the heretic. -- ❦ -- for tuesday challenges.
May 22, 2017 17:27:52 GMT -5
Mosspool, Hawktalon,, and 4 more like this
Post by eph 💕 on May 22, 2017 17:27:52 GMT -5
There's no such thing as the calm before the storm. Not if you're really paying attention. First comes the heat, dry and stifling at first, then sticky. The wind picks up, battering trees, sending leaves twirling across the sky, littering the ground. That's when you start noticing the stormclouds on the horizon. And you think: compared to the crash and boom of thunder, everything before was calm.
But that's not really true, is it?
A storm doesn't just arrive out of nowhere. It's formed by pressure. By tension. Heat that has to break one way or another. The sky goes from perfect blue to eerie gray to sickly yellow. White, fluffy clouds, the ones your kits find shapes in, turn dark and fat with water. And then it's just a waiting game: waiting for the first raindrop to fall, knowing soon the lightning and thunder, destruction and flame, will follow.
Lightningjaw knows storms. He was born in one. Baptized by chaos. Honed by necessity. The storm hid his birth from the sight of the stars. The wind chased cold into his heart, steeling him for the coming retribution. Before, when he was naive and soft, he feared that cold, that dark. Feared it would eat him up and spit out his bones and there would be nothing left of him to bury.
He knows better now. Knows there is no distinction between him and that cold. He is the dark.
He is the song of thunder, the blade of heavenly fire that pierces the sky. He is divine punishment, sent from above. But not by the stars. Oh, no. By something much worse, much greater.
She is the Storm.
And she is coming.
He was born into a ThunderClan weakened by war and sickness. The power of the stars was not a blessing unto his Clan. It had made them weak, reliant on their ancestors for survival. They could not live on their own. Couldn't even fathom the idea of it.
He, too, shared this mindset; for a time, that is. When he was six moons old, even then he could feel the darkness stirring within him, so he became a medicine cat apprentice. He feared that if he did not choose a path that would force him to follow StarClan, he would stray from the faith forever. The Clan saw no problem with this; their only medicine cat was growing old, now. A replacement was needed. They didn't care who. He promised he wanted it, and that was enough for them.
Of course, this course of action only expedited his fall. He was given a direct line to his ancestors, a way to voice his incessant questions, his darkest and deepest fears. And the responses he got--no matter who he asked, or what, he was never satisfied. The replies to his questions felt like lies, mostly. Excuses. He started to realize StarClan didn't have the answers.
They were just dead cats with dying stars in their fur and pretty falsehoods dripping from their tongues.
They could give prophecies, yes, but even they didn't know where the prophecies came from! They didn't create them, couldn't see the future for themselves but for murky glimpses here and there, fragmented reflections in a still pool.
Lightningjaw realized early on that StarClan was not worthy of worship. Not when they had no power of their own.
Besides, if the old legends were true, there was something StarClan desperately kept from the minds of the living.
The Clans had not always existed; but of course, every cat knew that.
But Lightningjaw came to realize something more important:
There was a time when StarClan was not.
And this knowledge alone, he knows, gives him enough power to unseat the stars.
When he woke at the edge of the Moonpool that evening, all of his questions had been dismissed, their answers now useless to him; that his, all of his questions but one.
If not StarClan, then what?
If StarClan did not create the world, then who--or what--did? Where did it all come from? The intricacy of tree bark, the whirling patterns in a tabby's fur, the impossibly perfect network of veins within a cat's body: he could not believe these existed by random chance. There had to be a greater mind at work.
Night after night he lay awake, wondering.
Was there a power so great as to be vast enough to imagine the stars, wise enough to know how to weave a cat from muscle and fur, kind enough to breathe life and light into a world that would otherwise be barren and dark?
Who are you? he wondered.
And from somewhere deep in his mind, no, his soul, came the reply.
I am the Storm.
Lightningjaw asks her as many questions as he can think of, and she answers calmly, with no indication that she'd even consider lying to him. She treats him not like a pestering kit but like a respected equal. For once in his life he feels... trusted. Accepted. Understood.
It is a warm, bubbly sort of feeling that he's still getting used to.
What are you? he asks.
Patient, loving, kind. All-knowing, all-seeing, always and everywhere. Wiser than all the wisdom of the stars combined.
