Recap: Ember is a sneaky, unfriendly bab, who dislikes everyone. Apart from Skah? Maybe?
Shut your mouth and run me like a river
Choke this love til it starts to shiver
One last breath til it starts to wither
Like a river, like a river
-Bishop Briggs, River
She is a wraith in the shadows, a mere ghost of a thing as she slips over paths worn and old. They've let her go, unleashed her really, and she already has the scent. They haven't tried to make it easy for her, but it is anyway; Emberpaw has spent far too many hours scouring this forest to be upstaged by a single game of hide-and-seek. The reeks of the city, the distant hills and foreign forests are ones she's already memorised. They'd given her a clue, a single tuft of bloodstained white fur, and she hadn't bothered to inform the senior warriors that they'd already given the game away. All she needed was a description, just a vague idea of what to search for. This, of course, is information nobody needs know.
Emberpaw breaths in; the taste of the Tainted balances on her tongue, along with the mildly damp scent of the gorge. Perhaps they have made it tricky, after all. She presses on, setting a quick pace, though it's only been a few minutes. Nearby she hears a rustle; another apprentice, maybe, or a warrior struggling to keep up. She ignores it as the scent grows stronger. The edge of the gorge looms into sight through a break in the trees, and the scent trail points right to it. She pauses for a moment, scanning the undergrowth for a hint of white, wondering, for a moment, if her target had thrown itself off the cliff in sheer spite. It's not likely; Emberpaw recalls supervising Littlefrost in his own tracking assessment. Morningstar had shattered the Tainted's legs so thoroughly it had no choice but to wait for death.
Emberpaw gives her surroundings a cursory check before moving towards the gorge. Her nose flares; the scent of unwashed fur and stale blood, the heraldry of any captive Tainted, is thick in the cool air. Emberpaw pads towards the edge with careful steps. The ground here is soft, atrophied, worn at the edges with the mellow touch of erosion. The opposite bank looms ahead, and the chasm seems abruptly very wide. Holding her breath, Emberpaw leans over the edge. At first all she sees in the blank darkness of the gorge. She hears it, then, the sharp and hopeless intake of breath. Out of the gloom swims a stark, pale face, streaked with blood and grime.
For a moment, all she sees is Skah; pallid, defeated, imperiled. They would have caught him easily; even under layers of cautious camouflage, the blank whiteness of his pelt is plainly visible. Shock rivets her to the soft cliff edge, until sharp relief washes through her. This is not Skah; this cat lacks his signature blue-and-green eyes. The cat below her flinches and and hisses at her appearance, pressing itself closer to the ledge it's perched on. It protrudes precariously from the sheer wall of the gorge, a delicate web of cracks radiating from its base. Perhaps wisely, she decides not to jump down and join it.
She sits down to wait, licking spots of dust from her white paws. She likes to make them obvious; sometimes, she feels, it's the only difference between her and the ghost of her mother, and some cats choose not to see it.
Small sounds emanate from the forest behind her; within moments a familiar shape emerges from the undergrowth. Emberpaw blinks, taken a little aback- she hadn't expected that Cloudstrike would be the one to follow her, track her, assess her. He's a newly minted warrior, puffed-up and arrogant, and he's not even the worst of them. He's breathing heavily, as though he'd lost her and had to run to catch up. Emberpaw disguises a smirk.
"Wait for me," Cloudstrike says, looking cross. "How am I supposed to assess you if you're running off into the forest like a mad loon?"
"Not my concern," she says lightly, risking another glance at the Tainted on its perch. She wonders if Cloudstrike will find a way to kill it, risky as it is, or just leave the wretch to starvation and decay. If it were up to her, she'd leave it. Even then, it would have options, though each was as bad as the other. "I passed, and that's all there is to it."
Cloudstrike gives her a dark look, but he can't maintain it for long."Well, you did pass. Salutations. Now, get outta here."
"Congratulations," she corrects under her breath, but leaves anyway. She hears Cloudstrike's amused snort behind her; he always has liked to rile her up, she supposes. In any regard, that's not about to change.
She moves her nest that night, as far from the babbling murmur of her friends as she can get. Even Flowerpaw has joined in the excited discussion, though she's far from her own assessments. The topic of the conversation doesn't waver: who they're going to kill, how they're going to kill them. Emberpaw imagines it's been this way for age upon age, countless gruesome words piled up in sentences like a heap of corpses, surrounded by the revellers, carrion-eaters and killers. Surely her mother must have had conversations identical to the one she bears witness to now, but it's up to Emberpaw's own imagination now, to conjure her voice and the things she might've said.
