.broken .crown [closed for now]

The storm that raged within his head was not a welcome one. A fire had begun to blaze the moment his vision blurred red. Blood stained his paws and the floor of the camp. Wildstrike was dead. But, it meant Flintfang was alive, right? Pacing had begun shortly after his confrontation with Asterspark and Silent Snows. Of course neither of them were pleased that was to be expected. Yet, to see him as a murderer and monster? He whipped around for probably the twentieth time since he'd started the erratic movements. Never before had Burnt been wrought with such confusion. His mind was muddled, no longer certain and sure as it traditionally was. The calico warrior had fought before for his clan and for the cats he loved. And he had renounced the vow to follow the code in order to serve Stagclan the way that it needed. This couldn't be wrong in any way and yet those he cared for the most had turned on him in an instant. Striking them down was not an option. Yowling his pain to the skies would fix nothing. They never listened, who would listen? Who would understand? One paw dug desperately into the earth seeking out something to ground him and to make sense of this indecision.

Was this how Lichenmask felt?


"No!" Burnt found himself snarling at the thought, lashing out at the wall of the den. His claws score the rock which a horrendous screech of claw on stone. Sides heaving, he continued pacing once more. How could he be seen like his father, he was nothing like his father had been. Lichenmask was little more than a murder and pawn of the stars. The former Riverclan cat said he had set out to save the forest and almost ended up destroying it with a mere twist of his paw. Set out to save the forest. That was what Burntstag had done. Every meticulous detail sat heavy in the back of his mind. Moons of planning of his own accord, not guided by long dead ancestors, but driven for the good of the cats that he loved more than anything. It seemed that there was something he over looked. Could it be that there were things he missed? Such questioning and uncertainty. This was not his way. Burnt was supposed to be the strong and composed figure that Flintfang saw, that his kits saw. Where was that now? And why wasn't Silent Snows here? Cool, calculated eyes had been replaced by twisting sage pools. The depths of his gaze writhed and twisted like the conflict within. This was not how things were supposed to be. He'd tried to warn against cats attacking Stagclan, he only sought peace for the betterment of the forest. And now here he stood in the midst of camp with a scarlet soaked coat.

His mind flashed back to something from so many moons ago; a memory pulled itself from the depths of his brain.

Shade too had shown up with a similar coat on so many occasions.

But he wasn't Shade! Another frustrated, low yowl tore from his throat and seemed to reverberate through the empty den. No more. Burnt tried to slow his breathing, pulling in shallow draws of air until the heaving of his sides had been replaced with nearly inaudible gasps. His head still pounded but the pacing had stopped. The tom, so imposing and strong, looked broken for a moment. But that second quickly ended as he settled down in the center of the den. Despite the low light, the white and oranges of his coat provided a stark contrast in what patches of moonlight had managed to slip through the entrance. He'd requested no cat come in and thankfully he had been undisturbed so far. No cat needed to see him in a state like this. He simply needed to sift through the madness that had plagued his mind. Instead of licking the now crusting blood from his pads, the tom studied it curiously. It was funny, no matter how disturbing, that both Shade and Lichenmask had come to mind in these moments. His past was something that he had tried to leave behind and outrun time and time again. He was no son of Lichenmask's. And yet, it appeared they did have something in common. Picking at the earth with those stained claws he mulled over it.

Now, that was a thought.

Once upon a time, he had considered the other leaders, of the forest and otherwise, to have down-filled brains with senseless and futile goals. There was no honor in their ways, especially not the code sworn clan cats who chose to openly defy their promises in the face of something unfavorable. Laughter echoed for a moment. And now, they would see him as scum for breaking one of the many regulations of their code. Oh, how righteous were the cats who mocked others honor as they dipped their own paws in poison. Was that all that each cat was destined to be? A self-promoted pinnacle of truth? It was interesting so many united around the code and yet each had their own path they followed, their own way. Burnt sat in silence for a long time as he considered. And what he concluded caused his heart to still, whether it be from the torment of realization or the comfort that his mind had been stilled once more with decision.

