This is a new story of mine that I hope will get me back into the Warriors groove. School has been extremely stressful for me. I've spent a lot of nights as an emotional wreck trying to get everything done and having no will to do so, and it's put a dent in my enthusiasm towards writing. I've tried putting out one-shots for a different fandom, but I miss a lot of my old readers. I don't know how many of you are still here, but if you are, hi! Hello, nice to see you again! :)
I need to give a shout-out to The Spirit That Comes At Night, the fan fiction author who has created this marvelous world of Messengers. I'm going a bit astray from what she has established, but honestly, you need to check her out! She's an incredibly creative writer, and you probably won't understand too much if this if you have no clue what a Messenger is, so I suggest reading some of her latest stories to get an idea.
Disclaimer: I don't own Warriors, nor the idea of the Messengers of the Unknown.
The Definition of Alone
I once knew a cat of an ash-colored pelt and a gaze of soft, light amber. I remember not his name, though I have a feeling it was very suiting of his appearance. His voice was like a crisp leaf-fall breeze, cool, but not bitter; refreshing, but not bold, and he spoke humbly, whether offering praise, scolding a younger cat, or perhaps just casually bringing up the success of the morning's hunt. He never took himself too seriously, but was respectful to all he came across, even when he did not need to be, or in fact should not have been, but this is what has made him so memorable to me after all this time.
When he was still rather young, the muscles of a well-trained tom only beginning to ripple under his thick coat, he found himself drawn to the raven-black sleekness of his fairest denmate, who with her dark but warm eyes, was a compassionate and confident match to his modest existence. Her name, I also do not recall, but it was misleading. Upon hearing it the very first time, I feared to approach her. Her kindness was brought to light soon after.
Their love was something the rest of us could only aspire to have. It was not of passion, but sweetness, like the scent of wildflowers after the most gentle of rainfalls. The tom of amber-eyes and the she-cat of raven-fur were a pair that all knew of, from borderline to borderline, and what some considered to be a match sealed by fate...and who was there to complain when observing their radiant happiness that reverberated beyond the lands that contained them.
Their kits were healthy, both of the soft, light amber gaze of their father, and the raven-black sleekness of their mother. They were quiet, patient, calm as the newleaf season they were born into, and many thought them to be a gift from the ancestors that watched us. Never had we seen kits so lovely and so truly odd to play considerately as they did. This family was one of perfection, and that we've never seen before.
But we all know good things can only last so long.
It must be the unexplainable need to destroy, and to ruin, and to break, and burn everything that we can't have for ourselves, in that moment of hopelessness when one comes to realize that they themselves cannot ever achieve such a beautiful, once in a lifetime connection. Yes, connection, not privilege, nor indulgent, but connection. Was this what was failed to be understood, before the raven-black she-cat, mere moons after birthing her children of perfection, was found slaughtered one morning at the summoning of the wailing kits who had witnessed the mess violently unfold? Oh the poor souls to view the stuffing of a mouse carcass down her throat (for her silence, we presume), the ripping of fur from flesh; to hear the dull crack, as her perfect head split unevenly against the ridge of a stone; to be stained themselves with her envy-inducing life, when in her last tortured seconds, three finely sharpened claws sliced her throat halfway through! Oh and their ash-colored father, who arrived heartbeats too late, and could only stare at what had used to be his match sealed by fate. With raven-fur matted with the redness of blood, and her dark, kind eyes wide open, she was laid to rest by the stream, never again to be seen.
His pain was the most superior I thought I could ever know. And that was before malice of a different kind struck the kits he had left.
When a fortnight of nightmares and terrors had passed and the moon glowed somberly in its fullness above them, the first cough sounded, reaching our ears, but meaning nothing to us. And so, it may or may not be true that the blame for their premature deaths rests in the paws of those who did not listen close enough.
This was a truly awful thing to see: small kits, still suffering the shock and the fear that had been set into them so recently, vomiting up sprays of blood, struggling to breathe, wailing for their mother who would never come. Their father, distressed and grief-stricken beyond all compare, watched as nothing could be done, and the perfect family he had left slowly but surely died. Why this happened, the cause of this horrible event remains a mystery even now, but not a doubt arose in any mind that the ash-colored tom was met with unbelievable dejection and anguish, burying his children at the water by their mother.
