A/N: See those cute italicized words down there? I added them to the past few chapters too. They are very important, so go back and reread the little lines. Their purpose will be shown in the last chapter.
Merry early Christmas! As a present could every reader review? Pwease?
This is also my last pre-written chapter, so don't expect one next week.
Word count: 2540
Chapter Four
If only crooked paths would start winding straight
After the initial planned meeting, Spark fell into an easy rhythm with her new, and first, friend. They met at the same time every day; if one didn't show up, the other would assume that Twoleg or father had interfered with the pattern. And, thankfully, Spark was getting better at ignoring the awkward feelings in the pit of her stomach at the end of each meeting. Soon, the ginger cat and Bingo were reduced to making random remarks about the weather to see who was wittier; they already knew all there was to know about the other and had little to discuss. Though they had known each other for less than two weeks, it felt like they'd been friends since forever.
One day, after a rather tiring get-together —the two had competed to see who could jump higher— Spark heard quiet talking near her and Father's territory. Intrigued, the she-cat decided not to use her usual secret path, which she had established after a close call with her father. Instead, she lowered her body into a crouch and slowly crept towards the source of the noise, then ducked behind a bush as the voices rose.
"How can you say that?! He was —is— your littermate, for StarClan's sake!"
Spark flinched at the sharpness in the cat's —she-cat, adult, with a slightly strange accent— tone. But although she drew back, she was still hit with full force by what came next.
"Younger brother, not littermate. And he lost the right to call himself my kin ever since he joined those–those savages."
Father.
That was the first word that hit Spark, making her recoil even more as if she'd been struck.
That voice... is Father.
Her head spun, a whirlwind of betrayal and confusion making any sane thoughts indiscernible.
Spark allowed herself to peek through the thick foliage she was hiding in. There he was. Old, gray Father. Next to him was...
Can it be...?
He'd always told her she was an exact replica of her mother. "You have nothing from me. It all came from that she-cat."
And, at least from what she could see in the dusky gloom, this she-cat looked just like a carbon copy copy of Spark; same shade of ginger, same dappled pattern, white muzzle and ears. Spark assumed that she had green eyes, though she couldn't see them from this angle.
Her brain refused to work. She found nothing from this newfound information; to put it simply, what Spark saw in front of her was no more than two strangers languidly chatting with each other.
The next statement was quieter, from the she-cat —no, Mother.
Spark stretched her ears until they ached, and even then she could only catch a few tidbits of the sentence.
"Banished... Lique... puppets controlling puppets... mountains..."
The words made something in Spark's mind click, and the gears started turning again.
Mountains.
What had she heard about mountains? A week ago, maybe two? Three? Lost in her frustration, the eavesdropping she-cat missed the next few bits of exchange. The conversation had taken a turn—
"How's Sunspot?" Father.
"Same old, same old." She-cat. She murmured something else, more quietly, that the spying cat could not hear.
Spark recognized the two-word name; Father had said those strange names belonged to the Clans, the Clans that she was to never affiliate with.
So why was he standing here, asking after one? Worried, perhaps, about it?
She could see the old gray tom blink, as if caught off guard. Spark tried not to make a sound as she tilted her head to make out the words. "Had... first taste... Fire... wandering... in shock and confusion, I believe."
"Is this normal?!" The pointedness, along with a bit of venom, had returned to the she-cat's tone. "She's my kit, Tamer, not yours, and don't you forget that. If anything happens to my poor—"
So Tamer is his real name.
Are they talking about me?
What's the Fire?
The cat was cut off by "Tamer's" calm reply. "Stella, I've been doing this for seasons. Trust me."
"Stella" made a spitting noise, and there were no more words spoken. Unexpectedly, the wind picked up and Spark was no longer downwind. Fath— Tamer bristled, opening his mouth to scent the air.
"She's here. You best go."
Stella stormed away without a good-bye, obviously upset. Spark's heart beat in her throat. Tamer's owlish eyes met her own. They stared at each other until the former broke the tense silence.
"What did you hear?"
