[Phoenix]

but since it fell unto my lot
that I should rise and you should not

Daybreak, at last, and with it, the first few rays of hope. A gentle golden glow began to illuminate the sky, chasing away the last vestiges of the night and the clan that hunted within it, and for the first time since he had woken to the chaos of battle, he could breathe. As green eyes watched the last of the NightClan patrol flee from the TreeClan warriors right on their heels, a deafening silence fell over the camp as if the forest, too, was breathing its first since the fight had begun. But the peace lasted only for a moment. Like the distant rumbling of thunder, the groans of pain started off quiet and barely noticeable, but once they reached his awareness, they seemed to grow in volume until the entire clearing was filled with the calls of the worried and crying of the grief-stricken.

Closing his eyes, Gorsetail lay where he had collapsed for a moment, letting the sounds of camp wash over him and trying to take a mental inventory of his numerous aches and pains before eventually accepting defeat. His entire body felt like on giant, throbbing wound, and as the adrenaline gave way to exhaustion, a part of him wanted to do nothing more than lay there and sleep for the next moon. Feathercloud and Sprucefur had disappeared into the nursery to find their children – had they been anyone else, Gorsetail would have accompanied them just to see for himself that they were safe, but he trusted his two best friends to alert him if anything were amiss – and Lionstar was off doing what leaders did during times of crisis. He was already laying down. His eyes were already closed. It would be so easy to just…

No. With one final deep breath, he gathered his resolve and pushed himself back onto aching limbs. No matter how much he wanted to, he could not afford to rest while the clan was at its most vulnerable. Broken hearts and broken limbs alike needed fixing, clan mates who needed the comfort of loved ones and the medical expertise of Falconstorm. To be attacked at their very heart had undoubtedly shaken them all to their core, whether they realized it now or later, and regaining that sense of stability and control – that sense of safety and security – was paramount. Gorsetail might have been deputy in name no longer, but he knew now that leadership was more than just a title. And whether he stood proudly beside Lionstar or curled up mute within the elder’s den, there were still those who looked to him for guidance.

For them, he could be strong. Or, at least, appear to be.

A numb sort of exhaustion settled over him, and green eyes glanced briefly around camp before striped limbs carried him off in a direction at random. Falconstorm was undoubtedly already in his den tending to the wounded – Gorsetail would wait until those more injured than he received medical care – but perhaps he could help – and then he stumbled, exhausted leg nearly giving out from under him – or perhaps not, for no longer was he the able-bodied tom of his youth. Closing his eyes, the elder took a deep breath and bit back the frustrated helplessness that threatened to overwhelm him. He hated this so much. All he wanted to do was help others – why did everything have to feel like such an uphill—

Nightsky. The sight of the small dark body collapsed on the ground before him had his heart freezing in his throat. No. Was that blood? Was he breathing? He couldn’t see, and desperation had him stumbling forward as best he could because if NightClan had stolen his son then – the body shifted as the younger tom took a shallow breath – He’s alive – and Gorsetail nearly collapsed himself from wave of relief crashing over him. Thank StarClan. He breathed a silent prayer of gratitude toward their ancestors, though the fearful worry returned full force when he saw just how much blood had soaked into the dark fur all along Nightsky’s side and haunches and into the ground around him. Gorsetail knew that the shy tom often watched the stars alone at night, and there was no way his former apprentice could’ve known what awaited him when he exited the warrior’s den that night. Oh Nightsky. A sandpaper tongue licked the top of the dark-furred feline’s head as the elder gave him a gentle nudge to rouse him. No response. He tried again. There was no way Gorsetail would be able to carry him to Falconstorm; Nightsky would have to walk…

A movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention, and Gorsetail looked up to see a familiar golden tom approaching him with wide eyes. With his tail, the elder greeted Brackenstride and offered him a tired smile as the tom drew close. We made it. How are you? Green eyes scanned the other tom for injuries; the warrior looked as battered and bruised and exhausted as the rest of them, but he was alive and whole nonetheless. Small mercies. His attention returned to the warrior at their paws when bright green eyes blinked opened with a quiet groan. The smile on his lips grew, and he glanced up at Brackenstride. Gesturing between the two toms with his tail, Gorsetail asked, “F-Falconstorm?”

i'll gently rise and softly call
goodnight and joy be to you all

Fawn

[Fawn]

Brackenstride

if you even dream of beating me you'd better wake up and apologize

One step after another. Brackenstride focused on the rhythm of movement: the uneven pattern of Gorsetail's footsteps combined with the steady gait of his own four feet. He carried the bulk of Nightsky's body draped across his shoulders, the claw-wounds left from NightClan claws stinging and pulsing in anger, as if some of Darkstar's rage had seeped in like poison.

He floated somewhere between reality and dream. War had been on his mind from the moment the tabby elder beside him had been wounded - but it hadn't looked like this. It hadn't looked like his Clan, his family, being attacked in the middle of the night by a wretched pack of foes, vicious as foxes. It hadn't looked like his father, his face wreathed in fury as cats came at him from all sides; it hadn't looked like Darkstar's murderous smile of triumph as she forced him into the ground, trying to crush his body to dust.

It was so much worse than he'd imagined.

Gorsetail's tired smile burned him. He wanted to flinch and walk away, make more excuses that would somehow justify all the times he'd avoided Gorsetail since the accident. But the elder needed him, and for all the shame that stung worse than Darkstar's claws raking through his skin, Brackenstride would not abandon him now.

He followed the blood trail to Falconstorm's den, and they were directed by a harried healer to leave him in an empty nest. The burden of another body was lifted, but Brackenstride hardly felt lighter. Before another excuse could creep up and he could creep away, Brackenstride found himself alone outside the medicine cat's den with Gorsetail once again.

Brackenstride glared at the brackish spots of blood on the wooden floor of their home. "Gorsetail." He spoke, and it was like grinding his teeth across stone, his voice scratchy and hoarse. Frustrated, he tried again. "I'm sorry."

War was never going to be what he imagined - he knew that. Maybe this battle in the heart of their territory had been inevitable. Or maybe it was all his fault. Maybe he had set off a chain reaction that wasn't going to stop until it hurt every single creature he cared about. Ivyclaw had walked away from this battle, saving him from Darkstar's wrath. His father and mother lived. Lilybreeze had survived. But what about next time?

Brackenstride bowed his head, wanting to become small as a kit again, wishing Gorsetail could scold him once and then the world could return to the way it should have been. "I didn't mean for any of this to happen."

27 Moons TreeClan Tom

434 words Phoenix quote by muhammad ali

[Phoenix]

but since it fell unto my lot
that I should rise and you should not

With a grunt, Gorsetail set Nightsky’s limp body in the empty nest just inside Falconstorm’s den, but he could not tear his gaze away from the dark-furred form as they both stepped back. He looked so small, so vulnerable laying there. If he didn’t know to look for the faint rise and fall of his sides as he breathed, the elder might have mistaken his former apprentice for dead, but he and Brackenstride had gotten him to Falconstorm. Nightsky was young and healthy, and the gruff medicine cat was skilled – between the two of them, the warrior would soon be good as new. Everything would be fine.

Still, he sent a silent prayer up to StarClan. Just in case.

Though his body had departed the den with Brackenstride by his side, his mind remained beside the wounded warrior they had left behind, and he found himself yawning as the tired numbness began to set in again. His body still felt like one giant throbbing wound, and the idea of curling up in his nest and sleeping for the next moon had never sounded more appealing. But the blood on the camp floor and the pain of his clanmates meant that he couldn’t hide away and— the sound of his name had him blinking in surprise and looking over at the tom standing next to him. And then, an apology.

