CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Fogpaw woke to complete darkness. Something had startled her awake, but around her, there was only silence. Slowly, she became aware that a clump of poppy seeds had been scattered by her muzzle. Stripedpaw. She ate them gratefully, though she still harboured some anger for the scrawny apprentice. Hopefully, they would send her back into the realm of sleep. Her dreams had improved recently, the darkness receding from her mind. It had been days since her last torture session, and Fogpaw wondered if Willowstar had given up. It was that, or they were trying a new torture tactic: isolation.

Using her forepaws to pull herself across the floor, she crawled over to the opening and stared up. Stars winked above her, a desperate reminder of the real world, filling her with a beautiful, crushing hope. One day, she would be back up there. One day, she would be free. Fogpaw had made that promise in her mind a million times, and each time it became more vehement. She was getting angrier by the day, and as her strength returned, angry meant she was trying to break free. But the slope was still too steep for her to manage without help.

Stripedpaw. His name resounded once more in her mind. If only he had helped her. If only he wasn't a coward. Anger burned within her, but as much as she wanted to hate the tom, she found that she just couldn't. He was her only ally in this dingy, painful, messed-up world, even if he was an awful one.

Fogpaw wondered what had woken her. She kept still, holding her breath, attempting to hear any noises from above. Everything was silent, as if the whole world was holding its breath as well, and she found herself anxious, waiting for the big crash that would shatter the stillness. Something was wrong, she could feel that. Her skin prickled uncomfortably beneath her fur. Maybe it was the unease that had woken her, a subconscious feeling that something important was about to happen.

Just as her eyelids began to flutter shut and the poppy seeds overwhelm her, the noise began. It was faint at first, as if from far away, but as she listened, it drew closer. It took Fogpaw a moment to realize that she was hearing footsteps, many of them, hard and heavy against the snow as cats raced back into the WindClan camp. They said nothing, but as more and more arrived, she was aware of their breathing and the beating of their hearts.

"Well?" That was Stripedpaw's voice, hushed.

Willowstar's voice, so familiar to her that it sent shivers down her spine, answered the young tom. "Get Stormtail and start patching up the injured."

Everything made sense to Fogpaw then. It must have been the night of the battle. WindClan was returning, though they were injured. And yet, from the strength she had seen them display, she wasn't sure they had lost. If WindClan was in bad shape, what was ThunderClan like?

"Did we lose any?" An unfamiliar voice. Stormtail?

"Yes." Willowstar's response was curt.

"How?" She could hear the confusion in the tom's voice. "We went over this extensively. They wouldn't have been prepared. We should have won easily."

"It wasn't ThunderClan we fought, Stormtail," said Willowstar, voice thick with anger. Down in her hole, Fogpaw frowned. What was Willowstar talking about, not ThunderClan? What had happened out there? Judging by the sounds from above, WindClan was just as confused as she was.

"What happened?" asked Stormtail.

"Come into my den," said Willowstar. "We'll talk there. Is the prisoner still in her den?"

"I'll check," said Stripedpaw, as the others padded away. Fogpaw could hear their footsteps retreating, far above her. Another pair was drawing closer to her den. The steps were lighter, and she knew it had to be Stripedpaw.

She was right.

The tom threw the vine over the edge and slid down. Fogpaw scrambled back, watching him with suspicion as he approached. Though she said nothing, she made sure her hostility was evident in her posture. Her neck fur was raised, her ears flat against her skull, her eyes narrowed. Her claws, extended, dug into the frosty ground.

"Fogpaw..." he began.

Now that her head was no longer pounding, Fogpaw was able to take a better look at Stripedpaw. The tom was skinny, his ribs painfully obvious underneath his short pelt. His head was narrow, with pointed features and wide golden eyes, and his ears were tall and bat-like. There was an obvious skittishness to him, a wide-eyed look that reminded her of prey the moment before it was caught. When he spoke, his chest hitched, and there seemed to be a heady sense of desperation underlying his voice. She hadn't noticed it before – the haze of pain during there first meeting had dulled him to her – but he was clearly frightened, and she couldn't blame him.

Something about her observations sent a feeling of sympathy through her chest. "Stripedpaw," she replied, and she began to relax. "What's going on?"

He lowered his voice. "That was the attack I told you about."

"I know," Fogpaw mewed, cutting to the chase. The harshness of her words was unlike her, but then again, she wasn't really sure who she was anymore. The torture had changed her and she was still trying to figure it out. "I heard everything. Why wasn't ThunderClan there? Were they warned?"

