You Know Me Too Well {closed}

It hurt like sharp claws, journeying back into the territory. It was like a tick, stuck to Flintfang's back that he couldn't possibly shake. The forest. Ever his shadow. The tom had left shortly after conversing with Mosspaw one last time. Her words were honeyed, sweet little things that hadn't shocked the former warrior one bit. Yet he had been a mousebrain. Finding some shred of nostalgia to carry with him as they left the territories for good. And now her voice played on repeat in his mind, thumping with his heartstrings. She sat in a choir with Chervilpaw, and Burntstag, and Beartooth. And every other cat who had shown a shred of mercy to Flintfang during his dark days. And oh, how they haunted him. It was no longer something thick and stormy, but rather a clear sound, a drive, and reality felt more crystal than it ever had. He winced as his scoundrel self stared back at him. All the scars and all the betrayals. Hindsight was a stunning thing, and yet in this case, it pained him. Leaving was easier, it always had been. He had taken Littlesun and Bonewatcher with him into the unknown, traveling past the marked trees, into territory not yet touched by the clans. And soon his kits would be born into the world. Flintfang would watch them through the gray as he had with the rest of his life.

It was strange, trying so hard for something more brilliant than the mundane, and yet the only sense of stability he had ever known was the very plain ground beneath him. He had set his hopes for the sky, and yet forgot where his paws were standing. And now as reality flew into is face, he found himself returning to the forest, in search for something as practical as prey. No, Flintfang had not once cared for borders, and wasn't going to start now. He knew ThunderClan territory well enough, having spent most of his life there. It was easy to avoid patrols, and find quick trails to follow. Yet today's expedition took him near SkyClan's territory, to the point where the large Fallen Oak could be seen, laying across the ground. It was covered in moss and lichen, growing through the grooves in the wood. The sun was high in the air, the sky a plain white, beaming through the mix of pine and oak leaves, dappling the clearing with spots of light. Flintfang and Burntstag had searched to greaten that light, to pull apart the branches and let the sun shine through. But their perch snapped along the way, leaving them with sun dapples, little things left to be appreciated as their blood soaked into the soil. Rumor had it, StagClan had gone down in a mess of crimson. Flintfang had removed himself from the equation before it happened, however the likes of Cinderface and Sunstrike were most likely dead. Ironic, how the supposedly civil clan cats shed more blood than their annexed codeless ones.

Flintfang had spilled blood for them, on Burntstag's request. And the calico had now been buried outside the territories as well. He was right, unsurprisingly. The blood of his heart did not wash out of Flintfang's claws, rather it served as a reminder of their great prospects, and their hard fall. The gray tabby had thought he'd be more devastated by the killing of his true friend and leader, however maybe life was just life. It wasn't that Flintfang didn't distress of the memory of crimson soaking through Burntstag's neck fur. He certainly had his moments, slinking out of a makeshift den to yowl his regrets to the forest. But it hadn't destroyed him, and the fact that he was able to stand and hunt now was more of a surprise than anything. But his hunting was soon stopped as a familiar golden frame came into the picture, picking around at a clump of herbs, akin to Mosspaw a few sunrises ago. Amberdawn. The cat who had saved his daughter's life at the lake. Her kindness hadn't been forgotten, and yet before Flintfang could leave without testing the theory, the medicine cat's eyes meant his own, and he was now just a loner, trespassing on SkyClan territory. "Amberdawn." He choked, wanting to turn back the way he had came. "It's been a while." But life was just life, and this was just an encounter, as fluttery as the leaves on the trees.

A soft sigh joined the vibrant sounds of the lively greenleaf forest; it joined the breeze and was immediately lost in the world just as countless other breaths before had done, inaudible against the grand scheme of the world. The birds and mammals weren't startled or even affected by the sound. They continued to live their separate little lives, letting out their own silent breaths that were lost in the same way. A golden tabby made her way under the canopy of tall, wiry trees at an almost sluggish pace, her head low and eyes sharp and keen as they flickered from left to right to take in the surroundings. Thoughts weighed in her mind and uncertainties tugged at her pelt, and she let them do so, trying to look at them as simply a passing reflection in a puddle rather than a roiling internal struggle within her, the battlegrounds of thought. She had much time to think... more than she wanted.

The appeal of an herb patrol was often tainted with the fear of being away from camp when a medicine cat was needed. Amberdawn's unplanned heart-to-heart with her grandfather hadn't brought her much comfort; his suspicion of her had been cutting, even if he had admitted in the end that it was poorly placed and she'd done nothing to earn it. With another sigh, the young she-cat observed the thoughts and then turned away, both from the uncertainty and physically, in the forest. At least she had told Tinystar before she left camp on the herb patrol this time; she'd specifically sought him out to let him know to try to avoid his suspicion should he find her away from the medicine den. What good was a medicine cat's den without herbs in it?

Amberdawn was seeking herbs in the more heavily forested parts of the territory - that is, nearest to ThunderClan, whose foliage was thicker and with slightly stouter trees. Borage, celandine, tansy, poppies... Greenleaf was in full swing, and plants sprouted everywhere, though some places were still a bit more sparse in the wake of the flood which already seemed so many moons ago. The medicine cat had found two oak leaves so far, as well as a spot where six poppies had sprung up; three had bloomed, but the other three were still on their way, and one of the tallest had fallen over and begun to wither, making it perfect for collecting the head to dry. Amberdawn wrapped the poppy head in the oak leaf and carried the oak leaves in her teeth, though it stifled the smells of the forest.

