[Phoenix]

Tenko

As he looked at the scene before him, an irrational rage began to race through his veins. Someone had been poking their nose where it did not belong. His food stores were his and his alone. With his perfect memory, Tenko always knew exactly what he had hidden and where it had been, and as a skilled hunter, he had refined the art of burying his prey for later. But as he examined the empty space where there should have been prey, he found no trace of the mole that he knew he had placed there. Except for the faint scent trail left by the thief.

A feline. Despicable creatures. How dare one such beast steal from him, the best hunter in the entire valley. He, who could single-handedly feed his entire family. He, who demanded the fear and admiration of his peers.

Tracking the culprit was a simple matter, and upon catching sight of the orange and white warrior, he barely hesitated before throwing himself at the feline with a scream. Even without the element of surprise on his side, Tenko felt confident in his victory over the smaller creature. Lips pulled back in a snarl, revealing sharp canine teeth that he dug into the side of the cat, who had twisted around at the last moment with a startled sound that turned into a pained yowl. Shutting his eyes against the sharp claws scratching at his face, he clamped down harder and held on, bracing himself as he shook his head once, twice, before the lines of fire on his sensitive muzzle became too painful to ignore. As he retreated out of range, he licked the blood from his lips, grinning at the tom struggling to his paws before him.

"My prey," He growled, ears flat against his head as he failed to elaborate on whether he was referring to the discarded and nearly-forgotten mole or addressing the wounded cat. Or both. With a dexterous paw, the fox swiped at the cat, who could not move fast enough to avoid the blow, and he watched with no small amount of satisfaction as the warrior paid dearly for daring to rob him. Stepping forward, he pinned the orange and white warrior with a paw on his chest, and as he leaned close, he hissed, "You do not steal from me."

But just as he was about to deliver the final blow, fire raked down his side.

Fawn || gut wounds are nasty. Have fun, Shadow~ || 410

[Fawn]

curiosity is not a sin...

...but we should exercise caution with our curiosity

Shadowchaser

They had been rushing to gather greenleaf herbs before the heat made them wilt. They had been distracted, too, by the amicable company between them, a certain kinship apparent in Shadowchaser and his gathering companion, Newtstripe. Maybe if they hadn't been so focused on saving the plants, they could have sensed it earlier.

Shadowchaser's flanks heaved, his lungs feeling raw and empty after the full-on sprint to the source of the noise. He had been right; a fox -- and a cat in pain. Shadowchaser's heart stoppered his throat, recognizing the pelt color and markings even with all the blood marring the tom's fur. Newtstripe bravely attacked the fox, the very real horror of losing his father no doubt lending the timid, pacifistic warrior a strength he did not normally possess.

"Hold on, Sunstorm," Shadowchaser hissed urgently to the senior warrior. His hackles were raised, and his attention was divided - between the injured and the fox that had done the injuring; so unlike the tom's usual mannerisms, Shadowchaser swore under his breath. He could not be in two places at once.

StarClan, he wished his sisters were here. The full force of their combined might would have put the fox into the ground, and he could focus all his efforts on saving Sunstorm's life. Instead, he was alone, fighting his own private battle as worry for the father and worry for the son made it difficult for him to concentrate. Newtstripe can handle himself, believe in him.

StarClan, he hoped so.

Shadowchaser gathered cobwebs and moss, spraying dirt where he ripped the dense green clumps away from the tree roots. There was so much blood; more than during Sootfeather's kitting. He was going to need something stronger than cobwebs. Shadowchaser hastened to Sunstorm's side, doing what he could to staunch the flow. Anger and desperation rippled through him like wildfire. Greencough, kittings, foxes - can I do nothing at all to save them?

What good was this knowledge, this skill, if the most he could do with it was keep his paws busy?

medicine cat of nightclan

Phoenix | jk rowling | background image | table by phoenix

[Phoenix]

Newtstripe never minded helping Shadowchaser collect the herbs scattered around NightClan territory. Victim to the misconception that picking plants did not require much skill (after all, Pipitwing had pointed out to him, herbs did not run away), his sisters seemed to view these particular outings with condescending derision. Smokefur and Shadowchaser could be expected to spend their time with such tasks; for a warrior who ought to be able to hunt, such excursions were a waste of time. But, as the orange tabby had discovered, there was more to herb gathering than simply picking every plant he saw. His friend had had to show him not only how to identify a small section of herbs – and with some gratification, he recognized a few from treating his little wood thrush friend, Feathers – but also how to determine whether they were presently ripe to pick or ought to be left alone until the next round. The nuances of the art had his mind spinning at times, and he always returned to camp with a newfound appreciation for the necessary intelligence of their two medicine cats.