His golden eyes filled with confusion. "You heard all that?"

She nodded. "So?"

"So..." Stripedpaw trailed off. He took a step backward, bumping against the wall, and for a moment, Fogpaw wondered if he were frightened of her. What was so threatening about being able to hear conversations?

"Stripedpaw, what's wrong?" she asked. She wasn't sure what was going on now, but she knew she couldn't lose her only ally against the darkness.

"Nothing," he said, a little too quickly. "I – I should go, I only came down to check on you."

"Why was Willowstar worried that I had escaped?" asked Fogpaw. It took her a moment. "She thought I might have warned ThunderClan? What happened?"

"I don't know," Stripedpaw mewed. His chest was trembling and his eyes were wide with apprehension. "Look, we'll talk later, okay? I need...I need to go patch the warriors up."

"Stripedpaw!" Fogpaw exclaimed, lunging forward. He scurried away from her and up the vine before she could say anything else. Then the vine disappeared from over the edge of her prison and she was left alone once more.

StarClan take him, she thought, her stomach a roiling mess of fear and anger and unease. Something had spooked him. Something unexpected.

x x x

It was nearing daybreak when Chantelle finally felt Elmheart move beside her. The golden tom stirred wearily, a yawn escaping his slightly-parted muzzle. The she-cat twisted her neck to look at him, glad to finally have some company on the chilly morning. She hadn't slept all night, and Elmheart hadn't fared much better. At some point during the wee hours of the morning, he had finally slipped into slumber. She met his green eyes as he blinked lazily, still too drowsy with sleep to fully be aware of his surroundings.

"Good morning," she purred quietly. They were lying at the outskirts of their makeshift den, the other warriors collapsed around them. The den was emptier than it had been the night before. In the stillness before dawn, Chantelle had watched several of the warriors leave with Slatestar in order to go check on the ThunderClan camp.

He gave her a half-smile. "Morning," mumbled Elmheart. He was still a little disoriented, she could tell. "How long did I sleep?"

"Not very long," she told him, snuggling against him. He wrapped his tail over her flank and gave her cheek an affectionate lick. Chantelle felt the purr in her chest begin to build. There was something so wonderfully warm and open about Elmheart. The way he took care of her...it felt good to be wanted, to be held.

"The camp?" he asked.

"Slatestar took a patrol to check on it," she mewed. "But so far, there's been no emergency."

"Good," Elmheart said. He gave her cheek another lick before rising to his feet. The dawn light accentuated his golden-brown fur, alighting the tabby in a blaze of burnished copper. His green eyes sparkled as they gazed down at her and Chantelle felt a flutter in her heart. Then he turned away, surveying the camp. "Did you sleep?"

She shook her head. "I couldn't," Chantelle admitted.

Elmheart sighed. "It feels strange here."

The black she-cat nodded. It did. There was an odd silence to their evacuation site, stretching over the snow. It was too quiet here, too cold, too crisp. The air was punctuated with the sense of unease and the expectation of an attack. They weren't comfortable here. ThunderClan was wary. She certainly hadn't seen a wink of sleep all night. "If the plan worked and we head back, it'll be better."

Elmheart nodded, face grim. "Better for now, at least. We still have to figure out how to deal with the rogues, and with WindClan. We don't even know what they wanted."

"No..." Chantelle's voice trembled as she trailed off. It was bad enough that Alder had brought down Baron's wrath upon the Clans, but it was even worse now that she realized ThunderClan had struggles of its own, between the cold and the lack of prey and the threat of WindClan. They had taken this Clan's problems – Elmheart's problems – and effectively doubled them.

Elmheart. Even his name sounded perfect. It was so reassuring, so bold, so warm. It captured him perfectly, really. He was strong as an elm tree, as broad as its branches, a protector – her protector. And he was filled with caring, with love, with hope, with heart. If there was one things the Clans could do right, it was train their members. Elmheart, and the rest of the warriors here, were unlike any cats she had met back in the city. Their strength wasn't just physical: it was derived from their devotion to their Clan and to the warrior code. They fought for a purpose, not just for themselves.

It was remarkable.

As she stared up at the tom, her heart began to swell, her breath caught in her throat. Over the past few weeks, they had become very close. She counted herself the most fortunate cat in the whole forest, to have Elmheart by her side. He was everything Alder wasn't, and the more time she spent with him, the less she cared about Alder. The brown tabby had been her friend, but he had never provided for her the way Elmheart promised. That's all Chantelle had ever wanted – to be taken care of, to be provided for.