The SkyClan she-cat had just spotted a thick clump of borage and sat down her leaves when her eyes landed on a dull-furred cat and their shockingly familiar pale green eyes. Amberdawn jerked fully upright again, the fur on her shoulders bristling and her tail flaring out instinctively. She knew she knew him, but how....? His voice jarred her memory. He said her name in a strained voice, uncomfortable and guarded. "Flintfang," Amberdawn replied in a quiet, toneless acknowledgement, her own walls of defense immediately crying out in alarm. "Yes," the young she-cat responded slowly, "it has been." She stared him down for several long moments; her fur had not flattened, and she had not settled.

Amberdawn would have expected her thoughts to be racing, yet everything seemed so slow. Flintfang... Mosspaw's father, who had abandoned her and her pure love in pursuit of StagClan. As the medicine cat took him into her sight she saw a few newer wounds mixed in with his scars, looking several days healed but still fresh enough to show how severe they had been, at one point. Trouble in the rogue Clan, perhaps? And suddenly, it made sense. There was trouble. She saw the storm in the depths of his eyes; it was a different storm than it had been before, but it was a storm nonetheless. "I suspect you aren't walking through the furthest territory in the forest in search of SkyClan's medicine cat," Amberdawn stated in an even voice. Tinystar might have used the term "trespassing" rather than walking.

Her eyes were searching; they held neither bitterness nor compassion. "I... suspect that you intended to pass through without seeing anyone, actually. Am I wrong?" Amberdawn's dark eyes were locked with Flintfang's, a challenge to who would falter first; she did not guard the borders so closely as her kin, but she certainly wasn't so cavalier with them as to let the older tom pass without explanation.

The words that came from Amberdawn's maw were strained, and Flintfang watched with a guarded stare as she outlined the points of his trespassing. Kind of her, to not label it as such, but the gray tabby knew he was on the losing side here. She was intelligent, that wasn't up for debate, however Flintfang found he didn't care whether or not a SkyClan patrol was called on his scarred pelt. The only thing tying him to this earth was the privilege Burntstag had granted him in his final words. Flintfang wouldn't dare take that for granted. "Hunting. I was here to grab a mouse or two, and then I'll be on my way." There was no use hiding it. Most of the forest knew by now what kind of cat he was. A scoundrel, a thief, a foxheart. And stars, he was good at it. Not that Flintfang took pride in it, no. In fact he hated the name he had made for himself, but now that it was set into his stony heart, he found it was better to stop fighting what could never change. Besides, Amberdawn wasn't a cat to be fooled. Her tabby frame was harmless and Flintfang wished to take his dues and leave, however it seemed he'd need to find another hunting location.

"You've... heard about StagClan?" News was scarce when you no longer lived in the forest. Selfish foxhearts even cut out the strays from their lives. And yet every now and then a patrol could be followed, or a whisper could be snagged. Flintfang had gathered enough evidence to determine the outcome. Scorchstar had ruined Burntstag's followers, lacking the same mercy he was once shown. And yet Flintfang couldn't even find the anger in his heart to be mad. It was just life. And just as Burntstag died; subject to the plain, mundane ways of the world, his loyalists followed suit. StarClan must've hated Burntstag's very being to subject a cat so great to death at Flintfang's own claws. The same claws that abandoned their daughter. The same claws that ran through the tunnel to ShadowClan territory. The same claws that let Chervilpaw die on the grass, helpless. Ironic, that someone as wretched as Flintfang should be the one to bring doom to their utopia. It was selfish to believe it was his own doing. Flintfang was just a tom, and this was just the world. And maybe these great ideals of love and loss that swam in his head were just fantasy. Maybe he had been right from the beginning, to hide from hope and what it could bring. Flintfang sighed and stepped away from Amberdawn, turning to stalk back into the thicker trees.

And yet maybe fate did exist. Maybe the forces of power and wonder still circled the forest. Burntstag practically was dripping with greatness. Was it so wrong to think the circumstances surrounding him had been great as well? The shadow that now formed in the sky came to answer Flintfang's question, talons stretched wide as it swooped over his head. An owl, akin to the one that first brought Flintfang to Burntstag all those moons ago. He lacked the mystically the first one did, however. Seeing such a bird in the day was more revealing and exposing than seeing one in the pitch of night. In the day, all of the feathers were just feathers. The claws were just claws. And the bird's scars were simply scars. His purpose was no longer something to be feared, as any mind could note what the beast wanted. And for a moment, Flintfang watched as time seemed to still, watched as the owl folded its wings to dive at SkyClan's medicine cat. Nostalgia. Greatness. This very same beast had brought their utopia to a start, and yet this beast still took part in activities as mundane as hunting. Oh, life. Flintfang had strived so hard to cling to something real and something great, convinced that nothing less could heal his mind. And yet he had forsaken the very light in front of his eyes. Mosspaw, Beartooth, Tatteredleaf, Chervilpaw. The tom took for granted the small sun dapples given to him, searching for the very sun itself. And now as the harbinger of his utopia lunged for Amberdawn, Flintfang decided he, too, would be subject to life.

The very claws that killed Burntstag now ran through the simplest of soils, scuffing up grass that grew by the thousands. And there was nothing glorious as the gray tabby bowled into Amberdawn, shoving her out of the way of the owl's talons. There was nothing great or wonderous as dirt clung to their pelts, feathers falling onto their shapes as the massive bird ascended back into the sky. Scratches on their frames, herb stains on their fur, Flintfang rolled with the medicine cat, blood roaring in his ears until they stopped. Silence. One. Two. And then he was flying.

