Recap: Oak got himself captured, sure, but not all is doom and gloom. Not yet, anyway.
Can I feel your skin on mine
Before I have to say goodbye
Could I breathe, please, one last time
-One Last Time, Jaymes Young
Perhaps he's just lonely. Perhaps he's just looking for a way to live before he dies. Perhaps there's an infinitesimally small chance this means something more, something that screams out against any principle he's ever swallowed. Oakpaw ignores whatever this could be, living in the moment without thinking how the next could come about. He's always been particularly obtuse and stubborn, and ignoring the importance of this is a task he can easily overcome. After all, Oakpaw is well-versed in the art of brutish persistence, one-eyed ignorance. That much has always been true, even back home.
Perhaps it's many things, but he never turns her away, though he knows with sickening shame that he ought to. Their lives revolve in an intimate little dance, a pattern of steps both forward and back. Meals. Talking. Hours that consist of nothing more than their voices. Az has an insatiable appetite; not for anything tangible or carnal, but for knowledge. Understanding. He can't deny her when she seeks an answer. It's the Clan she wants to hear about most- is it big? Are they as good as they say? Are they really invincible, because I heard that they are- but she asks about old customs, ceremonies, the extensive forests and grasslands of his territory. Even the prey fascinates her, as though she can't comprehend anything but the standard scrawny city fare. Oakpaw doesn't spare the details. He'll be gone soon enough, and perhaps by then she'll have learned everything she wants to know. Perhaps she won't follow him to uncover whatever he left unsaid.
He feels the days growing longer, as he grows stronger, and his leg heals. It's been a few days since he agreed to help Khia in exchange for his freedom, but she's eager to leave. More so than him; his leg still isn't back to its former glory, though it may never regain it. Still, he hopes he can rest and recover for a few more days still. The escape will be strenuous and the journey taxing. His reluctance to leave so soon has nothing to do with the little ginger she-cat at his side. Things in the Clan must be different by now, he knows. His friends must be earning their warrior names any day now; maybe Emberpaw already has hers, considering her fondness for over-achieving. Then again, he could've had his too; he's the best of his generation, and it would not take much to prove this to Morningstar. Oakpaw had always imagined getting his name at an impressively young age, and he aches to think how wrong he had been. He's still just an apprentice, and his warrior ceremony is nowhere in sight.
"You're deep in thought," Az says, musingly. She's watching the light fade in the gallery above; his box is the place to get truly, unreservedly dark. It's not as grand as a sunset, but he hasn't seen one of those in weeks. This poor substitute is all he has.
"Mhm," Oakpaw grunts, wondering why she hasn't added a dry insult at the end. That's dangerous. I didn't think that was possible. I can see the smoke coming out of your ears. "I would have my warrior name by now, you know. I'd be a warrior." There's a whiny, wistful tone in his voice that he can't stamp out. It's that youthful dream, reincarnated over and over again throughout generations. He looks at Az, and finds she's already staring at him.
"Ah, the great and fabled warrior ceremony," she replies. "Sorry to have held you up so badly."
He considers telling her it's not her fault, but mostly, it is.
"Is it that important to you?" she asks. "Your name, I mean." Oakpaw thought that would've been fairly obvious, from all he's said and hinted at, but he nods anyway. Az looks pensive, before she says, "You always wanted something fierce, didn't you? You're fierce enough already. You need something to remind you that you're kind, and gentle, and strong." Oakpaw isn't sure just where he's displayed his kind and gentle attributes, so he shrugs along noncommittally. Azazel sits up, a spark in her eyes. "Hereby, I, Azazel of the city, will give you a name befitting of all your peculiarities. Oakpaw, you will now be known as Oakroot."
Oakroot.
The name is a foreign taste in his mouth, an odd and heavy weight in his ribcage. He would never pick it for himself, but it sounds almost charming. "Roots?" he asks. "Roots don't do anything."
"Yes, they do," Az replies sternly. "They hold up the tree. Now accept your name, you ingrate."
"Okay," Oakpaw says, mind suspiciously blank. "Alright. I accept it."
At that, Az beams, looking supremely proud of herself. She presses her cheek to the top of his head and Oakpaw doesn't pull away; contact is something he's grown used to, with these cats who have never seen it prohibited. She pulls away after a moment, but the glow in her gaze hasn't dimmed. As ever, she seems hopeful. It's the one expression Oakpaw hates the most.
"Let's get some sleep," Az says, starting to curl up tightly against his side. "You're going to have an outing tomorrow."
"No," he says, aghast, but Az only replies with a sleepy mumble; within moments, she is asleep, an enviable trait she always puts to good use. Oakpaw continues to stare at the vault of light above him, and he knows it. He has to leave. He's not sure how, if he possesses the will and the ability, but that's where Khia comes in. She will never let him back out, never turn down such a deal. Khia will force him to go, and he knows he won't be happy, though happiness is an emotion he ought not to care for. Oakpaw must leave. For his safety, and for hers.
"For the last time, Oakpaw, they aren't going to eat you."
Oakpaw just squints at her. The thought hadn't been present in his mind, until Azazel brought it up. Now, however, it seems like a very real possibility. Az is already perched on top of the gallery, staring down at him, clearly attempting to give him her very best benign expression. Oakpaw doesn't buy it. He can't stand it down there, with all those heavy glares. That's not to mention, of course, those hellish stairs he's yet to master.
