[Deleted]

lift me up above this, the flames and the ashes
lift me up and help me to fly away

---

Small black paws padded soundlessly, carrying a tall, slim figure away from the LightningClan camp. Elegantly, the cat weaved between the tall grasses, the windswept blades gently caressing his fur. Beneath short, thinly spaced hairs, the curved bones of a rib cage could be seen, along with the sharp angles of pelvic bones. The dimpled ridge of a spine was also visible, just beneath the tallest of the grasses. Sharply defined facial features encompassed a pair of liquid gold eyes, narrowed in a mix of anger and frustration.

Weaselpaw was thirteen moons now, and still an apprentice. His last brush with greencough, bordering on blackcough, had nearly killed him, and kept him confined to camp for nearly a moon. He was healing now, but his lungs seemed forever scarred, and too much physical exertion was likely to produce a coughing spell. On top of that, he'd had far fewer training sessions than he would have liked, with Firesky busy with her duties as deputy more often than not. Once Blazestar had died, Redwind became Redstar and named Firesky her deputy. Since then, it seemed Weaselpaw had been thrown to the side, left in the dust as Clan duties swept his mentor away from him. All the other warriors probably assumed another warrior was assisting in the training of the black tom, which led to a cycle of assumptions, and yet no training.

Rookfrost hadn't yet stated that Weaselpaw was well enough to leave the camp, but he was tired. Tired of sitting around in the confines of camp, tired even more of the strange looks he got. Like he was just another mouth to feed, one that couldn't pull his own weight. Recently, he had begun hearing whispers, silenced as he drew nearer. From the bits and pieces that he managed to hear, it seemed like there was a mutual agreement between everyone that he would never be made a warrior. He was too weak, too small, too ill.

When no one was looking, Weaselpaw had taken a chance to slip out of the camp. It wasn't like anyone would miss him; they never seemed to notice him anyway. He was the weak, skinny, useless tom that all but his mother and father ignored. And even they had been spending less time with him, as Bubblefang was very pregnant, her swollen belly making it difficult for her to leave the nursery, and Cobrafang spent nearly all his free time by his mate's side.

Before very long, the grasses hugging him parted, and he found himself confronted with the LightningClan apprentice training grounds. The uneven circle of trampled grasses was currently empty, and he smiled bitterly at his luck. At least no one was going to drag him back to camp by his tail any time soon. Not at all confidently, the dark tom padded to the center of the clearing, not exactly certain of what he was here to do. The moons of anger and frustration weighed on his shoulders like a heavy shroud, but what exactly did he expect to accomplish out her by himself?

"Will Weaselpaw ever be a warrior, mommy?" Weaselpaw's eyes narrowed further as the kit's voice echoed in his mind. He had been visiting his mother, and when he turned to leave, he caught the conversation between a nearby kit and his mother. The words that stung more than the kit's question, though, were the words of the queen. "No, darling. Warriors have to be big and strong, not skinny and weak." Weaselpaw had been out of the den by then, but still caught the words. His mother wasn't there to defend him though, as she had fallen asleep shortly before he had left.

The week-old memory sparked a new flare of anger in his heart. He had to do something, to show them all that he was capable of being a warrior. He would never be the strongest, or the fastest, or the best at anything, but he would be a warrior. Right there, he made a silent vow. He was determined to be a warrior, no matter what, even if it killed him.

The fault of many cats he interacted was that they were blind. Not physically blind, but they couldn't see beneath his exterior. If they could, then they wouldn't have any doubts that he had a warrior's heart. Beneath his tall, skinny form, with too long legs and too sharp features, lay a fire and determination hard to match. He wasn't the best, but there was no way he would go down without a fight.

Weaselpaw closed his eyes, gently sucking in oxygen through his nose. His moon with the medicine cat had been useful to him; he had learned how to keep his breathing calm and steady, using only his nasal passages to carry air to his lungs. He squared his shoulders, placing his forepaws even with each other, drawing his hindquarters into a similar position, balancing his weight as evenly as he could. After a few minutes of calming breaths, the black tom opened his eyes, fixing his gaze on an imaginary opponent a short distance away.

He rocked back on his hindpaws for a brief moment, before leaping forward. A small leap, and he pulled up short, his forelegs and shoulders lifting up. His hindpaws skidded slightly as his forepaws swatted the empty air before him, claws unsheathed. One, two, three, four paw swipes, and his shoulders twisted to the right, hindpaws propelling him forward and to the right. He landed and spun around, perhaps a tad slow, head lowered in line with his shoulders as his gaze bore into the nonexistent eyes of his invisible opponent.

He breathed in and out through his nose, leaping forward again. He ducked low as he landed, pressing forward with his hind legs. He scrambled beneath his opponent, jaws snapping upward to tear at the vulnerable belly fur above him. It was a move he had thought of while confined to camp, and had yet to be tested in training. But in theory, it was good for a weaker, smaller cat, especially when fighting a much larger opponent. The tactic was speed and a small size, the ability to slip past forepaws and directly underneath the bigger enemy.