He had been a fool. Burntstag was just like every other cat before him who had believed they could change the world with a paw.

The goal had been a lofty, beautiful dream. It was a utopia that would always be just out of claw's grasp. But it wasn't his inadequacies that would cause this all to inevitably fail. They were to blame. Cats themselves would always prevent themselves from being saved. Their minds were cursed with this self-destructive promise, one he had been too foolish to see. He had been just like Lichenmask, Shade, and even Scorchstar. Each one believed they knew how to save the world. And yet, this world did not want to be saved. It craved the war, shaking ethics, and lack of resolution. Burnt was not the one to blame. It was the world. Should he seen it earlier, the forest would have simply carried on. His whiskers twitched with a trembling laughter. The calico pelted tom was too much for the forest. Even those who had abandoned their kin and clans for the cause would eventually wane in their allegiance and find conflict in their own internal direction. It had been a futile attempt. Killing Wildstrike had shown him so many things. He considered the blood on his claws once more, as his own father had done moons before with the lifeblood of another cat. There was nothing else he could do. This had simply shown him what was to come. Burnt came to a conclusion, knowing there was only one option to allow the cats he loved to easily return to their life of ignorant, driven, simplicity.

He had to die.

There was a peace that overcame him and he rose onto his haunches, decided. His voice was as strong as ever as he called out into the darkness for one of the Stagclan cats he knew was waiting outside. The only thing that pained him was the thought of his inability to watch his kits grow. It saddened him to consider they too would eventually turn out like the rest of the forest. But there was nothing else he could do. This was something out of his paws.

"Get Flintfang. And Dawnpaw."

Every breath, and more blood dripped from Flintfang's maw. Every breath, and more cats came to watch the scene. Wildstrike; dead. His tabby figure laid in a pool of blood on the side of the clearing, crimson embracing his form. Blood. Blood everywhere. On Flintfang's fur, on Wildstrike's body. And on the pawprints leading to Burnt's den. Asterspark claimed murder. Silent Snows was horrified. And Flintfang's very life had been saved. There was no presence of a medicine cat in their clan, but eyes and eyes emerged from the shadows, leaving at his feet moss and cobwebs. It was as if they were scared to touch him, seeing him in this state. And perhaps more shocking than that was the tribal beast that had roared from Burnt's frame. Beautiful, stunning in its power. The tabby had watched from his decrepit spot in the dirt as the calico tore Wildstrike from his pelt. And Burnt raged and raged until the scene had ended. Until the work was done. And as he stepped back; StagClan entered. Their reactions were strange, but it was all Flintfang could do to watch, seeing as his pelt was now stained with red. He wanted to claw at the faces of those who doubted his friend. He wanted to sneer betrayal at those who lost faith. And in Asterspark's eyes, he saw his own. In Silent Snows' horrified expression, Flintfang found himself.

A gorge between the two polar opposites, and they had become the very thing they hated. In Wildstrike's form, Flintfang saw Chervilpaw. In Burnt, he saw Leopardstar. And he wanted to gouge his eyes out, to stop himself from seeing these things. Flintfang had made it. He had fought and clawed for his utopia, and Burnt brought it crashing down, as loud as thunder. And he had created new life with Littlesun, a lineage. He had found his family in Bonewatcher, and he shut his grief away, hiding Mosspaw where his mind could no longer find her. That mouse skull still sat by his nest, but remained a symbol of hope. That maybe that calico would come to StagClan on her own accord. That maybe this peace would truly last. And in that moment, Flintfang sinned. As Burnt padded away to his den, the gray tabby hoped. He hoped for a better world. He prayed to the gods of love and life that StagClan would run through this blood, and emerge clean. It was kit-like to think that nothing could ever spoil this shining peace in his head. And yet perhaps Flintfang's emotions really were that fragile. Perhaps he had been seeking after something nonexistent his entire life. And perhaps he had abandoned Mosspaw for nothing. Perhaps he had lived a life of storms for a rarity that was unobtainable. How foolish he had been to try and harness love in a bubble, when that very thing resided in the cats he had left to rot in the dirt.

