Recap: Emberpaw is just a regular Edmund Hillary, climbing stuff and all that. She still can't keep her mouth shut either so she dobs in Waterstripe to Morningstar, who helped Iceface in his brave and daring escape.
Why won't you speak
where I happen to be
-Trees, Twenty One Pilots
Nothing remains of Waterstripe but his hollow body, ruined and drained but still twice as heavy she is. Emberpaw isn't sure why Morningstar gave her this heinous task, considering she'd done something supposedly good. Maybe the leader operates on a 'you make the mess, you clean it up' basis- this is technically her fault. It still feels like a punishment, as she rolls the dead elder down to the river, unwilling pick him and drag him, and taste that death on her tongue.
Emberpaw, take Waterstripe to the river, blah blah blah, she thinks to herself, only a little bitter, pulling a face and sticking her tongue out. Waterstripe's head knocks against a tree and she feels sick. I'm off to do real work, blah blah blah. She thinks she can hear the river from here, but maybe she's just being hopeful. If she wasn't pushing Waterstripe's sorry pelt the whole way, she could already be there. She relies on the trees now, her network at altitude, the one place where no one looks.
In this bitter, petty moment, she knows she hates Morningstar. She rolls Waterstripe to the river's edge. It is too turbid, too fast moving to reflect her face back at her, but she stares down at it anyway. She pushes the bloody corpse into the water, and he bobs away ungracefully, streaking the water around him a pale shade of red. Emberpaw washes her paws. She is a spy, not some disposal service. And even spies have their dignity.
The apprentice returns promptly to camp. She has no desire for any more treetop stalking today, and she's sure she has earned a break. The camp has almost returned to normal; everyone avoids the stain in the center of camp, the one attracting flies, the one slowly drying into a sludge under the sun. It's not in their nature to talk, after all.
Her brother returns late in the day. The group is disheveled. Their shoulders slump, and it takes Emberpaw a moment to realize that Jayflight is missing. One of the senior toms is dragging a ginger cat awkwardly, as a mother carries her kits. She sees the blood on his head; he looks quite dead but he can't be, because Morningstar has no use for a dead tom.
"Emberpaw!" Morningstar barks as she strides across the clearing. Small steps were not made for the impatient. Well, she thinks to herself, maybe he's dead after all, and she just wants me to practice my dragging-my-corpses-to-the-river technique. Obviously it's somehow lacking. The apprentice gets to her feet, moving away from her sunny spot in the corner of camp. She looks to her brother again, who looks vacant; even so, there's something behind his eyes, red and misty and smug. She doesn't care what he's done.
Emberpaw hurries to catch up to her mentor, who has already reached her own den. Tornear stands beside her, still carrying the ginger Tainted by the scruff of his bloody neck. The golden she-cat nods at him, and he waddles into her den, the tom's limp spine bumping against his legs. "Did you have an exciting afternoon?" Morningstar asks mildly.
She shrugs at the leader, who is not fazed by the one-sided conversation. "Well, I did, as you no doubt imagined. It was wild. Jayflight's dead, if you haven't guessed. Real inconvenience of course. She and Strongclaw were going to be paired- a small amount of irony on my part I suppose- but that obviously will not be happening now."
"I see," Emberpaw says. She's in no mood for chitchat after her personal discovery of her hatred for everything sleek and gold. Morningstar just peers at her from beneath hooded eyelids.
"Anyway," Morningstar continues. "You would have noticed I have handily managed to snag one of those wretched city cats." Tornear emerges from her den and stands beside the entrance, stoic and expressionless. Morningstar slips past him and Emberpaw follows, not quite certain she's supposed to.
It's dark inside the den; it's the second time Ember has been in here today, but any older scents have been drowned out by a medley of blood and fear. The Tainted has been woken up, and huddles in the corner, although he is desperate to appear emotionless. He is not a warrior, and he is a pathetic weapon. Morningstar curls her lip at him, tall and molten gold even in the dimness of the burrow.
"Nice nap?" she asks, and all of the mild manners she displayed only minutes earlier have fled. The ginger tom spits at her feet. Emberpaw watches the exchange, thinking that the Tainted has even worse conversational skills than she does.
"Well, we'll start off easy then. Did they give you a name, or shall I keep calling you 'the wretch' and 'the city scum'?"
"Feliks," he mutters. His shadow on the wall bristles under the heavy weight of alien scrutiny.
"That was easy," Morningstar says with a fleeting smile. Out of context, it is a small benign moment. In context, it is a foreshadowing, a clue. A shiver glides down her spine, and she wishes that Oakpaw was her mentor's favourite object to torment, that he was here instead of her, and that he was loving every minute that promised blood. Emberpaw would like very much to be mundane, to be as careless as Mosspaw or Fawnpaw.
"Now," says the leader. That one small syllable is violent. She does not have what she wants and she lacks the patience to wait for it. In contrast, Emberpaw is a very patient cat. She sits around in trees all day, after all, just in the hopes that something might happen.
"I won't tell you anything," Feliks says defiantly, a troubling fierce look in his white-rimmed eyes. Morningstar remains unimpressed, undeterred. She doesn't even seem mad.