Satisfied that he had caused enough damage to offset his opponent, Weaselpaw darted to the side, stopping a few tail lengths away. His sides heaved slightly, and he stepped back a little more, attempting to regain control over his breathing. His jaws parted, pulling in gulps of air through his mouth. It took a bit longer than he would have liked before he finally got back into a calm, steady rhythm, but he was encouraged by the fact that he hadn't had a coughing spell. Still, he hadn't done very much, and his stamina was nowhere near a level normal for any cat, much less a LightningClan cat.

Weaselpaw sighed, his eyes closing. He kept his head up, though, refusing to let his life be ruled by his weaknesses. He wouldn't let his low stamina stop him, nor his scarred lungs. He would not be an apprentice for the rest of his life. He had a warrior's heart, and he would not back down.

---

W E A S E L P A W

[Phoenix]

It was only by chance that any interaction between the two occurred. Just as a black form slipped from camp, crimson eyes turned in his direction in a leisurely survey of the area. Had it been any other day, perhaps he would have dismissed the occurrence and ignored the apprentice entirely. However, he no longer had an apprentice to train and thoughts of the cat infected with “Rage Sickness” frequented his mind; without anything apart from the ordinary to distract him, the monster was becoming restless, lurking just beneath the surface. It had received a small taste of the hunt, experienced the thrill once more, and remembered what it was missing. It wanted – needed – more.

Where another would have followed the thin, black tom with good intentions at heart, he did so simply out of a faint curiosity. Not in the apprentice himself, for he was of no interest nor value to him, but rather at the opportunity to witness the aftermath of the tom’s debatably unwise decision. Weaselpaw was weak; any accomplished hunter would be able to sense it even without catching sight of the skinny frame. Weakness flowed from him in intangible waves. Thick and impossible to miss, the stench of sickness and disease hung in the air around him, projecting the location of easy prey. As enticing as it was, that was not what propelled the red-eyed demon into motion, alabaster paws gliding smoothly across an uneven surface. Regardless of the coughs wracking the apprentice’s thin skeleton, it was clear to crimson eyes experienced in picking out the weak that this tom had a very close encounter with death. The proximity of such an inevitable force, which forced anyone involved to confront their own mortality, ensnared him, he, who brought death to so many with a simple twist of the claws. It was irresistible.

His tail curled in the air behind him as he strolled along, tracking the younger tom with little effort. It was with no surprise that he was led to the compacted ground of the training clearing; apprentices were so very predictable. With the ghost of a sneer gracing his otherwise emotionless features, the senior warrior watched as the black feline practiced battle moves with a clumsiness that he would never have tolerated in his own former apprentice. The prospect of exercise itself almost seemed foreign to the tom, his body working to remember motions once practiced with– hopefully – more fluidity. He was unimpressed, but then, what had he really expected? He had become spoiled with Nightstep under his tutelage, accustomed to the way the young tom had responded so well to his teachings and surpassed his once-low expectations. When it suited him, he had been all too willing to forget the novelty that was his former apprentice in both skill and intelligence.

Weaselpaw closed his eyes and remained ignorant of the nearby cat’s disparaging thoughts. The white tail flicked, and red eyes glinted, wholly unimpressed with the entire display. Here was an apprentice who was on the brink of becoming a warrior, and he was completely unaware that he was not nearly as alone as he thought. Had he been forced to rely on himself alone for survival, the senior warrior doubted that the apprentice would have lasted a day.

No matter. It was time for the games to begin.

Stepping forward, the alabaster feline revealed his presence in a smooth motion, face devoid of any emotion but polite inquiry. It was a mask he had to wear often, as only three cats had discovered the monster’s existence and lived to tell the tale; he had no intention of adding to the number, though he had little to fear from those who already could reveal his secret. One harbored a similar monster and dark secrets of her own, another adored him, and the third had little, if anything at all, to gain by exposing the tom who, if the situation allowed it, provided him with fresh corpses to examine.

”It is always heartening to see an apprentice training out here on his own,” He meowed by way of greeting, voice polite, if not without a faint trace of concern. ”Your recovery must be going well, Weaselpaw, if you are out here so soon.” The tom paused, eyes flicking over the younger tom’s heaving sides, as if doubting the apprentice’s strength. Without giving the apprentice time to comment, he continued with a silky voice, ”Unless, of course, you are not supposed to be here, in which case anyone would feel obligated to return you to Rookfrost’s care. After all, there is no sense in damaging further that which has already been weakened.”

[Deleted]

You only die once. Make it count.