She got to her feet and followed him as he padded into the clearing. "Elmheart," she began, saying his name with hesitation. "I'm sorry this had to happen."

"Me too," said Elmheart, casting a glance toward her. "But don't be sorry. It's not your fault."

Something felt wrong in the air between them. They had spent so much time together recently that Chantelle had become sensitive to his movements, the way he sat and spoke and walked, to the emotions running underneath his golden pelt. She knew what normal Elmheart felt like, what his posture was, and there was a tenseness between them that was starting to prick at her. Guilt ran through her. Despite what her lover said, it was her fault. She was part of the problem, part of the reason his home was threatened.

"Are you okay?" she asked, though she already knew the answer.

His eyes met hers, strong and steady. "No," he mewed. "Not really. I'm worried."

"I know," she said, words tumbling out of her mouth without much thought. "But like you said, it'll be better for know, right? We have time to figure everything out."

Elmheart lashed his tail in frustration. "On a logical level, I know that. But I can't just convince myself. I'm just...I can't get rid of this feeling of unease, and it hurts, a little bit." He saw her expression and relaxed slightly, the tension and frustration evaporating from his body. "Sorry."

She stared at him in wonder. He was opening up to her, letting her see his feelings in a way that Alder never had. Chantelle had always had to guess at what her leader was thinking, whether he was sad or afraid or angry. Elmheart trusted her though, and it was a wondrous feeling. It was empowering. And when they snuck away from camp, into the woods, to mingle bodies and exchange heat, that was empowering as well.

A thought struck her, one that had been hiding in the shadows for awhile, that she hadn't let come to light for fear of its rejection. It surged through her throat, reaching her mouth, causing her whole body to tighten with anticipation. Her ears burned with exhilaration and guilt. If there was a time to ask, it would be now.

She cringed inside at the thought of the lie that would be told. But it wouldn't be a lie for long, not if she could help it. Elmheart would never have to know.

"Elmheart," she began, and the urgency in her voice must have transmitted, for he looked at her with wide, questioning eyes. But before she could finish her thought and utter the words she could never take back, they were interrupted by the crunching of snow, the sound of footsteps coming into the clearing.

Slatestar and the patrol were returning. ThunderClan's leader padded at the head of the group, his expression sombre. Thickfur followed to his right. Though his fur was lighter and his stripes more obvious, the warrior's body was a spitting image of his father's. On Slatestar's other side came Nettleclaw. The deputy towered above his leader, with narrower shoulders but longer limbs. Larchstripe followed them. Though she lacked the bulky muscles of the toms, she carried herself with poise, strength radiating from her limber form. Chantelle was surprised to see Beck at the very end of the procession. He hadn't been around much, though Chantelle hadn't exactly missed him. The golden tom fit right in with the group of warriors.

Around her, cats stirred from their nests. In the den behind her, Beechclaw and Larkflight got to their paws in unison. Kitetail padded out of the makeshift medicine cat's den, followed closely by Galepaw. In the end, it was Grasscloud who approached their leader. "How is it?" she asked, voice quiet.

Slatestar dipped his head. "It appears the plan worked," he said, at length. "There were...bodies there, both of the rogues, and of WindClan cats. There was – something not right, about WindClan. We moved them out of camp, but we still need to bury them. Apart from that, we did a tour of the borders. ThunderClan territory looks safe. We can return."

"They're going to bury the bodies?" asked Chantelle, turning to her mate. "Why? They aren't yours. Why not just leave them to rot?"

Elmheart shook his head. "That's not how ThunderClan works. It would be disrespectful."

The she-cat frowned. It seemed there was always something to learn about these cats. As she watched, Elmheart took a step forward. "I'll help bury them, Slatestar," he mewed in his deep voice.

From the back of the group, Beck spoke up. "I'll help as well."

Slatestar looked around. "Anyone else?" he asked.

Larkflight padded forward to stand beside Elmheart, bumping shoulders with her son. There was a sense of pride obvious in her as she stood beside the golden warrior. "Me, Slatestar."

"That's decided," he mewed, voice solemn. "As for everyone else, we will return to camp by dusk. I doubt the rogues or WindClan will be trying anything again soon now that they're weakened. Any other questions?"

When there was no sound from the assembled cats, the dark grey tabby turned toward his medicine cat. "Can I speak with you alone, Kitetail?" The brown tabby nodded and the two padded off together.

Chantelle turned to Elmheart, hoping to continue their conversation, but her tom was talking quietly to his mother. "We should go now," he mewed, jerking his head toward the ThunderClan camp. "Get Beck and bury these bodies before the others arrive."