They had been his everything. They were what had made him happy, that had strengthened everything that he stood for, and what had he left? Nothing could ever provide him with the love, the compassion, and the perfection he had and deserved.
The tom of ash-colored fur and a gaze of soft, light amber suffered a great tragedy, but I dare not to say that he was alone at the end of it all.
I've known many cats like him, I've seen many stories like his, some less or more heart-wrenching. Cats have lost everything they cared about, found something to care about again, and lost that as well. Cats have been casted out from all they've ever known to wander without a sense of direction until they find a new place to belong. Very few others have met their fate without a companion at their side or a territory to call home. None of the cats, in all their agony know what it means to be alone. I didn't either, long ago, and learning it's true definition over all this time has been a journey in which there is no fine line between satisfaction and regret.
So many cats out there have it in their heads that there's nothing left for them to fight for, that there's no place where they belong. This world is full of fools, then, because they cannot distinguish the pain of grief, or depression, or fear, or confusion, or doubt, from that of loneliness, an agony so deep that even when it grows numb, you cannot forget the trouble it's caused. You disconnect from the world around you completely, and even the things that had once come naturally to you and everyone you've ever known start to play you like a fool.
When I walk, I cannot hear the paw steps I make, because it's been so long since I've stopped. The echo of the path I leave behind me never reaches the ears of any cat, whether they search, whether their ears are angled in its indefinite direction. What is there to hear of a cat with no story to tell, or life to leave behind?
When I speak, I forget how to say some of the words in my head because it's been so long since anyone has been listening. My words are worthless, and cannot create any impression on the will of the universe. There was once a time in which I tried with all sympathy I could manage to lead others down the path of their choosing, but destinies cannot be created, only discovered. Anyone who has ever told you otherwise is working in paw with the malignancy of fate to delude you into believing you are bigger than you are. Deception resides in even the strangest of places...
When the blackness around me shifts into a land of new discovery, I pass through without thought because it now all just looks the same to me. There are perhap trees, perhaps water, dunes of sand or rock or snow - name it! I've seen it all before. I find no companion in the paths that I walk, the winds that I walk between. These places are just as easily forgotten as they are found, for they mesh with the darkness that always pervades, and where there is darkness, there is no light. Where there is no light, there is nothing of any purpose, or worth.
The darkness is where you will find me.
So if you are a tom of an ash-colored pelt, who has lost all happiness with the death of his loved ones, you are grieving, my friend, like many others! If you are a kit that's been abandoned in snow, you are lost, but hope and compassion will guide one to you! If you are a she-cat with no where to belong, you will soon find purpose under the light of the sun!
And if all this fails, fate will be sealed, however unjustly, and bring you a land where there is light, where there is comfort, where there is relief, and if none of this pleases you, then you'll strive for more.
But you will not be alone.
And me, you ask?
I was like you. I used to think the world was simple, my decisions were mine to make, my destiny was what I made it to be, and even long after I should have accepted the truth to quench my restless disdain, I tried to prove these lies to others, and tried to change the meaning of fate to fit into the mold I created, but things are different. The truth is clear through this endless expanse of darkness.
It's hard to say whether or not I regret what I've become. I was looking for a life on which I could be bound by my own laws. I was offered a chance for it all to be turned around, but a spat upon that opportunity as if it had spoken disgrace. I wonder now if all along, I was being saved from the path I walk now. I cannot imagine it any other way, but I ask myself now an again that if it had been different, could I be trusted, could I be loved, could I be more than a memory of a memory? - an empty threat? - a sourceless scream?
I suppose the only reason I can't let myself regret all the things I've done...is so I can never find out.
This story isn't going to have a consistent storyline, but it isn't just a collection of one-shots either. It's kind of in the middle, if you know what I mean. I should move on before I make this too complicated.
If you'd like, you can read my two chapter short story, The Lone Spirit, which gives a bit of an introduction on who Lonespirit is. Not everything from that story will be the same here, just as a warning.. Nightspirit has also done some work with Lonespirit, so again, check her out when you get the chance!
If this is something you enjoyed, leave a review! Constructive criticism is much appreciated!
~Destiny