Our Fathers' Sons {OPEN - DARKNESS; DELIVERANCE PLOT TOPIC}

The kits that now roamed and tumbled over StagClan's camp seemed to be a testament to the new hope they had created. Flintfang watched them carefully, little Burntstags and Silent Snows rolling over each other, patterns of white and calico. It was terrifying to think there'd soon be littles with a gray tabby pelt like his as well. Littlesun was pregnant with his kits, Flintfang had found that conclusion a few sunrises ago, and had never felt the same since. Another permanent deity in his life, even strapping him down as he stood in their utopia. StagClan could save him from the storm, but it could not save him from the thunder of his own creation. He hated it for pulling him even farther from Mosspaw. It seemed these biological things illegitimated the daughter he had found rather than made. He didn't want to forget her, nor could he forget Chervilpaw. But nostalgia wasn't enough to pull the tom back to ThunderClan. Flintfang's home was here, with the cat he loved, with the kits he had sired.

The sun dipped below the trees, casting long needle-point shadows over the clearing. Clouds rolled over the sky until the very air itself was lit a bold red and orange. Flintfang heard Silent Snows call her kits into the nursery, her voice was distorted, blurry as his mind drifted along his heartstrings. The birds quit their singing, fluttering into various nests for the night. Only the subtle clashing of pine nettles could be heard, like a whisper through the forest. Quiet voices chatted with one another in corners of the clearing, stark in the red light and yet matching the landscape as if their pelted forms had grown from the very dirt. Flintfang sat alone, covered by a stray fern, stripy shadows playing war with his tabby markings. The silence was loud, speaking volumes with the lack of noise. He could almost hear Mosspaw's cry as he left her in that tunnel. He could hear Chervilpaw's final breaths as she died out on the dirt. He could hear Burntstag's thundering voice shattering ShadowClan with mere words. That tom was their martyr, savior and liberator. There had been no fights since ShadowClan's exile. And only Scorchstar shed blood in his own foolishness. Falling off the Jaggedrock, a testament to the corrupt rules the clans hung to. But peace had been made afterwards. Soon all the forest would come to see it, and here, with their pelts as red as hope, they were untouchable.

A smile crept onto Flintfang's face as he stood from under his fern, stretching to arch his back, legs shaking as his nerves awoke. Tonight he would sleep beside Littlesun. He'd listen as their kits fought in her belly. And as night fell, he'd drift off into a slumber, as content as he could tell himself to be. It seems they had found it, their utopia. There was no ultimate peace that blanketed Flintfang's mind, but he was in his element. If there was no peace, here he could find it. And he'd search and search until the silence was truly silent. There would be no more conflict, no more guilt. Only the sweet, sweet quiet that now hung over the clearing.

Most of StagClan had retreated back into their dens, the talking and whispering had ceased, and even Flintfang's stormy thoughts found calm. The sky roared with color, and the landscape seemed almost surreal. Complete with the stark tabby figure at the edge of the clearing, teeth bared, running towards Flintfang. He didn't blink at first, or even react. It all seemed too perfect, the almost alien world that was taking place. The sky was beautiful, and the long fur of the cat that now thundered toward him was shimmering red in its depths. He had been so quiet. Quiet enough to sneak into camp, quiet enough to find his target. And for a moment, Flintfang didn't dare make a sound. The collision was swift, the tabby figure rolling with Flintfang to the ground, dirt and brambles snagging in their fur. His claws tore at Flintfang's pelt, teeth snapping dangerously close to his neck. And he was familiar. A familiar face that now bit down on Flintfang's chest. Familiar ears heard his cries of pain. Familiar eyes, the same of which had been there for Burntstag's take over. Wildstrike, deputy of ShadowClan; assassin.

