I used to love the rain, but I don't, anymore.I used to think it was a thing of new beginnings, but it's not, really. It washes away everything, everything that once was. Like it never happened.
It was a bad day, as a whole. Cherrypaw ended up retiring early to her nest in the corner of the rock pile, just to get away from her clanmates. And in particular, Sunpaw. The tortoiseshell couldn't help hate the ginger tom for everything he did, and he made her job easy for her. That afternoon it hadn't passed two hours of her lounging in camp reluctantly before Sunpaw accidentally stepped on her tail as he passed by and ignored her when she hissed at him for it. He'd made some comment under his breath at her, a time later, and Cherrypaw couldn't exactly remember how it all happened so quickly, but a moment later she'd found herself standing and swiping at his ear, claws barely sheathed. At least she wasn't that stupid. Stormyfang had pulled them both aside after she had her forehead checked by Darknose, since Sunpaw'd scratched at it with his claws out, like the fox-dung he was, and chided them, yet again, for how they had acted. It was no secret throughout the clan their feelings towards one another, and Cherrypaw was aware of a few rumors going around. Some of them, like the one Brightthorn had told her Tallfeather was spreading, totally outragious, claiming they were secret lovers, and some of them dangerously close to the truth, though she'd never admit that. When Brighthorn had, in confidence, told her another theory that Dustypaw had told her once, she'd heard from someone else, it had almost made Cherrypaw fumble. But she was much too good an actress for that, and she just smiled, like she had about the other theories, as well.
Either way, the last time, about a moon ago, they'd fought, Stormyfang had told them if it ever happened again there would be punishments. Unfortunately, the deputy was good for his word. Even now, as the calico lay in her nest brooding, she was fuming over the turn of events, and was sure if she so much as came ten feet in propinquity to Sunpaw she'd tear his eyes out. He'd condemned them both to an extra moon of apprentice training. It seemed, at that point, like a far off issue, they were both about in the middle of their training, and it was a problem for another day. But still, knowing that Wolfpaw would be a warrior for three moons before her was infuriating, and even then the apprentice felt like ripping someone apart.
However, though if you asked her, Cherrypaw would tell you without pause that she hated Sunpaw with the burning passion of a star, and would gladly have put dung in his nest and mouse bile in his freshkill, though she didn't know it, it was not true hatred that plagued her heart towards him. It was the naive aggrivation and something akin to hatred, something no less deep and lasting, but not as ferocious. Only an old heart can hate, truly. And only a wise mind knows what it means to absolutely abhor something, and if you do, what those consiquences are. Hate is an emotion more powerful then anything else. Happiness, sorrow, bitterness, vengeance, betrayel, joy, contentment, even love, can't hold a candle to the power of hate. Because hate prays on every part of the body. The mind and the heart are forever blackened, the soul is left wounded and wracked and shaken, if not shattered, by the presence. Innocence is forever flown away and everything else, whatever love and kindness one may feel, pales when sitting next to hatred, for it, like a fire, consumes you.
But Cherrypaw wasn't consumed. She lived her life pleasantly enough, and could put Sunpaw out of her mind, when she wasn't reminded of him. That is not real hatred, just youth and their forever churning hearts, always undulating, like the sea.
Despite this, though, no one would dare tell thse facts to Cherrypaw, even if they knew them. She'd be likely to claw their ears off, too. Luckily, the she-cat had managed to talk Stormyfang out of most of the punishment, and so they both ended with an extra half moon to their apprenticeship. Still enough to make her claws burn and her jaw tense.
That was why Cherrypaw wasn't in camp when the patrol returned. She was in her nest, licking her wounds and fuming, and for a moment her pride made her hesitate, as her ears pricked towars screams and gasps from the camp, to going outside to see. Why deign to give them the right to see her? She was better then the punishment she was so unjustly assigned. Sunpaw instigated everything, and she couldn't stand the brute. It wasn't her fault, yet everyone always thought it was. So why should she even grace them with her presence? For a moment the lovely cat stayed still, but curiosity and nerves won over and she sprang, in an instant, to her paws and rushed out as a nother loud meow echoed in the camp, calling for Darknose. It sounded to Cherrypaw like the call of the desperate.
And that was exactly what it was. Brightthorn cried out again, and if it wasn't for the she-cats dusky, individual, smell, it would have been hard to identify her. Her long creamy fur, her dark paws and face, the envy of most of the short-furred clan, were matted to her sides and knotted, drenched in crimson. She was darker then Emberclaw. Only her icy eyes remained true to their form, for she limped, and one of her legs was splayed so awkwardly, it chilled Cherrypaw to the bone. Her leg shouldn't look like that. Not at all.