"Are you sure about that?" she asks. "You'll find I can be very persuasive, and unfortunately I have no morals."
Feliks shakes his head, and his eyes slide to Emberpaw, nervous and silent in the corner, a shadow feeling very out of place. She isn't sure if he's trying to tell her something, through those dark desperate eyes, and if a message is there, is is choked behind the gloom. What would he have to say to her, anyway, a spy, a henchman, when he has just sworn not to tell them anything? She narrows her eyes at him, and her whiskers twitch in distaste. She wants nothing to do with him, but indeed she might just be forced to end him.
The golden queen prowls a little closer; Emberpaw glances at Feliks' paws, and sees his claws are unsheathed. Would she leap to Morningstar's defense, if he attacked her? How could she not, and expect to live afterwards? She cannot see Morningstar's face anymore, and the small deadly smile that graces her lips. If Emberpaw was under interrogation, she would have already spilled all the secrets she knew, which was no small amount.
"Who are you working for?" she hisses, towering above him as he presses himself to the ground, a worried rumble rising in the back of his throat. Her claws too are unsheathed, and they curve into the dirt. Feliks only growls in reply. Emberpaw, standing in her corner, feels a little awkward.
In one swift movement, Morningstar clubs Feliks' head, knocking him over, rolling him onto his back. She pins him down by heavily pushing one paw into his shoulder and chest with the other on his throat. The tom is gasping for breath, and kicks his hind legs in efforts that win him nothing
"Who is it?" she snarls. "What are they planning?"
"Won't tell you," he wheezes, as blood leaks from the older wound on his head, thick and sluggish. "Won't make a difference anyway."
"Is it Palefur? Is it that conniving old tom that sells kits for whatever he desires? One of the gangs?" It is a flurry of words, accusations; Morningstar has many enemies, and she cannot list enough of them. The mention of a Clan cat's name makes her prick her ears- Palefur is not a name she remembers. Emberpaw wonders if this faceless warrior could be a exile, but the mere idea doesn't seem right. No one has been exiled for years. Death now is the only option given to anyone the leader wants gone. Like her mother.
"It isn't a gang," Feliks snaps, twisting in Morningstar's grip, threatening to break her hold.
"Emberpaw," she calls over her shoulder, barely bothering to glance back at the apprentice, reluctant to move even a step closer to what must become carnage. She does so anyway, stepping lightly, as though she's back in her trees, like she might fall at any minute. "Pin him down. Use your claws," Morningstar instructs. Emberpaw does as she asks, trapping Feliks' hind legs beneath her feet. His fur is gritty. She sinks her claws into the wiry muscle of his legs, and uses all her weight to press him into the floor. He is quivering, and she feels his veins against her skin pulsing in their panic. Feliks is truly trapped now, although the interrogation so far has been light. Emberpaw can only hope her slight weight is enough to hold him, that he won't rear up and crush her skull, throw her against the wall and snap her neck. She has morbid thoughts sometimes.
"I can let you go, you know. Have you considered that possibility? I want some answers, city scum, and I'll pay for them. You'd be a very lucky cat."
"I don't trust you," Feliks says, twitching. "We've heard all the stories. You, ma'am, are a liar." Morningstar snorts derisively at his comment and tightens her grip, smearing dark red blood down her leg, where, Emberpaw vaguely notices, is a pale pink scar, round and ragged and beaming in whatever light has managed to make it into the den.
"We're going to have to get messy, then," Morningstar sighs, sounding not disappointed but irate. She surely did not expect him to spill all his secrets at the lucrative promise of freedom. "We'll start with what's easy. I'm a little tired. Emberpaw, his stomach, if you will."
"What?" Emberpaw says, glancing up into her mentor's face, taken aback. What about his stomach? It's, uh, a nice stomach?
"Stomachs happen to be particularly sensitive," she states, matter-of-fact. "I also happen to want some answers to some very easy questions of mine. And you find things out for me, don't you? So answer my questions."
"Sure thing," Emberpaw answers, although her hesitance wavers in her words, and she feels simultaneously afraid and sick. She leans her weight on one leg, and raises one paw in the air, and doesn't look in the tom's face. She slashes downwards, rakes a set of neat and shining marks down his belly. He jerks, and grunts, although he tries to mask the sounds of his pain. Blood begins to stain his soft ginger fur. Morningstar just shakes her head and tsks.
"Ask him the questions, Emberpaw," she says softly. "I think you know a little more about this whole affair than I do."
"Who are you working for?" she asks. She tries to to come off as hostile, but her voice and small, and it is in no way compelling. "What do you want? What are you using the kits for?"
Feliks stills suddenly, and Emberpaw feels exposed, like she's asked something she wasn't supposed to know- and she never told Morningstar about Kenna, and the kits she talked of. Maybe a small lie will be easy to fabricate.
"You think you know more than you do," Feliks growls. "Don't talk about things you don't understand."
"Not good enough, Emberpaw," Morningstar whispers. "No, don't do it again," she says sharply, as the apprentice raises her paw for a repeat performance. "You need more."
"How?" Emberpaw asks, not yet regretting the question.
