Warriors: Seeds of the Forbidden: Hollow Forest
Chapter Two
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Scales danced with reflected colors beneath the sheen of ice. Flood's paw pounded the surface, sending the cluster of fish into flight and releasing a torrent of miniscule bubbles.
The world below was almost a dream. It was trapped under a thin enough layer of ice, however, so that it was still untouchable and just out of reach. Settling down onto the frost-dusted grass, Flood sat and watched the fish hover and drift, their delicate fins weaving through the water. There would be no fish to eat tonight.
Sunlight broke through the dense clouds and spilled its light upon the forest, summoning a contented purr from Flood. Leaf-bare had been persistent the last few moons, Nightingale had said, but she had told him that when the sun would shine like it was at the moment, Newleaf was on its way. Flood had never experienced a Newleaf in the few moons of his life, but he very much wanted it to arrive.
Lifting his face to the sky, he warmed his neck and arched his back to stretch, sinking his claws into the earth. It was time to return and find Nightingale to tell her that the pond had frozen over again, though she would likely be weary still from her unsuccessful hunt at dawn.
From the first dim memory Flood could recall, Nightingale had been there with her melodious mew to send him into sleep. She had always stressed that she was not his mother and could never have the ability to fill the hollow void the absence of such a figure left within him. Carefully avoiding the topic directly, Flood tried to assure her that she had. He knew that she needed to keep him and her dead kits apart to be able to continue to love and care for him. As soon as she allowed him to replace her children, she will begin to hate he who occupied the space left behind for what he never had a chance to choose for himself; she would hate him for being the kit that never had the chance to live.
"Nightingale." He dipped his head and walked over to her, watching her rise from washing her night-colored pelt with an amused glint in her eyes of amber.
"So quick, my little Flood, to be formal? There was a not-so distant time when you received your nourishment from my own milk." Her tongue caught his ear and flattened it against his face before she went on to smooth down the rest of his pelt. "Even now it is I who hunts for your prey."
"If I were big enough to hunt, then that wouldn't matter." He told her. "In a few more moons you won't have to worry about me anymore."
"No, in a few more moons you'll be feeding me. Then I'll have to worry about you because if you get hurt, I'll have to hunt for myself!" Her tail flicked the bracken in amusement.
"Nightingale, the fish are safe beneath the ice now," he sighed, turning the conversation back toward the imminent matters at hand. "so you'll have to search the forest again." He watched her eyes dull with sadness. "Don't worry; some prey at least must have been lured out by the sun. You will manage, and if not I can be hungry for one day."
"You are too perceptive to truly believe that I would feed myself before you. Whatever I catch we share evenly, unless it is only enough for one, in which case all will go to you." He started in protest, but she stopped him with a fatigued look. "Don't argue with the one who feeds you, little one."
"If you die, then I die as well."
"I am wasting sunhigh with words, now I must go. I will be back soon. Sleep well." She mewed curtly, turning to leave before he could put in another word. Flood was used to her cold moments just as he enjoyed her warm ones. With Nightingale, her manner changed constantly throughout a single discussion, as if she closed herself up inside when it began to get too emotional. It was an admirable quality, Flood thought, to be able to keep oneself in control. He half-shut his eyes and stared at the swaying grasses, letting his dread flow out of him like a stream. In such a way, he was lulled to sleep.
His dream was familiar in the loosest sense of the word.
Flood stood on a rock with water, more water than he could have imagined possible, swirling in great waves about him. There was nothing he could do to reach the shore, so he stayed and waited, though for what he wasn't sure.
"You will have to leave here soon." Came a voice.
"Leave? Leave where?" he mewed, a sense of calm grounding him and pushing away his panic.
"Leave your past. You will find a future for yourself like this place, at once peaceful and a terrible, chaotic torrent."
"Why?" he gasped as a wave broke and crashed upon him, his claws gorging marks into the stone in his struggle to stay grounded. To fall would be his end. He couldn't let the rush steal him away, he couldn't…
"Because you must leave to save the future. Don't be afraid,"-the voice gained power and became many, all speaking in perfect unison- "we will guide you, always, even when you remain blind to our presence." Gentle teeth pulled at the back of his neck, lifting him back onto the hard ground. Something began to tug at his memories, but they resisted, flowing just out of his grasp. Somehow, he had been here before, in a situation alike to the one at current, with the same jaws grasping the fur at his neck-
"Awaken. Live."