Cats were rushing to help her, and the others that were swaying behind her from fatigue and bloodloss. Cherrypaw had yet to set her dark eyes on them, they were so horrorstricken with Brighthorn's body, so weak looking. It almost disgusted her, not from the blood, but from the way the warrior held herself. Like she was some kit, calling for her mother. Brightthorn was a strong warrior, and had just gone through something horrible, and Cherrypaw knew in her heart she should feel guilty for even thinking about it, but she couldn't help judge. She couldn't help notice how pathetic she looked and acted, though in the entire clan, she was the only one who cared.
Then Brightthorn fell to her side with a moan, her leg, the one that had the strange angle so unnatural for any animal, giving out. She lifted her head feebly and tried to call for Darknose again, but the black she-cat was already leaning over her, green herbs at her side, and Dustypaw cantering back with more in her wide jaws. It was disgusting, and Cherrypaw flinched when the warrior hit the earth, her blood painting it crimson. As the apprentice closed her eyes, a vision flooded her mind, akin to the one before her. When warriors, their coats unrecognizable for blood, fell to the ground over and over again.
Cherrypaw was back in the nursery, though the walls were faded and blurry, and she couldn't quite tell if they were gorse or stone or ivy. Mewls all around her deafened her ears, loud as thunder, loud as silence.
A pelt brushed hers, and a shadow crossed over her pelt, the shadow of a much bigger cat. Screams rang outside the walls of the nursery, and there were screams inside it, too. The shadow above her teetered and fell on their side, falling against Cherrypaw. She felt it as if it were real, and she flinched. The memory was vivid and as real, she felt, as the ground beneath her paws. Cherrypaw, then Cherrykit, wriggled out of the heavy body that had collapsed on her tail and back paws. She was gasping and screaming, not because she was scared, but because everyone else was screaming. She was looking around too quickly for any of the images to take focus, all she saw were blurred bodies and kits running around. She saw blood everywhere, on every cat, and with a lurch, Cherrypaw could feel the sticky stuff on her too, smelling of iron. She whipped her head around in the vision, and and watched in nothing less then horror as a puddle, the source being the fallen cat beside her, edged farther and farther towards her. It was already around her two back paws. Her tail was dragging in the stuff. In the memory, Cherrypaw screamed again, and bounded away, without even looking at the face of the cat whose blood had drenched her fur.
And then she could see again. And Cherrypaw found herself breathing hard and short, eyes closed shut tightly, and when she opened them, they were bloodshot. Wolfpaw's rumbling steps were what jarred her out of her reverie, a memory she'd never remembered until just then, and the last fragments of it still made her fur stand on end. The blue tom, a heavy scratch on his muzzle and scores of slashes on his side, so bad they made him limp, was panting too, and his eyes were wild. To an onlooker they would have looked the same, Cherrypaw and Wolfpaw, in that moment, their eyes both crazed and their breathing so labored. But they would be wrong, because Cherrypaw was wild from fright and from the shock of it all, she was red-eyed from the pain and the feeling of utter horror, and Wolfpaw, though the one bloody and worn, had the look in his eyes of excitement and adventure. The wild of a perigrination.
"Wolfpaw! Thank Starclan you're alright," Cherrypaw found herself babbling, her voice breaking very slightly on one of the words as her eyes ran up and down her friend. She wanted to press herself to his warm blue fur, and tell him about what had just happened. But he was too bloody, and it reminded her too much of what she had just seen. And there was something else, too, but Cherrypaw couldn't name the emotion.
Bending her head so she could sniff his side, she mewed, almost like a panicked mother, shooting her gaze like a jab up at him, "You need to see Darknose, or Dustypaw. Right now, Wolfpaw! This is serious," Cherrypaw had no interest or experience with herbs or wounds, but there was something ominous about the thick blood oozing from Wolfpaw's side.
"I know, I know, Dustypaw said she'd come when she was done with someone else. They were worse then me," his voice was hurried, but there was a somber tone in it, too, behind the adrenaline. Before he could say anything else, though, as he was opening his mouth, his blue-grey eyes swimming with emotions, Cherrypaw lashed her tail and raised her head.
"What happened? How did you...?" She looked him over, at a loss for words, though even the hurried, breathy ones she managed to pull out as her mind swam with visions of Brightthorn and Wolfpaw, and a cat she couldn't name from her past, were beautiful and concise.
