[Phoenix]

Lyrics from Dear Theodosia, Stay Alive (Reprise), It's Quiet Uptown, Who Lives, Who Dies, Who Tells Your Story
For Hellion

There are moments that the words don’t reach
There is a suffering too terrible to name
You hold your child as tight as you can
And push away the unimaginable

An awful, skin-crawling wail shattered the cool morning air.

Will they tell your story?

He was crying, loudly. She always hated it when he was so loud, but he couldn’t help himself. Ever since she had fallen sick, they had been walking to find a RainClan border, whatever that was, and beneath the sorrow and fear, he knew that she would want him to keep looking for it. She had said so herself just last night, and he had curled up against her side, warm and comfortable, drifting off into sleep to the lullaby of her steady heartbeat. By the time he had woken up, well-rested and ready for another day of walking, the sun had already risen high in the sky, and she was gone. At first he thought that she was just pretending to ignore him like she did when they were playing. And then he thought that maybe she was still asleep, but he had tried to wake her up, even hit her right on the nose, which he always hated, and she did not respond. That’s when he knew that something was really wrong. Every moment that he sat there wailing beside her, hungry and scared, and was ignored hammered in the hard truth: his mother had left sometime in the middle of the night, and she wasn’t coming back.

Streaks of orange and purple began stretching across the sky, and he hadn’t moved more than a few tail lengths away from her, unwilling to leave her side just in case she started moving again. Once, he could have sworn that he had seen her ear flick, but it was just the wind blowing through her fur. The darkness was growing quickly, and when he went back to her side, he no longer felt the gnawing of his empty stomach. Trembling, he curled up against her belly and pressed his head against her chest, pretending that he could still hear the steady beating of her heart against his ear. Eyes shut against the unnatural chill of her body, he imagined that he could still feel her breathing beside him and that, for one more night, he was not alone in this big, scary world.

Is he breathing? Is he going to survive this?

He is, mercifully, alone. With his remaining strength, he struggles to drag his exhausted body from the trampled and bloodied grass. Why they pulled away and left, he is not entirely sure, but he entertains the idea that perhaps they decided that he was too much of a hassle to finish off. Bloodstained lips split into a vindictive grin at the thought. A moment later, it disappears, replaced by a grimace as every single wound on his body flares up at once. Vision whiting out, he stumbles forward and realizes that something is very, very wrong when his hind leg refuses to listen to him. His side throbs with a vengeance, and breathing takes far more effort than it should. With a sinking feeling, he recognizes that his likelihood of walking back to camp has shrunk from very low to none. Maybe Lightpaw had grabbed Ottersplash and they’re on their way back? He allows the thought to soothe him and decides that since he has some knowledge of herbs, perhaps he can try to patch himself up as best he can before the medicine cat reaches him.

Suddenly he feels lightheaded – blood loss, he thinks – and after swaying dangerously on his three functioning limbs, he decides that the best course of action is to lay down before he falls and damages something else. He has to trust that his apprentice has listened to him and will return with reinforcements and a healer. It’s a waiting game, now, and in the meantime, he can assess the severity of his injuries. Hissing through clenched jaws, he turns his head and immediately feels himself growing faint at the sight. The leg that he can barely feel rests at an awkward angle, and any movement that jostles his hip sends a burst of pain up his spine. Likely dislocated. Scratches cover every surface of his body, and he can feel the prickly throb of them all along his neck and head and on his face. Blood drips relentlessly into his eyes. However it is to the long, deep gash from his belly to his side that his gaze keeps returning.

For the longest time, he does not register what, exactly, he is looking at, but when he does, he wishes that he never realized that there is something there – something that is never supposed to be seen – among the shredded remains of his abdomen. The longer he thinks about it, the more the contents of his stomach object, though whether the nausea is caused more by his thoughts or the waves of pain, he does not know. He feels faint. He turns away. He can’t look anymore or else he might actually get sick. His entire body is throbbing, and pounding away in his ears, his heart keeps deafening time.