Something about the midday stillness churned a pit uneasiness in his stomach. The air seemed to sit heavy, stagnant, and the cats that sparsely trod the camp did little to disturb it. Beartooth found his paws restless. He was supposed to take the dusk patrol and to rest accordingly in the meantime. Yet his mind found every excuse to wonder, and every nearly inaudible sound caused his whiskers to twitch. With a frustration ridden sigh, the deputy hauled himself into a weary stance. With every step, the warrior felt his muscles protest. This was a usual sensation, one that he had grown accustomed to. It was as familiar as the scars of his lower maw that had gradually become a permanent stay after moons of assault from his over-sized and grotesque fangs. As he padded from the warrior's den and slipped into the harsh light of the midday sun, his green eyes squinted against the overpowering light. But as his gaze became accustomed, Beartooth surveyed the camp.

It was indeed empty. Patrols were out and few cats were spread out sharing tongues or preparing to rest in between their own assigned duties. Perhaps he should have known where each one was to be but it was something his mind had yet to adjust to. Instead, he marveled at the concept of the camp. Even in the quiet moments, Thunderclan was humming as efficiently as a hive. They had Oakstar to thank for that. He was ever grateful for the guidance of his former mentor. It was one of the few things that had been as solid as stone throughout the many moons of his life. After a brief glance at the leader's den, he headed through the gorse tunnel and out into the territory. Some cats might call it stupidity to traipse the forest along, but many times he had found himself on a solo patrol and there were few creatures that haunted the nightmares of Thunderclan's deputy. Circumstances far worse than being clawed apart by an enemy plagued his mind, ones that he had already felt and lived.

Ridgelight.

Even her name was more painful that sharpened claws dragging across his chest. Wincing, he trotted faster in the aimless direction of his choice. There was a faint trill of sun high birds far off and it was only disturbed by the pounding of his heavy pawfalls. Beartooth found himself lost, even if the territory had been ingrained in his mind. There had been no goal for this mission other than to cease the relentless pounding that was found inside. That, he had realized, he could not run from. As he stood underneath the shade of a nearby ash tree, the bulky tabby tom's shoulders fell when he paused for a moment. But he couldn't stop, he couldn't stop. There was always something to be done, a task that bore his name, and now it seemed that deputyship was that burden he was sentenced to bear. There was nothing beyond a neutral admiration for the role, something he had yet to quite unpack with so many other cascading sensations in his heart and in his mind.

Up ahead, there was a flash of fur. He tasted the air almost immediately, abandoning the thunderous noise of his thoughts. It appeared he had reached the Skyclan border. At least he managed to conjure up the memory that no patrol was supposed to be in the area at this time. So who was it? Being so close to the border drove his curiosity and unsheathed his claws in preparation. No cat could ever be too trained into the instinctual practice of border defense. Protecting the clan was nothing to twitch your whiskers at. Although he seldom thought it, Beartooth had repeatedly beat it into himself for moons, which coupled with the natural instinct for fighting, had proven itself to be a deadly union. His slowed gait transformed into a purposeful gallop. There was no time to stop and survey the scene, his eyes had already drank it in too quickly. A gray tabby pelt lunged for one that was all too familiar under his gaze. In an instant, he was able to pick apart one singular and driving thought: Amberdawn was in danger.

There were very few times in the tom's life that his voice had been used to intimidate his enemies, or even to summon the clan. Now, a guttural yowl tore through his throat in almost a painful manner. This was a cat he cared for whose life was seemingly on the line. Beartooth closed the distance between them as quickly as his mass would allow. And then his fangs tore through the pelt of the enemy, drawing the metallic tang of blood as he threw the weight of the other tom away from the medicine cat. Something akin to panic had blossomed in his chest but even more overwhelming was the heart-pounding adrenaline that fired through him like bolt of lightening. As soon as Flintfang hit the earth, away from the she-cat, he was being lifted once again. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, there was a spark of recognition, a calling moment that shocked him from the state he was in. But it was far to late. The force that had lifted the former Stagclan member, the scoundrel who had abandoned his family, and his daughter and his clan and everything that he knew, was now being slammed into the fallen oak tree of the border. One of the many limbs was broken with a sickening snap as it pierced the flesh of the cat whose destiny was to die at its shriveled roots.

Beartooth watched in horror, with widened eyes, as waves of blood began to taint the ashen coat. Such a mixture of crimson and ash, something he had hardly gazed on before. The horrible wound couldn't be seen quite yet, and perhaps that was a blessing from Starclan. Or maybe it was a curse. He took little time to consider either as his paws rooted to the ground only a few pawsteps away. Through Flintfang's shoulder, his reckoning came. Maybe if the wound had come moons earlier, his paws would have not been taught the art of running. Maybe things would have held an entirely different outcome. And just maybe he would not have been slaughtered at the paws of a former clanmate. The deputy found himself frozen, unable to move at the sight of Flintfang's wrenched frame. Something ceased his chest in a fierce and unrelenting feeling and he felt his legs give way beneath him, catching them just in time to not collide with the earth below. How sickening was it to see a tom he had once cared for die in such a horrible manner. He longed for it to be swifter, for the light to die from Flintfang's gaze more quickly as he was slumped against the trunk of that oak. But instead their gazes locked for an agonizing moment. One that seemed near impossible to end. Beartooth nearly thought that it was the final StarClan forgive us brought upon him by Pricklebush's Starclan.

Lungs struggled for breath, something he had not realized that he had been depriving them. And the deputy could not bring himself to fulfill their wish. It finally came with the choking sob of a sharp inhalation. Beartooth spoke only in the most desperate of circumstances and he found the word drawn from him in a desperate plea. That simple few syllables sounded so foreign, too broken to find any meaning. But this was his prayer:

"Amberdawn."