A death like this one should not have shaken Flintfang as it did. He was a warrior. He had witnessed his half-sister's body, drowned in the dirt. He had watched as cats fell to the paws of dogs. And blood. Oh the blood. His claws and fangs were well acquainted with the thing, and Flintfang wasn't bothered by its presence on his fur. And yet maybe the thing that scared him was not Wildstrike's lifeless form, but the actions that had stemmed from Burnt. His shining, shadowed martyr. His leader, on whom he hung his desires. And Flintfang could see the weight on Burnt's shoulders. He could see the hopes and wants of every cat in the forest, hanging from his chest like rocks hung from the gorge. And yet the gray tabby watched as he suffered, he watched as Burnt's confidence overcame the obstacles. And perhaps that was why he followed him. Burnt was so unbelievable and extraordinary that it proved to Flintfang his utopia could truly exist. That if this one, perfect cat could walk the earth, then maybe peace could as well.

And yet their savior spilled blood over their land. Killed a soul on their territory. And Flintfang didn't find the act repulsive, but he saw the cracks. He watched as his martyr crumbled. It was unfair, and cruel and ruthless to put so much hope in a cat, and yet Flintfang excelled at all things scandalous and mean. This wasn't unlike him. He hated himself for adding to Burnt's burdens, and yet it was destiny. When they meant on that Thunderpath all those moons ago, promising a better life, how could Flintfang have said no? He emerged shortly, the magnificent calico, blood staining his pelt, akin to his follower's. His voice stormed across the clearing as he called Flintfang as well as his sister's name. Fear. Dread. And perhaps regret. Burnt was volatile. Any cat with that much responsibility would be. Their perfect king, broken, shattered as they tore their hope from him. And now they held him to trial. A court made by Burnt's own heartstrings. "Burnt." Flintfang spoke to him, shattering the silence he no longer cared for. He followed him, heart pounding as loud as the stars. "The blood will wash out." It always did. And they kept padding on. And yet Flintfang knew it would never be the same. Something so perfect and innocent, gone. Their king, as red as the words he spoke. And his subjects, drenched as their hope splattered back to the ground.

Would the acrid stench of blood ever leave her nose? Dawnpaw shifted hesitantly in her makeshift nest in the medicine cat's den. She'd not fully committed to finding out what had caused the familiar scent. Yes, the striped tortoiseshell was wholly tired of blood, of the smell and the heat and the trickling sensation of that liquid dripping through her course, bedraggled coat. For too long her own blood-scent clouded her mouth and nostrils and prevented her from tracking prey and dodging predators. Dawnpaw's stint in the vast unknown was a punishment unlike any other she'd been subjected to, and the tang of death in the air was a sharp reminder of the constant pain of the struggle for survival that had beset her for the past season. The weary she-cat was bitterly tired of the reminder of her frail mortality and her utter lack of control, and once more she cursed the stars under her breath. All she wanted was rest. Was that too much to ask for a cursed daughter?

Dawnpaw had settled to stay in the den when a warrior informed her of Burntstag's summons. She stood dutifully, ignoring the ache in her bones, and shook out her pelt. She would lose her wound dressings and her pride but not her mobility. Whatever her brother wanted, she would do it. She would bring him prey or partake in training or report on her knowledge of ThunderClan, whatever would please him. Dawnpaw found that her memories of Duskpaw were distant and of ThunderClan devoid of any warmth. Home was here. Home was Burntstag. 'At last, something to put my life into. Someone I respect. I've been waiting for these days all my life without even knowing.' She mulled over her thoughts, guessing at what her brother would request of her, when she left the den. And then her mind went blank when she saw the scene.

Of course she'd smelled the blood, but it hadn't quite connected in her mind that the smell was often accompanied by its presence. An unfamiliar tom rested on the camp floor. No, not rested. Simply lied dead. The red pool around him soaked into the ground and betrayed the steps of the attacker. But what had happened? There, on the other side of the corpse, Flintfang stared with empty eyes and red stains. And yet the trail of paw prints lead away. A different culprit. If there had been an uproar, Dawnpaw was surely too lost in her own shattered mind to have heard it.  She merely watched the tom, both a former and a new clanmate, as he processed the scene for himself. She still didn't know what Flintfang had to do with Burntstag, but she should have suspected him as a fellow traitor after she learned of their frequent meetings in that tunnel. And other members of StagClan stared as well, apparently having passed their own judgment so soon.