Of course, even if the two of them weren’t gathering herbs, he always returned to camp with a warm appreciation for the company of his friend. As interesting as he found helping the medicine cat with his duties, they could have been doing just about anything, and he still would have enjoyed it. Pale green eyes slid over to the dark-furred tom who was nosing around in the brush a little ways away. He found a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Yes, simply spending time with Shadowchaser was enough.

A horrific noise shattered the peaceful calm. Fur standing on end, Newtstripe recovered in time from his violent flinch to see his companion sprinting away from him toward the noise. Wait! He dashed after the medicine cat, paws hitting the ground to the tattoo of his racing heart. The sight that awaited him would haunt him for the rest of his life: a fox standing victorious above familiar orange and white fur, surrounded by an ocean of blood. “D-Dad?” The warrior’s heart stuttered to a stop, but his body reacted before his mind could comprehend the scene. Claws outstretched, he flung himself at the canine, and it whipped around, snarling as his inelegant blow landed on its side. A paw came out of nowhere and connected with the side of the orange tabby’s head, stunning him for a moment before the proximity of snapping jaws compelled him to skitter away from his attacker. With his belly low to the ground and ears flat against his head, Newtstripe shrank away as the fox stalked after him, his retreat motivated by both genuine fear as well as a half thought-out plan to lure the beast away from his wounded father so that Shadowchaser would have room to work his magic. The fox lashed out again, catching the warrior’s shoulder and sending him stumbling to the side. Instinct had the tabby tom retaliating with a hiss, and a lucky shot had a hard swipe connecting with the canine’s face. It flinched back, beady eyes closing, while Newtstripe pressed the advantage. Blow after blow rained down on his opponent in the uncoordinated manner of the panicked, and though not every strike landed – indeed, he received his fair share of hits in return – sheer desperation must have made up for what he lacked in fighting ability.

Alone at last, he took a moment to catch his breath. He had survived.

Survived. Heart jumping into his throat, Newtstripe tore back down the way he had come, his injuries entirely forgotten as he nearly crashed into two of the most important cats in his life. There was still so much blood. Wide eyes stared down at the scene before him as he began to tremble. The blood was everywhere – on the ground, on orange and white fur, on unsheathed claws – everywhere but where it should have been. In amongst the red, there were parts that he instinctively knew he should not have been able to see. He felt faint. The sound of rushing blood filled his ears – his own heartbeat, racing in time with his father’s – and he tore his gaze away from the devastation to stare at a familiar orange and white face. Evidence of the fight was superficial, blood splatters but no wounds, and on shaking limbs, he crouched down by Sunstorm’s head, nosing his cheek as gently as possible and finding comfort in his father’s scent. The other tom’s breathing was ragged and laborious. “D-Dad?” He whimpered, pressing close. “Dad, everything’s going to be fine. Shadowchaser’s here; he’ll make you better.”

Splashes of red, stark against orange and white, kept catching his gaze. With agitated strokes of a sandpaper tongue, he began to clean the blood from his father’s fur. He hated that there was so much of it. Yellow eyes, previously fixated on some distant point, rotated to meet his own frantic green. “You’re going to be okay,” The younger of the two promised, unable to stop the desperation from creeping into his words. Without looking away, he raised his voice to address the dark-furred medicine cat. “H-Hurry, Shadowchaser!”

There was a gasp and a broken whine as clenched jaws released themselves. Then, faintly: “Newt--”

“E-Everything will be okay. You’ll be fine.” He was babbling now, saying anything to distract his dad, distract himself, as if he could will his words into reality by repeating them. “Just hang on for a little bit.” Unsheathed claws dug into the dirt beneath his paws as he braced himself against an intangible enemy. He tore his gaze away from his father’s yellow eyes to shout back at his friend. ”Shadowchaser! Do something!”

Slightly louder, spoken with the urgency of one who knew his remaining time was limited: “Newtstripe, I--” It broke through his frantic haze. He stopped. Listened. An exhale.

Silence.

A sudden frenzied anger drove him to his paws, and he tore himself away from his father’s head to push past Shadowchaser to try to staunch the bleeding himself. If the medicine cat couldn’t do the job right, then he would. Orange paws pressed frantically against the open wound, but he could still feel the blood squeezing through his toes, wet and warm and red. “Shadowchaser, what can I do. It won’t stop. It won’t stop!” The words poured from his mouth as he pressed harder. Distraught pale green eyes landed on the remnants of a wad of cobwebs and moss, and he applied those to the best of his ability. “Help me!” He demanded of the silent figure beside him. “Dad, wake up. Dad.” He broke off his efforts, running around the dark-furred tom to reach his father’s head again. He pushed his nose into orange and white fur as his broken voice turned pleading. “P-Please, Dad. Just a little while longer. Wake up.”