It had been a couple of sunrises since Flintfang had found her gathering herbs in the forest. They had spoken, she had begged, pleaded with him to stay. To come home. He refused though, turning his back on her for what she knew would be the last time. She had remained in that clearing, watching the direction where he had disappeared well into the night, until the dawning sun's rays started to stretch over the forest. Her pelt had been covered in the dew of the summer night, and she had the bitter thought that it was ironic. It wasn't until the sun was halfway over the horizon that she had finally given up the hope that he would reconsider, and come sprinting back. She had no idea where he had gone this time, and doubted that she ever would. Once again, she was fatherless, abandoned once more to face her future alone. At least now she was older, more experienced. She had taken the steps to get stronger, to be better, to try to keep those she cared about close. Not that it had ever mattered, they still left without a backwards glance.

Something called her that day, told her to return to that clearing. Curiosity at the odd feeling pulling her paws to go convinced her to rise and forced her out of the camp. She had sat in the empty, still clearing as the sun rose higher in the sky, until it was nearly at it's peak. The sound of pawsteps made her ears perk, and she turned to see Beartooth's pelt moving through the undergrowth. She had stood, hoping to see the familiar gray pelt of her father, but she cursed herself for being so naive, after everything. She hesitated for a heartbeat before her paws began to carry her along behind the deputy, curious as to where he was going, and perhaps hoping to get some time to talk with the tom. He had been friends with Flintfang, he deserved to know what she knew. Trailing behind as he neared the border with SkyClan, she saw him stop for a moment. Just as she got close enough to call out, they both saw a flash of fur. She froze, but Beartooth immediately sprung to action.

She followed after only a moment, and gasped as she saw Amberdawn sprawled on the ground directly next to Beartooth who had slammed someone else. She sprinted to her friends side, ignoring the border. She was a medicine cat apprentice, after all, and Tinystar's potential, unfounded fury couldn't prevent her from doing her duty. She quickly nosed her friend over and sighed in relief when she saw no wounds, then turned to stand defensively between Amberdawn and the one-sided battle between Beartooth and this other cat who must have done something to Amberdawn. Suddenly, everything stopped. The cat lay at the roots, having been forced painfully upon them. Beartooth's legs seemed to give out from under him, and as they did she got her first good look at the stranger, the intruder that had dared to lay a claw on Amberdawn....

And her world, already fragmented, shattered.

Blue-green eyes of a daughter met the sage-green of a father, and she was frozen in horror. In the edges of her vision, she could see the wounds, irreparable. The branch protruding from his chest would ensure that. Blood roared in the small she-cat's ears, even as the forest was silent, holding it's breath.

A step closer to the broken and battered cat that she had loved so much.

No. This isn't happening. It's a bad dream.

One more step.

This isn't right, this isn't how things are supposed to end.

She stood before the three cats, one dying, one living, one broken, and stared into the eyes of the cat she had called a father.

Panic set in as she realized she wasn't waking up, and the eyes before her were real. Shaking, she looked over his wounds, a low yowl emanating from her throat. The dismay in her eyes as she looked back to Flintfang revealed her thoughts - there was nothing she could do. Tears sprung in her eyes as she tucked her head under his for the last time.

"I love you."

Flintfang's response was not entirely unexpected: hunting, then leaving. Running away again, from something Amberdawn couldn't know. The answer that the tom had given was bold; if a warrior or foolhardy apprentice had been given such a response, doubtless claws would be out and scoring by now. The medicine cat was uncomfortable with his response, knowing as well as Flintfang what the Clans - and Tinystar, especially - felt about outsiders on their territories. Truthfully, though, she valued his honesty however entitled it might seem to be. The former ThunderClan cat certainly knew that he had no right to hunt there; she didn't need to say such, but she knew that the expression was written plainly on her face as she continued to hold him with her gaze.

At her prompting about his motives for fleeing, Flintfang offered up a glint of information. "You've... heard about StagClan?" he asked, his tone wary and weary. Maybe her suspicions were correct: Trouble in paradise. Amberdawn replied gently, "I've heard some versions. I've seen another now, from you." A silence fell. Flintfang's face was dark, whirling with emotion that was struggling hard to stay hidden behind a tattered veil. Stars, how Amberdawn wished she could understand other cats the way that she understood herbs. Perhaps she'd said the wrong thing; the tom immediately turned on his hind feet and begun to skulk in another direction - away from the forest, from ThunderClan, from his daughter once again.

"Flintfang, stop," Amberdawn tried to call after him. He did, and for an instant she wondered if he wanted a reason to stay - to return home. Then the shadow fell.

Her dark amber eyes immediately left the rogue and fell upon the source of the darkness. At the very moment that the medicine cat recognized the owl descending upon her, she knew she was too late to move. Flintfang, however, was not, and in the precious extra moments of recognition that he had been granted, the sturdy gray tabby made an unexpected choice. As the owl reached out for the medicine cat's stunned face, Flintfang's body collided with hers, sending the both of them tumbling together in a spray of dirt and debris. Amberdawn let out a startled cry at both the shock and the mild pain at the force of his impact; he was a burly ThunderClan tom in his blood. She wondered for just a moment if he had been attacking her - had he known the owl was there?

She didn't know when they stopped, for she was winded and disoriented, sprawled on the musty earth. She didn't know when his weight was removed from hers, either. As Amberdawn's breath and senses returned to her, she felt the comforting, concerned pressing and prodding and gentle nudging of a familiar she-cat. Mosspaw had appeared and roused Amberdawn, and as quickly as the SkyClan she-cat could manage, she staggered to her paws to try to survey the scene and understand what had happened. What had happened to Flintfang...?