It was strange that such a cat should seek revenge in such away. The claw marks left in Flintfang's pelt were painful and left blood soaking into his fur. One would expect more poise and self-control from the authority of the forest. They fought with lies rather than claws. But this was ShadowClan, anything goes. Teeth were ripped from Flintfang's neck as the gray tabby pushed Wildstrike off, blood pooled from the StagClan warrior's mouth. More scars, always more scars. But he was weak, caught off guard and injured. Wildstrike attacked again and Flintfang buckled, falling beneath his weight as fangs tore his neck fur away. If only they had been a mouse-length closer... Flintfang didn't wish to die today, but it didn't seem he had a say in the matter. How ironic, to fall in his own utopia. But this would not be the day. Flintfang held a shred of hope, despite hating the very thing in its being. Death was permanent, but he wasn't ready yet.

How long had he waited for a moment like this? The clearing was at peace underneath the iridescent glow of the setting sun. Their home was painted with apricot hues. As he breathed in the crisp, night air, the tom found himself following it with a contented exhale. Everything was just as he had imagined it. Already kits were filling the nursery and their sparse numbers were filling out the spaces left behind by those who had abandoned the code. Burnt frowned slightly but it was a mere flash across his expression before returning to its neutral state. His mind often drifted to the cats that had been lost, clinging so desperately to a mange-ridden code with worn claws. As horrible as it was to consider his desire to save them all, and the lack of willingness from many cats, Silent Snows had often soothed his mind with the idea that not everyone would allow themselves to be saved. All cats were the master of their own destinies and many chose to aid in their own demise. What a saddening thought.

Burnt attempted to push it away for the sake of selfishly preserving his own momentary tranquility. Stagclan had settled in for the night. His mate's voice rang in his ears, as quietly vibrant and beauteous as ever. She was as magnificent a mother as she had been a partner and a guide. Most cats seemed to follow the path that he blazed, even Flintfang to some extent, but she stood as an equal at his side, at times even guiding his paws. Never would he take the she-cat for granted. Not only had she aided him throughout the revolution of Shadowclan, Silent Snows had also birthed and mothered their lovely kits, as well as healing those who found themselves wrought with any affliction. A natural talent for healing seemed to flow through her paws. As he watched them settle in for the night, the tom found a low purr rumbling in his throat. This was how the world was supposed to be, it was how he had always seen it.

As of late, he had taken to sleeping under the stars in the middle of camp. No longer did their light feel like scorn on his back. Sleeping during the night, now, openly defied the ancestors and dared them to strike him down while he rested. They had yet to dare such a thing. His intense green gaze studied the sky as cloud drifted lazily over the dying daylight. If Starclan was watching up there tonight, at least they would not be able to see him. The tom rested his head atop his paws, comforted by that fact. He was about ready to drift into an easy sleep with the thought still fresh in his mind. Tomorrow would be another day of training and building the clan, tonight was for rest. But something stopped his eyes from closing. There was the nearly inaudible sound of paws against the earth. Burnt's ear twitched and he sad up to glance about. He was always ready to protect the others if the need arose. And as he stood, it appeared that it had. Underneath the shaded fern where his companion had rested, there were two pelts. The other was not Flintfang's mate, nor was it another clanmate. There stood the former Shadowclan deputy. And blood stained his paws.

There was no time for a warning yowl to pass by his lips. Perhaps if he had scented other cats, it might have come. But for now, the only thing that mattered was saving Flintfang's life. How had he once looked at this savage former clanmate as a potential future leader? Disgust wrinkled his nose and desperation drove his paws forward. Burnt's claws were unsheathed car before he reached the pair. As soon as he was in close enough range, his hind muscles coiled and he sprang forward. Wildstrike was knocked off of the grey tabby, taking fur along with his claws, and spattering the earth and the coat of Burnt with scarlet flecks. The Stagclan leader's eyes caught on the frame of Flintfang for a second, agony welling up in his chest as he looked at the broken body of his trusted partner and friend. Scorchstar's deputy had threatened the life of another cat, once again breaking the code he had sworn to follow and threatening the lives of innocent cats. Burnt bared his teeth with a low snarl and whipped around to face his enemy.

