"Devastation"


"Stop, stop, stop! For StarClan's sake, stop!"

Birdstar's wretched cry echoes through the camp, fanning from the front of her den toward the clearing outskirts where the far battle is taking place.

"RiverClan, halt!"

Shallowstar joins in, breathy and shrill as she calls for her Clan's attention. From the mass there are a few scattered yowls before the noise level dies and the aimless clawing and swiping ceases. The jumbled mix of ThunderClan and RiverClan look up at the high rock where the leaders perch.

Nearly half of Birdstar's face is bathed in crimson. Her left ear split and one of her eyes closed. Those closest can see the tortoiseshell's pelt matted with blood - a majority of it splashed on her flanks. Similarly, Shallowstar's gray and white pelt is also joined with a new stark red hue. Her muzzle is bloody, as are her paws. Some places on her white underbelly are now that same dark shade of blood where Birdstar had undoubtedly sliced across as much as she could.

The ThunderClan leader faces Shallowstar with a look of murderous rage. "You," she growls, loud and accusatory. "You selfish. . . cruel. . . heartless. . . daughter of a sleaze! How could you do something this horrible?"

Shallowstar pants heavily, glaring. "It is you, Birdstar, who is the cruel and heartless one. ThunderClan took the life of my son. My Clan and I are here to pay our respects."

"Are you satisfied then?" Birdstar snarls, baring fangs stained with blood smears. "You have taken one of my lives, the life of my deputy, the life of one of my warriors, and the lives of two innocent kits. Are. You. Satisfied?"

"Never," RiverClan's leader sneers, curling her lip as she bounds off the rock.

"Mark my words, Shallowstar," Birdstar growls shakily from her perch. "RiverClan has crossed the line and will be punished for their wrongdoings."

Shallowstar pauses, craning her head around to fix the tortoiseshell with a powerful stare. "Consider them marked." Her own fuzzy crown held high, Shallowstar struts through the rest of the camp's clearing, gathering her own warriors in her wake. She catches the eye of her mate and daughter, both bearing smears of red on their muzzles as they pad away from the nursery and fall into line behind the victorious leader. She ignores the gross sobbing from inside the bramble lined hollow.

Clearwater and Shybee emerge from their hiding spot in the shadows, carrying the few remaining parcels of herbs that hadn't been used in the heat of the battle and were certain to be used once the whole of RiverClan returned to their camp. A heavily patched up Ripplemask follows them.

Splashtail and Cloudyhaze, both mostly unscathed, trot up from the sidelines, joining the ever growing mass of victorious RiverClan cats.

Somewhere in the middle of the parting cats, Minnowrunner, Sunpath, Duskbelly, Smoothfur, Reedrush and Mistbloom mingle their way into the crowd.

The last to move is Nutfur who still remains frozen by his brother's side, immobile.

Tansyspot breaks away from the rest of the Clan, returning to the pale warrior with tears in her eyes. Deeming Nutfur to be too deep in stunned headspace, she bends down and starts draping the limp corpse of Brownpelt across her back.

The motionless Nutfur suddenly starts growling low in his throat but makes no inclination of moving on his wordless threat.

"You're in no condition to carry him," Tansyspot's voice breaks slightly under the wrought of her own emotions, continuing until the body of her lover is nestled on her back. "You just walk and I'll carry him."

Again Nutfur growls, though much lower and more resigned. He complies and lifelessly rises to his own sore paws. When the calico looks into the warrior's eyes, she doesn't see life. She sees a hollow, empty vacancy which sends a chill down her spine.

"Come on then," she whispers, starting to trail after the rest of RiverClan.

Blankly, Nutfur follows.


"Warriors! RiverClan has returned victorious!" Shallowstar booms upon her arrival to camp, instantly bounding toward the mossy stump where she makes announcements. "I doubt ThunderClan will be so quick to attack with the beating we gave them." Her sadistic smile fades and it seems that the callous leader begins to realize their own loss. "Sadly, Reedrush has informed me of our casualties on the return trip home. While we managed to take some of ThunderClan lives, they took the lives of Lashtail and Brownpelt. As proper tradition, we shall begin the mourning process and Thornswipe will take care of the burial site."

Nutfur's head whips up, shaken from his paralyzed stupor of his brother's demise.

Lashtail too?

Oh StarClan, no.

Not his Uncle Lashtail.

Still, the pale warrior remains at his brother's side.