She saw him the moment that Beartooth's strength quavered, legs trembling like a kit - not the oak of a forest cat he often appeared to be - as he called her name. Whatever fear or suspicion Amberdawn had felt spilled away like the blood that now spilled from Flintfang. "Oh, fox-dung," the young medicine cat whispered, and immediately she sprinted to him to gauge the severity of his wounds. Stars... she'd never seen anything go through a cat. "Oh, no... Oh, no, no, no!" Amberdawn whirled, racing past Mosspaw who was approaching in a stunned haze. Moss. Marigold. Horsetail. Cobwebs. Oh, StarClan, please. Please let me find something. Anything. This wasn't supposed to happen!

Moss was the first thing the golden medicine cat stumbled upon, and she tore it frantically from its place - as much as she could carry, grasped in her claws and stuck to her pelt and tucked under her chin. No time to waste looking for anything else yet: something was better than nothing. Flintfang couldn't wait. Amberdawn sprinted back to the wounded rogue's side, registering Mosspaw as she crouched at her father's head, eyes wide with shock. The SkyClan cat moved around her friend, setting the moss with caution and pressing down with a constant gentle pressure as she was told. The root was a hindrance, and holding anything to the wound was awkward. Amberdawn desperately ignored the obvious signs of fading, the looming knowledge that the effort was meaningless.

"Mosspaw, keep him awake for me. We can't let him rest - I don't care how tired he is. Keep him talking," Amberdawn instructed authoritatively, fiddling with the moss hopelessly as blood seeped through over and over. She dropped scrap after scrap of spent moss, her store running out, and she looked over her shoulder at Beartooth, asking desperately, "Moss, Beartooth - please! Moss o-or cobwebs, marigold, anything!"

They wouldn't help her. They couldn't help her. And they couldn't help Flintfang. More than anything, for Mosspaw, Amberdawn wished she could have saved him.

The trees were beautiful, leaves whispering with the wind. Flintfang stared at the gap in the canopy where his reckoning had flown away. Feathers twirled onto the forest floor below, and the sun hurt his eyes. The owl's talons had been sharp, he remembered. Except Burntstag had been there that time. They had fought off the beast together. And Flintfang reminisced of his stunning tri-colored pelt, those green eyes flashing in the darkness. And together they planned something great beneath those pine trees. No moon watched them that night, and they had been brilliant. No hope was needed to pull that moment together, and for a second, Flintfang had believed that maybe life really did provide opportunity for shards of greatness to take shape. And yet the owl that ascended into the sky now did so not for longing of a utopia, but because of blood, flesh. And Flintfang sucked in a breath as a shape collided with him, his eyes never leaving the sky. Crying, pleading with his circumstances, asking them not to claim his symbolism he held so dear. The happenings of the mundane had been accepted. When he killed Burntstag, there was no other choice. And the gray tabby knew then that he'd never live as brilliantly as he had then. Silence engulfed his mind and yet the peace had been sour. It was easier not to think, to simply just act upon the future. A future without StagClan, a future without that blinding light they had strived for. And as he padded away from that camp with the body of Burntstag, he accepted the fact that the future was just a path. A road to the end. But the owl that left him now was his past. And how dare it claim that his nostalgia hadn't been great as well? Was his meeting with Burntstag really just a coincidence? Had the moon not shown its face that day for fear that its presence would be too stunning?

The blood from the sticks and debris of the roll meant little to Flintfang. He caught sight of Amberdawn as teeth clasped around his body, a golden blur as he flew. Shock was a funny thing. Maybe the gray tabby should find fear now that he was soaring over the undergrowth, colliding with the Fallen Oak. But the moments seemed to drag on, and in the haze he saw light. Little prisms of his reflection, memories. Even his cynical mind held his past to a high regard. There were plenty of regrets, sure. But some of those scenes stood out, some had carved themselves into his pelt. Tatteredleaf's presence in the nursery. And Chervilkit as she threw a mossball at his little striped fur, green strands clinging to the hairs. Flintkit spun to offer a friendly retort. Bushkit, and Bonepaw. And yet life had no favorites. It appeared its default was to rage and rage against everything true and pure. Some survived out of pure luck, and others fell under the circumstances. Flintfang was never one to believe in fate, but he had been affected by tragedy as well. And that was not one to hang on the strings of destiny. Tragedy was thrown around with carelessness, like a mossball. And life did not hold enough mercy to direct its path. The tom used to think he had a knack for trouble, and yet he was merely inserting himself into situations that brought it. Tatteredleaf had died. Chervilpaw as well. Bushfang now broke hearts just as her brother did. And Bonewatcher now waited for Flintfang's prey, guarding over his mate.

Dreams didn't grace Flintfang's mind as he slept. His head had been filled with storms. And yet sometimes in his waking hours, the mist that covers his eyes felt as ethereal as a nightly adventure. Falconwing's gaze had been as yellow as the sun itself. Flintfang almost fell into his puddle then, forgetting all his mind could muster. Littlesun's fur swirled with the beauty of the sky itself, he felt dreams then, too. Fights were just the same. When claws were flashing, the tom found it easy to forget all morals. Blood was a contagious thing. No one wanted to spill it, and yet when they did, they wore their crimson coat with pride. Flintfang wondered if his attacker would feel the same. Although his own blood had lost its purity. The forest was spattered with it. It sunk into the soil, coated the grass and shined on his claws. Someday it'd be in the trees, and the clouds, maybe even in the Code itself. The Clans seemed to call on their code when crimson was spilled on their sacred territory. What law would they pull out now? He wondered if the perpetrator who flung him to his doom would be prosecuted. Flintfang couldn't bring himself to wish for such a thing, however.

