Harvester of Sorrow [Newtspring]

Newleaf was in the air, and despite the warmer weather and melting snow, Beechfang took no joy in it as she stared up at her father's body, stretched out on a branch above camp for all to see. He hadn't resurrected, and the dark figures that hung around the edge of camp had yet to leave. They wouldn't, of course, not without Dawnhawk's say-so... And Dawnhawk, it seemed, now that he'd finally gotten what he wanted, had turned his sights elsewhere and left Skyclan to suffer.

Beechfang stared down at her half-eaten sparrow, lip curling in distaste. If you couldn't beat them, join them. She saw no point in fighting the dark forest cats, and now they saw fit to mostly leave her be. She was even allowed fresh-kill, unlike plenty of her clanmates who resisted. All she could do was use that extra bit of nourishment to keep hunting for the clan and make sure her family was kept safe... Not that that meant much.

As if any of them were safe with Dawnhawk's chosen executioner. She'd killed her own mother to spare them that fate, and Beechfang knew that she was only delaying the inevitable. A mixture of disgust and shame filled her, having long since drowned out the rage within. The coward had won, Beechfang hoped he was happy with himself.

Abruptly, the large tabby stood, shaking out her pelt. Sitting here was madness. Hunting wouldn't distract her from her thoughts, but putting food on the fresh kill pile was better than her gaze shifting between Bloodstar's yet-lifeless body and her own bloodstained paws. No amount of washing them in the creek or grooming would remove what stained them.

Beechfang hardly spared a glance at whoever had decided to follow her out of camp, dull eyes staring ahead as she tried to ignore the presence of the dark shadows creeping on the peripheral of her vision.

A fog had clouded Newtspring's mind since the night of the eclipse. Everything that happened beyond the Gathering was just a haze to him; that, too, he hardly remembered the finer details of. The whole night was just a streak of red. His father, carved nearly from nose to tail, the last twitches of life shocking his limbs as he laid spilled out on the forest floor. The bloodshed all around them as the Dark Forest cats descended, taking lives and maiming wantonly. Even SkyClan's return to camp, somewhere that should have kept them safe, was just another blood-tinged memory. The shadows had shepherded them home, and once they arrived... The patched tabby shivered. It wasn't the first time Beechfang had taken a life before; he hadn't seen it, but he'd known she took one of Lilacstar's in the heart of WindClan's camp. But to rip her claws through her mother's throat... Newtspring shook out his fur, then shook himself through again in an attempt at grounding himself before reckless thoughts started to simmer. What was he meant to do, charge his half-sister and shove her to the earth, spit in her face and cause a scene the same way he had over Briarthorn? That, at least, he knew was idiocy. I know she didn't want to. I can't blame her for what Dawnhawk made her do. Still, Smokefeather's lifeless form pressed hauntingly against the edges of his vision.

Pale fur caught the corner of his eye, rousing the tom to attention. He'd lifted his head just in time to see Beechfang scramble to her paws, shocked into action by something unseen, abandoning her sparrow in her haste to exit camp. Newtspring's ear twitched as he watched her go, blinking slowly. In a heartbeat, dark forms materialized around her, though they kept their distance stalking after her. I'm not letting her go anywhere alone. Any resolution in that thought was dimmed by the quiet anger that sat in his throat. I'm not upset with her. He reminded himself as he shoved onto his paws, turning his head to cast his attention to Bloodstar's body, draped over camp– a trophy or an effigy, he wasn't sure. It's Dawnhawk. Not her. That repeated in his head as he tracked in his half-sister's pawsteps out of camp, tail flicking in vague greeting when Dark Forest cats fell in behind him.