She is lightning and thunder, rain and hail. She is power, raw and certain.
She is the Storm.
Lightningjaw loves his Goddess. He is desperate for his Clan to know her, too, that they may love her. So he begins to whisper, here and there, about a storm. In a kit's ear. Out an elder's. Murmured in earshot of the deputy. Suggested gently to a nervous queen.
It will be all right, he says. The Storm watches over us.
The Clan leader fears he's speaking metaphorically, thinks the Storm is some kind of prophecy. Lightningjaw dodges the questions, provides only cryptic warnings. The senior warriors glance at him when they think he's not looking. They're suspicious. Angry, perhaps. So he goes in and does his best to smooth things over. A mention of StarClan is enough to flatten some fur, to make it seem he's still their starry-eyed medicine cat. They accept it without question.
"StarClan's ways are much wider than the measures of the mind," Lightningjaw offers, an old proverb.
They nod. Of course.
Of course. Lightningjaw turns away to hide his face and smiles. It's almost too easy.
The youngest warriors are enthralled by the idea of his Goddess. Thrusheye, Burdockfoot, Meadowlark, Whitecloud. So when the full moon arrives and the Gathering patrol is formed, he makes sure they come along.
He knows how to wait. He can be patient. So he is silent, until all the leaders have spoken, until his leader says, "If that is all--"
"Wait! I would speak!" He seizes his chance, his heart racing. The Storm strokes his mind gently, calming him. Peace, my prophet, she whispers. You must not appear too excited. They shall take you for a fool.
The Clans are staring. Right, he whispers back, then says, "I-- I would like to formally renounce my position as medicine cat."
His Clan leader is staring, incredulous. The Clans begin to mutter amongst themselves, a ShadowClan apprentice yowling, "What do we care? You're ThunderClan!" The apprentice is quickly hushed by his hovering mentor, but Lightningjaw replies, "You should care, because what I have to tell you is for all the Clans."
He steels himself and begins, "We are wrong to worship StarClan."
Already an outcry rises against him, but he presses on, "StarClan are nothing but cowards and liars and fools. They have no power over us but their words, their lies. We have worshiped them for so long, but that is because we knew no other way. We thought we knew the truth. We thought we offered devotion to the truest gods. But we were mistaken."
Clouds are beginning to roll in overhead, covering the full moon. The clearing goes dark. Perfect, Lightningjaw thinks, licking his lips. It's almost time.
The other cats are stirring, chanting the usual response to a covered moon.
"StarClan is covering the moon!"
"StarClan is angry!"
Lightningjaw laughs. The antiquated beliefs the Clans still cling to! "You think StarClan has power over the weather?" he cries. "They're just dead cats, stuck in their afterlife in the sky. Our ancestors deserve our respect, certainly, but our worship? Dying does not suddenly make you wise or strong or great. Dying cannot make you a god! Indeed, StarClan hold no sway over earthly powers. You remember the eclipse, yes? They could not stop the sun from being blocked out. They could not fight the darkness. They didn't even see it coming! And what about the Great War? Even the Dark Forest was enough to stifle the stars, even for a time." Murmuring breaks out, and Lightningjaw grins. The Clans may well kill him today, but he has planted the seed of doubt. Now to fulfill his purpose. He raises his voice. "Yes, StarClan has no power here. But do you know who does?" He is exultant, triumphant, lifting his chin high. "Let me introduce you, my friends, to the Goddess of the Storm."
Thunder rumbles, and Lightningjaw shivers with ecstasy.
"The Storm has blessed us with her acknowledgement!" he yowls. "She sees all; she knows when we are weakest to StarClan's tainted influence, for this is when we are most open to change. To progress. Reject your misguided ways now and step into the loving embrace of the true Goddess!"
Thrusheye murmurs to her neighbor, a RiverClan warrior, "He has a point, you know. He might sound crazy, but it makes a lot of sense when you think about it."
Whitecloud is chattering excitedly to a cluster of apprentices. "The Storm is way nicer than StarClan. You know, always keeping secrets and stuff. Only talking to medicine cats. Like, you've got to be special to talk to them. Even if it's your mom! But the Storm doesn't do that! If you ask a question, she just answers! Like, that's it! No dreams or anything. You can talk to her whenever. Just, like, with your mind. It sounds weird, but just try it."