The pain should have hurt, but it only rang in his ears as white noise. The blood that dripped from his maw was warm. He couldn't hear the birds, or the leaves as they sang. There was only a muted hum, quiet like the one Tatteredleaf used to sing. Beartooth backed away from his broken body, looking horrified. Amberdawn lay still on the ground. Maybe Flintfang had failed after all. Perhaps the owl really had killed SkyClan's medicine cat, and his leap through the forest had been for nothing. He wouldn't be surprised, disappointed was a better word for it. And yet Flintfang watched with glazed eyes as a calico shape ran to her frame, nudging the she-cat to her paws. Not dead. Beartooth, however was a shocker. The burly tom had been Flintfang's first friend after Chervilpaw's death. While he was quiet, the tom found he liked that. However there always had been a drive behind those haunted green eyes. The massive tabby had seen too much, spilled to much blood. Flintfang found in this case, it either made the cat stronger, or it loosened their morals until their claws flashed each morning as the sun did. Beartooth however was neither. And perhaps that was why young Flintpaw took a liking to him. Perhaps this cat had filled a spot for greatness. Life had allowed him to become an exception, and through him, Flintfang had found a loophole. If Beartooth; subject to ThunderClan's rulings and treachery could rise each morning, then maybe Flintfang could as well.

Admittedly the shock had dulled his mind, and it took a few moments to decipher the situation. Why should his friend drag him into pain's midst? Flintfang could think of a lot of reasons, and yet he couldn't bring himself to find anger in it. He deserved it. Every bit. However it was questionable whether Beartooth could still see him as a friend, but the question was answered quickly as the gray tabby caught sight of him. The massive tom, trembling. Killing was enough to break down the walls of one's mind. And yet killing a friend tore down the world itself. Flintfang experienced it first-paw. His psyche hadn't taken the hit, but his world-view had. Greatness was not pre-determined. And in the absence of it, StagClan could fear more than they bargained for. Beartooth was just a cat, broken and yet walking as blood stained his mind. And Mosspaw who now crowded around his frame was just a daughter too filled with hope to abandon her father. Amberdawn simply held stronger morals than her leader did. And the forest got by with their heart strings, tying themselves to happiness itself. Flintfang didn't want to join that mindset, and so he set off on his own, learning the same lesson all cats did eventually. There were many paths, and they all ended at the same road. Life was not brilliant, and yet the cats who existed in its midst were.

Mosspaw's eyes flickered as she whispered her three ground-shattering words to him. Amberdawn's breaths were shaky. And Beartooth was broken. The wood of the Fallen Oak that had impaled Flintfang would kill him. He wasn't a mousebrain. However he wished for just a second he could ignore the inevitable. Here, on the ground, he felt special. The sun shone for him, lighting his face. Amberdawn hovered like he was the most important cat in the world. And Mosspaw's eyes sought out nothing else. Flintfang's very death shattered Beartooth's world. And the tom had never made such an impact before. He had never wished for this, however. Flintfang was never one for attention and yet his actions had brought it to him. While he felt like a kit again, nestled close at his mother's belly, the world was too loud, it spun too fast. Even the white noise of the pain turned to a roar. All Flintfang ever wanted was silence. Peace. An end to the storm that plagued him so. He had been so close as Burntstag brought their utopia to fruition. And yet life had no favorites. They simply fell victim to tragedy itself. A commonality in the forest. Flintfang couldn't even find it in his heart to be shattered by this. And maybe he was broken. He had abandoned Mosspaw so easily. He had left his birth clan without a glance back. But it was all just life. And it was quiet. It was good. He regretted the cat he had become and yet he was smart enough to know there was no going back. So he'd live until he died. He had been known by the forest as the cat who took a different path to love. He had gotten lost along the way. But all paths had the same destination. And now as the sun framed Mosspaw's face above his head, he knew he'd found it.

And it was quiet. No birds sang. No leaves rustled. It was merely the silent drifting of life along the heartstrings of those who existed in it. Flintfang had not been a good cat. He had not been a hero. But he had lived, and he had been known. Blood dripped from his maw as he opened his mouth to speak his fears into the void. He wouldn't carry them with him into death. Only his last moments of love would cling to his pelt. Love for Mosspaw. Love for Littlesun. For the utopia that would die with him. "I hate... I hate that you know me so well."

For several long, agonizing moments, everything seemed to fade around him. Both sound and sight blurred, as if his senses had given up on acutely relating to the greater world. All he could hear was the ominous thudding that hammered in his chest. Every beat was a reminder of the blood that pounded through his own veins. And similarly, the same physical affliction that now pumped the precious crimson liquid from the cat before his eyes. Flintfang had been reduced to little more than a fuzzy, grey shape against hues of brown he knew to be the various parts of the fallen oak. Staining this picture was red. So much red. He didn't register that, even in its reduced state, the image had caused his fangs to dig into the flesh of his maw in an ungodly tight manner, producing pinpricks of blood on his maw. Similarly, his twenty-eight sharpened claws gripped the earth as if it were the very thing that supported his quivering limbs. Beartooth looked like a devastated kit for the first time in perhaps his entire life.

Voices called around him. None of them made sense, nothing made sense, as he stared ahead at the mangled figure of his former clanmate. Maybe it was the guilt of his own mind that pried up the memory from deep down but he pictured an apprentice. For one moment, this cat was not a rogue, a liar, or even someone who had abandoned the clan... he was simply a confused apprentice. They padded side by side as equals and spoke in a candid manner. The dirt was churned up further as his stomach flipped. That was gone, replaced by this. Usually, the harm done at his claws and teeth was a duty driven thing, spurred on by the embedded desire to protect the ones that he loved. This was a vastly different circumstance. Somewhere, lost beneath the noise or rather lack of, screamed a voice that willed him to understand it was not his fault. That he had meant only for the protection of Amberdawn. But confounded horror was the only thing that seemed to make sense to him.