---

Completely focused on calming his breathing, Weaselpaw barely registered the scent of another flooding his mouth. His oxygen thirsty mind couldn't properly process his surroundings, but it wasn't as though he weren't trying to be better. He just.. wasn't healthy enough. He refused, though, to let himself believe that the queen had been right, that he was too weak to be a warrior. He just.. wasn't skilled enough yet. But that was no fault of his own; his mentor had the responsibility of her deputy position on her shoulders. Not that he was one to defend others; it was simply the truth.

With his eyes closed, he didn't see the snow white tom emerge, but his breathing had calmed now, and he heard the faint pawsteps and sensed the added presence. It wasn't until his visitor spoke that he cracked open an eye. "It is always heartening to see an apprentice training out here on his own. Your recovery must be going well, Weaselpaw, if you are out here so soon." Whiteshade paused for a moment, and Weaselpaw let his single open eye close, still focusing on breathing in and out, controlling at least that aspect of his life.

Before he could formulate a retort to Whiteshade's comment, the red-eyed tom continued. "Unless, of course, you are not supposed to be here, in which case anyone would feel obligated to return you to Rookfrost’s care. After all, there is no sense in damaging further that which has already been weakened." Weaselpaw's eyes snapped open, an emotion resembling anger flashing across his eyes. His mind stopped him before his face had a chance to twist into a snarl, and thus remained a mask of calm, while his blazing eyes slowly cooled.

Here in front of him was a much bigger, much older warrior, who could very well stomp him out of existence if he so chose. It would not prove beneficial to Weaselpaw's health if he dared to push the wrong buttons. He inhaled slowly, words forming in his mind before he would ever taste them on his tongue. "If it were to Rookfrost, I would never set paw beyond camp. Much of the Clan seems to be of the same mind." He tried not to let emotion show in his voice, his words falling flat and empty.

Inside, he was screaming. He wasn't weak, he wasn't worthless. He would be a warrior one day, even if it killed him. He took in yet another controlled breath, oxygen beginning to flow more freely into his lungs. Focusing on his breathing helped, but it took time. His sides no longer heaved in great gulps, but rising and falling steadily with his controlled breaths.

Weaselpaw fixed his golden eyes into the warrior's red gaze. It didn't scare him, Whiteshade's unusual appearance. Weaselpaw had been on the brink of death too many times to be put off by something as superficial as appearances. Because of this, he was able to hold the gaze of the white demon, his own gaze one of cold determination.

"If you are here to bring me back, then leave. Everyone believes I am unfit to be a warrior. I know that I am not yet physically capable, but unlike others, I am willing to fight, to push myself, until I can hold my own and stand as a warrior." His words held the same fire and determination that fixed his gaze. He didn't care that he was speaking to a warrior much older, much bigger, much stronger, more capable than he could ever hope to be. He wanted his voice to be heard, wanted at least one person to understand that he was not going to back down, that he was not going to spend his life as a useless burden to those around him.

He was going to be a warrior.

---

W E A S E L P A W

[Phoenix]

With an air of faint curiosity, he watched the reaction his words had provoked, his own expression remaining impassive even as the apprentice’s yellow eyes snapped open, a fire blazing in their depths. For a moment, the alabaster tom found himself wondering that if, perhaps, the younger tom would attack him then and there, in a show of pathetic control. If all it took were a few simple words – hardly clever ones, at that – to cause those of this new generation to unsheathe their claws, the clans would disappear in a matter of moons. But the black cat seemed to catch himself before his lips could pull back into a snarl and the fur on his spine could stand on end. It was almost a pity.

Emotionless words were offered to him, flat and indifferent, as though he cared little about the topic at hand. It was a curious attempt, but the young tom’s audience had dabbled in these arts for far longer than the apprentice had even been alive. However, he played along, returning the golden-eyed glare with a level look of his own and giving no indication that he could see through the ebony feline’s flimsy barrier. ”Have you considered, then, that perhaps there may be a reason for their opinions?” He inquired pleasantly, lightly, and hind legs folded beneath him as he sat, tail coming to wrap around his paws with dignity.”Remember that Rookfrost has been a medicine cat longer than you have been alive; he could be called a master of his trade. To think that a mere apprentice would ignore the will of such an experienced feline – and even that of his betters, who do not have nearly as much knowledge in that realm – would you not call that disrespectful?”

However, it appeared that his comments did little to convince Weaselpaw otherwise. Fueled by the same conviction that ignited the blazes in his yellow eyes, the apprentice’s words hardly came as a surprise. An ear flicked lightly at the command and the audacity with which it was spoken to him, but he let it slide by unaddressed in favor of focusing on the latter half of the apprentice’s proclamation. ”Who are you trying to convince?” He responded good-naturedly, deliberately allowing a trace of his amusement toward the young tom to underscore his question. ”Me? Yourself?” Crimson eyes regarding the apprentice thoughtfully, the senior warrior paused briefly, before noting idly, ”For some unknown reason, you seem to believe that I am of the same mindset as the rest of our clan.”