It didn't take long to find her. He hadn't granted her the time to go far, and even if he had, the rot-stench her companions bore would have made it easy to follow her through the heaviest of storms. For a while, Newtspring just watched, rocking between paws, before he inhaled deep through his nose and shoved himself forward, breaking through the growing foliage to stand little less than a fox-length away. "Beechfang." He called simply, voice as smooth and gentle as gravel. Despite all his mantras, he'd never been good at keeping emotion out of his words. He blinked once, twice, clouded vision sharpening, and his eyes narrowed to focus better on her. "What, runnin' away now? I can't let ya wander around alone." Crass attempts at a joke were tarnished by the sear that still carried through his mew, but Newtspring only shrugged against himself, padding a little closer. He didn't join her side, close as he could get without–

He blinked. A wariness had come over him unannounced, drawing his paws up short just outside the range she could have struck him. I'm not afraid of her, am I? I don't have any reason to be. She's not gonna hurt me. Right? Newtspring's tail whipped left-right just once, then he ground his teeth together to force his body's attention elsewhere. Continuing on in that same low, cold tone, "Ya get sick of sittin' around starin'–" almost, he finished with at Dad? of thinking about Smokefeather? but he cleared his throat, fumbling as he sought to amend his words, "starin' at, uh... ghosts? They're ugly, I know." A gratifying pulse of agitation beat from the cats that lurked on the fringes of their conversation. Nothing on his expression betrayed any sense of joy, though; no trace of his usual grin to warm his features, a tight frown pulling at the corners of his maw while his cold eyes regarded Beechfang.

'Beechfang.' Newtspring's voice made her steps falter, and reluctantly the former medicine cat turned to face her half-brother. He approached, hesitated, and the tone in his voice made her ears flatten. He didn't have to say he was afraid or bother hiding it, she'd caught on just the same. She shouldn't've be surprised, after all, Dawnhawk did make her his executioner. And she'd gone through with the order despite not wanting to. Her protests had been weak.

That Smokefeather had told her to do it didn't make it any easier. Beechfang had never been one to back down from a fight, she enjoyed them. She'd never been cut out for the life of a medicine cat, as Wolfcall and her parents had known from the start. She enjoyed a bit of blood on her paws far too much. She'd taken one of Lilacstar's lives without a second thought despite the oaths she'd sworn. Even now, she still considered that one justified. This though, this was senseless. Shameful. Smokefeather had been an elder, and if not enjoying what time she had left, she'd been a respected, valued member of the clan. Her mother hadn't made excuses for harboring a criminal, she hadn't even tried to fight as Dawnhawk had strode into camp, except to lay into him with the truth. She'd been accepting her fate and had known it the moment Dawnhawk had turned his gaze upon her. Still, Beechfang was still stunned that she'd been the one to do it. It had been Smokefeather or the rest of the clan... And there were moments Beechfang wasn't sure she'd made the right decision. She could've turned and fought...

...And her mother would still be dead, just not at her claws, along with many more cats. Or maybe it would still be at her claws, whispered a voice at the back of her mind. The decision had been forced upon her, hadn't it? It was a thought she was trying desperately to ignore and failing. There would be no rebelling against the dark forest as they had Asylum.

Newtspring's fear wasn't unwarranted, not in the least. The anger, even less so. Beechfang didn't need to talk to others in the clan to know at least some of them felt the same and probably not enough of them, at that. How could they not? She'd done the exact thing Dawnhawk had, killed an innocent who couldn't fight back.

A bitter, hollow-sounding laugh escaped her at Newtspring's words, hardly a response to a weak attempt at humor. Yes, the ghosts were ugly. Uglier than Newtspring could possibly know. Even Bloodstar was tame in comparison to what lurked in her mind. "Foxdung. What do you think?" Her tone was flat as she spoke, dull yellow-green eye staring down at her paws for a moment. Her claws had unsheathed, digging into the ground, and for a moment all Beechfang saw was blood. It took effort to retract them, and trying to force her body into some semblance of not being tense and ready for claws to the face was proving to be pointless.

"Anything to get away from camp." She added. Not that it really mattered, the dark, bloody shadows that hovered around the edges of her vision were constant regardless of where she was in the territory.

Beechfang wavered before him, looking haggard and stiff. Whatever thoughts lurked in her head, Newtspring couldn't be privy to them; in some ways, he thought that was better as they quietly stared each other down. Her ears were lowered, and the large tabby couldn't decide if she was sizing him up or if she was only pained by the state of their Clan. A snort left her, and a bitter curse. Her claws flexed, dragging through brittle leaf litter. Newtspring's nose wrinkled, but he remained quiet for the moment. Instead of speaking, he just jerked his head and stepped away from her, moving in the direction she'd been tracking. He padded away a fox-length before turning to face her again, tail waving, beckoning her to follow.