Golden eyes remained locked on to Flintfang until well after Burnstag's appearance in the clearing. Dawnpaw followed the two toms back into the den, silent and listening, although it seemed like all three of them had the same idea until Flintfang spoke up. "I don't understand." She meowed in her icy voice, short and to the point. Obviously something had happened that was traumatic, but she failed to see why these warriors would respond like this. "Who has died? Have we lost one of our own?" She meowed, eyes narrowed and brows furrowed.

As the pair of cats appeared through the entrance, they were met with the intense green gaze of Burnt, which was contrasted by the vibrant splotches of orange on his pelt. Under the rising light of day, fractured rays of light only served to further the stark coloring. He acknowledged each of them with a twist of his head. Both cats had been integral parts of his life and of this cause. Dawnpaw knew the burden of their parentage. Their start to life had been in the straw of the barn, which clung to their coats and marked them as kits of exiles. From a litter of five now only stood three remaining kits. His tortoiseshell sister once considered lost. The world had been kind enough to spare them this final moment together. Part of him felt a twinge of guilt in his chest at the thought that so shortly after being reunited with kin, she was once more going to lose another soul precious in her eyes. Losing Duskpaw had been a blow that he did not quite understand. The death of their sickly brother was not a shock, and Burnt had not grown at his side. Even Slatestrike's untimely loss in the flood held little merit.

How broken their kin was.

Burnt would have laughed if the burden of circumstance did not weight heavy on his shoulders. He was decided in this. There would be no swaying of his thoughts, nor his heart. The calico tom, a leader in the eyes of others, was known for his cognitive ability. Acts purely of passion were not his way. This had been decisive as the rest, even if it had taken the tumultuous pacing to sift through the contents of his mind, and the opinions of others. Wildstrike's death had been a similar act. It was his belief that cats should not harm unprompted, for the greater good of both parties. But in the defense of kin and clan, the best course of action was to eliminate the threat. No, it had not been the blood of Wildstrike that drew confusion from within his heart, but rather the lack of understanding from the cats around him. Asterspark had accused him of murder. It was Sunstrike's words that rang the truest in his defense. But Burnt had never needed another cat to defend his action. Although there was comfort that some cat had understood. Yet one clear mind in the midst of enraged yowls could not change the direction of the wind. That was the most clarity that he had found in the past night.

And he was assured in that.

Never had death scared the warrior. It was simply a factor of life. What had driven him, however, was the idea that such a thing could separate those he cared for from the world of the living. That was perhaps the only thing that had ever stirred some semblance of fear in the imposing tom. But his own life? That was simply one of many to be lost in history. Maybe leaders would tell of the Shadowclan cat, son of Lichenmask, who tried to topple the code. This had been an ambitious task. His gaze shifted back and forth between the pair of cats once more, allowing the silence to build. If their story was to be passed down, it would merely be one of caution, not of glory. Then, his whiskers finally twitched. That was certainly an idea. He had never resented the simple minds of forest cats as much as he had in this moment. Sure, the knowledge they simply fed on what was forced into their paws was common. Truly realizing that they could never fully allow themselves to slip into a world of peace, where famine was not known and wounds hardly festered, that was another blow. That would cut deeper than the claws that would undoubtedly slash through his throat.

Flintfang.

The grey tabby had been the most loyal in pursuit of the vision that Burnt possessed. He wished there was a way to make his companion understand the gravity of the decision and the sense of it all. Less cats would be hurt. This would be the best way to preserve their vision of peace, allowing it to burn underneath the light of day before the decaying minds of cat kind would one day tear it apart with their own claws. To allow themselves to find utopia would destroy such piddling minds. The former Thunderclanner needed to know but to be explained such an ideal would destroy him. Burnt would keep that from him. Not a lie but a withholding of the terrible truth. He regretted not seeing it further, and regretted what this might do to the pair of them. But there was no cast more fitting to the end of the plot that had made up his life. How far he and Dawnpaw had come from kithood? All the way to the bitter end, to these final moments where she would watch their shared blood drain into the dirt below.

