The Hole You Put Me In Wasn't Deep Enough [solo]

By some fluke, Daisybloom's expertise, or divine StarClanian intervention, Beecloud's wounds were not infected. He was spared the cruelty of a slow and agonizing death by flesh inflammation, but he was not spared pain. For fear or for submission, the medicine cat heeded Eris's warning, and the warrior received no pain-numbing herbs. Every ache was his to cherish, along with the sticky, wet, bloodsoaked cobwebs that masked his face, stomach, back, and shoulders. Not an inch of him was without scabbing or scarring of some kind. He was a mangled husk of the cat he was, and he knew the older cats whispered about the eerie resemblance his facial wounds had to his father's. He hardly had the strength to care.

When Ferretnose visited, wedged herself in the crook of his legs, and slept in his nest with him. She fetched all his water and prey (when he could eat without hurling) and groomed his fur. These visits became rarer and rarer, and Beecloud suspected the sight of him was more than his mother could bear. It was hard enough to catch his own gruesome reflection in a puddle or the gleam of Daisybloom's eyes as she changed his herbs. After what felt like a season, he was able to stand and walk around a bit, the stinging pain rounding out to a dull murmur, like a babbling creek just beginning to thaw. He refused to leave the medicine den, despite coaxing, prodding, or begging. They didn't need to see his face, and be reminded of the clasp by which the Asylum was strangling them. Eris was right; he was an example.

On one such morning, while he picked with muted enthusiasm at a bare-boned mouse from the bottom of the freshkill pile, he made the bold and daring decision to sit in the entrance, with his tail tip just barely touching the sun. Daisybloom commented on his good fortune that he had been strong enough prior to the injury to recover with such speed, and that most cats in Leafbare were not so lucky. This talk only dug a deeper pit of guilt in Beecloud's stomach. In all the time he had to reflect and sit with himself, he had generated a considerable amount of disgust for the action that led to his beating, not because he regretted the pain he caused himself, but because the energy of ThunderClan's warriors had shifted to such a degree that it made him feel seasick, disoriented, and entirely panicked. Every time he caught a glimpse of Minkstream's pelt passing the den, it was like being struck with a lightning rod. What have I done? he often asked himself. They have nothing now. No hope, no sense of direction. I've done this. We're all just surviving, and nothing else.

"... Met a RiverClan warrior at Sunningrocks."

It was a mumbled conversation, a passing thought. Kitefire was his niece, a fine warrior who was generally rather reserved. He couldn't imagine her speaking so... non-judgementally, to say the least... about a RiverClan warrior. More incredible, he found, was that he hadn't met a single cat from another clan at any border since the Asylum's reign began. Where had she spoken to an outsider without a guard there to usher her away?

Curiosity got the better of him, and he poked his head ever so farther out of the den. Even as he craned his neck, he could only make out fragments: "... spoke while we fought — had to make sure — Asylum right there — didn't really notice..."

Beecloud slowly tucked his head back into the dark silence of the medicine den, creeping back to his nest as if he were a fugitive. In a way, he was, or he was about to be. There was a stroke of genius in what Kitefire had said, and what she had done, and one day he would thank her. The pieces were all there, and the tom alone was tasked with putting them together. Not a soul could know, not yet. He had been a fool to try and take down the regime with a simple uprising. The assault of one elder and the beating of one warrior would not be enough to begin a revolution. Fear was a powerful inhibitor. They needed numbers, which they lacked as long as the Asylum kept them fragmented. To reclaim the forest, the strength of every clan was a requirement.

He would resume warrior duties tomorrow, and make his rounds alone, with just a single Asylum guard to accompany him. Every cat he met on a border patrol would be engaged, and in their ear he would whisper the message of rebellion. Around and around, the rallying call would grow, in secret transit, spoken of only in passing and masked by war, until it had reached every corner of StarClan's dominion, unnoticed by those who had not been called to service. But, to avoid detection, every cat would need a way to confirm the other messengers.

Beecloud glanced sideways at his lunch. It was a measly little scrap of meat, wasn't it? It was lightweight, but it was quiet. When alive, it crept through the forest with unmatched silence, collecting its meals and avoiding predators for its entire life, without ever making a fuss. Mice were quite nearly shadows on the bark of a tree, until something forced it into the open. And so, mice they would have to be, until the time came for the Asylum, or StarClan, to reveal them. For death or for freedom.

There was no third option, because whether bee or mouse, he would not make the same mistake twice.