She feels as though she's breaking some sort of dynastic legacy, by watching this exchange and taking no part. Perhaps she is. She doesn't dream, after that, which is a relief. She was sure the faces of the future slain would make an appearance behind her eyelids.
No one else is awake when she rises from her nest and leaves the den. It is barely dawn, but the birds in the forest have already begun, loudly, to herald its arrival and the beginning of a fresh, new day. The birds today are not their first choice of prey, and it sounds as though they know it. Emberpaw stretches, sinking her claws into the hard dirt. They itch for what's about to come.
She is surprised, as she concludes her elegant stretch, to see Nettlecloud emerge from the warriors den. She's barely seen her adoptive mother since Peppermask's ill-fated attempt on their dear leader's life. Perhaps she was in on it, though it does not seem likely to her. If Nettlecloud were to plan an assassination, she thinks, it would be flawless. Smooth. The fawn she-cat notices her watching and sends a nod in her direction. Emberpaw returns the act, the whole exchange oddly symbolic of their relationship: distant, detached.
Cats begin to wake and filter out of their respective dens. There's a hum in the air, an excited sort of apprehension. Today's event has been one coveted by generations, but today's there's a thought here that had not existed previously. We can be killed, and we can be replaced. Voletooth is at the forefront of everyone's minds today, as they wonder if it could happen again. If they are really so fallible. Emberpaw has always thought the invincibility of PureClan's ranks to be a greatly exaggerated concept. Even so, she's sure she will not fall. Morningstar would kill her all over again, if she let that happen.
She will be strategic, anyway. She will get there first, pick the weakest and smallest. It won't have a chance, but she'll kill it quickly and cleanly. That's all it can ask for.
The camp comes alive as the sun rises, stalwart and undaunted, above the treeline. Apprentices bounce from their dens, a certain swagger in their step. All manage to avoid looking in the remote direction of Voletooth, who sits by Sunfeather on the edge of camp. Emberpaw looks to the nursery; one of her predecessors, Flurrycloud, has already moved in. Streamshade has already kitted, but she's nowhere to be seen this morning. She supposes that she wants her kits nowhere near the bloodshed- indeed, it would be too easy for a kit to stagger through the crowd and into the ring itself. Strongclaw passes by as she watches, and she sees the glance he spares her. There's no fear in it. His confidence does nothing for her own.
Emberpaw shoots sporadic looks at her Tainted -victim, target, prey?- as the proceedings get under way. In the end, she has not made her own choice. Morningstar's gaze alighted on a scrappy tabby tom, one who looked altogether too well-fed and ill-mannered. She sensed he'd not had a long stay in the cave, nor would he be easy to kill. Morningstar had picked him out with a gleam in her eyes, and presented him with a flourish to her apprentice. Emberpaw had mumbled her thanks and silently despaired. She can only hope that the zealous display of bloodshed will unnerve him.
Burrpaw goes first, followed by Mosspaw. It's a family event. There's a glaring absence here, one that everyone has happily glossed over. Oakpaw. If she were to disappear too, would they forget her so easily? Today's assessments don't echo the others she's seen. The Tainted are different today. They fall, without fail, but they are not weak, starved or cowed. They are enraged by the fighting, not daunted by it. Her death, suddenly, doesn't seem like such an impossible thing.
Mosspaw escapes without mishap. Burrpaw twists his foreleg and suffers a glancing blow to the head. Mallowpaw loses all the fur along his spine and limps from the ring with a myriad of scratches on his underbelly. Fawnpaw is nearly gutted by hers. The crowd cheers nonetheless. Voletooth was fluke. He was mistake. They pretend, valiantly, that it can't happen again. She thinks perhaps they're about to see it happen once more.
"Emberpaw," Morningstar announces, her voice impassive. Emberpaw can detect no emotion in it, no glee or anticipation. Perhaps she has confidence in her apprentice's skills. Perhaps she just doesn't care. Emberpaw stands, steps into the ring. She hears the faint disgruntled snort of her opponent as he is shoved in after her. By now, the arena's a mess; scraps of fur marinate in the bloody puddles left behind by her peers. There's the vague, haunting sense that the others have only been lucky. The eyes of Clan are on her back, and she hates the feeling. Better do it quick, she reasons. Then they can all stop looking at me.
