—he doesn’t know what kind—lies on top, its red petals bright against the soft yellow leaves.
“Well,” he says softly, sitting down. “I guess this is it.
“Hi, Rainpaw.”
He exhales, closing his eyes briefly, and continues. “I guess we’re cousins. That’s kind of something, huh?” A beat. “God. Er, StarClan. What am I supposed to say? I never knew you. But, uh, Robinheart says you were pretty great. Mudstream, too, and Petalthroat. They were like, you were an angel. I… probably would have hated you.” He laughs quietly, shaking his head. “But I guess we’ll never know now.”
Gold leaves rustle above his head, kissed by a soft leaf-fall wind. “You’re probably wondering how they’re all doing. If you didn’t hear, uh, Robinheart made warrior. And, well, Mudstream’s expecting kits. Your little brothers and sisters.” Gullpaw smiles. “I’m… actually kind of glad she’ll have someone else to nag. No offense, but she comes on a little strong sometimes. Not that she ever had to nag you, Mr. Perfect, so you wouldn’t know.”
He watches the leaves fall, then adds, “They’re okay. They miss you a lot, but… they’re okay. I… I’ll take care of them for you. Okay? You just… you do you. I don’t know if your StarClan exists, but… wherever you are… I…” He swallows. “Thank you. Not, uh, for dying, because that sucks, but, um… Thanks for your family. StarClan, that sounds terrible. I’m not, like, trying to replace you. I know I’ll never be you. But… I guess I’m trying to say I’m glad there was a place for me, you know? Don’t hate me for that.” He flicks his good ear, turning his head. “I’m still getting used to this. Being alive. A little while ago I would’ve given anything to be where you are. But now… I don’t know, there are still times I want it. But I’m getting there. Getting better. Or trying, anyway. That’s all I can do, Garjaw says. So… I’m trying.” He pauses to take a breath, then, “If StarClan’s really there, and… if they want me when I go, maybe I’ll see you there. Til then, uh, save a seat for me.” He rises to his paws. “Anyway, thanks. Again. Um, bye. This was Gullpaw, by the way.”
He turns to leave, then freezes. Sootpaw, Ternfeather’s apprentice, stands at the edge of the clearing, watching him through eyes as gold as the leaves.
“Talking to yourself?” she meows. “You know, I think that’s the most I’ve ever heard you speak.”
“I, um,” he stammers, but she waves her tail to quiet him.
“I know,” she says. “I was just pulling your tail. Anyway, I’m not here to be a furball. I wanted to talk to you.”
He’s wary. “About what?”
“Well, come here first,” Sootpaw orders. “I’m not gonna yell at you from over here.” He pads over cautiously, and she watches him coolly.
“Sit,” she tells him, and he does. She sits, too, curling her tail around her paws. “How to put this,” she muses, tilting her head to one side. Her ears tilt too, and Gullpaw finds himself staring at her face: perfectly whole, the fur smooth and recently groomed, her eyes large and full of too-convincing thoughtfulness. She glances up at him, her mouth crooking up into a smirk. “Like what you see?” she purrs, and as Gullpaw blinks in bewilderment she squeezes her eyes shut, suddenly angry with herself. “StarClan, I don’t know what’s gotten into me today,” she sighs. “I’m not usually like this, I don’t think. Not to everyone, anyway.” She opens her eyes again. “Ternfeather’s got me pegged as a buffoon, I think. All ditz and no dirt under my claws. It’s exhausting. He’s got some impossible standards, I tell you. Anyway, I’m getting off track here, aren’t I?”
“I’d really just like to know what you want to talk about,” Gullpaw tells her quietly, trying to swallow the anxiety buzzing in his gut like a swarm of bees.
She looks at him, really looks at him for the first time. “Okay,” she says. “Okay. Let’s see. So, the word around camp is you were gonna jump. At Gutter’s Leap, right? And I just… I wanted to say you’re scary brave.”
“Brave,” he coughs out, incredulous. “I was trying to… to kill myself.”
“But you didn’t,” she says, and he blinks. “I… I’ve thought about it before,” Sootpaw goes on. “Jumping. Sometimes it just gets so… I don’t know, wrong. Like nothing feels real. And you don’t feel real. It’s like, if I screamed in the middle of camp no one would hear me. Like I’m not even there, you know?”
“I… yeah,” he replies quietly. “I know.”
She blinks at him. “See, I knew it. You get it. No one in this StarClan-forsaken Clan gets it but you. They just think I’m acting out. Think I want attention, like a little diva. But it’s not… it’s not that simple. It’s just so messed up sometimes. And no one gets it.”
“Some of them do,” Gullpaw murmurs, thinking of Mudstream and Robinheart and Garjaw. “Not all of them, but some.”
“I guess,” she sighs. “That wasn’t even what I was gonna talk about, it just came out. I was really gonna say something else, but…”
“What?” he asks.