To a group of queens, Meadowlark laughs, "You want to know the best part? She's, well, a she! A she-cat, like us! The most powerful being in the whole universe! Can you believe it?"
Burdockfoot speaks urgently to a skinny WindClan tom. "Did you know that StarClan cats can die? No joke! You can just disappear if no one remembers you. So the most powerful cats, the leaders, like? They're the famous ones, the ones everyone remembers. But the little guys, like you and me? Poof. Gone. Dead twice! It's a conspiracy, I'm telling you. They make StarClan sound all great in nursery tales, but it's kind of messed up when you think about it."
When you think about it. Because that's the key. The only way to true freedom: freedom of thought. Lightningjaw raises his voice above the crowd, "If you don't believe me, know this: within four seasons' time the Storm will humble herself enough to take on mortal flesh. She will become one of us. She will walk among us! But blessed be those who believe, even without seeing!" He pauses for breath, then forges onward, "You don't have to believe me now, for faith that is forced is not faith at all! I'm simply offering you a choice, one you've never had before. You've grown up believing in StarClan, but that's because that's all you knew. Now I offer you a second option. You needn't decide now. Just think! Make your own decision! You are free!" The other Clans' medicine cats are beginning to stalk toward him, their expressions ranging from panic to hatred. He begins to back away, headed toward the log that bridges the Gathering island with the shore. "If you would serve the Storm, meet me in the wilds beyond ThunderClan territory. We will greet the Storm together when she comes! We will start a new Clan. The true Clan: StormClan!"
Now he can no longer be heard. The storm has broken, Clan arguing against Clan as the rain pounds down around them. Lightningjaw turns and disappears into the undergrowth, running now, not out of fear of death, for he would gladly martyr himself for his cause, but because StormClan will need someone to guide it in its infancy, someone who can act as their authority, who can hold them together in times of doubt.
He is the prophet. He is the dark of a starless night, the cold of a leaf-fall breeze, rejecting greenleaf's comforts, for comforts make one soft, vulnerable, and he must be strong. He is the eye of the Storm.
Somewhere deep in his mind, the Storm whispers, Thank you.
After that night, he never hears her voice again.
.
.
.
I wanted to explore what might happen if a cat stopped believing in StarClan, not because he never believed, like Cloudtail, but because he once believed and then doubted. I also wanted to write a main character whose beliefs are a little unorthodox, while making him real and believable. I hope I succeeded.
But that's not really true, is it?
A storm doesn't just arrive out of nowhere. It's formed by pressure. By tension. Heat that has to break one way or another. The sky goes from perfect blue to eerie gray to sickly yellow. White, fluffy clouds, the ones your kits find shapes in, turn dark and fat with water. And then it's just a waiting game: waiting for the first raindrop to fall, knowing soon the lightning and thunder, destruction and flame, will follow.
Lightningjaw knows storms. He was born in one. Baptized by chaos. Honed by necessity. The storm hid his birth from the sight of the stars. The wind chased cold into his heart, steeling him for the coming retribution. Before, when he was naive and soft, he feared that cold, that dark. Feared it would eat him up and spit out his bones and there would be nothing left of him to bury.
He knows better now. Knows there is no distinction between him and that cold. He is the dark.
He is the song of thunder, the blade of heavenly fire that pierces the sky. He is divine punishment, sent from above. But not by the stars. Oh, no. By something much worse, much greater.
She is the Storm.
And she is coming.
-- ❦ --
He was born into a ThunderClan weakened by war and sickness. The power of the stars was not a blessing unto his Clan. It had made them weak, reliant on their ancestors for survival. They could not live on their own. Couldn't even fathom the idea of it.
He, too, shared this mindset; for a time, that is. When he was six moons old, even then he could feel the darkness stirring within him, so he became a medicine cat apprentice. He feared that if he did not choose a path that would force him to follow StarClan, he would stray from the faith forever. The Clan saw no problem with this; their only medicine cat was growing old, now. A replacement was needed. They didn't care who. He promised he wanted it, and that was enough for them.
Of course, this course of action only expedited his fall. He was given a direct line to his ancestors, a way to voice his incessant questions, his darkest and deepest fears. And the responses he got--no matter who he asked, or what, he was never satisfied. The replies to his questions felt like lies, mostly. Excuses. He started to realize StarClan didn't have the answers.