"Well, if we're stayin' out of camp, 'M not standin' still the whole time," Newtspring huffed. There was no energy in his limbs to drive him to hunt, or even to bother venturing far enough to check their borders; but at least they wouldn't be stuck within the walls of camp under the watchful eye of Bloodstar's corpse, the shape of Dawnhawk flitting between them. The shadows that stalked them out of camp were little compared to the droves of them that pressed upon their home. Sharply, the mottled tabby turned away, staring distantly into their territory. He didn't pad off, just hovered there, watching the distant wood as if he expected something to spring out of the treeline at them. Just as sharply, he started speaking again, voice dry and bitter: "So ya killed Smokefeather. So Dawnhawk murdered our father in front'a us, brought every beas'ly cat he knows back t'life so they could swarm the Gatherin', then dragged us home jus' to make you kill your own mother." His thick tail twitched, but he made no other movement. He didn't turn to look at Beechfang again.

"An' now you've got it good. Ya fell right in with'em, and now those chattering dogs that put Dawnhawk in place to get to Smokefeather are makin' sure you and all the other cats fallin' right in with'em are fat 'n' happy." Everyone had taken note of it, the Dark Forest cats hoarding whatever prey they returned to the fresh-kill pile. The best of it went to those that followed them mindlessly; whatever scraps were left went to the rest of them. If he'd been going hungry, Newtspring had chose to ignore it. Most everyone's bones showed through leaf-bare, anyway; this wasn't much different. The only difference was now, he had a scapegoat, and every bitter feeling that had been breeding in his chest bubbled to the surface. "Wish I could say somethin' nicer. Ya know I like ya, Beechfang. I don't wanna stand here 'n' dig into ya. Didn't have a choice, or whatever. But, really?" Golden eyes narrowed, steely slits searching the wood. If he turned to face his half-sister again, he worried he would be the one drawing blood this time.

"No one wants to watch ya mope over it. Act like the rest of us, pretend everythin's fine. Go for the motions. Quit sittin' around starin' at your paws lile they're gonna spring up an' tear your own throat out next." A harsh breath passed his nose. "Let's do somethin' useful, if we're gonna stalk around. Catch somethin' so maybe someone else can eat today."

"Thanks, I needed the reminder." Beechfang growled bitterly, tail twitching back and forth in agitation as she continued to walk. Newtspring was following her, like the obnoxious younger brother he was. At least he didn't have his claws at her throat, literally or figuratively.

Beechfang's head snapped up at Newtspring's words, ears flat to her head as her lip curled. His words were like a slap, pulling her from her own thoughts just as quickly as she'd managed to sink back into them. 'Fat and happy?' "You have feathers between your ears." She spat. He couldn't be serious. Her steps faltered for a moment as she stared at the mottled tom, expression a mixture of disbelief and anger... And guilt. Yes, she'd fallen in with them. Not willingly, of course. Never willingly. But she hadn't put up much of a fight, either. "And what?" She hissed out through clenched teeth before he could continue, "Should I perhaps fight and get us all killed instead? I bet Dawnhawk would just love that." She sneered, "Or maybe not. He likes toying with his prey, if you hadn't noticed."

Pretend things were fine, act like nothing was wrong. Did Newtspring know who he was talking to? "Things aren't fine, you know I can't just pretend they are." She huffed out, tail continuing to lash as she forced herself forward once again. He had a point, however. They were out of camp, might as well hunt and catch what they could. With an annoyed hiss, Beechfang turned away from the irritating furball. Hopefully he'd get the hint and stay quiet for more than two minutes so she could find something. Following the scent of squirrel, the big tabby stalked after it, tracking the fluffy creature to the base of a tree. She leapt, and the kill might've been a bit less neat than she would usually prefer. This was prey, she reminded herself, not Spottedfrog or Dawnhawk's stupid face. Not Newtspring's, either.

