ROSESTAR

The Ash was as thick as two common trees seamed together, rivened and hollowed out over untold ages, with the leader's den in the base of the trunk. Its roots resembled an upright Twoleg straddling a natural dip in the earth; just a dark opening curtained with moss and lichen from the outside.

If some curious cat stuck their head inside, they might be shocked at how spacious it was within. A leader could meet with a handful of senior warriors and elders and still not trip over each other.

Sheltered from rain and wind and prying eyes, but Rosestar could still gaze up and see the stars at night, and feel the glow of the first rays at sunup. More than anything else, making his nest here was one of his favorite parts of becoming a leader.

Now it was his prison. He laid in his nest, a natural scoop in the earth lined with feathers, soft grass, river rushes, and perfumed with flowers. It desperately called out for some fresh moss, not changed out within the last few sunrises, but the sweet-smelling asters and violets were freshly picked from only the night before.

Ivyflower's doing, he supposed.

He could taste the trace of her in the air, her scent mixed in with his, and lingering vestiges of other cats. Stale remembrances of Larkfeather, Greeneyes, Briarstalk, Asterstripe, Rooktuft, and others, in this nest where he'd shared his most private self, where he thought he'd sleep until he was gray in the muzzle.

"Rosestar!" a voice cried, shrill and distraught. "Rosestar!"

His mate was calling from just outside his den, where Boulderstep's broad frame blocked her silhouette through the curtain of wiry pale moss. Rosestar could pick out his guard, struggling with a gentle tone and trying to talk her down, while Ivyflower utterly ignored him.

"Forgive me, Ivyflower, but I can't—"

"Let me pass, you lunk!"

She had always been as gentle and delicate as a petal. He wasn't sure when he'd last heard her take that tone with a clanmate, or even an enemy warrior—maybe never.

They were still arguing when Rosestar appeared, sticking his head out from the den entrance. Ivyflower came into clear view then, and Mousespots behind her, the silent supporter. When she saw him, her green eyes melted into tears which streaked her pale gray fur.

"Do you think I'll bolt, Boulderstep?" Rosestar mewed, standing beside his guard now. The warrior had always shared his jokes, joined his hunting patrols, enjoyed his company, even if he was Old Lionpelt's other son by another mate. Now he hewed to Rowanthorn's side, playing the minion. "Or maybe you think my mate will burrow or fly me out of this place. Don't fret. I have no claws to do harm or legs to walk, except as you give me leave."

Ivyflower dashed forward to nuzzle her cheek into his, and he drowned his senses in her, pressing his nose into her fur.

"Don't join your grief with mine, my sweet," Rosestar said. "Think our old lives were just a happy dream, and now we're awake."

"What have they done to you?" Ivyflower cried, looking him over as if some other cat had taken his pelt. "Has Rowanthorn been inside your heart? My Rosestar would fight. My Rosestar wouldn't submit to anyone, no matter what, and he would find a way to win against these… these rats!"

"Rats indeed," Rosestar mewed with a wry twitch of his whiskers. "If it were just rats, I'd still be a happy Clan leader. I can hunt rats, but not all of LeafClan by myself, my sweet. This is the way it must be."

Another shape approached, and Rosestar felt himself bristle. Nightbird. The dark warrior strode with purpose toward the Hollow Ash, golden eyes gleaming.

"Rosestar," the warrior greeted flatly. "Rowanthorn has changed his mind. You will stay in the medicine cat's den, not the Hollow Ash."

"I suppose he wants my nest for himself tonight," Rosestar mewed dryly.

"Not your nest any longer, Rosestar," Nightbird answered.

He felt the start of a growl in his throat, fur standing on end. "Do you realize you are just Rowanthorn's stepping stone, Nightbird?" he challenged, not caring who in camp heard his voice as it began to swell in fury and volume. "You bloom now, but it won't be long until you wilt. If you think your new leader might name you deputy, then you'd be mouse-brained, and I'll tell you why."

Nightbird could only answer with a silent snarl, teeth bared.

"You will think that Rowanthorn has not done enough for you, after you gave him everything. And he will remember how you already betrayed one leader, and with one little push, might do it again. A fox-heart's love converts to fear, fear to hate, and then when you hate each other, only one of you will live and prosper."

"My actions fall on my own head, and let it be what it is," Nightbird mewed through grit teeth. "Now come. You must go to Murkpool's den immediately."

He felt his heart rend, although he let no sorrow surface to his face. Fox-hearts. First they stole his rank, and now they were separating him from his mate.

"Stop this!" Ivyflower cried again, voice strained. Rosestar could feel the probing eyes and sidelong stares from every corner of camp, but he only had eyes for Ivyflower now. "I can't live in LeafClan like this! I won't! I'll become a loner first!"

How much he never deserved her, someone loyal and pure of heart, for someone as perfidious and arrogant and unfeeling as himself. What a mouse-brain he'd been not to realize it.

Rosestar gently brushed against her again. "Not a loner," he mewed. "If you leave, go to another Clan, full of true warriors who will learn to love you as I love you. And when you go, think me dead, and forget me if my memory causes you any pain. You, out of every cat ever born, most deserve to be happy."

Ivyflower looked helplessly from Rosestar to Nightbird. "But—must we be divided? Must we part?"

"Yes," Rosestar mewed, "from side by side, and heart from heart."

"Banish us both and send Rosestar with me," Ivyflower pleaded to Nightbird, tail lashing.

"If you abandon your Clan, that's your own decision," Nightbird said with an edged tone. "But Rosestar is not allowed to leave, not yet."

"But why?" Ivyflower mewed. "Then wherever you keep him, keep me with him!"