My father wasn’t around
I swear that I’ll be around for you
I’ll do whatever it takes

A deafening crack of thunder roared above the steady downfall of rain, and just like that, he was rudely stolen from the warm embrace of sleep. Instantly awake and with his heart racing, he peered around into the darkness of the den with wide blue eyes. Another resounding clap reverberated through the empty space, and he flinched, squeezing his eyes shut tight as if he could will the storm to stop. No sounds came from the other side of the den, giving rise to the irrational but very real fear: I am alone again. At the third boom, he had risen on shaky limbs and backed himself into a corner, but sheer terror at that sudden idea had him collapsing to the ground with the grace of a puppet whose strings had just been cut. Another roar and then a fifth, and panicked, he was calling out to someone – his mother, Swanfeather, anyone – to help him. He didn’t want to be alone. He wanted his Mama to curl around him like she always had, and to lick his head and purr softly.

Then someone was there. For the briefest moment, he thought that his dream had come true, that his mother had returned to comfort him, but then he recognized the distinctly fishy scent of his new home. A fresh wave of grief hit the exhausted kit as Swanfeather eased her way between him and the wall before proceeding to envelop him in a cloud of soft white fur.

“Shhh, honey,” She crooned softly, licking between his ears with a sandpaper tongue. “You’re not alone. I will always be here for you. I promise.” He did his best to believe her, but he could not stop himself from trembling. With a gentle nudge, she nosed him closer to her until he was buried in her warm coat, with his ear pressed against her side. Undeniable sounds of life – a thudding heart, the steady inhale and exhale of her breathing – assured him in a way that words could not, and as all mothers do, she seemed to realize this. “Count with me,” She murmured quietly, a few moments later. “Ready?”

He breathed in her familiar scent and, secure in her loving embrace, he felt the adrenaline and fear fading from his limbs. In a voice that seemed so small compared to hers, he did his best to count along, but exhaustion soon crashed over him like a wave. When his eyes finally slid shut, it was to the sound of his mother’s steady voice above his head, counting the heartbeat that pounded in his ears. One, two, three, four, five…

Save your strength and stay alive

There are five of them total, and he has worsened already horrible odds by sending away his apprentice. The others have appeared out of nowhere. This was never intended to be a fair fight, he realizes grimly. It is supposed to be an execution. Not for an instant does he regret ordering Lightpaw to run to the relative safety of camp; this is not an apprentice’s fight. He shakes his head, still trying to placate. He doesn’t want this. They fan out, and in an instant, they are on him. Claws are unsheathed, and fur flies. Yowls split the cool leaf-fall air as the first blood is spilled.

The tragedy of the entire scene does not escape him. Clan mate fighting clan mate. Once upon a time, his enemies were his friends. For almost his entire life, he has shared a den and shared tongues with the five warriors attacking him, and now they want to kill him for an inconsequential detail. It doesn’t matter to them that his loyalties have and always will lie first and foremost with RainClan and that he would sooner walk into the lynx’s den than betray their clan. A searing pain in his side, and he retaliates, all instinct, with a hard blow of his own. Adrenaline rushes through his veins to the tattoo of war drums. He wants to live, and the drive to fight and to survive overpowers everything else.

Somewhere, buried deep and untouched by the violence, his heart aches. How has everything gone so wrong?

If we lay a strong enough foundation,
We’ll pass it on to you, we’ll give the world to you
And you’ll blow us all away

What if something goes wrong and it’s all my fault? On the eve of his Warrior Ceremony, when he ought to have been feeling nothing but excitement at the hard-earned achievement, the evening symphony of crickets and frogs found him lingering in the entrance of his mother’s den with every insecurity bubbling up in his throat. When he looked around at all of the warriors, he saw confidence and strength, a group of admirable felines who always knew what to do and when to do it. Even Russethawk, who had recently joined their ranks, adapted to the change with the ease of an otter taking to water, and there the apprentice was, turning to Swanfeather for comfort as if he was a kit again. He might have been called Bravepaw, but he certainly didn’t feel very brave – or very warrior-like – at all.

