My fifth and final MuffinClan challenge has arrived! Enjoy!

The Beauty of War

A cool breeze stirred the air of the camp. Emberheart shivered. The night was already cool, the sky covered by a dark blanket of clouds, shutting out the moon and stars.

Emberheart sniffed the air, taking in the scents of the night. At once, she went alert: the stench of a rival Clan drifted through the air. And it was strong, very strong. They were close.

"Featherstar!" she called out. "Do you smell that?"

Featherstar raised her nose into the air. Her pale blue eyes widened in alarm, and she swished her gray tabby tail. "Warriors! Enemy scent close by! Prepare for battle!" she cried, her voice loud and commanding.

"What?" someone called out. There was a flurry of movement as cats of all ages and sizes tumbled out of their dens, fur fluffed up and eyes wide.

They were getting closer. Emberheart could hear them, she could feel their pounding footsteps as they charged through the forest toward the camp. She could hear the vibrations in the musty air and feel numerous paw-steps drumming heavily on the cold, dead earth.

Around her, Emberheart heard the Clan prepare for battle. They hissed and growled as they readied themselves. Fear stink filled the air. It was disgusting. The Clan was not prepared for an attack. Who would attack them? They had provoked no one! But still their enemies were coming.

But Emberheart was not afraid. She stood only a fox-length from the camp entrance, alert and ready. Her dark amber eyes were fixed on the spot where the enemy warriors would burst through and spill out into the camp. Her sleek black fur was straight. No motion betrayed she was there. Her claws were unsheathed, her teeth bared slightly.

Around her, the Clan buzzed with energy and fear, but she was still in that chaos. She was ready.

Emberheart had always loved battle. Since she was a kit, she had yearned to grow up and become the greatest fighter in the Clan. She was proud of herself, her family, and her Clan. She had worked her way up to the top, fighting in battles, skirmishes, wars. She loved it. It was where she excelled. And she found war beautiful: the slashing claws, the splashing blood, the colors of cat mingling with the colors of the world in the dance of battle.

They were close now. If Emberheart looked hard enough, she could just make out gleaming eyes piercing through the darkness as her enemies slowly neared. In the dim, dreary light of a cloudy night, she could just make out a thousand claws—or what seemed like it—glinting silver in the blackness of the forest.

She closed her eyes for a brief moment as the scent of her enemies enveloped her and imagined the camp transforming into a blood-washed land of battle. She saw herself slipping through her enemies, slitting their sides with her gleaming red claws.

When she opened her eyes, she was greeted with a welcome sight: the enemy. They are here, she thought. They have come for us. She smiled, the light of anticipation in her amber eyes. And there is no escape. Not for them, not for us.

Let the battle begin.

Her first opponent leapt at her. She sprang out of her still position and met him in midair. Her pulse increased, her blood rushed—she felt so alive. Wild and free, doing what cats were born to do: fight.

She drank in the scent of her enemy, feeding on his energy and making it her own. He attempted to push her to the ground, but she turned his trick around and landed on top of him. Slowly, carefully, she raked her claws along his back, listening with delight to his screams of pain. Oh, how lovely! How fine!

Emberheart flipped her opponent over, so his belly face her. He resisted, flailing his limbs and granting her the present of mild scratches along her flanks, but she ignored his protests. Blithely, she dug her claws into the soft fur of his underbelly, feeling the squishy ooze of blood and guts slide over her paws, staining her dark fur.

Screams of pain rent the air, not only from him. Emberheart herself was soundless: it was improper for the victors to grunt or groan as opponents wailed. When at last, she decided her enemy was properly defeated, she released him and let him whimper alone. She had made sure he would not die, but he would remember her and remember to improve. He was no challenge.

Emberheart gave herself up to the battle. She danced among her Clanmates and their opponents, giving aid here, fighting her own opponents there, overall enjoying herself and helping her Clan. She was so good, she won every fight. She was glad she was excellent—she had worked hard to become so and would not want all her moons of training to have been in vain—but at the same time, while she loved winning wars, she wanted a challenge.

This was too easy.

She bit into the ear of an opponent who held her in a tight grip. This one was a bit harder than the rest. While she was already in an ecstasy of blood and claws, her excitement rose even higher. Was this cat, a strong and capable she-cat, the one? Was she the Challenger? Was she the one who would make this war all the more beautiful?

The two cats were locked in a vicious embrace, each with claws dug into the fur of the other. Emberheart's opponent seemed unperturbed, ignoring the ear bite. She rolled over several times, crushing the air out of Emberheart's lungs. Her spirits soared. She was the Challenger!

Even breathless, Emberheart was a formidable opponent. She loosened her grip, sliding out of her enemy's hold, and rolled away. She sprang to her feet and smiled at her opponent. Around her, the sounds of war filled her with more joy than she had felt before.

Thank you, she told her enemy silently.

The she-cat ignored her mental message and leapt right on top of Emberheart, pushing her to the ground. Emberheart flipped over, raking her claws on her enemy's belly. The she-cat grunted but did not scream. Instead, she gripped Emberheart's shoulders with her own claws, piercing deep, deep, deep, into her muscle.

For the first time since kithood, Emberheart felt a twinge of fear along with the accepted pain. This was... unusual. Very unusual.

Her heart began to pound even more. She fought back, her motions wild, but somehow her enemy was not afraid. Was this what losing felt like? Emberheart wondered as she slowly slipped into panic, her thoughts becoming incoherent.

Soon her movements slowed until the stopped altogether. Blood loss was taking its toll. Suddenly she couldn't move, no matter how much she wanted to. Her enemy was winning.

No.

This wasn't a challenge... this was her doom.

The beauty of war had long sustained her. Now it was destroying her. She had taken on more than she could handle.

The she-cat leaned down, a strange looked of pity mingled with revulsion in her eyes, and bit open Emberheart's throat.

Searing pain coursed through her. For the first time, Emberheart broke her rule and let out a gurgling cry. Then, with an uncaring jerk, the she-cat thrust her head back and ripped out the precious throat of the greatest warrior known to the Clans.

Emberheart, in her last, dying moments, lay unbelieving, shocked and horrified. The beauty of the battle had deserted her, leaving only the harsh, stark and angry truth: War was bleak. Was was cruel. War was death. War was ugly.

Emberheart died with her glassy amber eyes still open. Her hope was gone; in its place was a deep despair. But those eyes held the story of a great warrior—a fighter, a dreamer, a maniac. Those eyes had seen beauty and ugliness in the same thing—war—and they had made the most of it. Deep they were, those beautiful eyes.

NOTICE:

MuffinClan has changed since I wrote this. I am proud of this challenge and I'm not taking it down, but I would like you to know that I have left the forum and no longer affiliate myself with it.