"The wolf. We didn't think we'd find him, we were just doing a routine border check. By the river." He swallowed, flicking his tail tip and lowering his head a bit, out of the weariness that was finally hitting him. "You see what happened. They're dangerous."
He was stalling, and Cherrypaw could tell. Her blue gaze gained some keenness and a sharper edge as questions gnawed at her suddenly. She had a million, but only one was important.
"Did you beat him?" She asked, almost softly, slowly, opposed to the urgent tone she'd used before. To another cat, maybe the wellbeing of the cats in the battle would have mattered more, whether they were all okay. But Cherrypaw was always into the bigger picture, always saw the oncomiong threat, not the one behind them. What did it matter if they had all turned out alright, or if one had broken a leg? That had already happened, and they could do nothing about it. The knowledge, though perhaps interesting and important for a leader or a family to know, was useless. What mattered was whether it was in vain or not.
The look Wolfpaw gave her, one doleful and ashamed, was her answer. A shudder ran through Cherrypaw, at the prospect of this danger in her life, though it wasn't nearly as deep as the one a moment before, as the blood had invaded her mind. Still, it was visible, and Wolfpaw sighed, pushing his head for a moment into her neck before pulling back, turning to Dustypaw, as she'd arrived.
The poor medicine cat apprentice looked frantic, her one eye glinting with a million thoughts. She didn't even say anything to the two young cats, just started chewing leafs with the tired, fast way that someone does when they try to do something they've done to much too quickly, and it ends up going slower then if they'd just done it normally. After what felt like ages the golden-brown cat spat the leaves onto Wolfpaw's wound. Cherrypaw saw him grimace.
This wasn't her place. Swallowing the bile in her throat as she looked at the bright blood not a mouse length away from her, Cherrypaw quickly licked her friends ear for comfort, and backed away. Dustypaw looked ready to give out, and she needed her space. Besides, as Cherrypaw stepped back from the scene and chaos, she noticed for the first time that her legs were shaking. Giving a paltry laugh to no one in particular, Cherrypaw immidiately sat down, blue eyes on her paws, too overwhelmed to think. All she could think of, as she looked at her quivering paws, was the blood that had puddled around them in her memory, and they looked crimson as Sunpaw's fur. But even if the sight revolted her, horrified her, and aged her, Cherrypaw couldn't force herself to look up. Because she knew if she did her memories would be awaiting her, real again, in the forms of the moaning Brightthorn, the clawed up Foxstar, and her bleeding friend.
It was a bad day, as a whole. Cherrypaw ended up retiring early to her nest in the corner of the rock pile, just to get away from her clanmates. And in particular, Sunpaw. The tortoiseshell couldn't help hate the ginger tom for everything he did, and he made her job easy for her. That afternoon it hadn't passed two hours of her lounging in camp reluctantly before Sunpaw accidentally stepped on her tail as he passed by and ignored her when she hissed at him for it. He'd made some comment under his breath at her, a time later, and Cherrypaw couldn't exactly remember how it all happened so quickly, but a moment later she'd found herself standing and swiping at his ear, claws barely sheathed. At least she wasn't that stupid. Stormyfang had pulled them both aside after she had her forehead checked by Darknose, since Sunpaw'd scratched at it with his claws out, like the fox-dung he was, and chided them, yet again, for how they had acted. It was no secret throughout the clan their feelings towards one another, and Cherrypaw was aware of a few rumors going around. Some of them, like the one Brightthorn had told her Tallfeather was spreading, totally outragious, claiming they were secret lovers, and some of them dangerously close to the truth, though she'd never admit that. When Brighthorn had, in confidence, told her another theory that Dustypaw had told her once, she'd heard from someone else, it had almost made Cherrypaw fumble. But she was much too good an actress for that, and she just smiled, like she had about the other theories, as well.
Either way, the last time, about a moon ago, they'd fought, Stormyfang had told them if it ever happened again there would be punishments. Unfortunately, the deputy was good for his word. Even now, as the calico lay in her nest brooding, she was fuming over the turn of events, and was sure if she so much as came ten feet in propinquity to Sunpaw she'd tear his eyes out. He'd condemned them both to an extra moon of apprentice training. It seemed, at that point, like a far off issue, they were both about in the middle of their training, and it was a problem for another day. But still, knowing that Wolfpaw would be a warrior for three moons before her was infuriating, and even then the apprentice felt like ripping someone apart.
