pull apart the dark [closed]

Emberleap’s grasp of Clan culture had never been perfect. The Gathering and everything that followed threw that fact into sharp relief. It wasn’t as if he could ask for an explanation, not with the undead and the grieving both within earshot. Fortunately, he’d managed to wrap his head around the essentials on his own: they were trapped. Putting aside the Dark Forest cats’ numbers and unbridled cruelty, the fact remained that nobody could re-kill a corpse. All he—all anyone in ShadowClan—could do right now was wait.

Still, time marched on. The unflinching cold broke, giving way to the bright season’s first buds, and Emberleap returned from a moonhigh patrol with a mouthful of marsh grasses. Tucking himself into the camp’s darkest corner, he got to work. His mud-soaked paws moved on their own, loosely weaving the thin blades of grass together and tugging them apart. It was neither pretty nor useful, but somehow, it felt like the most productive thing he’d done all night. A low hum started in the mottled tom’s throat. For the first time since the Gathering, his head seemed almost clear.

"Hello!" Deerleap said as she came to Emberleap's side. for whatever reason she had been told to come, she was here now.