Newtspring let out a breathy snort as the pale she-cat wandered past his side, frustration and hurt rolling off her pelt in palpable waves as she brushed by him. Tufted ears lowered, and briefly his lip curled to show the points of teeth. What right did she have, to spit and challenge him? "I just said what everyone's thinkin'," he muttered, more to himself as she ventured after a squirrel. Following after with quiet steps, he watched with feigned interest as her claws hooked into it– a little clumsy, but the squirrel was dead. It would feed someone with a broken neck or a missing head all the same. At least it has a head.

Shouldering by her, Newtspring reared up, wavering slightly before his forepaws found the tree before them, claws digging into the bark. A look to Beechfang, then he was hauling himself upwards. Despite his weight and size, he made scaling the tree look easy, clambering up it until he reached its lowest boughs. "At least you'd be fightin' then. Act like you have somethin' to stand up for." He called down, his chosen branch swaying underneath his paws. His family had never had good luck with being in trees, and some sense of superstition kept him on the ground more often than most. But something told him Beechfang would seethe or lose her head in a panic over watching him sit above her, so he dug his claws into the soft wood and watched. A spark in his eyes, like a challenge– Chase me up here. He knew he'd already won. He just wasn't quite sure what. "I'd rather let Dawnhawk 'n' his whole rot-breathed army turn me into crowfood than do whatever he tells me to. Maybe that's jus' me, though." A mild shrug to accompany his drawling words, the rage simmering under his pelt betrayed only by the curl of his lips, the agitated flicking of his tail. "I know nothin's fine right now. But it's new-leaf, an' the Dark Forest is still stompin' around our camp, and it wouldn't kill ya to at least act like ya care. Put up a li'l bit of a fight. SkyClan raised me, so I'm not lettin' us just be taken hostage." A pause, then, "Dad fought back. I'm not layin' down just to die and be afraid everytime somethin' moves. I'll live if he can't. Sorry if you don't want to." Without waiting for a response, he hopped to a higher branch, careful to be as steady as possible, then higher. A glance down, and everything seemed so far away from his perch. He wondered if this is what it had looked like for Beechfang, before lightning blasted her from the Oak. Or if this is what it would look like for Bloodstar, suspended over camp, were he only alive to see it.

The rustling of feathers caught his attention, drawing his gaze up from the forest floor. A little songbird had lighted on the edge of the branch, oblivious to his presence. Pressing himself low against the wood, he watched, waited; and shoved himself forward, smacking a large paw down against its back while the rest of him fought for stability. The bough swayed, and the bird's cry of fear was swiftly cut off by a broken spine. Guess that wasn't anymore graceful than Beech's. With a grimace, Newtspring picked the bird up, maneuvering back down to the lower branches but not rejoining his sister just yet. Parting his maw, he let his catch fall to the earth with a soft thump and settled himself against the branch, tail hanging over the edge to sway slowly side to side.

A shiver made its way down Beechfang's spine as Newtspring leaped into the branches and began talking, staring down at her. Her tail lashed, bitter frustration at herself, at the dark forest cats, at Newtspring looking so smug up there. Still, her paws remained planted on the solid ground beneath and she made no move to chase him up there and rip that expression from his face. Even if it was tempting. "You're right, of course." Beechfang growled, "Let's fight them. We can all join them in their newfound lack of an afterlife. At least we would never have to fight over borders or prey, right? Though I'm sure Starclan wouldn't have taken me anyways, so what difference does it make?" A sharp bark of laughter escaped her, humorless and bitter. "Dad fought them and he's dead. All those cats at fourtrees tried to fight them and are just as dead!" She snapped, anger flashing in her eyes. "You featherbrained idiot, fighting them means nothing if we wind up with no clan to fight for."

She watched as Newtspring took down the bird in as graceless a fashion as she had. If anything, at least she could tell exactly who her relatives were by how they hunted and reacted to stress. Whiskers twitching, Beechfang turned and made her way along the forest floor, choosing to seek out prey. She managed to find a trace of squirrel and followed it, grimly ignoring the dark forest cats that lingered behind her. They weren't interfering in her hunting at least, and the squirrel was too focused on finding food for itself that it didn't notice Beechfang until her fangs sank into its' throat. The prey was quickly buried, and she turned, dark glare searching for Newtspring's mottled pelt.