When she came to him, with a fond lick to his head and a rumbling purr in her chest, she seemed to know exactly what he needed. He pressed himself against her and let her comforting scent transport him back to simpler times, when he still cowered at thunderstorms and the weight of responsibility and expectation did not rest so heavily upon his shoulders. As a warrior, he would be expected to train the next generation, to lead patrols, and to make decisions that would affect the lives of others. But what if he made the wrong one and someone got hurt? At the mere suggestion of the possibility, cold horror clawed at his heart, and he realized that he was trembling ever so slightly.

After he voiced his concerns, she turned to face him, blue eyes searching out his. “Oh Bravepaw,” She mewed tenderly, “You, of all cats, have nothing to worry about. I know that you’ll be a wonderful warrior.” Her head moved to rest gently on top of his, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw her tail gesture toward his chest. “You have a good, kind heart, and it knows what to do. Listen to it. When it beats in time with another, hold on to that cat and never let them go. When it beats in protest, stand up for what you believe in, and keep standing, even if it means not running away when everything is falling apart. If you always follow your heart, then you can never go wrong.”

Even before we got to touch, I was aiming for the sky

“Lightpaw, run away as fast as you can and get help.”

Hoping he sounds far more confident than he feels, he keeps his voice low and quiet as he casually steps in front of his apprentice. Just moments ago, they had been celebrating her first catch, but now the fish rests forgotten at his paws. Two cats, whom he recognizes at Purists, have materialized out of the shadows. His first thought was to let them pass through unobstructed – they are still clan mates, after all – but then his gaze had fallen to their unsheathed claws. A frigid bolt of shock and horror has left him breathless, and blue eyes have widened with the realization that theirs is not a coincidental meeting. He has hoped that the violent shattering of the clan’s solidarity would not translate over into physical violence between the two groups, but it appears as though his prayers to StarClan have gone unheard.

To the sound of the apprentice’s fading pawsteps – they let her go without argument – he faces the two warriors with whom he once shared a den. It is no secret that he has loner blood flowing through his veins, and it seems that they want to use him to leave a message: no one with any amount of non-RainClan blood, not even the Purist leader’s son, is safe. Slowly, he finds himself backing away from them, even as he tries to defuse the situation. Like water off a duck, they let his words roll over them and disappear into silence, and cornered, he resigns himself to the inevitable. Two against one isn’t horrible odds. They want a fight? Let them have one.

I did exactly as you said, Ma
I held my head up high

What was she thinking? Was she trying to start a fight?

He loved his mother with all of his heart, but even he could not stop himself from recoiling in horror at the implications of her announcement. From his first moons under her care, he had known that she did not like their neighbors, but he hadn’t realized that her hatred had grown so much over the seasons. Where he had thought there had been a scar he found instead a raw and open wound that had been allowed to fester instead of heal. As the initial shock faded, it gave rise to heart-stopping betrayal. He had loner blood inside him – did that make him disloyal too? All this time, had she hidden a similar disdain for him behind loving words and gentle caresses? His heart stuttered as he examined his memories, searching for any clue that her love had not been as unconditional and genuine as she had led him to believe.

But even if he found one, he realized, he could not bring himself to entirely denounce her. For the first time, as he thought about her, he felt pity. She had looked so small standing on the stone, and only because he knew her so well could he hear the slight plea in her voice as she called for others to rally beside her. He wanted so badly to open his mouth and stand up for her, to let her know through his loyalty that he loved her. He wanted to show his gratitude and repay her for everything that she had done for him and to make sure that she never felt as alone as they both had before they found each other. But the words wouldn’t come. They got caught in his throat, and suddenly he was having trouble swallowing around the knot that they formed there. His fur prickled, though whether that was from the waves of shame – he was a bad son – crashing over him or her blue eyes searching out his own, he wasn’t sure. He was too scared to look up and check, to see her disappointment at his silence. Russethawk, too, was probably watching him, wondering why he was so silent in the face of such an obvious breach of morality. How could he hope to choose between his two favorite cats?