Calico fur splayed and lashed with the furious nature of his tail. There was no time to waste, a direct threat had been made upon their way of life. Like he had spoken at the gathering, they wanted peace, but if their cats were threatened, there would be no hesitation to defend one of their own. Burnt intended to keep that promise. Despite Wildstrike's age and experience, Burnt possessed something most cats did not: a variety of fighting techniques, both clan and otherwise. As a kit, he'd trained alongside rogues. And no code was to stop him from doing what needed to be done. It could have been one of his kits bleeding into the dirt as well. Dodging underneath a defensive attack from his opponent, the calico warrior darted forward underneath the other cat's stomach and smashed his head into him, creating a short distance between them and stumbling his enemy. Now was his chance. Without hesitation, Burnt was on him. Teeth met the soft flesh of Wildstrike's throat. It was unceremonious, the way he bled into the earth.

The metallic tang of blood seeped into Burnt's mouth and until the tom stopped moving his teeth gripped the skin without ceasing. Wildstrike was dead. With the adrenaline quickly fading from his body, Burnt rushed to the side of his companion and his tongue rasped gingerly over the wounds trying to clean them and stop the ebbing of precious life flow. Silent had show him many times. He heard himself yowl out her name, no thought of waking the kits of the clan. Something important needed their attention. Flintfang's life was at risk because of the cruel attack of a former clanmate something need to be done, something needed to happen. Flint could not be lost to them.

Sleep did not seem to see Asterspark as worthy of its presence as of late. Ever since he had accidentally knocked Scorchstar off the Jaggedrock many days ago, his subconsciousness had mercilessly replayed the events over and over again in his sleep, turning all possible chances of rest into nightmares. Eventually, he had stopped trying to sleep altogether, developing insomnia. He currently lay in the warriors' den with his chin resting on his paws, staring out at the sleeping form of Burntstag in the center of camp.

He had been feeling nothing but loneliness, regret, and a deep longing ever since the birth of Silent Snows' kits. It seemed that, even though ShadowClan had been destroyed, life still moved on. While he would normally rejoice in such a thing ... he couldn't find any reason to celebrate. Of course, Silent Snows' kits were welcomed into the world, and he was happy that his younger half-sibling had had her first litter safely. But ... he couldn't help but see himself in Burntstag's paws, and Thornbriar in Silent Snows'. Despite everything that had happened, he still loved the strong and determined molly, even if she didn't realize it herself. Or even shared a mutual feeling of affection towards him.

Even so, he couldn't help but realize once again that he would probably never have a future with Thornbriar. His first love, Sparkfeather, had perished tragically long ago, and he had always thought it to be partially his fault for not looking out for her in the great battle against Lichenmask. Even though Thornbriar was still alive, he had still managed to drive her away by making the decision -- a decision that seemed logical at first, but now grew even more and more utterly stupid with each passing day -- to betray his own Clan. And while the loss of his chance at a future with Sparkfeather had not been entirely his fault, the loss of his chance at a future with Thornbriar was.

Not only that, but he had lost his closest friend in the entire world. Long ago, he and Poppyheart had had a fight so big that it had caused a rift in their friendship that hadn't been rekindled until his brother returned to him after being held captive for a moon by Twolegs. He had promised Poppyheart that nothing would ever drive a wedge between them again. He did not make promises often, and he would always keep them whenever he did make them.

But this time he didn't.

He had left behind so many other valued Clanmates. Redwing, Poppyheart's beloved mate and one of his closest kithood friends aside from Sparkfeather; Daisyflame, his mentor and the cat who had shaped him into the cat he was today; Liontail, his eldest half-brother whom he bonded with through terrible jokes and puns; and Scorchstar, his own father, the cat who loved him and his brother unconditionally, no matter what kinds of trouble they would find themselves in.