Larkflight agreed and went to inform Beck of their plan. Chantelle watched her for a moment before turning back to Elmheart. To her surprise, the tom was already staring at her intently. "I know you wanted to say something," he mewed. "Is it alright if we talk about it later?"

"Of course," said Chantelle, though it wasn't really alright. The courage it had taken to bring it up was already starting to fade, settling back into her bones. She cursed internally and gave Elmheart's shoulder an affectionate lick. "I'll see you tonight, then."

He blinked in appreciation, pressed his nose to her cheek, and bounded away to join Larkflight and Beck.

.

Just as Slatestar had predicted, it was dusk by the time ThunderClan settled back into their home. Chantelle entered the clearing warily, feeling very much out-of-place. After all, it was partially her fault that this had happened. The warriors didn't give her dirty looks or avoid her the same way they did Alder – in fact, they didn't pay her much attention at all. Chantelle felt as though she were invisible, and longed for Elmheart's presence. Instead, she found herself padding along beside Mousepaw, probably the only cat who was more shy than she was.

It smelt of death and rot in the camp. The acridness hit Chantelle as soon as she reached the bottom of the quarry, the scent washing over her. There was something inherently wrong about it. She could scent the rogues, that was easy enough, but WindClan's scent was tainted somehow. She could tell the others felt the same way. Around her, cats wrinkled their noses and convulsed with empty gags. Chantelle shuddered and imagined it had been even worse before the bodies had been moved.

As she made her way to her den to await Elmheart's return, she heard the sound of pawsteps bounding toward her. Turning, Chantelle saw Limekit making his way through the deep snow, curiosity alight in his eyes. His chest was puffed self-importantly and she couldn't help but chuckle at the sight.

"Is this what your Twolegplace smells like?" Limekit asked, using the Clan word for city. The tomkit's face was twisted in obvious disgust.

Chantelle shook her head. "No. You would probably think it smells bad, but not nearly this bad. This is WindClan."

"I've never smelled WindClan before," he announced, proud for some reason. "I thought it would be similar to ThunderClan, not gross like this. I thought only ShadowClan would be super gross."

She didn't know what to say so she just stood there and nodded awkwardly. Limekit took her silence for an invitation to ask more questions. "What's it like, where you're from? Are there trees?"

Chantelle shook her head. "Only a couple. Not like this. There are buildings, though."

He frowned. "What's a building?"

Oh. She found herself at a loss for words. How could she explain a building? It would be like asking Elmheart to explain the lake, or the forest. It was something you had to see for yourself. "I don't know how to describe it," she said. "It's really big, for one."

"More," he demanded, with the entitlement only a kit could possess.

But before she could answer, Cherrytail was there, ushering her kit away. "Come on, Limekit, let's leave Chantelle alone, she's probably had a long day." The queen's eyes met Chantelle's own and she saw the distrust that filled them. Though it was not unexpected or unwarranted, Chantelle still felt insulted. She took a step away.

"But mom, we were talking, please," begged Limekit as he was shepherded away. Cherrytail paid his complaints no attention.

Chantelle sighed and felt a heavy weight settle over her chest. Objectively, she knew she didn't fit in, that she wasn't accepted, that no one trusted her. But it hurt to see it in practice, her suspicions confirmed, and it wounded her more deeply than she had expected. She needed Elmheart right now. She didn't belong here, he had to see that.

She needed to talk to him. She needed to make him understand.

She needed that lie, and it hurt her more than anything, to lie to the one cat who trusted her and took care of her and maybe – here, her breath hitched – even loved her. They hadn't said the words, but...what else could these feelings be?

It might not even be a lie, though, she rationalized. She didn't know for sure, not now.

"Chantelle." She nearly jumped out of her skin. It was him. Curse it all, she hadn't been ready. But it was now or never, so she turned around.

"Elmheart," she mewed, immediately feeling better with his presence. He was so handsome, so visually striking, that it always took her breath away no matter how many times she looked at him. Chantelle thought back to that day in the forest, when he had told her he had suffered unrequited love as well, and wondered who could ever turn him down. "Hey."

"Hey," he said, pressing his muzzle to hers. "You wanted to talk?"

She nodded. "Can we go somewhere private?"

"Of course," he mewed.

They padded over to the nursery and slipped behind. It was the most private spot in all of camp. Though cats usually came here to make dirt, the snow had covered that, and lay unbroken over the ground. Chantelle took a deep breath. Elmheart gazed at her, worry in his eyes. "You alright?" he mewed, his turn to ask.