However, though if you asked her, Cherrypaw would tell you without pause that she hated Sunpaw with the burning passion of a star, and would gladly have put dung in his nest and mouse bile in his freshkill, though she didn't know it, it was not true hatred that plagued her heart towards him. It was the naive aggrivation and something akin to hatred, something no less deep and lasting, but not as ferocious. Only an old heart can hate, truly. And only a wise mind knows what it means to absolutely abhor something, and if you do, what those consiquences are. Hate is an emotion more powerful then anything else. Happiness, sorrow, bitterness, vengeance, betrayel, joy, contentment, even love, can't hold a candle to the power of hate. Because hate prays on every part of the body. The mind and the heart are forever blackened, the soul is left wounded and wracked and shaken, if not shattered, by the presence. Innocence is forever flown away and everything else, whatever love and kindness one may feel, pales when sitting next to hatred, for it, like a fire, consumes you.
But Cherrypaw wasn't consumed. She lived her life pleasantly enough, and could put Sunpaw out of her mind, when she wasn't reminded of him. That is not real hatred, just youth and their forever churning hearts, always undulating, like the sea.
Despite this, though, no one would dare tell thse facts to Cherrypaw, even if they knew them. She'd be likely to claw their ears off, too. Luckily, the she-cat had managed to talk Stormyfang out of most of the punishment, and so they both ended with an extra half moon to their apprenticeship. Still enough to make her claws burn and her jaw tense.
That was why Cherrypaw wasn't in camp when the patrol returned. She was in her nest, licking her wounds and fuming, and for a moment her pride made her hesitate, as her ears pricked towars screams and gasps from the camp, to going outside to see. Why deign to give them the right to see her? She was better then the punishment she was so unjustly assigned. Sunpaw instigated everything, and she couldn't stand the brute. It wasn't her fault, yet everyone always thought it was. So why should she even grace them with her presence? For a moment the lovely cat stayed still, but curiosity and nerves won over and she sprang, in an instant, to her paws and rushed out as a nother loud meow echoed in the camp, calling for Darknose. It sounded to Cherrypaw like the call of the desperate.
And that was exactly what it was. Brightthorn cried out again, and if it wasn't for the she-cats dusky, individual, smell, it would have been hard to identify her. Her long creamy fur, her dark paws and face, the envy of most of the short-furred clan, were matted to her sides and knotted, drenched in crimson. She was darker then Emberclaw. Only her icy eyes remained true to their form, for she limped, and one of her legs was splayed so awkwardly, it chilled Cherrypaw to the bone. Her leg shouldn't look like that. Not at all.
Cats were rushing to help her, and the others that were swaying behind her from fatigue and bloodloss. Cherrypaw had yet to set her dark eyes on them, they were so horrorstricken with Brighthorn's body, so weak looking. It almost disgusted her, not from the blood, but from the way the warrior held herself. Like she was some kit, calling for her mother. Brightthorn was a strong warrior, and had just gone through something horrible, and Cherrypaw knew in her heart she should feel guilty for even thinking about it, but she couldn't help judge. She couldn't help notice how pathetic she looked and acted, though in the entire clan, she was the only one who cared.
Then Brightthorn fell to her side with a moan, her leg, the one that had the strange angle so unnatural for any animal, giving out. She lifted her head feebly and tried to call for Darknose again, but the black she-cat was already leaning over her, green herbs at her side, and Dustypaw cantering back with more in her wide jaws. It was disgusting, and Cherrypaw flinched when the warrior hit the earth, her blood painting it crimson. As the apprentice closed her eyes, a vision flooded her mind, akin to the one before her. When warriors, their coats unrecognizable for blood, fell to the ground over and over again.
Cherrypaw was back in the nursery, though the walls were faded and blurry, and she couldn't quite tell if they were gorse or stone or ivy. Mewls all around her deafened her ears, loud as thunder, loud as silence.
A pelt brushed hers, and a shadow crossed over her pelt, the shadow of a much bigger cat. Screams rang outside the walls of the nursery, and there were screams inside it, too. The shadow above her teetered and fell on their side, falling against Cherrypaw. She felt it as if it were real, and she flinched. The memory was vivid and as real, she felt, as the ground beneath her paws. Cherrypaw, then Cherrykit, wriggled out of the heavy body that had collapsed on her tail and back paws. She was gasping and screaming, not because she was scared, but because everyone else was screaming. She was looking around too quickly for any of the images to take focus, all she saw were blurred bodies and kits running around. She saw blood everywhere, on every cat, and with a lurch, Cherrypaw could feel the sticky stuff on her too, smelling of iron. She whipped her head around in the vision, and and watched in nothing less then horror as a puddle, the source being the fallen cat beside her, edged farther and farther towards her. It was already around her two back paws. Her tail was dragging in the stuff. In the memory, Cherrypaw screamed again, and bounded away, without even looking at the face of the cat whose blood had drenched her fur.