"You need to get a feel for the situation," Morningstar purrs. With one paw, she mimes a twisting motion, her claws bare and gleaming. Emberpaw is revulsed (she thought corpse disposal was a disgusting job). Swallowing- it is so loud, Feliks must hear it- she raises her paw again and strikes the tom's stomach. Her claws find their purchase in his untidy ginger fur, and they stick, bound by some kind of iron desire Emberpaw does not want to explore. She twists, until she feels blood bubble up beneath her paw. The city tom screeches.
"Who are you working for?" she asks again, and though she is disgusted by the torrid blood running over her paw, her once brilliant-white paw, her voice is strong. "What do they want?"
"More," Morningstar insists, "more." He shakes beneath her touch. She wonders if the whole camp can hear them.
"It's obvious!" Feliks growls. "The whole world hates you. Even you hates you."
"Do you want to kill us?" Morningstar asks. Her own claws dig into the tense muscles of his shoulder, his neck.
"Of course we do."
"And you stole my deputy, for what?" she snaps. Emberpaw is once more reduced to a sideline figure, though Feliks is still determined to share no information of real use.
"Even PureClan hates PureClan," he mutters cryptically. That multi-faceted beast PureClan, a creature of silent civil war.
They try to get more answers from him- or rather, Morningstar hisses and snaps and Emberpaw keeps her claws in place, but they get nothing else out of him, only more derisive sarcasm. Morningstar calls Tornear back into the den, shaking blood from her paws with distaste.
"Take him away," the golden leader says. "Throw him in with the others. His time will come."
Tornear doesn't reply, just acknowledges her command with a nod. Emberpaw isn't sure if she's ever heard him talk before. Maybe it's just something he does in his spare time. He stoops and picks up Feliks, who is by now only offering weak protests. Struggling, he is carted inelegantly from the leader's den. She can guess where he'll go- in the meadow prison, which she's seen from afar but never up close. She's heard the stockpile is running a little low.
"Neat job there, kid," the leader says once Tornear is gone. She looks a little proud. "I have one last job for you. I'd do it, but I'm tired, and well, you know, I'm actually important to the Clan, so I need my rest. Go find my son for me. Tell him the whole pair business with Jayflight fell through. I'm sure he'll be thrilled. Leave the blood on. I'm sure he'll like that."
Emberpaw glances down at her chest, which is rusty with splashes of drying blood. She can't even see the white on her paws anymore, the bright blemishes that have hindered her all her life. "Okay," she says, meekly. She's not about to argue, after what she's just seen.
She runs outside, with that boundless youthful energy that is rightfully hers, for now. She's not quite sure where Strongclaw will be- she tends to stay away from him, because there's something to his brokenness that doesn't appeal to her. That, and he killed her mother. She's seen him around in this particular spot of forest, a place she's learned to avoid. She heads over there, sticking firmly to the ground, because she is still a little light-headed.
It's not far from camp, and she reaches it quickly. Leaves stick to her paws, and they won't come off, and she just knows she'll have so much to look forward to while she's grooming tonight. "Strongclaw?" she calls. His chosen hideaway is a little off the beaten track, and she is forced to shove her way through bushes and undergrowth. It is the smallest clearing, largely occupied by one large hollow log. The whole place stinks of rot.
"Strongclaw?" Her voice is not confident; she has not spoken to him in a long time, and is his brand of madness contagious? Her line of vision tilts abruptly as she is knocked to the ground. She had not expected this and so Emberpaw struggles for a minute, teeth bared, until she realizes that it is Strongclaw standing above her. He recognizes her and shuffles off her quickly, ears flat against his head.
"Sorry," he says, the first words she's heard him say in a long time. "I, uh, didn't realize it was you." He looks embarrassed, and glances down at his chest. As if realizing how filthy he is - dirty and strewn with leaves and burrs- he gives it a self-conscious lick.
"That's okay, I guess," Emberpaw says, getting to her paws, ignoring the fact that she too is now filthier than ever. "I came with a message from Morningstar." He winces at her words.
"What is it now?" He sounds dejected.
"She just wanted you to know that the 'pair-thing' with Jayflight isn't going to work out anymore. Because she's dead, and all."
"What?" Strongclaw stares at her with wide, confused blue eyes.
Emberpaw is of course the bearer of bad news. Is this good news? I can't tell. "Well, um, she died today. Got killed. Y'know how it is." Does he? Sometimes I wish I were worse at spying and better at talking.
"Thanks for telling me," the calico tom says. "Hey, are you… okay?"
"What?" She didn't come here for an investigation into her person. She's just the messenger after all.
"You're covered in blood. Is it yours, Emberpaw?"
"No," she says, looking away from his unnerving eyes. "I'm fine, actually. I should probably be getting back, anyway."
"If you ever need anyone to talk to," he says, seriously. "I'll be here for you, Emberpaw."
She frowns at his serious expression. "Thanks?"
"No one else is this Clan is a damn conversationalist, right?" he says, the shadow of a smirk on his lips. He winks at her, and then he walks away. She goes back to camp, perturbed, but she doesn't need a therapist. Her mother's murderer can still make jokes. That's odd.
a chapter
wow
but eyyy strong made an appearance. go strong