They were just dead cats with dying stars in their fur and pretty falsehoods dripping from their tongues.
They could give prophecies, yes, but even they didn't know where the prophecies came from! They didn't create them, couldn't see the future for themselves but for murky glimpses here and there, fragmented reflections in a still pool.
Lightningjaw realized early on that StarClan was not worthy of worship. Not when they had no power of their own.
Besides, if the old legends were true, there was something StarClan desperately kept from the minds of the living.
The Clans had not always existed; but of course, every cat knew that.
But Lightningjaw came to realize something more important:
There was a time when StarClan was not.
And this knowledge alone, he knows, gives him enough power to unseat the stars.
-- ❦ --
When he woke at the edge of the Moonpool that evening, all of his questions had been dismissed, their answers now useless to him; that his, all of his questions but one.
If not StarClan, then what?
If StarClan did not create the world, then who--or what--did? Where did it all come from? The intricacy of tree bark, the whirling patterns in a tabby's fur, the impossibly perfect network of veins within a cat's body: he could not believe these existed by random chance. There had to be a greater mind at work.
Night after night he lay awake, wondering.
Was there a power so great as to be vast enough to imagine the stars, wise enough to know how to weave a cat from muscle and fur, kind enough to breathe life and light into a world that would otherwise be barren and dark?
Who are you? he wondered.
And from somewhere deep in his mind, no, his soul, came the reply.
I am the Storm.
-- ❦ --
Lightningjaw asks her as many questions as he can think of, and she answers calmly, with no indication that she'd even consider lying to him. She treats him not like a pestering kit but like a respected equal. For once in his life he feels... trusted. Accepted. Understood.
It is a warm, bubbly sort of feeling that he's still getting used to.
What are you? he asks.
Patient, loving, kind. All-knowing, all-seeing, always and everywhere. Wiser than all the wisdom of the stars combined.
She is lightning and thunder, rain and hail. She is power, raw and certain.
She is the Storm.
Lightningjaw loves his Goddess. He is desperate for his Clan to know her, too, that they may love her. So he begins to whisper, here and there, about a storm. In a kit's ear. Out an elder's. Murmured in earshot of the deputy. Suggested gently to a nervous queen.
It will be all right, he says. The Storm watches over us.
The Clan leader fears he's speaking metaphorically, thinks the Storm is some kind of prophecy. Lightningjaw dodges the questions, provides only cryptic warnings. The senior warriors glance at him when they think he's not looking. They're suspicious. Angry, perhaps. So he goes in and does his best to smooth things over. A mention of StarClan is enough to flatten some fur, to make it seem he's still their starry-eyed medicine cat. They accept it without question.
"StarClan's ways are much wider than the measures of the mind," Lightningjaw offers, an old proverb.
They nod. Of course.
Of course. Lightningjaw turns away to hide his face and smiles. It's almost too easy.
-- ❦ --
The youngest warriors are enthralled by the idea of his Goddess. Thrusheye, Burdockfoot, Meadowlark, Whitecloud. So when the full moon arrives and the Gathering patrol is formed, he makes sure they come along.
He knows how to wait. He can be patient. So he is silent, until all the leaders have spoken, until his leader says, "If that is all--"
"Wait! I would speak!" He seizes his chance, his heart racing. The Storm strokes his mind gently, calming him. Peace, my prophet, she whispers. You must not appear too excited. They shall take you for a fool.
The Clans are staring. Right, he whispers back, then says, "I-- I would like to formally renounce my position as medicine cat."
His Clan leader is staring, incredulous. The Clans begin to mutter amongst themselves, a ShadowClan apprentice yowling, "What do we care? You're ThunderClan!" The apprentice is quickly hushed by his hovering mentor, but Lightningjaw replies, "You should care, because what I have to tell you is for all the Clans."
He steels himself and begins, "We are wrong to worship StarClan."
Already an outcry rises against him, but he presses on, "StarClan are nothing but cowards and liars and fools. They have no power over us but their words, their lies. We have worshiped them for so long, but that is because we knew no other way. We thought we knew the truth. We thought we offered devotion to the truest gods. But we were mistaken."
Clouds are beginning to roll in overhead, covering the full moon. The clearing goes dark. Perfect, Lightningjaw thinks, licking his lips. It's almost time.