What? Why would he-- But with that horrible sinking feeling, Gorsetail knew. He recalled the sound of taunting, the rush of adrenaline as he lunged forward in what would be his last action as deputy of TreeClan, and then the brief, searing pain that preceded darkness. He recalled the anger etched in every line of Lionstar’s body when they discovered what he had lost, the declarations of war, and the panic of the previous night. With the insight of one who all too often erroneously shouldered the blame for circumstances outside of his control, Gorsetail understood why the warrior stood with his shoulders hunched defensively and gaze directed toward the ground. He knew what it felt like to shoulder the world’s burdens.

And he knew, too, how it felt to be relieved of them – or, at least, those that were not his to carry.

Guilt had a nasty way of eating away at everything else, the elder thought as he stepped closer and tapped Brackenstride on the shoulder with his tail. It also had an insidious habit of creeping into places it did not belong. His heart ached with the sudden realization that the many moons of silence between them had been intentional rather than circumstantial. Had misplaced guilt been eating away at the warrior all this time? But, of course, he already knew the answer to that.

Green eyes waited until they met amber. With his paw, he tapped Brackenstride’s leg and then gestured at the blood on the ground, and then, still holding the other tom’s gaze, he shook his head. Already, he could sense the confusion starting to give rise to a protest, which he interrupted with another tap, insistent. “N-Not – fault.” A resigned weariness settled over his heart as he once again found himself wishing for his past eloquence. How, when he was limited to such broken speech, could he hope to make Brackenstride see that he was not to blame for the war between TreeClan and NightClan and the attack on their home? How could he hope to explain that, while he may have provoked her, Darkstar did not have to leap across the border to attack him, and that, even if that day had ended differently, the NightClan she-cat had already had murder in her eyes and nothing he could have done would have changed that? Brackenstride was a young tom, with a young tom’s foolishness and pride. He made stupid mistakes like the rest of them, but more importantly, he learned from them.

With a quiet sigh, he silently implored the other tom to understand. NightClan and TreeClan had been— “Enemies” –for so— “Long” –that any truce between them had been tenuous and temporary at best. War— “Fight” –had been inevitable— “Always – c-come.” It had always lurked on the horizon, especially with a leader as aggressive as Darkstar and the rising tensions between their two clans. He pointed at Brackenstride with his tail and shook his head again. You did not cause this. Brackenstride had never tried to claim territory that wasn’t his. Brackenstride had not declared war. Brackenstride had not decided to so indiscriminately attack the heart of the clan while everyone was asleep, endangering the lives of queens and kits.

Gorsetail gestured toward the blood. “Darkstar.” He gestured toward Falconstorm’s den, where the wounded lay. “Darkstar.” Finally, hesitating ever so slightly, he gestured toward himself. “Darkstar.”

Yes, the elder acknowledged, the other tom had goaded the NightClan she-cat into attacking. If he hadn’t taunted her, the patrol likely would have carried on in peace, and Gorsetail might still be deputy. A fresh wave of grief for what could have been crashed over him, but time had a funny way of healing all wounds, even those that cut deep. What-could-have-been did not hurt nearly as much as it did before. He may have lost his speech and he may have lost his strength, but he was not helpless and he was not alone. It had taken him a while to remember that, but he finally had, and he held that knowledge close to his heart lest he forget again.

Green eyes sought amber. He did not blame the other warrior. He held no grudges against him. What had happened had happened and though it had felt like it at first, it had not been the end of the world. And, he knew, as he moved forward and mimed shoving Brackenstride out of the way, he would do it all exactly the same— “Again” –even if he knew he would lose his position and lose his speech and lose his strength. Better any and all of that than Brackenstride’s life. He was— “Not sorry.”

i'll gently rise and softly call
goodnight and joy be to you all

Fawn

[Fawn]

Brackenstride

if you even dream of beating me you'd better wake up and apologize

Brackenstride sucked in a hollow, miserable breath. His soul wanted to howl. It wanted to rage and spit and shake Gorsetail to his core. Yell. Scream at me. Tell me it's my fault. Tell me you can't forgive me. Please. Please. It was what he deserved. Darkstar's wrath was unavoidable, but it was Brackenstride's big fat mouth that had done this to Gorsetail.