"Blood has an interesting nature... sticking to claws even when washed away by flowing water."

When Burnt finally spoke, his tone matched that of his usual strong timbre, but something telling rang in its depths. He longed to answer Dawnpaw's pressing questions, to satiate the confusion in his dear sister's gaze. But much more pressing things sat just over the horizon and alongside the rising sun. Bowing his head for another moment, the calico allowed for a pause. He was ready. Were they? That was his only hesitation. They would feel the sting that he so feared himself. Sucking in one final, slow breath, he made his plea, a plea that could only be construed as a command, "My time in the forest has ended. I ask nothing more than you preserve your own lives and the lives of this clan to the best of your ability. There is nothing more we can do, Flintfang. This is your final duty owed to the forest. Strike me down of my own desire. And may this blood wash from your claws by the mud of the territory." Any cat would have wanted more with these final words. He understood that. Only a flicker of emotion crossed his determined gaze as he locked eyes with Flintfang and stepped forward to bear his throat.

With him, Stagclan would die. With him, the forest would return to normal.

At his own paws. Starclan was powerless.

For the last time, with that final thought, a pleased smile crossed his maw.

The tension sat thickly in the air like a harsh fog, although the night was clear. Flintfang almost wanted to cover his ears and hide, the atmosphere roared as loud as ever, although nothing made a sound. The three of them, standing together in this den. Soft light drifted through the holes in the brambles, and specks of glitter dust could be seen drifting in its midst. After Dawnpaw spoke her questions, there was nothing. And the utter silence of Burnt made Flintfang wary, as if he was about to leap from the gorge. His haunches raised on instinct, but the threat was much more profound than a steep drop or a monster on the Thunderpath. This threat, this tension - it stemmed from something much more abstract. The night trekked on until Burnt answered Flintfang's comment, speaking of the blood that would always stain his claws. Flintfang took a moment to peer down at his own, and saw that indeed, there was crimson streaks embedded into him. Forever. But what Burnt spoke of wasn't just the blood. It was the loss of his perfection, the loss of the peace that was to come, and the crashing of their utopia into the ground. The tom's self-awareness stunned Flintfang to the point where he wondered if the calico before him was even real. And maybe he wasn't. When they first meant on that Thunderpath many moons ago, Burnt had flamed so brightly, that the former Thunderclanner couldn't help but be in awe of him. If any cat could bring peace to the forest, it was him. And if any cat could save them from the code, it was him.

And Burnt was so large, his aura filling up the whole den, as loud as the very sky. Flintfang remembered when the tom brought Scorchstar to the ground with only his words. He remembered watching Burnt play with his kits, pulling such kindness from some secret pouch. And the calico before him held every emotion, every life and every soul. And that was his punishment for being their martyr. All of StagClan saw him as someone to bring on a new era. And none of them were brave or strong enough to do it, so they went for following the cat who was. And even those who didn't join. Even those who had claimed loyalty to Scorchstar or whatever leader they followed. Flintfang would bet his tail they secretly yearned for the life Burnt had promised. He was larger than life, a shining symbol in their dark, decrepit world. He held a fire so bright, it hurt to look too deep into his eyes. And now his followers had disowned him, leaving him naked and stripped of all glory and honor. And as the cinders settled, he was Burnt. Burnt by the flames he wielded. Scorched by the heat he warmed their hearts with. And yet he stood now with such poise, such grace and wonder, Flintfang didn't think he could be real.