His body jerked and he straightened upright, feeling an urgent sense of need. A scent wafted by and he breathed it in, absorbing the pain, the fear, and Nightingale. Danger. Instinct warned him not to trespass on its fringes, but he pushed it aside and slipped between the bracken, catching its raspy touch against his fur.
Unfamiliar yowls pierced his ears like the harsh shriek of a mother bird, and he weighed them against the other memories in his mind, developing his course of action. If the cats were harming Nightingale, he would kill them, he decided. Narrowing his eyes and focus, he imagined the warmth of a neck against his teeth, the blood-scent mesmerizing him, his jaw acting and the spurt of warm liquid down his throat with a feeling reminiscent of milk. There was, he realized, an innate knowledge of killing he possessed. He could sense the shape of a cat's body and where the blood would flow fastest, where a quick snap of the head would invite the shadow of death and the force it would take to produce such an effort.
As he ran, he worked his jaw into that shape, licking imaginary blood from his mouth and releasing a low growl that quickly escalated into a howl of its own kind, a deep, threatening sound that scattered a scrawny vole that had been shuffling about in the undergrowth.
His eyes leapt to the sky, widening as he took note of the sun's fall. Sleep had claimed him for most of the remaining light, and Nightingale hadn't returned since sunhigh. Then he knew, without the least scrap of doubt, that she was being harmed at this very moment.
If he had possessed wings, he would have flown. He was only just aware of the ground beneath the pounding of his paws and of the soft tearing of his pads. He had to stop, however, when he opened his skin further and the blood began to steadily flow without cease despite how many licks he subjected it to. He was desperate, furiously bringing his tongue over his torn flesh, wanting to be at Nightingale's side, destroying her tormentors, only to be stopped by the bleeding of his weak pads.
"Help me, cats of my dream, if you were truthful in your words." He found himself calling out, letting the bleeding foot fall from his mouth. He closed his eyes, and for a few moments he sat there breathing hard, waiting for a sign that the dream cats had heard his plea. The forest was silent.
Peeling open one eyelid, he glanced about him. Nothing. He wailed and stared at his foot. Tentatively, he placed his weight on it and winced, expecting the blood to start gushing. It didn't, and he started in the direction of Nightingale's scent, moving slower to avoid breaking his skin. Remembering the help he had been given, he paused to send a word of thanks to the cats who had, true to their word, carried out their promise.
There was an omen in this, he decided. He couldn't bleed again. He understood that should the red liquid flow from his pelt a second time, it may never stop. It was a warning that showed him that he had to be careful, even at walking, to not give it any cause to be summoned.
"You are different from the others. Though it is a great weakness, it is also your greatest strength." A voice murmured inside of his head. "Take care not to forget."
It took a few more steps before the fur on his back flattened and the shiver of uneasiness left him. Not allowing himself to be distracted further, Flood stopped and opened his jaws to inhale the scent of Nightingale, smelling her distress, her building fear. His ears prickled at the sound of voices and he turned them toward the direction of the sound, increasing his speed until he reached a point when he could understand what was being spoken.
"You" hissed a tom "will listen to us and you will obey."
"And if I don't? You think to kill me, don't you?" Nightingale was amused, or at least she tried to make them think that she was. Flood could catch a bitterness in the waft of her scent that the wind blew his way and knew that she was very afraid. He thanked the dream cats, as they seemed to have established themselves as his protectors, for her ability to lock her true self away.
"I wouldn't be so proud if I were in your position."
A tiny mew touched Flood's ears, barely a whisper against the rustle of the forest. It was a whimper, a suppressed expression of pain. Nightingale.
The song was in his throat again, rumbling through his body until his jaws snapped open and it was free to echo in the forest. He could tell that the other cats heard him. Their responding yowls were utterly feral and infuriated.
"Where is he who dares interfere?" the oppressive odor of the cats seethed from the shadows and surrounded Flood and he heard the padding of approaching paws. Shining in the scattered light of the sun were many pairs of eyes. The song had broken and unleashed into its own, mad yowl. The sound of it frightened Flood, who was not yet able to discern what his body was preparing for or from where the sound sprang. His claws flashed as he leapt over their heads, needing to reach Nightingale. Instinct made him pause, consider returning to-
Kill. His body was telling him, wanting him to kill. No. He pushed all aside but the desire to reach Nightingale. Plumed tails waved in the shadows, their owners in full pursuit of the invader. Flood felt his heart thud against his chest and he swept past a clump of sedges and stopped, his eyes widening in horror.
Nightingale, beautiful Nightingale, lay crumpled on the ground with her neck bent and blood gushing from an open wound, pooling on the ground around her.