Spark padded out of the bush. No sense in hiding now. "Everything," the she-cat replied smoothly. It wasn't completely true, but the look on Tamer's face was worth it. If he lies, I can too.
But then she felt herself breaking, breaking in front of the cat she'd once been proud to call her paterfamilias. Her whole life...
...had been a fabrication?
"You said—" Spark felt herself choking on her words— "you said she left, that she didn't care about me. You said you were Dad, and I was your kit."
Who are you?
Tamer closed his eyes like he'd done so many times before, but Spark didn't feel a shred of sympathy for the cat.
The cat —not Father. Just a meaningless stranger.
"Sit down," he said at last. "And I'll explain everything."
Spark was about to sit down, to hear the truth and the whats, whos, and whys, but something snapped.
She stops herself before her legs can bend. She straightens up. The real part of her recognizes this, remembers the crimson haze that blanketed the earth last time it had happened. The real part of her trembles in terror, and that part is waiting. Waiting like a rabbit under claws, knowing it will die the second after. Waiting to be possessed and to lash out at, maybe even kill, the gray feline in front of her.
What she doesn't know is, not this time.
This time there is no anger, no hostility; she is simply... broken. Rage is the tinder to make the Fire, and without it one cannot kindle the flame. This time it is because They are displeased; for The Tamer has attempted to foil their plans once again. It is not time for her to know. She must remain Their puppet until the scheme is in action.
So she whips around, ignoring The Tamer, and flees as she is told to do; They do not intend to let her hear even an iota of truth, no matter what it takes. Her tired, exhausted real self does not resist at all and allows the piece of her controlled by Them to coax her —as if she was a scared kit— into an abandoned fox hole. This is where she will be safe, where she cannot be found, by either Tamer nor truth.
And the truth is safe, as is the marionette.
Their work is done.
They let her go, and for the she-cat all turns dark.
xXxOoXoOxXx
Bird.
That, for some inexplicable reason, was the first thing that came to mind as Spark lifted her throbbing head, unaware of her surroundings. Not just bird —birds. Tons of them. She heard their fluttering wings as they flitted in and out of trees. They twittered sweet melodies, completely unaware and uncaring to the she-cat whose life had been ruined the night before. Because, no matter what happens—
Life goes on.
And if that was so, then Spark would recover.
But from what?
She tried to remember; something was clearly wrong. Why wasn't she with Fa—
Well, that was a start. There'd been a fight, she knew that much. Spark tried to think of something, but all it did was make her head pound harder and her heartbeat accelerate. Her chest felt crushed, as if it were under the heaviest weight in the world.
The she-cat's breathing was hitched, becoming ragged the longer she tried to dig through her memory. It was crazy— as if, in order to regain her memories, Spark had to go through physical excruciation. A tug-of-war of sorts; but the other side was too strong, so powerful that Spark couldn't even see her end.
Not yet, dearie. Now's not the time.
All the fur on Spark's neck raised in one swift motion at the honeyed voice; a sickening, fake saccharine. She felt suddenly swamped in curiosity, and it reminded her of something that happened last evening.
Or was it twilight? She didn't even know when anymore.
Who was that?
There was a quiet chortle, a teasing ha-ha that made Spark whip around. Her pelt prickled. It had been right there. Stars darn it, she could still feel the lingering breath, tickling and warm, in her ear. A chill ran through the ginger cat's spine despite the warmth of the early fall.
The presence was gone as abruptly as it came, but the alluring voice danced across Spark's mind.
Not yet.
She felt frustration explode in her, and with it an image; a ginger she-cat, looking angry—
"Ow!"
Spark bit down on her tongue. Her mind whirled in agony, pulsating once again. It seemed that of she got even close to finding out what happened, there would be pain. And lots of it.
But the torment was gone, leaving Spark wondering if it had been an illusion. She tried again to recall the scene.
More anguish.
Spark ignored it best as she could and stood up, promptly hitting her head and sending down a shower of dirt. Where was she?
Fox den.
Not bothering to wonder why —it would just bring more pain, wouldn't it?— Spark padded out. First things first; she had to get food. Eat now, think later.