What kind of cat gave them the world, and yet didn't falter when his very dreams were shattered? Was this the hope that Flintfang had despised so harshly? Was Burnt a hopeful cat? Or perhaps he was a realist. Perhaps he knew their hearts were weak. And maybe he was disappointed in his followers. Maybe he was disappointed in Flintfang. They had watched him spill blood and labeled him impure. That one single action had stripped him of his starry status. And it made him humble. As Burnt killed, he fell through the clouds to sit at their level, to be just a tom. Just another soul, searching, yearning for a better life. And Flintfang hated how that worked. He wanted to believe again. He wanted to feel whimsy as Burnt tore at their predators, and protected them from the code. He wanted to gasp quietly as the calico gazed at him with those green eyes. Eyes that could slice through the future, and bring peace, prosperity. And Flintfang's breath caught in his throat for the last time as Burnt looked at him for the grand finale.

Green eyes. Green eyes and the world within their depths. The words that came from Burnt's maw were not ones of fear, and they were not ones of spite or anger. There was a quiet sense of duty there, an overwhelming confidence that rocketed through Flintfang's very heart. And he was stunned Burnt could ask for his own death and never even falter. There was no arguing it. The cat who stood before him was ethereal. Unreal, and ever so graceful in his mannerisms. It was of no fault of his for the blood that he spilled, but it was the fault of the world he lived in. Burnt came to save and heal. To roar through time and space for a peace that Flintfang had thought before was unobtainable. And crimson would not have soaked his claws had Wildstrike not attacked Flintfang. Blood would not plaster his fur had Lichenmask been a cat of love. And red would not stain his white had StarClan not judged so harshly. And it was strange, that the very cats the forest looked up to and prayed to, were now the ones to doom the very cat who shined even brighter than StarClan themselves. Burnt, pure and driven, a confident soul sent to relieve them of their misgivings. And yet their minds couldn't handle something so brilliant. It hurt to come to the realization, but Flintfang knew deep down the blame could not possibly belong to their king.

Burnt now realized his time had ended, in the most humble of actions. And Flintfang dug his claws into the ground, growling softly to himself. Had it come to this? Had they failed? And yet a smile was stretched across Burnt's face. And Flintfang's eyes glazed over. No, this was not a failure. It was an act of mercy. Mercy they did not deserve, and yet mercy that Burnt wanted to give. He lifted his head to expose his neck, and Flintfang closed his eyes in denial. What of Dawnpaw? And Littlesun? They would rip and tear at his pelt but Flintfang found he didn't care. This was bigger than scars and fur. This was life, and this was grace. Mercy to continue living in the absence of their king, and a final order to kill him. "Burnt..." The gray tabby knew better to protest a cat larger than life itself. "You are the greatest cat I have ever known... But we weren't ready." A flash of white, quick and clean, and Burnt's fur fell to ribbons, beautiful falls of red flowing from his body, gracing the ground with their presence. His pelt, fiery in glorious swirls and dips leaned into the grass and Flintfang embraced it, sobbing into his long fur, tears soaking hues of white, ginger, and black. He cradled his king's head, rasping his tongue softly over his ear. They were left to live as they always had done. And it was alright to hope again. Burnt had left them that privilege, promising them a life without his presence. And what kind of a cat was he? To die and free them from their own blind optimism. From his blood flowed logic, and from his fading eyes glowed peace. Not the peace of the past, nor the future, but the peace of the present. A single moment, silent. No birds chirped, no wind rustled the trees. There was only silence, as the forest mourned what never could be.

"Help me bury him, Dawnpaw. We'll find a quiet spot, and put flowers on his body." Flintfang's voice was level, strangely calm with the small peace Burnt had left him with. "I'll leave after the vigil. There's something I've needed to do."

What was Burntstag to his sister? A hope? A dream? In her mind, he was the oasis in the desert. A valley in unforgiving mountains. The shadow of the owl in the moonlight. Moon after uncountable moon, Dawnpaw had been alone, wounded, starving, yet alive; alive on one hope alone. The image of her family had replayed in her mind so often and so lovingly that it had been burnt into her eyes like she'd been staring at the sun. She walked when it hurt because she had to find Duskpaw. She muffled her cries of pain because she had to be strong for her perpetually weaker brother. And when she knew that Duskpaw was not looking for her in return because he was dead, she gave up and committed herself to dying. And she remembered the faces of her family and realized that it couldn't possibly be the end. StarClan wanted to drag her down? She would not heel to their demands. She had others to turn to. Dawnpaw was forgotten but not alone. And so she pushed and pushed until she started to recognize her surroundings, and she didn't stop until she knew where her path was taking her. She found Burntstag. And after all those days and nights of being alone, Burntstag was not a cat.