Please.



---
Notes: Fawn Whoops, so that happened. I imagined Shadow would have stepped back when Sun died, but if that's not the case, I can always change things.

[Fawn]

curiosity is not a sin...

...but we should exercise caution with our curiosity

Shadowchaser

There was no time to feel relief that Newtstripe had driven the fox away singlehandedly. While the son had returned victorious, the father was fading, slipping through Shadowchaser’s grasp like a final breath.

Hold on hold on hold on hold on hold--

Silence.

Burned, burned by the harsh reality before him, Shadowchaser flung himself back, scuffing the pine needled floor with his haste to retreat. His vision blurred, and for a moment he thought he might become his namesake, nothing more than a wretched little shadow, meant to hunker down behind real, tangible things and be forgotten.

He’s gone.

Shadowchaser forced himself to look, and choked at Newtstripe’s bloodied paws pressing against his father’s stomach, as if he could push through the blood and the moss and the fur to keep Sunstorm’s spirit still in its body. Desperate cries filled up the empty space left by Sunstorm.

Shadowchaser drowned in it.

“Help me!”

“I can’t,” he whispered, pushing words through a throat pricked raw by thorns. “I can’t. He’s…your...”

Dad dad dad dead dead dead dead dead--

Newtstripe broke under the weight of the world, and Shadowchaser crumbled beside him, feeling his grief as tangibly as he had his own father’s. The pain he had been unable to prevent… The lives he couldn’t save… He could have done more. If he were smarter. If he were faster. If he were better, then the outcome would have changed.

Then they could have shared watery, relieved smiles as Newtstripe helped his father back to camp. They would have been shaken up, but whole. Giddy with adrenaline. Giddy with the knowledge that they had been lucky and somehow helped Sunstorm cheat death.

Newtstripe could have smiled at him, then. Shadowchaser would have felt the world move, grateful beyond words that he could do something so extraordinary for a friend he valued so deeply.

But that was just a fantasy. Reality smelled of blood-soaked moss and fox musk. Devastation and fruitlessness. Shadowchaser wanted to scream. He wasn’t a lifesaver. He was not a healer. He was an imitation, a reflection in the water. Scratches, sprains, bee stings… Have no fear, Shadowchaser is here, he spat those words at the reflection.

But to actually save a life? To help keep a family together, in their darkest moment?

‘Shadowchaser! Do something!’

He couldn’t. He couldn’t do anything. He was just a shadow, meant to follow in the wake of those who could.

medicine cat of nightclan

Phoenix | jk rowling | background image | table by phoenix

[Phoenix]

His father did not wake up.

Remember, son… When Newtstripe had first expressed an interest in the lives of the woodland creatures around him, Sunstorm had pulled him aside to teach him the first and, by his words, most important, of many lessons. A young tom who lacked to the context to properly appreciate his father’s wisdom, the orange tabby had brushed the warrior’s words aside, eager to venture back into forest. But he had never forgotten them, and perhaps the orange and white tom had recognized that, for he indulged his son’s enthusiasm and led the way back out of camp. It was the first of many adventures. With his father by his side, he learned how to make the forest more than a hunting ground. He learned how to step lightly and wait patiently to catch the briefest glimpse of a shy creature, how to turn over every rock and peek into every crevice to see what he could find, and above all else, how to nurture his curiosity and never stop asking questions. Driven by an unsullied sense of wonder, he learned to see the value in the world around him for what it was instead of what it could offer him.

The orange tabby had never known how to voice the depth of his gratitude toward his father, a warrior with a soft heart who had stopped to show his son that he did not need to harden his heart against the world to survive. Words, especially those spoken by him, had always seemed so painfully inadequate, but he thought that maybe the orange and white cat had understood him anyway.

That orange and white cat was gone. Newtstripe had known, in a way, the instant he had seen parts of his father that he should never have been able to see, that this was the inevitable outcome; one did not become a warrior without learning that particular lesson. But still, he had hoped. He had placed his faith in his closest friend, his friend who could work wonders with his herbs and his paws, and had allowed himself to anticipate a happy ending. He had imagined a recovery, a long and hard recovery, but a recovery nonetheless. Everything should have worked out because Shadowchaser was there, and he always made everything better. Not this time. Abruptly, Newtstripe pushed himself back from his father’s head, away from where his friend's gaze stared blankly beside him. He needed room to breathe. He needed to be pressed to orange and white fur, stained now with red. He needed to run and flee but also to collapse and never move again. He needed—

Like a soldier unwilling – or unable – to acknowledge that the battle had already been lost, he was forced into motion, pacing back and forth. His eyes caught on the cobwebs and moss, scraps of a promising cure that turned out to be utterly useless as anything other than an instrument of false hope. By now, the blood flow had nearly stopped, and the mess that had not seeped into the dirt was beginning to congeal. He could feel it between his toes. He could see it on his defeated friend, black against Shadowchaser’s dark fur, and bright red against his own. It was evidence of their efforts. His father’s voice rang in his ears. Remember, son… The medicine cat always tried his best, even with the most unorthodox patients, and Newtstripe couldn’t blame him for their failure. He knew that. Shadowchaser had saved so many others; he was a good medicine cat, the best, and yet…

His father did not wake up, but Newtstripe heard his words anyway. It was that first lesson, the most important one: Remember, son, you can’t save everyone.