All he had now were cats who hardly felt like family. Of course, there was Silent Snows, but she would spend so much time with Burntstag and her kits, it was almost as if she wasn't even there. And although he did like the former SkyClan molly Maplepaw and enjoyed their trading of puns, he had to admit she still didn't feel like family.

It seemed he was always destined to be alone.

And it broke his heart.

Asterspark buried his face in his paws to quietly sniffle and weep, his heart twisting painfully, missing all of his loved ones and wishing he had never chose StagClan over ShadowClan ... when all of a sudden a caterwaul echoed from the clearing and ringing throughout the night air. He looked up from his paws to see Burntstag leaping up to his feet and bolting out of sight towards the camp entrance. Asterspark rose up out of his nest and rushed out of the den to see what all the commotion was about.

And everything in the world seemed to slow down.

Flintfang was struggling underneath a dark tabby tom, his fur clawed and bloodied. Burntstag had rushed to his ally's aid and flung the offender off to momentarily tussle with him before landing a deadly bite to the other cat's throat. It didn't take long for the intruder's body to go limp.

Dreadfully curious to see who the now deceased attacker had been, as he wasn't able to determine the identity of the tom in the darkness, Asterspark approached the small group of cats to get a closer look. "Burntstag, what's goin' o--?"

His words died on his tongue. He stared in silent shock at the dead tom now at his paws, his jaw gaped open in mid-sentence. The tom's scent, pelt, and eyes that were slowly growing cloudy and listless were unmistakable.

"Wildstrike...." His stunned voice came out as barely a whisper. He took a step back, slowly shaking his head, hoping that this was all just one of his terrible nightmares. His uncle, ShadowClan's deputy, and Scorchstar's last living sibling ... was dead.

He looked up at Burntstag, staring him in the eye, feeling his own eyes beginning to sting and brim with tears. Finally, after several long moments that felt like an eternity of trying to deny what was right in front of him, his building tears slid down his cheeks and fell to the earth with silent plops. "You ... Y-You killed Wildstrike...." Never in a million years would he have taken the tri-colored tom to be a murderer ... yet here he was, staring the bringer of death in the face.

It had all happened so fast.

One moment, there was peace. Sunstrike had reveled in the freedom and peace that Burnt had brought to them in the form of StagClan. No more fighting, no more mouse-brained, pointless border squabbles, just hunting and for the first time ever, living. She had been lazily grooming her fur, watching Silent Snows wrangle her kits to bed from a distance. Once she had dreamed that she would be Burnt's queen, but he had made his choice clear and she would respect that. Perhaps in another time... The silence of the clearing was broken by pained cries, and her head shot up as Burnt quickly approached and dispatched the unknown attacker, and she got to her paws to find out what was going on. The victim, Flintfang, covered in fresh, deep scratches that littered his pelt. He wasn't in any immediate danger now, and as she turned her gaze to the attacker she let out a soft hiss, ears flattening to her head. Wildstrike? He was the one that had interrupted their peace and silence? Of course it had been the one who had once been a potential leader and a blind follower of the code and StarClan that would attack first.

Her ears twitched as she heard voices elsewhere, and recognized Asterspark and Silent Snow's voices. Turning to listen as they spoke, she was shocked at their reactions of horror and tears. Yes, Wildstrike was dead, but he had invaded their utopia and struck the first blow! Did they not see that Wildstrike would have killed one of their own had he not been stopped? Tail lashing in fury, Sunstrike hissed. "Are you both blind? Wildstrike struck the first blow! He would have killed Flintfang had Burnt not intervened! He has worked to bring us peace, and he has. However, we have to be prepared to defend this peace from those who would shatter it! Why are you mourning over a cat that ignored our calls for a better future, and then trespassed our borders and tried to murder one of our own?" Her eyes narrowed as she looked between the two, and cold feeling in her chest. Surely they wouldn't change their minds now, after seeing what was possible, what could be done? Her eyes settled on the white queen, and her expression softened slightly. She had proclaimed her love for Burnt, and had carried and birthed his offspring. Surely she wouldn't abandon him for taking care of a murderer? "Don't you want peace for your kits? Think of the life they could have, yes, this isn't great, and I regret that Wildstrike is dead, but he was the one with murderous intent here... Burnt was only protecting one of his clanmates. Just as any one of us would have done. What if Wildstrike had attacked you instead, Silent Snows? Or you, Asterspark?" Her gaze shifted to the tom. They had to see sense....

