Owlstrike & Gorsetail
As long as he had been alive, Owlstrike knew that relations between TreeClan and NightClan had been marked at best by mistrust, but in these past few moons, the relationship between the clans had gone from tense to downright hostile and antagonistic. Skirmishes along the Deer Path had become more frequent and the consequences of those fights increasingly dire. And now,
Lionstar was declaring war on their neighbors.
TreeClan had changed.
Intrigued as he was by this turn of events, the gray feline cared little for the outcome of the war and even less for the leader’s motivation for starting a fight. Gorsetail was weak, Brackenstride was obnoxious, and both had so much of Lionstar’s favor that they could get away with just about anything. But Owlstrike’s family? No, even before his sister’s death, they had earned nothing but distrust from the upper echelons of TreeClan’s leadership. He had managed well enough in spite of the reputation his bloodline carried, making a name for himself that defied the expectations of the grandson of a notorious exile. Learning to smile at all the right times and say all the right things, he became the perfect warrior, clan mate, and friend. No one but those closest to him knew of the hidden disdain that he harbored for the cats with whom he shared a den.
Amber eyes hardened as they took in the sight of their uncompromising leader. They were fighting NightClan because they must, he claimed. They were fighting because they were angry and hurt. The gray warrior nearly scoffed. Lionstar thought he knew pain. Brackenstride thought he knew suffering. But they knew
nothing. Their family was whole. They were never on the receiving end of suspicions born from nothing but the knowledge of who they were related to. They never lost a littermate and a father in the same day. They never lost two younger siblings in the next season. They never lost the final member of that second litter the season after. The matriarch of their family was more than a ghost of who she used to be.
Ravenstorm. Magpiewing. Hemlockpaw. Adderpaw. Yewfang. Lionstar and his ilk had probably celebrated each loss – one less spawn of Grayowl contaminating the clan.
And then Gorsetail had been irreparably damaged, and suddenly
everyone thought they knew loss. They were fools with weak hearts, and he had to play along day after day. Oh yes, it was horrible what had happened with their former deputy. No, he couldn’t imagine what it must be like for him. How tragic. Poor Gorsetail. It was disgusting. The weak-willed tom wasn’t even
dead, and yet his fate garnered more attention from the rest of the clan than that of his family members
combined. Their family of eight was down to three. And yet they only cared for poor, pathetic
Gorsetail and their petty revenge on NightClan – not that the other clan had really made him any more pathetic than he had been before.
In his opinion, deputy-turned-elder could use a poisoned piece of prey now more than ever. It would put him out of his misery, and there would be one less mouth to feed for the coming leaf-bare.
But a fight was a fight, regardless of the excuse, and as fun as manipulating others was, there was nothing quite like the visceral satisfaction of sinking his claws into another feline’s pelt. StarClan knew he could use the outlet for the anger that constantly simmered in the back of his mind – and who knew, perhaps he would be lucky enough to find the opportunity to wound their dear beloved leader himself.
Oh, I’m so sorry, Lionstar; I didn’t see you there. Here, let me help you back to Falconstorm. I'll even run and get you some prey while you recover. An ear flicked. Ah well, running into Magpiewing was more likely, but a tom could dream.
“Then we will be ready when they do.” Owlstrike turned amber eyes to Timberfrost as she spoke, trusting that those around him would attribute the anger that had the fur along his spine prickling to hostility aimed at NightClan rather than TreeClan’s own. He turned now to Lionstar, eyes hard and expression grim.
“I will fight.”As Grayowl’s grandson declared his intentions with the drums of war pounding in his heart, a tabby tom watched the events unfold from the entrance of the elder’s den with nothing short of horror racing through his veins. A declaration of war? Fighting in self-defense was one matter, but actively instigating a battle was entirely different – and to chase an enemy patrol into the mountains rather than simply beyond the border… He had never known his former mentor to be so unforgiving, and he didn’t like who he saw standing now upon the Ancient Stump. Where was the Lionstar of seasons past, the one who did not go looking for fights and who understood that this course of action would only perpetuate the cycle of violence?
Gorsetail did not necessarily consider himself a pacifist, but he believed that war was not the answer. It did not bring solutions, only pain and suffering. Tension between the clans had been building for some time now – he felt as though he could cut it with unsheathed claws – but he had a feeling that this would only be the first of many battles. NightClan would not take kindly to the insult paid to them by TreeClan. TreeClan would fend off any retaliation, but what if they did not heed Lionstar’s warning and they went too far? It was so easy, in the heat of the moment, to take things too far. And there were others (his gaze drifted over toward Brackenstride) who might even take things too far intentionally, those who thirsted for something that revenge would not bring. This would be a show of strength that would hardly settle any score, and then his mind turned, unbidden, to the two young kits sleeping in the nursery by Feathercloud’s side. This was not the kind of environment in which they ought to raise their youngest and most vulnerable clan members.
Revenge. Fighting. War. They only led to bloodshed and suffering. There would be collateral damage – there always was. Good cats would be left scarred, physically from the claws of their opponents and mentally by what they experienced. There would be no mercy between the clans. He could see it now in his mind’s eye. Warriors young and old, brimming with nerves and anticipation and pride in their clan and perhaps even a thirst for the violence, returning home battle-worn and weary and wounded in a way that Falconstorm could never hope to fix. Would they be proud when they looked back upon their actions or would they regret starting what might very well become a self-perpetuating cycle of violence?
And to know that he was the excuse some of his clan mates would use to enter the fray had him shuddering. He was angry, and he was hurt. But he tried to keep the hatred thrumming through his heart buried deep where it could harm no one but himself, because he
knew, just as he knew that the sky was truly blue even on a gray cloudy day, that revenge on NightClan and violence against their leader would not give him anything but more pain.
His stomach churned. He wanted to rush up to the Ancient Stump and shake Lionstar and demand to know what he was doing. He wanted to announce to the clan that, for what it mattered, he did not want anyone to seek revenge in his name, and he wanted to plead with them to reconsider this course of action. But he couldn’t – and not just because the worse necessary to do so remained trapped in is head like all the rest. Gorsetail wasn’t deputy anymore. Declarations of war, even those made at least somewhat in his name, were not his choice to make. And their golden leader, the noble tom who he had admired for so long, would not want a crippled elder publicly questioning his decisions – even if that crippled elder was his former apprentice and former deputy, a trusted confidant who he had turned to for support and council over clan matters, and a cat whose
mind and beliefs and opinions had not disappeared like his ability to voice them.
Cold helplessness slid over him, suffocating him as if he had slipped beneath the surface of an icy lake. He was not deputy anymore, and even if he was, he could barely string two words together in defense of maintaining peace along the border. In this, just like every other aspect of his life for the past few seasons, there was nothing he could do, and he hated it. He hated it so much. This forced helplessness. This inability to do what needed to be done, what he wanted to do, or even what he didn’t want to do. Green eyes closed as he forced himself to take a deep breath to try to calm his racing heart. He could feel the anger in his heart, simmering quietly, and he forced it away. Anger wouldn’t help him now – it never did.
It led only to violence and pain and regret.
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