She shook her head. "I just – I feel responsible for what happened here. I know I shouldn't, that they came for Alder, but I was part of his band."

Elmheart exhaled slowly. "Chantelle, I already told you, it isn't your fault."

"No, listen," she said, voice strained. "You know that, and I know that, but the others, they don't care. They don't like me, Elmheart. They don't trust me, and I can't blame them. What am I but some loner who just waltzed in here, bringing the fury of the city cats with her?"

"That was Alder," he said urgently, "not you."

"It doesn't matter," Chantelle said. "Truth is, Elmheart, I will never be at home here. I will always be an outsider. I don't have a place."

"Yes, you do," he said. "You have a place with me. I want you here."

His words warmed her heart, and as she gazed into his eyes, she saw that they were vulnerable and tender. Chantelle wanted to drown in them. Sadness and exhilaration both whipped through her, the contradiction stirring strange feelings in her heart. She hated hurting him, but loved that she could, that he cared for her to such an extent. The she-cat took a deep breath. "I know, Elmheart. I want to be with you, too. But not here. I..."

Elmheart was frowning now. His green eyes searched hers, waiting for an explanation. Chantelle felt her chest tremble. This was it. "I want to leave," she finished. "Go to the Tribe, maybe. Somewhere I won't be associated with Baron, where they won't automatically hate or distrust me. And...and I want you to come with me."

That was it. Shocked silence stretched between them. Elmheart's face was unreadable, his mirror-like eyes broken into a thousand pieces. His mouth was moving, his jaw working up and down, but no sound escaped him. There was only confusion, confusion and fear and desperation as he tried to make sense of her words, and she could see he hated what she had said, hated the only logical thing she could have meant. "I can't leave ThunderClan," was what he said at last. "Chantelle, I love you, but I can't leave."

Those three words, which should have filled her with joy, felt like ice in her heart. And yet they fed the adrenaline rushing through her, fed her nerves, fed what she was about to say next. Her eyes dropped to the ground. "I know, and I love you too. I hate making you choose, and I wouldn't ask you to, but..."

"But what?" he asked, in a whisper. His voice was so raw that she cringed.

"But..." Chantelle swallowed heavily and looked up. This was it. "I'm pregnant, Elmheart. You're going to be a father."

XX XX XX

A/N: Ah, longer chapter here! Hopefully this makes up for the time it took to update, almost two weeks! My second semester of university has started, and it's promising to be a lot more engaging (and tough) than the last one. I still have some free time, though, so expect semi-regular updates. I know the story has been going slowly recently, but I promise (cross my heart etc.) that it's going to pick up! There's action in pretty much every chapter, starting after the next one (which is wonderful in its own way). Next chapter is Sootclaw, and we finally see him interacting with Pigeonpaw once more. I've had it written for awhile, so except it up in a few days.

I like this chapter about a million times better than the last one, which, we can all admit, was kinda badly-written. It was choppy and forced. The writing here is much improved, in my humble opinion, and I hope you guys enjoy it. As for that ending...asdfghjkl. I'm pretty sure I died a little while writing it, not going to lie. Anyway, the Fogpaw bit was short, but she comes back in a couple of chapters!

To those of you who reviewed last chapter, you make my life. To those of you who didn't, your chance to reserve a spot on my list of top people is still there. I really appreciate any and all reviews – after all, how can the story improve if you didn't give me feedback? Don't be afraid to be constructive as well as stating what you did like. It stings a bit, to be sure, but it's worth it in the end.

Coqui's Song: I'm pretty sure you disliked Thickfur for awhile, haha. It was hard not to, though. Thanks for the review!

Honeycloud of RiverClan: Russet's exile takes place near the end of PotS! It has to do with him helping Falconswoop, if that refreshes your memory.

AnarchySpider: All of your illustrations are wonderful, omigosh. An insane cat? Is it bad if I don't know which of my characters are insane? Oops. Anyway, thanks for the great review, as always!

justsmile77: Yeah, I hope Russet figures it out too. Hope you like the Fogpaw point of view, sorry that it's so short! We'll have more of her later, I promise.

Senora Sapphire: Thanks!

Blackish: I won't even try to debate with you this time, haha. Last chapter was sub-par, and I'm glad you're here to tell me why and pinpoint the areas that were weak. Personally, I like Carrionpaw more than Flynn, but Flynn is a more outspoken cat, so he's more prominent in the story. Anyway, I removed the first line (especially because the last chapter started the same way, oops) and hopefully this one has a nicer flow.

Thanks for reading and please review!

PV :)