But then, he never truly had any choice. Deep down, he knew that there was only one possible course of action. She had told him so many moons ago, and he never forgot. His heart was beating in protest, and so he must stand up for what he believed in, and he must keep standing, even if it meant not running away as his world fell apart around him.

Head held high, he stepped to Russethawk’s side.

I’ll make the world safe and sound for you

Somehow, through pain and pounding heart, he becomes aware that he is no longer alone. Over the sound of the blood racing through his ears, he can hear the labored breathing of a second cat, as if the newcomer had just run all the way here. Alarm jolts through him. What if they have decided to come back, to finish him off while he lies immobile on the ground? With a shake of his head, he manages to clear his vision enough to blink up at the Purist Leader herself, and he realizes that he’s never seen her as frantic, as ragged and broken as she looks now. Suddenly, he finds himself surrounded by her familiar scent, and even though it causes the pain in his side to return with a blinding vengeance, he takes a deep breath and finally lets himself acknowledge just how much he has missed being able to talk to her.

She is crying, looking over his injuries with an experienced eye, and he can tell that she is entirely overwhelmed. His entire body feels like one giant wound. Everything, even places that he never knew existed, throbs. A litany of words spills from her lips, and after a moment, he realizes that it is a series of denials. No, no, no. This is a nightmare come true. He feels pressure, gentle and utterly ineffective, as if she’s forgotten how to stem the blood – or maybe she’s too scared to hurt you anymore, his mind whispers – and he knows enough to know that it is bad, that there is nothing either of them can do. Cobwebs can only fix the minor injuries, and both of their wounds are far too deep for such a superficial cure. He can feel the unspoken words stretching between them as wide and impassable as a canyon. This fight has shattered their relationship, and suddenly they’ve run out of time to pick up the pieces. He feels numb – or maybe that’s just his legs. More pressure on his side. Something between a groan and a whine escapes his clenched jaws, and mustering up the last traces of energy from his body, he clumsily puts his paw on hers.

And he tells her what she already knows.

Blink and she is there beside him. He can feel her, curled gently against his back, licking the matted fur on his neck, and it’s like he’s a kit again, terrified of the thunderstorms raging outside their den. Another blink, and she’s talking, trying to soothe him with words. There are so many words, but there is so little time. He is fading fast. Grunting, he inches his head back toward hers, seeking her warmth and life, but the flare of pain in his chest leaves him shaking and shuddering.

There are so many words. He loves the sound of her voice, and he wants to sink into it and let it wash over him – but he also wants to reassure her, and so he finds himself saying words back except that he’s not sure if he’s saying words or if he’s just making little noises. At that, frustration crashes through him. He doesn’t have time for his body to fail him, because he needs to tell her how much he loves her and tell her to tell Russethawk how much he loves him and how he will see them both in StarClan but that they’d better not end up there anytime soon. But it’s so many words, and they no longer roll off his tongue like they used to. He has to fight for each one, and he’s so tired… He can feel himself waning.

“Count with me. Ready?”

He breathes in her familiar scent and, secure in her loving embrace, he feels the adrenaline and fear fading from his limbs. In a voice that seems so small compared to hers, he does his best to count along, but exhaustion soon crashes over him like a wave. When his eyes finally slide shut, it is to the sound of his mother’s steady voice above his head, counting the heartbeat that pounds in his ears. One, two, three, four, five…

You have no control
Who lives, who dies, who tells your story

No! He can’t be gone. He is her precious kitten, her heart and soul. Death has never stood a chance against him. With a permanent smile lighting up his face, he is always so full of love and happiness – of life – and he is her son, and she would go to the ends of the world and back to protect him and keep him safe. She would run down any threat with unsheathed claws— He cannot be gone. But there he lies, eerily still, and she has seen enough hardship to objectively recognize when someone is no more. But her senses must be lying, because he cannot possibly be gone because that would mean that she is alone again and that as the instigator of this Civil War, she was at least partially responsible…

She began to scream, an awful, skin-crawling wail that shattered the cool morning air.

There are moments that the words don’t reach
There is a grace too powerful to name
We push away what we can never understand
We push away the unimaginable