Truly, it seemed her longest-lived brother was not a cat to anyone, shouldered with the ideals of lost dreamers and smeared as a malicious usurper by his enemies. How did someone go on living knowing that they would never be anything to anyone besides an idea? Dawnpaw had realized earlier with a twinge of jealousy that she was not the only one among them who desired closeness and comfort from the calico tom. In fact, 'StagClan' had taken him as their leader. They, presumably, admired and looked up to him and saw him much in the same light that Dawnpaw had in her lost season. How she still saw him leading up to the calamity that was underway. But why? She'd gathered enough about their ideals from idle conversations and questions about their split from ShadowClan. She didn't agree with Burntstag's way of ruling; in fact, she thought his guiding principles were foolish. Hadn't those of Lichenmask's cursed blood all reached the same conclusion? StarClan was bad because of their lack of control. They made empty promises and abandoned their most loyal followers because they were frauds and liars. It wasn't truly the code's fault that the generations before had been too weak to enforce it. Surely Burntstag and his down-brained followers couldn't have expected to live freely surrounded by clans of order, faulty as they were. Who gave Burntstag the idea that chaos was ever better than order?

Now, in their final moments together, everything was falling to ruin. Burntstag was family to Dawnpaw. She wanted his presence above all else because she needed him to feel whole again, not alone. But he stood in front of her, demanding his own death of his most devoted follower, and for what? Blood was shed and a cat died? These things were meaningless to enlightened cats like themselves. They were above StarClan's morality - indeed, they were above all morality. They had been wronged first, even as they were born. There was not a force in the world that could demand their actions be called sins. For him to mislead all of these lives in the false beliefs of freedom and peace was misguided. And now he was beguiled by his own lie that he must pay for an imagined wrong with his life. He was so lost in his own web that there would be nothing she could say to stop him; she could see it in his eyes. And in those eyes she saw a stranger where once she saw her equal. And next to her stood Flintfang, just as lost and confused and convinced of her brother's righteousness.

It was pitiful.

And so was she. Dawnpaw watched her brother's puppet tear his throat out like it was his calling, and she said nothing. Her golden gaze hardened. It stung her, shocked her, rended her apart to watch everything she fought for bleed and die in front of her. There was no denying that it was yet another blow to her fragile heart. And there was no doubt that she would carry this pain with her for the rest of her pathetic life, stored neatly next to her scars from Duskpaw, her mother, even her father. Slatestrike had his own little corner of regret and commiseration, duller than the rest but still there. Still dragging her down into her own grave beneath her. Sure, she still had Littlesun... or did she? Dawnpaw thought she knew Burntstag. Perhaps Littlesun was every bit as foreign to her as her newest dead relative. How could the guarded she-cat allow herself to be crushed in this way? Why did she have to be so delicate? All this time she thought the forest cats fools for putting their hope in weak, powerless ancestors, when she had been just as lost all along. If even family could not be believed in, Dawnpaw only had one cat to turn to.

Dawnpaw's cold eyes lingered over Burntstag's body for a little while. She cared not for the tom crumpled over his body. The stillness of the air seized her, and she found her paws unwilling or unable to move. This would be the last time she saw her brother. At least there had been some shadow of a goodbye. That was the closest she'd gotten to one, anyway. Her heart felt like a thorn had perched itself inside her chest, tormenting her and bleeding her from the inside. She supposed that she'd miss the relative peace she experienced upon her arrival to StagClan. Dawnpaw knew she would never experience anything else like it. She stayed long enough to hear Flintfang's request. "No. Feed him to the crows. It's much more poetic that way." She growled, teeth bared and nose wrinkled. The tortoiseshell she-cat turned and, finding that her paws would finally cooperate, left the den.

So StagClan was falling. Where would she find herself next? She didn't know.