Much of the Clan parts. Akin to Featherpaw's mourning, many of the other warriors were not close enough to form a solid bond with the deceased. Only Featherpaw's family and various others including Nutfur had overseen the honoring and the burial. And like before, Brownpelt's and Lashtail's memorial pool was limited.

Ripplemask. Nutfur wasn't so sure to label her as anything. Certainly Ripplemask and Lashtail were close friends but he had never heard any gossip of them being actual mates.

Tansyspot. Of course. The new mate overcome with grief and sadness. Nutfur's heart pangs a little for her. The chestnut tom and the calico she-cat had limited time together after both confessed their feelings. Now the lass would have to spend her days alone without the comfort of another tom.

Minnowrunner. Brownpelt's mentor. She sits close to the deceased, breathing softly with her lips creased into a frown. She saw her apprentice become a warrior for all of a few moons.

Thornswipe. For Lashtail. An older friend of the great ruddy brown tom settles down to pay his respects.

And who can forget the haggard pale cat himself? Nutfur knows both of the fallen, having been raised by one and raised the other. When Oakfrost passed, Nutfur and Brownpelt as kittens were left without parents. Lashtail and Ripplemask were the ones who stepped up and offered to raise the tiny scraps of fur. Despite being Uncle Lashtail, the old graying feline was more a father than Nutfur's blood-linked kin. With Pikestar's announcement all those moons ago, young Nutpaw was apprenticed under the experienced and revered Lashtail. When Nutfur's training paid off long enough for him to become a warrior, many would have thought that the pair would be more inseparable but sadly, Lashtail and Nutfur grew apart.

Nutfur had a wiry Brownpaw to watch over, after all. Brownpaw was always held in high regard. Brownpaw came first. Above everything, Brownpaw's needs were given priority. Anytime the poor scrap of chestnut fur had a nightmare, Nutfur's nest was always shared. No questions asked.

Sharing meals, sharing laughs, sharing everything.

Nutfur supposes he felt a blossom of jealousy root in his heart when Brownpelt found his own feet. As a warrior, he told off his older brother by saying he didn't need him anymore. That conversation stung bitterly. Tansyspot remained in the picture, though featuring a more prominent role now that Brownpelt confessed his love for the darling female. She was pleasant enough and Nutfur saw his klutz of a brother constantly dote from afar, displaying looks of total longing. It was a good match. Shame they only had so little time to try and fully embrace their love.

But Nutfur and Brownpelt. They were inseparable. As kits they stuck to one another like warts on a toad or minnows to a puddle. They were always together.

So now what?

Clearwater answers the unspoken of the moment, announcing her presence at Nutfur's side with a nose touch to his shoulder. When the tom turns his head around, slow and tired-eyed, he spots the pale flowers in her jaw and a bundle of wet moss in her paws before she nudges them forward appropriately and wordlessly. With her mouth free, the bluish tabby quirks her lip a little. Sad and sympathetic, yet with an underlying flicker of hopes for better days ahead.

The pale warrior slumps down to his haunches, starting the cleaning process to his dead brother's fur. He had seen Clearwater do something similar to his Featherpaw - wash away the dirt and the blood. And oh StarClan, there was many a blood stain on this poor brown cat's coat. The patches of crimson dried around the wounds, no longer gushing blood as they had been during the intense battle. Around his throat, flanks, face, legs. . . so much red.

While cleaning, Nutfur is unable to fight off the clench in his heart. Brownpelt should not have died this day. Had he been doomed to die on the battlefield, Nutfur prayed to StarClan that it would be honorable: fighting off a fierce enemy and suddenly struck from behind from a foul, fox-hearted rogue before Nutfur would avenge his sibling and murder the attacker in cold blood. But this didn't happen according to his plan. No. Brownpelt should not have died this way. There was nothing honorable about bleeding to death from two apprentices with intent to maim. Brownpelt had let his guard down in the heat of his first battle, and in the process he had let down his big brother. The chestnut warrior let a careless swipe slash his throat and couldn't fight it long enough to find Clearwater and get himself patched up.

No.

Because Brownpelt was a quitter.

Brownpelt was careless and foolish.

He wasn't up to the task of fighting for revenge and curse the stars, Featherpaw's death needed to be fought for. Featherpaw needed redemption.

But was Brownpelt up for it?

No!

He quit.

He let himself bleed out on the battlefield - the ultimate give up.

The ultimate failure.

No. . .

Nutfur refuses to remember his brother this way.