"I know where to cut so that it bleeds the most." Came the voice of the tom from before. He crouched to the side, drawing his tongue over his paw then behind his head, where Flood noticed it shone crimson with moist blood. The tom, looking up at Flood, continued "Too bad it's also the messiest."
"Why?"
"Because it bleeds the most, I already said-" he narrowed his eyes. "Oh, you mean to ask why I killed her? Because I did. You will learn, kit, the allure of murder. It doesn't have to be justified to everyone else."
The song in Flood's throat hadn't ceased except only briefly in the shock of seeing Nightingale's body, but now it coursed strong in his will and he closed his sanity to the force of vengeance. His lips pulled away from his teeth, the black of his eyes expanding in the shadow as he neared the tom.
"See? Even now you seek to murder me. One cat's revenge is another's gravest loss."
Flood could only hear the fury surging within. It roared in his ears and blocked out the world, all but the beating heart and warm pelt of the cat before him.
Fluid like the water, he curved his body and lunged. The center of warmth shifted to one side, slipping just underneath his paws. Earth brushed his fur and his claws grabbed a hold of it and he adjusted his weight to stay upright.
His prey seemed uncertain. Everything about the tom rushed through Flood's mind. Minute calculations were made subconsciously before his next leap.
Blood touched open air, wet on his paws. The tom crouched low and Flood leaned away to avoid him then snapped at the unbalanced cat and felt solid flesh crush between his teeth.
Favoring the wound, the tom made the final mistake and slashed Flood's flank with his claws. The momentum carried over when Flood dipped his head underneath the flashing claws and the tom fell to the ground, hissing as his wounded leg was crushed beneath him.
Flood leaned over him and bit down hard. The skin broke, and he jerked his head to tear it aside, ripping open the neck and summoning a gurgling stream of blood, warm like the light of the sun upon his fur. The lingering instinct of a kit almost brought him to taste it, to see if a substance so similar in feeling to milk also contained something alike to its taste or the spreading warmth as it gushed down his throat.
His fur rose on end. It started coming back to him, the fight, the blood, and the words spoken to him that he had discarded while fighting purely on impulse. He stared at the body growing steadily colder underneath his paws. Tentatively, he licked his mouth and tasted the sharp tang of blood.
"I have killed a cat." He mewed quietly.
"Yes, little one, and this will not be the last time, though all will be in your own paws in the future. We can only stay with you like this for a short while longer."
"I wasn't myself. I'm too young even to hunt, and I've already killed a cat."
"We stepped into your paws and fought your battle for you through the skill of many generations of warriors."
"Who are you?" A sudden chill rustled Flood's fur.
"We are ancient warriors of the past. While your physical form was unable, we occupied it and our strength made it possible. Your mind is very great, young kit, and when you are able, you will make a feared warrior indeed."
"Then I'll be able to kill them all. Every single cat who participated in the murder." Flood said.
As if deliberating how to reply, the dream cats' whispers tickled his ears like a breeze.
"Your mind has gone." A she-cat mewed, her voice barely audible. It took Flood a moment to realize that this voice wasn't in his head. "You speak of such terrible things… And to yourself, as if you and your mind are separate. And you killed him… Why?" The last word manifested into a shriek.
"Run. You must go!" it was the voice of the familiar she-cat from his dream.
I'll kill them. I'll kill them. Flood thought, needing to keep himself focused on his revenge, now that it had seized control of him. The shrieking of the she-cat rang in his head repeatedly, faster and faster until it became a single, shrill note piercing his thoughts.
He couldn't help but throw a glance over his shoulder. The distraught she-cat had her head buried in the fur of the dead tom. Flood stared again at Nightingale's body and was unsure if he should have mourned her further. He had never had the chance to learn.
The she-cat's head jerked up at him, her eyes intense and filled with solid loathing. "You are a murderer, kit, and Prophet didn't deserve this. He was a good cat, he-"
"He killed my moth- the cat who raised me!" Flood growled, his tail curling and lashing behind him.
"She was a wicked cat and deserved every bit of it. She murdered his kits!"
"Rose, find Prophet and-"An orange tom bristled as he noticed the she-cat, Rose, sharing tongues for the last time with Prophet. Flood followed the tom's eyes as they scanned the clearing, then he staggered back when both Rose and the orange tom focused on him and lowered their bodies to the ground, slinking slowly nearer.
"Let's end this once and for all." Flood said, stabilizing himself for their oncoming attack.