Life was good, Salamander thought.

Each day, he would play with his siblings, eat all the prey he could, and have all the cuddles possible from the other Stagclan cats. He was getting older by the day, and despite the fact he and his siblings were almost the height of a small adult, they still played around. Everyone here got to play whenever they wanted, even the older adults. Everyone smiled. Everyone had food. Everyone was happy. And so was Salamander- all the calico knew was happiness all his life. Salamander at the moment was just like his siblings, vying to get out and play some more. Silent Snows would try to ease them back into the den every time, and eventually he gave up and went back to curling up with the rest of the family. Yew complained loudly for a solid four minutes, but soon enough he was silent too.

And then haunting screeches split the air.

Salamander’s fluffy head was peeking out of the den in a second. What was happening? The violent sunset seemed to bathe everything in a unnaturally red light, but through it he could see something happening. His father, Burnt, covered in... blood? Only prey bled, right? Why did father kill a bunch of lizards over his face? Right next to him was Flintfang, that nice cat that came to visit every now and then. He was also covered in prey-stuff. And right next to them...

”Stay here,” mother said.

Salamander left.

Outside he could see it much more clearly. That other cat was on the ground, and prey-stuff came all out of his neck. It was everywhere, spilling over the ground, dragged into the soil, all over his father’s face. Salamander didn’t make the connection. There were other cats, friendly cats, looking at his father. They were crying. Why were they? Burnt was fine, Flinty was fine, and that cat on the ground was going to get up any second...

Right?

”Daddy, what’s happening?” he wailed, looking at his father with wide, innocent eyes. Eyes that had always gleamed with happiness. Eyes that had only ever seen peace. ”Why is everyone sad?” Eyes that had never seen bloodshed. ”Why is Flintfang covered in prey-stuff?” Eyes that had never seen death. ”Why are you covered in prey-stuff?” Eyes that always saw his daddy and mommy happy.

”Why is that cat not breathing?”

Eyes that didn’t want to see what he was seeing.

Cinderface kept quiet as disaster unfolded. She wore a deep frown, genuine sadness pressing into her cheeks. She slowly rose to her paws and looked down at the mangled form of Wildstrike. That wasn't good at all. Not one bit. She looked around, observing the way everyone's panic infected each others'. As the pandemonium slowly grew, she shook her head, knowing the dream was faltering. Burnt had killed... self-defense or not, in the name of StagClan or not, the other clans would see this as murder. Even as Wildstrike had sneaked into their sanctuary in the dead of night with intent to kill, they would remember him as a martyr. Burnt, StagClan... well, they'd soon be under siege, wouldn't they?

She saw Salamander's trembling and quickly shielded his eyes with her tail. She hushed him softly, an apology for what he was witnessing. It truly was a shame. Death did strange things when seen so young. She looked to Sunstrike with pitiful eyes. Everything the emboldened she-cat said was true. It was not a wrongful killing. Burnt had only been protecting his closest ally, but he had committed the act in their own camp. It couldn't be hidden. It couldn't be erased. It would not be easily forgotten. She looked at the corpse almost scientifically, with a critical eye.

"Murder or self-defense, do you think the clans will have mercy on us now?" Cinderface said quietly. "They will look at the body of their fallen deputy, and they will call us bloodthirsty rogues. It doesn't matter to them that we never laid a claw on their kin, because Wildstrike's blood is in our stolen camp. Somebody has to think of something. We're bickering on borrowed time."