The other cats are stirring, chanting the usual response to a covered moon.
"StarClan is covering the moon!"
"StarClan is angry!"
Lightningjaw laughs. The antiquated beliefs the Clans still cling to! "You think StarClan has power over the weather?" he cries. "They're just dead cats, stuck in their afterlife in the sky. Our ancestors deserve our respect, certainly, but our worship? Dying does not suddenly make you wise or strong or great. Dying cannot make you a god! Indeed, StarClan hold no sway over earthly powers. You remember the eclipse, yes? They could not stop the sun from being blocked out. They could not fight the darkness. They didn't even see it coming! And what about the Great War? Even the Dark Forest was enough to stifle the stars, even for a time." Murmuring breaks out, and Lightningjaw grins. The Clans may well kill him today, but he has planted the seed of doubt. Now to fulfill his purpose. He raises his voice. "Yes, StarClan has no power here. But do you know who does?" He is exultant, triumphant, lifting his chin high. "Let me introduce you, my friends, to the Goddess of the Storm."
Thunder rumbles, and Lightningjaw shivers with ecstasy.
"The Storm has blessed us with her acknowledgement!" he yowls. "She sees all; she knows when we are weakest to StarClan's tainted influence, for this is when we are most open to change. To progress. Reject your misguided ways now and step into the loving embrace of the true Goddess!"
Thrusheye murmurs to her neighbor, a RiverClan warrior, "He has a point, you know. He might sound crazy, but it makes a lot of sense when you think about it."
Whitecloud is chattering excitedly to a cluster of apprentices. "The Storm is way nicer than StarClan. You know, always keeping secrets and stuff. Only talking to medicine cats. Like, you've got to be special to talk to them. Even if it's your mom! But the Storm doesn't do that! If you ask a question, she just answers! Like, that's it! No dreams or anything. You can talk to her whenever. Just, like, with your mind. It sounds weird, but just try it."
To a group of queens, Meadowlark laughs, "You want to know the best part? She's, well, a she! A she-cat, like us! The most powerful being in the whole universe! Can you believe it?"
Burdockfoot speaks urgently to a skinny WindClan tom. "Did you know that StarClan cats can die? No joke! You can just disappear if no one remembers you. So the most powerful cats, the leaders, like? They're the famous ones, the ones everyone remembers. But the little guys, like you and me? Poof. Gone. Dead twice! It's a conspiracy, I'm telling you. They make StarClan sound all great in nursery tales, but it's kind of messed up when you think about it."
When you think about it. Because that's the key. The only way to true freedom: freedom of thought. Lightningjaw raises his voice above the crowd, "If you don't believe me, know this: within four seasons' time the Storm will humble herself enough to take on mortal flesh. She will become one of us. She will walk among us! But blessed be those who believe, even without seeing!" He pauses for breath, then forges onward, "You don't have to believe me now, for faith that is forced is not faith at all! I'm simply offering you a choice, one you've never had before. You've grown up believing in StarClan, but that's because that's all you knew. Now I offer you a second option. You needn't decide now. Just think! Make your own decision! You are free!" The other Clans' medicine cats are beginning to stalk toward him, their expressions ranging from panic to hatred. He begins to back away, headed toward the log that bridges the Gathering island with the shore. "If you would serve the Storm, meet me in the wilds beyond ThunderClan territory. We will greet the Storm together when she comes! We will start a new Clan. The true Clan: StormClan!"
Now he can no longer be heard. The storm has broken, Clan arguing against Clan as the rain pounds down around them. Lightningjaw turns and disappears into the undergrowth, running now, not out of fear of death, for he would gladly martyr himself for his cause, but because StormClan will need someone to guide it in its infancy, someone who can act as their authority, who can hold them together in times of doubt.
He is the prophet. He is the dark of a starless night, the cold of a leaf-fall breeze, rejecting greenleaf's comforts, for comforts make one soft, vulnerable, and he must be strong. He is the eye of the Storm.
Somewhere deep in his mind, the Storm whispers, Thank you.
After that night, he never hears her voice again.
.
.
.
I wanted to explore what might happen if a cat stopped believing in StarClan, not because he never believed, like Cloudtail, but because he once believed and then doubted. I also wanted to write a main character whose beliefs are a little unorthodox, while making him real and believable. I hope I succeeded.