"No. You will flee. We will not fight this battle for you."
Denied their help, the only option Flood had left was to run, and he did. Rose's next cry nearly took the rest of his sanity, so great was its lamentation and clouded hate.
"Poor, lost kit, let us lead you while we can."
Fog was festooned over Flood as he traveled, obscuring his scent and acting like a protective veil. The dream cats were silent, though not uneasy. He did not know how he was going to survive while unable to hunt for himself.
Flowing water caught his attention and Flood gratefully lowered his head to the stream and quelled his thirst as well as some of his hunger. It glittered in the retreating sunlight. Flood felt weariness tremble in his paws and realized that he would have to find refuge for the night.
"I am helpless without her. What makes a safe shelter and what doesn't?" He asked, settling down against the graven bark of a tree.
"You may rest in peace here. You have done well, little one."
Flood drifted into a dream of cats made of stars and the soothing voice of Nightingale calling him into sleep.
He woke feeling hollow, in hunger and in emotion.
"How will I survive if I starve? I must eat soon."
"Your body is yet capable of great strength. We will not let hunger destroy you. Now go, you must journey on."
Flood struggled through the next few turns of the sun. As the shadows of time stretched into a quarter-moon, he forgot how an absence of hunger felt. Sometimes he walked in his own paws, sometimes ancient warriors walked for him. Night was his only solace and even then he would dream only of Nightingale.
As his path was decided by the dream cats, Flood kept himself steeled towards revenge in order to ground himself to the world of the living. Always, he searched for little hints of a large group of cats, searching for the one of which Prophet, Rose and the orange tom had been a part of.
He was slipping away. Flood felt himself withdraw into his dreams, losing his determination. When he voiced his worries, he received no response but the beating of his own heart.
"I'm going to die. And now, I'm not so sure if I care."
"Why?" the mew of a strange cat caught his attention.
"I'm going to die because I cannot hunt for myself. I no longer care because my real mother abandoned me at birth, the cat who had raised me was murdered, and I have no means to find her murderers to avenge her death." Staring at a small pool, Flood wondered if he could even recall the methods Nightingale had used to turn fish into prey.
"My housefolk have food. Would you like some?"
Flood widened his eyes. 'Housefolk' was the term given by kittypets to refer to their twolegs. He examined the cat for the first time, contrasting his own, famished grey pelt with the smooth rounding of the tom's brown one.
"Don't decline my offer, I won't allow it. Come!" the tom chirped.
Scrambling to his feet, Flood followed him through a flap of a strange material into a nearby twoleg nest. He was led to a heaping mound of dry-smelling pellets. They were just close enough to the scent of fresh-kill for him to gulp them down, ravenous. There isn't a piece of fresh-kill to match the taste of subdued hunger, he thought. He raised his eyes to meet those of the tom, who was sitting to the side with a glimmer of amusement in his face.
"I thank you for your kindness. Can you help me once more? I need to know where to find a large group of cats." Respectfully, Flood stepped away from what was left of the food. It had been hard to restrain himself from devouring it all, but Nightingale had warned him against slaking his hunger with huge binges of prey.
"Funny, that. There is indeed a large group of cats in the forest. Follow the light of the dawn sun and you will reach them." He followed Flood out of the nest. "I understand that you will not want to stay any longer to chat. Travel well!"
"I am grateful for all of your help." Flood started to walk away, feeling renewed. He paused. "Wait, what is your name?"
"I am called Grouse. And who are you, kit?"
"Flood. Nightingale named me Flood." Both cats dipped their heads to the other and went their own directions.
The burning call for vengeance had resurrected within Flood, coursing strong with his blood through his body. He knew that he had to reach the forest cats. There was no doubt in his mind that they were murderers and that he needed to exterminate their kind. Starry paws walked alongside of his, offering their guidance.
"We will have to leave you very soon now, little kit. Only the mind of the innocent can hold such an easy connection with us. But you must know that we will never truly leave you, for you will bring with you the end. It will be a terrible end, but you will also bring the only hope."
The forlorn kit could only journey on.
Note: I made StarClan more personal than the cannon usually portrays them, which I thought made sense because the mind of an innocent kit is less restricted and more impressionable. This will change really soon. And yes, Flood does have feline hemophilia.
I haven't had much experience with writing battle scenes involving cats, so if anyone has criticism or suggestions I would be glad to hear them.
Next chapter will be again from Willowkit's perspective, but expect more from Flood in the future. The story will be told from a combination of both of their perspectives.