And then she could see again. And Cherrypaw found herself breathing hard and short, eyes closed shut tightly, and when she opened them, they were bloodshot. Wolfpaw's rumbling steps were what jarred her out of her reverie, a memory she'd never remembered until just then, and the last fragments of it still made her fur stand on end. The blue tom, a heavy scratch on his muzzle and scores of slashes on his side, so bad they made him limp, was panting too, and his eyes were wild. To an onlooker they would have looked the same, Cherrypaw and Wolfpaw, in that moment, their eyes both crazed and their breathing so labored. But they would be wrong, because Cherrypaw was wild from fright and from the shock of it all, she was red-eyed from the pain and the feeling of utter horror, and Wolfpaw, though the one bloody and worn, had the look in his eyes of excitement and adventure. The wild of a perigrination.
"Wolfpaw! Thank Starclan you're alright," Cherrypaw found herself babbling, her voice breaking very slightly on one of the words as her eyes ran up and down her friend. She wanted to press herself to his warm blue fur, and tell him about what had just happened. But he was too bloody, and it reminded her too much of what she had just seen. And there was something else, too, but Cherrypaw couldn't name the emotion.
Bending her head so she could sniff his side, she mewed, almost like a panicked mother, shooting her gaze like a jab up at him, "You need to see Darknose, or Dustypaw. Right now, Wolfpaw! This is serious," Cherrypaw had no interest or experience with herbs or wounds, but there was something ominous about the thick blood oozing from Wolfpaw's side.
"I know, I know, Dustypaw said she'd come when she was done with someone else. They were worse then me," his voice was hurried, but there was a somber tone in it, too, behind the adrenaline. Before he could say anything else, though, as he was opening his mouth, his blue-grey eyes swimming with emotions, Cherrypaw lashed her tail and raised her head.
"What happened? How did you...?" She looked him over, at a loss for words, though even the hurried, breathy ones she managed to pull out as her mind swam with visions of Brightthorn and Wolfpaw, and a cat she couldn't name from her past, were beautiful and concise.
"The wolf. We didn't think we'd find him, we were just doing a routine border check. By the river." He swallowed, flicking his tail tip and lowering his head a bit, out of the weariness that was finally hitting him. "You see what happened. They're dangerous."
He was stalling, and Cherrypaw could tell. Her blue gaze gained some keenness and a sharper edge as questions gnawed at her suddenly. She had a million, but only one was important.
"Did you beat him?" She asked, almost softly, slowly, opposed to the urgent tone she'd used before. To another cat, maybe the wellbeing of the cats in the battle would have mattered more, whether they were all okay. But Cherrypaw was always into the bigger picture, always saw the oncomiong threat, not the one behind them. What did it matter if they had all turned out alright, or if one had broken a leg? That had already happened, and they could do nothing about it. The knowledge, though perhaps interesting and important for a leader or a family to know, was useless. What mattered was whether it was in vain or not.
The look Wolfpaw gave her, one doleful and ashamed, was her answer. A shudder ran through Cherrypaw, at the prospect of this danger in her life, though it wasn't nearly as deep as the one a moment before, as the blood had invaded her mind. Still, it was visible, and Wolfpaw sighed, pushing his head for a moment into her neck before pulling back, turning to Dustypaw, as she'd arrived.
The poor medicine cat apprentice looked frantic, her one eye glinting with a million thoughts. She didn't even say anything to the two young cats, just started chewing leafs with the tired, fast way that someone does when they try to do something they've done to much too quickly, and it ends up going slower then if they'd just done it normally. After what felt like ages the golden-brown cat spat the leaves onto Wolfpaw's wound. Cherrypaw saw him grimace.
This wasn't her place. Swallowing the bile in her throat as she looked at the bright blood not a mouse length away from her, Cherrypaw quickly licked her friends ear for comfort, and backed away. Dustypaw looked ready to give out, and she needed her space. Besides, as Cherrypaw stepped back from the scene and chaos, she noticed for the first time that her legs were shaking. Giving a paltry laugh to no one in particular, Cherrypaw immidiately sat down, blue eyes on her paws, too overwhelmed to think. All she could think of, as she looked at her quivering paws, was the blood that had puddled around them in her memory, and they looked crimson as Sunpaw's fur. But even if the sight revolted her, horrified her, and aged her, Cherrypaw couldn't force herself to look up. Because she knew if she did her memories would be awaiting her, real again, in the forms of the moaning Brightthorn, the clawed up Foxstar, and her bleeding friend.