Brownpelt was a noble warrior.

Kind, a bit soft-hearted, too much of a worrywart, but noble nonetheless. He made friends rather easily, which was odd considering most cats' opinions on his kind. Immediately smitten with a young Tansypaw, the chestnut tom had pranced around trying to gain her affection while being the best he could be. He hunted, he trained, he fought, all for the glory and prosperity of his Clan.

Brownpelt was a warrior of RiverClan through and through.

No one deserves to be remembered only by their wrongdoings.

Remember them for all the good they did while they were alive.

Remember them for the positives. Remember them for the stories. Remember them for their accomplishments.

Remember them for who they are.

A sad smile plays on Nutfur's muzzle, confusing those around him in immediate proximity. The pale warrior, finished with his cleaning, starts weaving the lavender into the cold, wet fur, allowing the purple blooms to settle and waft a pleasing scent into the air. Then, once all of the given flowers are tucked away into the long locks of chestnut brown fur, Nutfur settles down near his sibling's flank, placing his muzzle atop his side and heaving out a gust of air through his nose. He licks his chops, a soft smack of his lips resonating through the silence before his eyes gently close.

Ten seconds of mere peace pass until a deep, guttural moan echoes from the center of camp. Cats cast their gazes at the bodies at the center, pausing when they spot a shuddering pale shape releasing heaving breaths wrought with wet sobs.

Nutfur's heart clenches deep once again. His eyelids scrunch up and he grits his teeth, barring them as if he were in physical pain. Through his locked fangs, he wails, hissing and spitting his frustration into the fur of his brother. No words are spoken, just the cries of a broken warrior.

The mismatched calico creeps closer, touching her bright wet nose to the head of her mate.

Nutfur's head whips up again, his broad paw making a swiping motion in order to drive Tansyspot away. His goal is reached when she squeals, backing up a few good paces.

"Nutfur! Let her mourn!" Minnowrunner snarls, up on her feet and pelt bristled enough to imitate a thorn bush. "Brownpelt was someone special to many of us - not just you!"

"He's my brother! He's mine to mourn! Alone!" Nutfur howls in response, stamping his feet as hot tears bathe his emeralds once again.

"Brownpelt was a warrior of RiverClan," insists the pale tabby warrior, scoring claw marks into the soil. "He deserves to be honored by his kin."

"His kin!" hisses Nutfur. "I am his kin!"

"We all are!" Minnowrunner yells louder, shaking the other warrior's eardrums. "And if you don't let anyone else mourn your brother besides yourself, I will personally shred your other ear."

The threat strikes a chord in Nutfur's heart and the tom relents, pulling away in a secluded, submissive gesture as he flops down back at Brownpelt's side. He doesn't spare a glance when a tentative Tansyspot slinks closer, resuming her spot by the chestnut's head, her muzzle touching his. Minnowrunner goes unnoticed as well when the warrior's former mentor settles down at her prodigy's spine.

The camp goes silent.

Heavy with the musk of death.


A/N:

Heyy, have a belated update. Here we get an insight of some darker intentions for some characters. We have Nutfur starting to spiral, which leads to some flared tempers and high emotions. And who could forget about lovely lovely Shallowstar? Our wonderful leader who will never be satisfied. (Wink wink to any Hamilton fans out there.) She's got blood on her mind while walking the border line of sanity and insanity.

RiverClan's gonna undergo some interesting developments I'd say.

Starrysong Summer Hype : yessssss

Clearwater, Reedrush, and Stingheart - though barely - have yet to kick the bucket. Wonderful old Lashtail took his final breath on the battlefield along with his adopted nephew.

Poor Nutfur indeed.

I guess we'll find out later~

BrightMind : Fair enough, the plot does seem to be all over the place but when I wrote the outline, our story has a definitive and wholesome ending. I wrote the story to end how it will and while the whole destiny thing seems to the be main focus, once it failed thanks to our rebellious protagonists, there's really only a few ways to go from there. I personally chose the darkest path littered with thorns. The omen/destiny arc ended with Featherpaw's death. Brownpelt's death spurred another, albeit brief, arc that I'll explain more in depth the further we go along.

And yes, even Nutfur recalls how stupid his brother's death is. Writer's choice it seems. However, I will say that Brownpelt does get his redemption chance that will be written for later on in these last few chapters.

QotC: Featherpaw's dead. Brownpelt's dead. Lashtail's dead. So what shall befall our precious Nutfur?

- Snarky