His eyes were wet, gleaming and fevered with the rush of emotion crashing around his insides like a trapped storm. His whiskers shook, the image of Gorsetail miming shoving him out of the way overlapped the horrific moment from the past. "Why?" Golden paws dug into the earth, gripping as if the points of his claws might find the answers somewhere deep within the roots of the forest. "Gorsetail." The words trapped themselves inside of Brackenstride's chest, and for once it was the elder who had found eloquence.

Brackenstride paced around him, as if the movement might make it easier to process the reality of Gorsetail's admission. He couldn't believe it. That someone so - so damaged - would do it all over again if it meant sparing his life. His. Why, StarClan, did Gorsetail think he was so important? Why, StarClan, did things have to be this way?

"It's not fair," he snarled around the lump in his throat. "You don't deserve what happened to you--a-and now this!" They had repelled NightClan's attack. Darkstar had not killed him like she'd vowed. But when the dust settled, there was still TreeClan blood on the ground and Gorsetail was still an elder, his voice trapped inside of him as if something deep and irreparable had been broken.

"I'm sorry." Brackenstride couldn't help repeating himself. "You're a great warrior. You saved my life. But I can't... I can't fix it. I don't know how to make it better." It wasn't enough to simply be alive. There was a debt owed that Brackenstride couldn't even begin to figure out how to repay. He wished Darkstar was dead with every seething fiber of his body, and TreeClan would be safe from immediate destruction, but it couldn't fix the past.

Hurting Gorsetail didn't bring back Blackwolf.

Brackenstride's insides hardened. Darkstar had weaponized her grief. Turned it into a sickness that could be given to others. How could he shield the Clan from something like that? Gorsetail stood before him, his green eyes boring into his soul. He knew the elder wasn't expecting him to fix what had been broken. Gorsetail had... made peace with this.

But he shouldn't have had to in the first place. This is wrong. What happened to you is wrong. It was just all so wrong.

30 Moons TreeClan Tom

431 words Phoenix quote by muhammad ali

[Phoenix]

but since it fell unto my lot
that I should rise and you should not

Why?

As the question burst forth, propelled by an odd mixture of ire and impotence, the young tom asking it looked as though he had expelled his heart instead of a single word. Brackenstride turned to look at him, dark gold eyes equally tortured and beseeching as he tried to stay afloat upon the waves of emotion crashing through him, but where he sought bitterness and anger, he found only a quiet calm - and a hint of sadness beyond his moons. As though compelled by the force of his emotions, the warrior thrust himself into action, and green eyes followed his trail until he crossed beyond the range of the elder's peripherals. Their owner himself remained motionless but for the movement of his gaze, a boulder standing still and silent while rough waters raged around him. Why what, Brackenstride? Why had resentment not buried itself deep within his chest? Why had he leapt in front of unsheathed claws meant for a different cat? Or why, if given the choice, would he choose to do it all again?

Gorsetail didn't need to ask to know that the other tom agonized over the answers to all three questions. A bone-deep weariness settled over him as his mind followed the trail that Brackenstride had so clearly laid out for him through his apologies and outrage at what had come to pass. This was the first time since that fateful patrol that they had truly talked, he realized faintly, recalling moons spent in the elder's den in the company of many friends - but never the tom pacing before him now. He had noticed but decided against pushing the issue. Perhaps, though, his attempt to give the warrior his space had only allowed him to bury himself deep into self-loathing. Because that was what he saw in those troubled eyes: self-loathing, that old, familiar friend. Not all that long ago, his younger self had been haunted constantly by its company and sometimes even now still reared its ugly head. Regret sat heavy on the soul, and guilt had a way of creeping into every pore until its presence became inescapable. He could see the weight of all three in the tension etched into every line of Brackenstride's frame and hear it with every word that was cast so desperately in his direction. The question hung in the air around them, unanswered. Why? Why? Why?