This was his doing. Snap! Maybe it was a reminder of the splintered root, but his vision seemed to focus in an instant. Amberdawn's yowls had been as nonsensical as everything that churned within. Those seconds passed between father and kit had been respected, missed by the warrior who had aided in stripping the other tom's life. He registered little more than what his sight now provided. What an image it was, and what a feeling to gaze upon the consequence of his actions. Beartooth straightened up despite the cracking inside, akin to crisp leaf-fall foliage underfoot. It appeared the medicine cats were driven by their own nature, a duty bound to healing instead of destruction. Maybe this was simply his place in the universe. Once glance into a pool would reveal the essence etched upon his features. How fitting to have cast that fate upon himself. He didn't dwell much on the thoughts as they flitted through his mind, a background to the noise ahead.

Amberdawn's futile attempts to revive the rogue were quickly deduced. And his maw fell with the drooping of his tail. What was to come was obvious and he was sure in all her vast experience that she already understood. Desperation could easily deprive a cat of sense. He was all to familiar with the idea. Beartooth padded forward as if in a daze and laid his tail across the Skyclan cat's back as they all watched the light die from Flintfang's eyes. For so long all he could do was stare and drink in the terrible scene. But finally, he heard the rawness of his own voice crackle with decisiveness, even if the words word as soft and shattered as each one of them felt in their own right, "...we need to take him back to camp." Without waiting for the reaction of the she-cat's, he steeled every ounce of strength buried away in the corners of his being and set to work removing the twisted root from its victim. Blood seeped out from the wound and he lapped it away with glazed over eyes. This was another duty, another task, but this time it was dictated from his own role in death. As much as his paws willed him to stop and lay down, he owed it to Flintfang to carry on. Once it seemed to slow just enough, he locked eyes with Amberdawn, an unspoken farewell to his friend. Then he turned to his clanmate, Mosspaw, whose beloved one's blood stained his coat. He could hardly meet her gaze as he worked to arrange the still frame across his back. It was only a flick of his ear, all he could manage, as he padded away and towards Thunderclan's camp. The thudding in his chest slowed, faded, but not forgotten.

Blurred shapes and colors flew at the edges of her vision, morphing together into a strange daze of existence that was incomprehensible in it's being. The only thing that truly existed, in these moments, were the eyes of a father who had turned his back on the things he had known, his Clan, his family, his entire way of life, his daughter. The daughter who now stood before him, too shocked to realize what was going on around her, the blood pulsing in her ears dulling the voices around. A flash of gold out of the corner of her eyes heralded a voice that cut through the daze, insisting that she attempt to keep this tom awake. She blinked, and when her eyes reopened everything became oh so crystal clear, and she started talking without a purpose, just trying to keep her beloved father awake as the cat at her side turned to speak to another, requesting other things. Her focus remained on Flintfang as she spoke, her ears tuning out the voices around her as she mewed softly, tenderly recalling moments the two had shared.

"Do you remember the first day we met? You were so cross with Falconwing, for accepting us so readily. You weren't ready to be a father. You didn't want to be a father. You finally accepted us, and I remember being so happy. I fell in the snow that day, do you remember Flintfang? I tried to welcome you, and I stumbled and fell. Did you know that my other father had left me as well? The twolegs would hurt me, step on my tail and pull on my ears. None of them ever wanted me. He sat by and did nothing as they took me away, abandoning me in that snow bank. You were different. You didn't want us, and yet, you took us on. You weren't kind at first, or really very caring, but you were still there. Then the flood happened. I was so relieved to find that we were all together, on the same shore. We were all safe. We hunted together, and ran into that raccoon. Do you remember? I thought that I was going to lose you, too, so I did what I could to stop it. I'm so sorry I worried you, and everyone. I'm sorry I never listened. I'm sorry I always stayed by your side, even in the face of danger. I'm sorry I always wanted you to stay, I was being selfish by not wanting to let you go. If I had, would you be here now? Would this have never happened? I remember the mouse I caught you, and the one I brought the night you left. You had seemed so down. I just wanted to help you feel better, and instead I only made things harder. I'm sorry, Flintfang. I'm sorry that I loved you too much to let you go. I'm sorry that I made you feel you had to come back. Please, you've never stayed before, but this one time, stay with me. Stay with us. As soon as you're better, you can go. I can care for you myself, outside of the forest so you don't feel trapped anymore. I promise I'll let you go as soon as you're better, and you can leave without looking back. I won't stop you anymore. Please, this one time, stay with me. Just this one time, dad."

She begged, not even realizing that she was shaking like a leaf in the wind of a storm. If there was a single time that she needed Flintfang to stay, it was now. She was being honest, if he pulled through and stuck with her just this once, she would let him go without a word. She would let him leave, and never ask him to stay again. Her one, final request to him, but as she spoke she saw the light in the tom's eyes growing fainter with every heartbeat. He opened his mouth, and any last hope was dashed as blood dripped from his jaws as he spoke what would be his final words.

"I hate... I hate that you know me so well."