But, he wanted to argue, they hadn’t tried to save everyone. They’d only tried to save someone.

He wanted to offer some comfort to his devastated friend. He wanted to press against him, breathe in his now-familiar scent, and be the shoulder that he could lean upon. He wanted to ease the pain responsible for the tension in dark-furred shoulders. He wanted to tell him that it wasn’t his fault, that he did not blame him, and that there was nothing he could have done to save the orange and white cat. He opened his mouth to say the words that he hoped would begin to mend the hole that had just been carved in Shadowchaser’s heart, but then his eyes caught on the cobwebs and moss again. Suddenly, he wanted to do nothing less than what it would take to get his father back, alive and whole. He wanted to go back in time and do it all again so that he was the one who reached his father first. If he could have pressed his paws against his father’s side, the warrior would surely still be alive, because, in a heartbeat, he would have done whatever it took to make sure the orange and white cat kept breathing. He could have kept his father alive in spite of that first lesson – no, because of that first lesson – because he knew couldn’t save everyone, but he should have been able to save one of the cats who mattered most to him.

It stung, betrayal, while helpless anger burned, white hot and thoughtless and savage. Even at the best of times, he had never been good with honesty, with sorting through his words to discard the ones that he might regret later. And these were far from the best of times. He had wanted to absolve his friend of any guilt and responsibility so that he might find some solace even as they lay amongst the ruins of their failure. But suddenly, those healing words, perched on the tip of his tongue, did not come out the way they were supposed to: “You were supposed to save him!” A shout that ended with a sob as his voice broke. “I thought you could— you would— ” He wanted to take them back, but they kept coming, a flood crimson pouring from his mouth just as his father had kept bleeding and bleeding and bleeding. Brokenly: “He is my dad! You were supposed to— why didn’t you save him?”

His words wounded and drew blood. But it was fitting, because he was a wound, raw and open and fresh, and he could not stop bleeding.

--
Notes: Fawn

[Fawn]

curiosity is not a sin...

...but we should exercise caution with our curiosity

Shadowchaser

“You were supposed to save him!”

Newtstripe's words pierced so deeply, Shadowchaser had to gasp for breath, feeling his friend's agony as a tangible pain building in his chest. I'm sorry, some part of him tried to say, he is with StarClan now. But the words couldn't reach the surface; anything he said now would have to claw its way to the top and somehow make it past his tightened throat. He was glad he didn't say them, in the end.

Those were just what you were supposed to say. They didn't really soothe anyone, not when the grief was so sharp and so raw and so present. Not when the death was shocking and unfair. He couldn't tell Newtstripe that Sunstorm had died without pain, without regrets.

Shadowchaser couldn't look his best friend in the eyes, but when he looked down, instead, and saw the dirty blood-crusted paws that had once been bright ginger, his stomach twisted sourly. This shouldn't have happened - he should have saved him.

So why didn't I? Why did I fail? What didn't I do right?

"Newtstripe, I'm so s-sorry," Shadowchaser willed himself to make eye-contact, even when his heart was making anguished convulsions in his chest. "I-I tried to--"

Pawsteps marked the arrival of a rescue patrol. It was too late to save Sunstorm, but for the two young toms standing in the aftermath, they were in dire need of rescuing. Shadowchaser hunkered down into a crouch, faintly aware of his sister, Darkstorm, brushing her pelt against his. They were speaking, splitting up; some to go after the fox, and the others to--

To carry back Sunstorm's body.

There was talk of telling Sunstorm's mate, to get her to prepare her family.

I should go. I should tell her, and Newtstripe's sisters. He wouldn't make Newtstripe the bearer of tragic news any more than he already was; yet Shadowchaser's paws wouldn't move. They were fixed in place, his breath coming out in short, stressed pants as he pictured the horror on their faces, as each one directed their anger and their grief onto him.

He was such a coward. He couldn't move. Couldn't speak.

Couldn't heal.

medicine cat of nightclan

Phoenix @zen (Darkstorm reference) | jk rowling | background image | table by phoenix