The night was peaceful, and as always Ash was snuggled up to her mother sleeping warmly. She was usually the first to go to sleep, while her some of her sibling whined or continued to try and play. Ash was startled awake by a horrible sound, it was so loud and jarring. What happened to the quiet she wondered? She first watched her mother run outside, then she saw her brother Salamander sneaking outside to investigate. The atmosphere is the den was suddenly very uncomfortable. Ash was usually a kit that followed rules, but this time she felt she should go see what was capturing everyone's attention. As she got close to the exit, she heard her brother's words. "Cat? Not breathing?" was her startled thoughts. Who in the family/clan got hurt, she wondered.
After hearing her brother's words, her blood was a roaring in her ears and no further sounds could be heard by her. She wondered if her mother and father were alright, surely it couldn't be one of them. Ash was suddenly very worried and ran outside bolting past Salamander and Cinderface. Looking around for her mother. Upon seeing her mother's breathing white figure she stopped moving forward and looked around again. There is father, still breathing, did he hurt his face, Ash wondered? Flintfang looks very hurt, but still breathing. There is a strange cat who looks hurt, but sleeping. What a smart cat, Ash thinks sleeping is the best.
Wait is the strange cat breathing? No? Am I still sleeping? This is a dream...a bad dream...yes that's it, she thought.
Ash curled up on the ground where she was just standing, and tried to go back to sleep. When she woke up the bad dream will have faded away like all dreams do in the light of day.
Sleep is best...

Yew was so, so, happy. She had, in a few words, been given a new life, a new understanding of how she would serve the clan. Her brothers and sisters spent their days content and happy, bellies full and tumbling around in the greenleaf sun. The day itself had been long, as Yew had taken a few hours to play with her siblings, rolling and tumbling together with them, telling them so many stories of the forest, the thick and expansive territory that Stagclan roamed in.

However, with their boundless energy came a crash of tiredness, and the siblings, both kit and apprentice, found themselves slowly settling down under Silent Snow's watch like they had many moons before. Sure she had wanted to move to the apprentices' den, but her mother simply settled her within the warm bodies and shushed her until the warm buzz of sleep settled behind her eyelids.

The streaks of the setting sun painted the nursery a glowing crimson, and pained yowls rang through the camp.

Yew sat up, straight. Silent snows had already stalked towards the opening in the brambles, muttering a quiet "Stay here." She saw the instant that Salamander's ears peaked and he got up, and Yew cursed her loving brother for being so curious. What if it was just a warrior scared by a mouse? Then they would all be disturbed, and it would take till moonhigh to settle them down again.

Yew padded up to her brother, ready to voice those thoughts to him. "What are you doing, Salamander?" Yew gently hissed at him, careful not to alert her mother. "Ugh... you've probably woken the rest of them up for nothing." She pushed the curtain of brambles back.

"See? It was just.... a..." Yew's mew dropped off.

Standing in the center was her father, Burnt, and lying on the floor...

An unfamiliar scent drifted under her nose, one that smelled like the camp, but different. Fishier in a way that confused her greatly. Burnt was surrounded by a halo of red, rusty liquid. His pelt was stained with the liquid and ringed in the light of the setting sun, as well as the cat who lay splayed against the floor. (who was that, anyway?) Her father, despite the emerging cats appearing from the shadows, seemed to only have eyes for his friend.

The cat wasn't moving. Why wasn't the cat moving? The only things that didn't move were plants, rocks, and food. Cats always moved, even when they slept. The cat wasn't a prey, and it definitely wasn't a rock or a plant.

"Mum... why isn't that cat moving?" Yew echoed Salamander's question, feeling lost for the first time in her life, she felt wordless. The entire clearing was frozen, locked in the same kind of shock that coursed through her veins.

The yowling started, and Yew could only watch as the life that had been carefully constructed around her seemed to crack.