The light faded from his eyes entirely as his final breath faded from his maw. His eyes stared, never to gaze upon the light of another day, or the stars of another night. The stars he had turned his back on would never grace his sight again. He took a piece of her with him, stealing it away as he left for the final time, going to a place he could never return from. A place where she could never hope to request his return, or that he come home. His unseeing eyes never got to see the dismay and hurt that blossomed on his daughter's face as his words sank in, crushing her very core as his own spirit had soared to the sky. The forest stood still, and time seemed to as well as the other two cats who were present also witnessed the final moments of a cat who had abandoned so much, and one of the subjects of his abandonment was utterly destroyed. She stood motionless, the shaking having stopped with her father's breaths, staring at the lifeless body before her. Everything was so quiet, yet she found that she couldn't even hear her own heartbeat. The silence was broken by a deep voice as Beartooth stepped forward, removing the body from the twisted root it was stuck on, and then situated it on his back. Her eyes and expression were blank, void of emotion and her own spirit, as if she were simply a walking body - her spirit having lifted from her body with her father's. She turned slowly, seeing Amberdawn first. Lowering her head briefly, stiffly, she mewed in an even, distant voice. "Thank you for trying. I'm sorry."

Her head remained lowered as she padded past the she-cat and followed after Beartooth through the forest leading to the camp. She stared at the ground under her paws, the crimson blood resting starkly on her white chest and paws going unnoticed as the two ThunderClan cats walked under the boughs of the trees overhead that had made the dead cat feel so trapped. Her final gift to her father would be to ensure that he was set free.

Amberdawn had known before she even laid a paw on Flintfang, deep down where unwanted truths rippled in the stream of consciousness, that there was no chance of saving the warrior. She had run swiftly as the breeze and tore at moss like a badger and barked instructions with undue authority and stained her paws with the tom's blood as though the effort would have some meaning, as though perhaps the combined desperation of each of the three cats would tip the scales in his favor. Amberdawn was aware of Mosspaw beside her, barely holding it together as she cradled her father's face and murmured softly the memories and stories that they shared, doing her best to keep the warrior's fading eyes fixed upon her own.

The she-cat spoke to him in a cooing voice with so much pure love tainted with mourning and grief. The words that the trembling calico spoke sank into the back of Amberdawn's mind, settling like feathers on a forest floor being trampled under the raging claws of battle: the tale of Mosspaw's true beginnings, an abused and abandoned kit given a second chance at a new life; adopted by a tom who didn't want her, who didn't treasure her, who didn't stay. Wouldn't stay.

Amberdawn continued fumbling with the bloody scraps of moss, desperately placing the last piece of dry material at the center of the wound. In no time it faded to red, growing heavy, and then it dropped out of her grasp and to the forest floor before she could catch it. The gray tabby's bleeding had slowed, but it was not of the medicine cat's doing, and as she stared with horrified eyes at Flintfang, his gaze met hers for just a moment and she knew. She knew she had failed. She didn't want to accept it. A soft sensation tickled the golden tabby cat's shoulders. Beartooth's tail was resting over her now. What did the gesture mean? Many things, defeat and devastation the chiefest among them. Or perhaps nothing - a gesture of habit, or reflex.

As the three shell-shocked Clan cats stared with varying degrees of hopelessness at Flintfang, the tom whispered one final time to the kit he had chosen to save and then to destroy, and the words that he spoke make Amberdawn's stomach flip and turn sour. He hated that Mosspaw knew him. He hated that his daughter loved him. His last words were hate, and the clearing that grew silent as his ragged breathing ceased made them reverberate all the louder.

Who knew how much time passed? Amberdawn could've wished for generations of quiet, but none would have been enough to blanket the raw grief in the air. Beartooth broke the silence first and the world could have shattered by the sound. The SkyClan medicine cat watched him step forward - everything seemed so fast, so loud - and as he began to pull Flintfang's body from the root that killed him, Amberdawn gritted her teeth and absently reached forward to assist him, guiding the body ever so gently. The ThunderClan cat was laden with his grievous burden, and he said no more, simply meeting her gaze with a dark expression. Her mouth gaped, and a few soft squeaks sounded, but no thoughts formed, and no words came out. He turned to begin making his way back toward's ThunderClan's land and camp.

Amberdawn felt empty, staring after Beartooth for several moments until she was forced, finally, to look at Mosspaw. The golden she-cat felt as though the world were slipping out from under her paws, like she was falling from a tree she'd never meant to climb. "Moss...?" the SkyClan cat managed in a small voice, her round amber eyes glinting with tears as she tried to meet the gaze of her friend.

Mosspaw did not look at her, dipping her head low and saying in a cold, toneless voice, "Thank you for trying. I'm sorry." Amberdawn shook her head almost imperceptibly, her heart fracturing in the vice grip of guilt. "Moss... please..." she tried again desperately, but the ThunderClan cat was gone, following in Beartooth's wake as silent as the death that had claimed her father.

Amberdawn stared after the cats silently. Not a bird called. She became aware of her shallow, trembling breaths, the uneven thudding of her heart. Tears suddenly slipped from her cheeks, and she sucked in a quivering breath that forced itself back out as a choked sob. The scene repeated in her head now, flickering and flashing: the herbs, the appearance, the emotionless, civil speech, the sudden attack, the blood. The herbs... the herbs. It always came back to that. It always came back to her path. If she hadn't been there, Flintfang would almost certainly have passed through unhindered. The sudden realization pulled another soft cry from her, and she gritted her teeth and sniffled hard and rubbed a pale paw across her eye, and then aggressively over her other eyes, and then once again until the tears were forced away and her face stung. Heavy with grief, she did her best to cover the blood, hoping the scent would wash away from the border - away from Mosspaw and ThunderClan.

At last her job was finished, and the hollow she-cat stood wishing she could feel any amount of accomplishment. Instead she felt unclean and ashamed, as though she had hidden her own guilt. Coated in dust and spattered with blood, Amberdawn turned and left the scene, returning to camp without the faintest idea of how she was going to tell her grandfather.

He would probably blame her, too.