“You said no,” she meows, and he’s confused until she clarifies, “At the warrior’s ceremony. I didn’t even know that was a choice.”
“I… don’t think it’s supposed to be.”
“But you said it anyway.” Her eyes are alight with respect. “I don’t know, that’s just… so cool to me. I never even thought about it before. That maybe there’s more to life than being a warrior. That you can say no. That was what I was going to talk about, before I got all flustered.”
“Oh.”
Sootpaw’s expression grows earnest. “So… what are you gonna do now?”
“I…” He hasn’t really thought of that. “I don’t know. My… my mom probably thinks I’m dead.”
“Are you going back?” Somehow this comes out eager, and Gullpaw looks at Sootpaw in surprise.
“Do you think I should?”
“Well, I can’t tell you what to do. But…” She shrugs, trying to be casual. “I’ve always wanted to see what was outside the Clan.” Her eyes flash in realization and she amends herself, “Not that… I’d go with you. Even if you did go. I mean…” She closes her eyes. “Fox dung, I’m such a mess. Look, I think you’re really cool, okay? I… I want to get to know you better. I mean, we’re about the same age. We could be friends.” She opens her eyes. “If you wanted.”
For some reason, a smile forms on his face. “Okay.”
“Okay?” she repeats. “Really?”
“Why not?” He rises to his paws. “It’s Gullpaw, by the way. We’ve never really been introduced.”
“Oh, yeah. Sootpaw,” she replies.
“I know.” He grins teasingly.
“Well, so did I, but you still told me yours!” She swats at him, flattening her ears in mock anger.
A purr rises in his throat. “Come on. We should probably get back to camp.”
She glances back at the graves in the clearing. “Oh. Mouse dung. Right.”
He pads a few tail-lengths and turns, waiting for her to follow. His gaze flicks past Sootpaw’s dark form to rest on Rainpaw’s grave one last time.
Thank you, he thinks, and he leads Sootpaw out of the golden clearing and back into their lives.
– — –
Two days later… “Do you promise to uphold the warrior code and to protect and defend this Clan, even at the cost of your life?”
Gullpaw looks around at the faces around him: Mudstream and Petalthroat, their eyes shining with pride; Robinheart’s face betraying his joy; Sootpaw’s golden gaze. He meets her eyes and she sticks her tongue out at him, causing him to force back a purr of laughter.
Turning to Pinestar, he says what he knows in his heart to be true.
“I do.”
.
.
.
– — fifteen. — –
Nothing.
Then, all at once—
He is alive.
It’s been nearly three moons since his warrior ceremony. He still remembers: Sootpaw and Robinheart fighting over who could shout his new name the loudest, Mudstream and Petalthroat’s pride, Garjaw’s nod of approval.
Who he used to be: nothing.
Who he is now: Gullflight.
Who he will be: happy, perhaps.
But not yet.
He still can’t wrap his head around the idea of a happy ending. First, he just doesn’t feel like he deserves one, even now. It’s still strange and new to him, that an ending might be anything but black and empty.
Second, he’s not ready for anything to end. Not anymore. For once he feels like he’s where he’s supposed to be, and he’s not about to let that go of that just yet.
Third, he’s nowhere near the end of his story. In fact, a new chapter is about to begin. He’s going back to the Twolegplace, only for a short while, just to tell his mother he’s okay, he’s alive, he’s -- almost sort of maybe -- happy.
So there’s that.
They’ll leave at sunhigh: Gullflight, Robinheart, and Sootstep. Pinestar, after much persuading, agreed to let them go. Gullflight because it’s his family. Sootstep because she’s not about to be left behind. Robinheart because they need someone with a head on his shoulders to stop them from getting into trouble, which, with Sootstep, is inevitable.
Mudstream and Petalthroat have said their goodbyes already, keeping them brief, half because they know he can’t stand the attention and half because they want him to know they know they’ll see him again. He promises himself they’re right. Mudstream pressed her cheek against his and said nothing; Petalthroat stood by and said he hoped Gullflight would say hello to Reina for him.
And then they were on their way, off into the cloudy day, to enjoy the last remnants of leaf-fall’s warmth.
Now Gullflight waits, his breath a cloud in the chill air. Waits for sunhigh. Waits for one story to end so another can start.
A mouse-length away, Sootstep’s busy lecturing her rambunctious apprentice. “Listen, Morningpaw, if I come back to a bad report you’ll be eating nothing but mouse tails for a week.”
Morningpaw pouts. “Aw, Sootstep, you don’t mean that.”
“Oh, yeah? Don’t test me, kiddo. I’m a cat on the edge. Isn’t that right, Gullflight?” Sootstep playfully bumps her hip against his, and he jumps half a tail-length into the air, startled at the contact.
“Whoops,” Sootstep mutters. “Sorry.”
“No,” he breathes, trying to get his fur to lie flat again. “It’s fine. You’re fine.”