Why had he forgiven the younger warrior for provoking a fight instead of hating him for it? Because I have seen how forgiveness changes a cat, he wanted to say as his thoughts strayed to a different young tom, full of anger and a drive to prove himself, who had followed his heart to StoneClan many moons ago. Grudges festered like untreated wounds, giving rise only to further misery and suffering. Regret and resentment did nothing except keep the trauma fresh, but rinsing the injury and letting the pain of the past wash away started healing the soul. Life wasn't fair, and they had to learn to pick and choose their battles. There were times to rage against the unfairness of it all, and there were times when it was necessary to accept a harsh, unchanging reality for what it was. If he fought against every single injustice, let the bitterness and anger eat him up, then he would never have time to enjoy the parts that made life worth living.

Why had he taken the blow meant for another cat? Because young toms are foolish and make mistakes, but more often than not, those mistakes shape them into older toms who are all the better for having committed their past misdeeds. Brackenstride had his entire life ahead of him, countless seasons to find a mate and settle down and grow old surrounded by friends and family, and to punish him so severely for the short-sighted decisions that plagued all of them in their youth was unthinkable. But Gorsetail? He was not old, but he was not young either. If a life were to be cut short, he would much rather have it belong to him, the older cat who had had a chance to fully experience what life had to offer.

And why would he do it again? Because Brackenstride's life was worth - more than worth - the cost. His ability to speak, his ease of movement, his place in the warriors den - he would toss it all away in a heartbeat if it meant the young tom before him got to walk away healthy and whole.

Why, Brackenstride? "You."

Stepping forward, he gently stopped the warrior's pacing, touching his nose to short golden fur for the briefest of moments. "Need - fix." He shook his head, quietly imploring him to understand. "Need - Need - better." He shook his head again. The elder may not have deserved what happened to him, but - You don't have to fix it. You don't have to make it better. Though it had taken him many long moons to find it, Gorsetail had made peace with the changes in his life. There were still ways to communicate and ways to be helpful - ways that were different, perhaps, than the ones he had utilized before, but nevertheless were there all the same. To hold on so tightly to the past and what could never be brought nothing but pain. And besides Brackenstride - he pointed to the young tom with his tail before holding the end of it high above the ground - was more - "Important" - than - he gestured with his tail to his mouth, to the elder's den, and held the end of his tail considerably closer to the ground - everything else. He repeated the series of gestures until he was sure the message had been received. Green eyes held amber in a steady gaze, and he touched his tail to Brackenstride's shoulder. "I-Important."

But it was hard to believe that, he knew, when one's innards had been eaten up by guilt and regret. Gorsetail silently tried to transfer some of his inner peace to the troubled warrior, willed the other tom to let himself be soothed by the quiet forgiveness the elder offered. Because that was what Brackenstride needed: to let that festering wound begin to heal and forgive himself for his role in what happened. And then, perhaps one day, he would come to realize that the role he had forgiven himself for was nonexistent. Darkstar had been the one to leap across the border and respond to the taunts of a foolish young tom. Darkstar had been the one to lead an attack on TreeClan's camp in the middle of the night. Not Brackenstride.

That understanding would come only with time, but that didn't mean he couldn't do his best to plant the seeds that could lead to it. Lightly, he tapped the warrior's chest with his tail. Let your - "Anger" and here, he mimed letting something fly away - go, Brackenstride. Vindication only lasts for a moment. Revenge was not worth chasing for the rest of his life, just as regret and guilt were not worth shouldering for so long. Life was too short to be constantly weighed down by such burdens.

i'll gently rise and softly call
goodnight and joy be to you all

Fawn