"I'll just...stay here," Oakpaw says, avoiding her stare. "Bring me back something to eat, thanks." Subconsciously, he flexes the muscles in his leg. It hasn't ached at all this morning, as though all he had to do was apply the strangest warrior name he's ever heard and let it soak in for a few hours.
"You want to eat, you can come out here and get it," Az tells him, for all the world looking like some strict overlord as she sends him a narrowed glance from above. Imperceptibly, she softens, waving her tail down at him like some peace offering. "Come on. I'll help you out." As though acquiescing to her terms, his stomach starts to rumble audibly. After a long, stoic minute of silent protest, Oakpaw gives in to his base hunger and begins to heave himself awkwardly up the wall and out of the hole. This is the true reason he would not be able to make it own his own; his paws make a horrendously loud clanging metal symphony as he hauls himself out onto the gallery. Az's smile is almost matronly as he finally looks up at her.
"Satisfied?" he grunts, crawling to his feet, ensuring no one witnesses his awkward ascent. No such luck; the guard on duty by the stairs is giving him a curious glance. Thankfully, Miss and Emory -and Iceface, of course, their permanent entourage- are nowhere to be seen. They haven't bothered him for days; clearly, they've realized he's never going to provide what they want. That's almost a relief.
"Always," Az replies, whiskers twitching in amusement. Together, they turn to depart the gallery, passing the guard and his blatant stare as they do so. Oakpaw begins to descend with his leg cradled to his chest; this is more out of routine than pain. He's never, he realizes, climbed the stairs with four properly functioning limbs. In the end, it's not really a goal. As the pair reach the landing, the cherished half-way point, they turn to spot Miss and her small assembly in their path. As always, Miss is smiling, gentle and warm and motherly. Iceface, as is customary, looks like someone pissed in his moss, while Emory is frowning.
"Azazel," she greets warmly, before giving him a secondary look. "He's out and about again. Well done."
Az shuffles her paws and looks down, as though embarrassed by the attention. Oakpaw shifts a fraction closer, brushing his pelt against hers. Miss notices the gesture, and her expression turns wry.
"Your information has been helpful, of course. Nothing Ice didn't really know, but a youthful perspective is refreshing. I should've known all it would take was a pretty face- nothing the three of us really possess." Her laugh is a pretty, light thing, but it's only jagged noise in his ears. "Almost ready to go back, too. I hear. He's really come around, seen things from our side. I am impressed."
"I would not rest all our ambitions on the unstable shoulders of Oakpaw," Iceface says coldly. "A pretty face may sway him, but he would never spy for us."
Miss gives him a look, a reprimand. "Azazel has said he will, and I trust her word. I think she knows a lot more about Oakpaw than you do by now." With that she shoots him a smile, a thing of inclusion and breezes past him, continuing up the stairs without so much as a farewell. Emory follows, looking once again distant, but Iceface lingers for a moment to give Oakpaw a steely glare. Maybe I'll get to kill you, it says, and Oakpaw returns the sentiment. Iceface brushes by briskly with a cold breeze in his wake.
And that leaves the two of them on the staircase. He doesn't dare look to her; he can simply picture the shame and horror on her pretty face. Played for a fool. Nothing about him should be naive, yet here he is, played and puppeted, with the audacity to be shocked by it all. All those questions, all that curiosity…the smiles and the meals and that undercurrent of a determined something...every single inch of it was fake. It makes sense. No city cat has the right to be so innately curious about the Clan, but Oakpaw was so happy to spill it all for her. Like it was a common interest they both shared. This is why, he thinks viciously, why we live apart and scrape the taint off our skins. Why we outlaw it and hunt it and punish it.
"Oakpaw," she whispers. Her voice is cautiously blank, like she awaits, with great hesitancy, his imminent eruption. Like the beast he is.
"Don't say a word," Oakpaw snaps; she's said plenty enough already, and look where that's landed him. He seethes silently for a moment, fur bristling at the thick layers duplicity upon duplicity which lie, discarded, on the floor before him. Then he whirls; he wants to know why, awful as it is, why she would dig herself into his skin only to cause him pain. "What did they promise you? Or did you really just hate me that much?"
"No!" she protests, but it falls flat under his own words.
"You told them I'd spy for them? Plant myself back in the Clan and stick out my neck to help you all doom yourselves a little faster? How do you think it would've gone when I refused them? You want to see me dead after all. You just can't stomach the dirty work."
Oakpaw turns and scrambles down the stairs. His leg twinges, but he ignores it; it barely even registers. Good. Break it again, shatter it, to feel something different. Cats are mingling on the warehouse floor below, and he plunges into them. He already sees Khia on the fringes, staring up at some handsome young tom. Az shouts behind him, but her words are lost in the hum of the conversations around him. He sees it then; his mind in chaos, a walking wreck. The eyes. Khia turns to meet him, confusion sparking in her green gaze. She resembles Emberpaw more than Oakpaw ever did. This, of course, is one more foolish thought among a multitude, an unfounded notion which can only explain one thing; Oakpaw is utterly, completely stupid, and he is without one redeeming scrap of intelligence. Oakpaw stows this all away. Existential questions are only to be answered after a daring escape, and never before.
Oakpaw slides to a halt before Khia. He wonders if she knows it, too, but curses the thought. Life never works like that, not ever and certainly, certainly not in this instance. "I hope you're ready to go," he says. "We're leaving."