She’s apologetic. “Seriously, I forgot you’re not used to it. Really. Geez.”
“Sootstep,” he says wearily, “it’s fine.”
“It is not, look at your face! I’m terrible, aren’t I? You can say it. I know you’re thinking it.”
“Sootstep.”
Morningpaw wrinkles up her nose. “You know, I’m kinda glad you guys’re leaving.” She wanders off to where her siblings are gathered, most likely to whisper about how weird her mentor is around Gullflight.
A tail-length away, Frogfur and Robinheart are saying their goodbyes. “I’ll miss you,” Frogfur murmurs to Robinheart, pressing his nose to the other tom’s. “Have a safe journey.”
“I’m going to miss you, too,” Robinheart whispers, eyes soft with sorrow. For a moment the two are silent, staring at each other, unspoken words buzzing in the air between them.
Then Sootstep waltzes up to them; rolling her eyes, she shoves her brother, ruining the moment. “You guys are gross,” she announces. “It’ll do you good to get away from each other for a while. It’s like you’re attached at the hip.”
“Is not,” Frogfur whines.
“Is too,” Sootstep whines back, mimicking his tone.
“Robinheart,” Frogfur turns to him, eyes wide with half-feigned hurt. “She’s doing it again.”
“Come on, Frogfur,” Sootstep huffs. “You know I don’t mean it.” She rubs her head against his cheek. “Aren’t you gonna miss me, too, little bro?”
“I guess,” Frogfur admits reluctantly, making a face at Robinheart.
Robinheart purrs. “Maybe it’s best you’re not coming,” he tells Frogfur. “She’d just bother you the whole way.”
“True,” Frogfur sighs.
Sootstep just twines her tail with his, purring dramatically loud.
“Besides,” Frogfur adds loftily, “someone’s got to train her apprentice while she’s gone.”
“Ha, ha, sucker,” Sootstep cackles. “I can’t believe you agreed to it!” He makes a face, but she just says, all too sweetly, “Have fun with Morningpaw.”
“Not too much fun, I hope,” he sighs, but licks her cheek goodbye. “Stay safe.”
“Aw, I’ll be fine,” she grins. “Nice of you to worry, though.”
He just rolls his eyes and, with one more glance at Robinheart, pads to join a group of his friends at the far side of the clearing.
Now Sootstep notices how quiet Gullflight’s been. Robinheart is equally silent, watching the wind chase a few fallen leaves across camp. “Geez, it’s a good thing I’m coming. You two are so boring.”
“Was that supposed to be offensive?” Robinheart asks mildly. “I like boring. Boring’s safe.”
“Ew,” is all Sootstep has to say to that. She turns to Gullflight. “Seriously, you’re so quiet. What’s up?”
He looks up at her, his good eye glinting guiltily, as though he didn’t mean for her to worry. “I didn’t mean to get you two wrapped up in this. Going to Twolegplace, I mean.”
Sootstep rolls her eyes to the sky. “StarClan, you’re always apologizing. Come on, Gullflight, it’ll be fun! Three friends on an adventure! What could be better than that?”
“Not going,” he says quietly.
“Hey, it was your decision,” she tells him, expression clearing of mirth. “You can always change your mind.”
He shakes his head, shoulders hunched. “No. I… I want them to know I’m okay.”
“Then what’s the matter?” Sootstep presses, more curious than anything.
“I just…” He flicks his tail at his face, to the scars and the raw skin and the hole where his eye’s supposed to be. “What if they don’t recognize me?”
“They will,” Robinheart speaks up. “That’s how parents are. They’d know you even if you were old and gray.”
“He doesn’t have to be old to be gray,” Sootstep points out, but her tone is light. “He’s right, you know,” she tells Gullflight. “Worry all you want, but I promise it’ll be okay. You’ve got us, alright?” She shoots a glance at Robinheart, who nods. “No matter how it goes, we’ll be there.”
Gullflight smiles weakly, gratitude shining in his eye. “Thank you,” he says at last.
“You can thank us when we get back,” Sootstep mutters. “We haven’t even left yet.”
“Still. Thank you for coming with me.”
“You’re not getting away from us that easily, you furball.”
He considers this, grinning. “No, I suppose not.”
“It’ll take more than a little field trip to get rid of me,” Sootstep declares, puffing out her chest.
Robinheart watches, amused. “What will it take, then?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know. Something shiny, probably.”
“I’ll file that away for when we get sick of you.”
“Hey! Robinheart!”
“I’m kidding.” He looks over at Gullflight. “So, are you ready?”
“No,” Gullflight answers honestly.
Robinheart smiles. “Me, either. Let’s go.”
Thunder rumbles in the distance; slowly at first, then all at once, it rains.
That’s how Gullflight knows it’ll all turn out okay, in the end.
So he takes the first step toward something that looks like a happy ending, and he doesn't look back.
.
.
.
– — the end. — –
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