Without preamble, she spins to face the Tainted. He's tall, lean, with rounded shoulders and black eyes. He reminds her of her brother; it's a good thing that she's never been overly affectionate towards him, because that would make it twice as difficult. She barely hears Morningstar telling them to begin, but feels the words reverberate in her bones. Absurdly, she feels closer to her mother than ever; this is what Sablefrost would have seen and felt in her final moments. She wonders if Strongclaw can even watch.
She sinks into a crouch as the tabby's eyes narrow. He's scarred. He must know how to fight, or, at the very least, how not to die in a fight. Emberpaw hisses at him, testing the waters. He does not react. She feints to the left and right in quick succession; he falls for the second and moves in closer, but keeps his balance. She smirks at him (the cacophony of the crowd is almost, almost enough to go to her head). The Tainted snarls and reaches for the place where she stood a mere heartbeat ago, claws shining wickedly in the yellow light.
Emberpaw has already leapt for his shoulders; she hits him hard and they roll, sinking their claws into one another. She tries to spring away, leaving a tidy bite mark on the scruff of his neck, but he snags her tail and flings her into the ground. Morningstar flashes in front of her eyes from her tiny promontory, but Emberpaw cannot discern the expression on her face before she is rolled onto her back. The tabby rears above her, blood dribbling down his neck; Emberpaw is forced to roll quickly out of the way as he crashes back down. His balance, still, is impeccable. He does not fall as she kicks out at his legs. Emberpaw wonders how desperate she looks.
She finds her feet again- he is looking to the crowd and snarling, feeling no doubt as cornered and claustrophobic as possible. Emberpaw can sympathise.
They clash again, chests raised in the air. Emberpaw attempts to slash at anything she can reach; his face, neck, ears. The tabby must think she's much too small to counter such aggression. Emberpaw, however, has often thought she's just as strong as any of the oversized male apprentices she's grown up with. She leans forward and sinks her teeth into the apex of his throat, feeling the panic bubble up between her jaws. Emberpaw starts to smile.
Violently, he shakes her off and pounces on her. Teeth rake over her neck, impervious to the desperation of her struggles. Above it all, she can almost feel Morningstar's blinding rage.
They've been here for hours. They've been here for days.
She wriggles free from his grasp and spits blood at his feet. She feels no pain, only a keen burning in her skin where his teeth and claws have reached. His skin will do more than burn when she's finished with him. They both seem to snarl, but she cannot hear it over the crowd and the roaring in her ears. Her blood sings for his death.
It's starting to look like it may not happen at all. They splash through puddles of blood, dart and feint and slice; he staggers sideways into the crowd, and they shove him back with jeers and howls. She slips in the soft dirt and his paw rips across her nose, too quick to register. They are well-matched, in the sense that neither of them suffers from malnourishment or months of prior abuse. Emberpaw sprawls back onto her side, watching as he follows and places a paw at her throat. His claws push against the rapid beat of her pulse, but she's no longer really seeing him; Sablefrost is superimposed against her eyelids, glorious and bloody in her final moments. She is smiling.
All her mother's killers are in the crowd. Do they see her now as they saw her? Is she any different to them?
She begins to smile too, and that's when she feels it- the hesitation of the tom above her, the uncertainty of his soft touch against her neck. Emberpaw smiles in earnest.
Within moments she has flipped over and sliced through his neck. Something bloody falls to the ground beneath him as he crumbles, folding in on himself. He had pinned her for a second, no longer, but that moment became his death. She sighs, shakes her claws clean, and watches him die.
During the fight, she failed to remember what came after. It feels surreal as she lines up with the apprentices, each one as bloody and bruised as the others. Oakpaw had longed for this moment like nothing else; it's so strange that he should not be here, crowing and boasting with the others. No one seems to miss him.
"Apprentices," Morningstar begins, that ever-present regality shining in her dark eyes. "Today you fought and bested the poison; you have to shown to us, and to StarClan, that you are ready to take on a warrior's mantle and uphold our humble creed. The taint persists, but with you to join our fight, our cause is made that much stronger. Burrpaw, Mosspaw, Mallowpaw, Fawnpaw and Emberpaw. Step forward."
The apprentices shuffle forward as one, favouring various wounds or especially tender spots.
"Burrpaw, you are become Burrwing. Mosspaw, you are now Mossfall and Mallowpaw, your name is Mallowblaze. Fawnpaw becomes Fawnflight. Lastly, my own apprentice- I bestow upon you the name of Embershade. Honour them and uphold your vows. Welcome, the newest warriors of PureClan."