Because somehow she knew she wouldn't be going back home for some time.
Wherever home was...
As if on cue, the birdsong increased dramatically in volume and the young cat's stomach rumbled. She crouched down low and tucked her legs as she spotted a sparrow; she'd been taught basic hunting skills by Father—
Not Father. Tamer...
Spark braced herself, knowing well what would come next, but nothing happened. No agony, no discomfort of any sort.
Maybe it was just a figment of the imagination. Spark pushed the tidbit of information to the back of her mind anyway; once she ate, she would think better.
The dappled cat bunched up her muscles and sprung from her spot next to the makeshift den, easily dispatching her target and landing on all four paws. A splatter of blood hit Spark's nose and she stuck her tongue out to wipe it away. Already the prospect of tender bird flesh was reviving her from the abyss of darkness she'd been in.
Spark dropped the fresh-kill on the forest floor, not caring where she had landed, and dug in. She ate with gusto, spitting out feathers efficiently and savoring every bit of the juicy pink meat. The she-cat —who hadn't realized how hungry she was until she took that first bite— even gnawed on the tiny neck bones, an action she would normally find irritating and unnecessary.
She felt much better after her belly was full and sat up, pondering what to do next. As she did so, words flowed in and out of her brain and replenished the empty crevasses of her mind. By doing this, she was slowly but surely being given a full summary of what had happened last night —dusk. After the meeting with Bingo.
Lique.
Puppets controlling puppets.
Mountains.
These were the three main points, according to Spark's strange compulsions. What did she know about the Lique?
Nothing.
Puppets controlling puppets?
No idea.
Mountains?
...scary. Tall. And Bingo...
Bingo!
Surely he could help her with all of this. Spark didn't know if it was selfish or not, but she pushed away any second thoughts, buried the bird bones —so clean they were shining— and opened her mouth to scent the air. Twolegplace was nearby; she could smell the stench of asphalt.
He wouldn't be there until dusk... but still, Spark could wait. It would be better than lingering around here; Tamer would pick up her scent.
Why she didn't want him to find her, she didn't know. It was like a sixth sense, almost as strong as instinct.
Spark, with only a faint sense of direction, started to trod past the dense undergrowth and thick swath of trees. She soon reached an all-too-familiar fence —the one she and Tamer had sat by right before their visit to Minnow and Mickey.
I can find my way from here.
And she did; the ginger she-cat quickly reached the old alley. She prepared herself, blinking her green eyes several times to adjust to the gloom and making her feet steady so she wouldn't sway. However, she wasn't prepared to see the figure sitting on the silver can.
Bingo was already there?
He jumped down from the tall cylinder, and confirmed it: this was Bingo. Here, plain as day, in the morning.
He didn't ask her what she was doing here, and she didn't him. Spark's composure suddenly crumbled when she saw him —she didn't know why, didn't know anything, but at that moment the complete grimness of her situation came crashing down.
She was an orphan; the cat who had raised her from as far back as she could remember was not her father.
She could see his yellow eyes —was she going crazy?— and choked back a cry: How could you?
But the cold orbs faded, and then she saw Bingo, and suddenly Spark had ran to him and buried her muzzle in his shoulder. And she was wracked with sobs, so confused, unable to think with her constantly spinning mind.
"Breathe, Spark. Breathe."
He said her name so tenderly, firmly; just like the heartbeat she could feel under his broad chest; soft and gently yet strong. Calm. A rhythmic lullaby.
And so she breathed.
She was flooded with an absolute, though completely unexpected, certainty of the hunch that she didn't know existed until that moment.
Lique and lick... There was only a small difference, an eeee sound instead of an eye sound. And they both had to do with the mountains...
Spark didn't know how long it took her, but the cries dwindled and she pulled away from Bingo's comforting warmth. She looked him in the eyes and he stared back at her, somehow understanding, somehow not asking her the million questions that must be flooding through his mind.
And so she spoke, tentatively.
When she was when doing so, she broke their eye contact and ducked her head, speaking more to her paws than to him.
"Bingo... I'm going to find your lick."