The Clan cheers, but Embershade stares up at Morningstar for a moment longer. The ties of apprenticeship have been cut, but she does not truly feel free from her.
"Tonight you sit your vigil. In the morning, I will appoint your pairs. Well done."
Morningstar makes her sit at the far edge of camp, beyond the medicine dens. The smell of herbs makes the ache of her wounds even greater. Embershade raises a paw to her nose, checking it's still intact. The prognosis is doubtful. It's mostly numb, but stings to touch, and her paw comes away wet with blood. Not, she thinks with irony, for the first time today. She wipes her paw on the grass. As long as she can smell, she supposes, it hardly matters what her nose looks like- or if it even looks like she has a nose at all.
She is supposed to watch the forest; it's tradition, she knows, but it's an insanely boring one. Slowly, she twists her neck and glances back into camp. Cats are piling dirt and leaves on the bloody mess of the arena, hoping to deter flies and the tenacious reek of old and rotting blood. The bodies have all been marshalled away, dumped in the river to end up in some forsaken stretch of forest far away. Burrwing sits to her left, humming contentedly under his breath, fiddling with a twig at his paws. She does not think they'll be matched. They're almost litter-mates, but nonetheless, she can picture their relationship; bland, banal, sterile. Far too tame for PureClan. Beyond him, Morningstar is talking to Mossfall, nodding seriously at something the young warrior is saying. Emberpaw has no clue what the interview entails, but it seems a lengthy and unnecessary process. It's a wonder Morningstar has the patience to conduct them with every batch of new warriors.
The leader finishes with Mossfall and moves on to Burrwing. Their voices are low, inaudible, so Embershade turns her attention elsewhere. She spots Voletooth, Sunfeather and Strongclaw sitting in a cosy huddle. Quite the trio, she thinks to herself, wondering why Sunfeather fits in with them so well. Perhaps there's something deeper to her too. As she stares at them, Strongclaw turns his head. He watches her from the corner of his eye, as though he's afraid to look at her directly. Maybe he is. She doesn't recall his face in the crowd, but surely he was watching, hoping, perhaps, to purge his own nightmares. To rewrite his version of events, just by watching her fight. It's likely she's only given him new ones to ponder. Embershade turns her gaze away impatiently. It never does any good, to consider Strongclaw at length. She's learned this much, at least.
She turns her head and states into the darkness. It's not long before Morningstar finishes with the young tom. The golden she-cat approaches with a smile on her muzzle, looking uncharacteristically genial. Embershade is wary.
"Embershade," she says, sitting down at the edge of the forest. "It was a good fight. You were very well-matched."
She dips her head in acknowledgement. Too well-matched, for her tastes. She wonders what Morningstar will ask first. How she expects her to answer. Each must be precisely correct, she thinks, but she's not sure what repercussions she will receive if they're not.
Morningstar clears her throat, gazing into the camp with a dark look on her face. She's been prone to these moods, Embershade's discovered, since the betrayal of both Iceface and Peppermask. "I have one question, child. Who do you serve?"
Embershade opens her mouth, the answer immediately on her tongue. PureClan. She pauses suddenly. This must be a trick question; the answer could not be so simple or vague. She cycles through various ideas - StarClan, the cause, the crusaders. It's none of these.
"You," she replies. There's a pain in her chest, a pain that knows she'll never be free. She's Morningstar's apprentice no longer, but she'll always be her tool, always at her beck and call, catering to every and any whim she has. She's fettered to Morningstar for life, and it feels like a doomed cause. Morningstar smiles, slow and wide. She knows all of this, and she wants her lackey to know it too.
"Very good. Never forget it, darling."
Morningstar rises and moves on. She needs not say anything else. She's said her piece, and it has worked exactly as intended. Embershade bares her teeth and glares into the shadows. Her servitude is absolute now, and they both know it. Her claws dig viciously into the dirt, and she wishes more than anything to be back in that ring, to fight or die. In death, at least, there's a kind of freedom.
By the dawn, she's still fuming. It's a deep, unending rage that she'll carry with her for the rest of her life, and in light of it, it hardly matters know she's paired with. She should already know, of course, that this is not true.
"Embershade," Morningstar cries, with the sickening smile still fixed firmly in place. "Your pair is Cloudstrike."
Embershade turns and exchanges a glance with the tom. He grins, fiendishly, and she knows how wrong she was. It can get worse after all.
anyone out there? no? okay