"Don't punish yourself, Ivyflower," Rosestar mewed. "Lilystar is kind, and his hunting grounds are vast and rich. Weep for me in MeadowClan, and I'll weep for you here. And on cold, tedious nights, tell them old LeafClan stories, and the story of us, and send them weeping to their nests too."

She leaned into him, flank to flank, cheek to cheek, their tails intertwining in a briar's knot. They pressed close to each other for what could have been moments or hours. When Rosestar tried to finally pry himself away, she practically pulled him back, almost tripping him in the process.

"We mock our own misery with all this delay. You never knew how to end conversations."

"And you always liked to hear yourself talk," Ivyflower choked, half a chuckle and half a sob, all despite herself. "I love you."

"And I love you. Goodbye, Ivyflower," Rosestar mewed, forcing a lightness in his voice to mask the leaden heaviness in his heart. "Let sorrow say the rest."

With one last glance behind her, she started away, shoulders racked with heaving sobs. Another glance, pausing, and then still staring after him, until Ivyflower was sprinting out of the bramble tunnel with all the Clan looking on.


He had the medicine cat's den to himself. In fact, he'd hardly seen the medicine cats since that last farce of a Clan meeting. But that wasn't any marvel; there were many cats he hadn't seen, cooped up in one den all day and the day after and after.

The dense branches of the rowan tree formed a tight-knit roof over the den, blocking out the light. Peering out, he could see camp basked in moonglow, but whether it was moonrise or moonhigh or deep in the early hours, he couldn't tell.

Rosestar alternated between restlessness and torpor, either pacing circles around the den or trying to drowse the tedious heartbeats away.

An impulse made him press the water out of the moss at the far end of the den until it formed a small pool of water. It was just clear enough to make out his reflection, the same pelt and eyes, every whisker still in place.

Was this the same face that every warrior in the forest looked on top of the Greenstone every full moon? That led warriors into battle, that every queen seemed to bat their eyes at? Could this face be unchanged? And now was this face outfaced by Rowanthorn?

He dashed his paw through the water, shattering his reflection into shivers and turned away.

All he had left were his thoughts, and thoughts were his only company. So with his brain being the mate to his soul, his head bred out a Clan full of thoughts—good thoughts, evil thoughts, ambitious thoughts, just like all the personalities of a Clan.

His most elevated thoughts wandered to StarClan. More ambitious thoughts plotted how he'd tear out through the camp walls, flee to HillClan, or MeadowClan, or Twolegplace; how he'd gather his friends and return for a proper battle for LeafClan's leadership. And when his thoughts wandered to their natural conclusion, that it was all just far-fetched fantasy, they died in their own pride.

Still, other thoughts tended to meekness, reasoning with themselves that they weren't the first to suffer like this, or the last, or how much worse it could be, and they found a kind of ease in the collective misery of all.

Just another raindrop in the storm, here and then gone, like all lives.

So many thoughts, and none of them contented.

Sometimes, he felt like a leader. Bloody thoughts played their dark fantasies out, imagining Rowanthorn and Nightbird and the rest squirming under his paws, and by StarClan, how good it would feel when that day came.

Then, remembering his own misery, he was deposed all over again. Once again, he was nothing, nameless, a rogue.

And what would they have from him, he wondered? Retirement? Banishment? Or maybe they would let him play the part of a warrior, but would they?

He wouldn't even want to. But if he was exiled, then maybe he would see Ivyflower once again. Rosestar pictured himself stalking abandoned Twoleg nests, hunting his own prey, with no company but himself and his mate. Sunning on smooth tiles, rising and sleeping as he wished.

A head clean of terms like 'dawn patrol' or 'Gathering.' He'd go to a place where nine lives were just a kittypet's fable.

Somewhere outside the mouth of the medicine den, he thought he heard cats speaking, their words just on the edge of hearing. Laughing, meowing, moving around. Common camp sounds, even now, even at this hour.

The din only grew louder, still indistinguishable from where he was trapped, becoming just noise. It sounded as if there was a Clan meeting outside—was that a name being chanted?

Shut up. Those sounds had comforted him once, but now they might as well have been baying dogs. He buried his face into his paws, curled up at the base of the rowan, trying to block out the sound.


Rosestar felt his ears prick up at the unmistakable shuffle of movement. A cat stepping lightly through the dark, trying to slink into the medicine den.

When Rosestar blinked his eyes open, a dappled gray-brown tom was poking his head through the den entrance. They froze mid-step. An apprentice that had an expression of soon-to-be fresh-kill paralyzed by terror, blue eyes wide.

"R-Rosestar!" the apprentice mewed, stumbling over his name. "S-sorry, I wasn't trying to disturb you…"

The once-leader flicked his tail mildly. "Don't apologize, Thrushpaw," he mewed. Briarstalk's apprentice, Briarstalk's kit, and Shrikepaw's kin. Another apprentice needing a new mentor. What a shame. "If you're looking for the medicine cats, I have no idea where they could be."

Rosestar had his fresh-kill brought to him by a sentry, like a queen for their kit. He tried to peer past the apprentice, to the shape of the guard outside, and saw… no one.

An impulsive thought to bolt passed through his head, but he remained curled up at the roots of the rowan tree.

"Actually," Thrushpaw said, daring to approach a few pawsteps closer, "I had wanted to see you. Sparrowflight finally let me through after enough begging."

"Me? Why, I'm flattered," Rosestar mewed. So much trouble just for a peek at his misery. "Now you've seen me."

Thrushpaw held his trembling head high, blue eyes blinking back tears now. "Well, you're our—were our leader. The best LeafClan ever saw, that's what Briarstalk always said. I watched you fight during the MireClan raid—you were incredible!"

He had Blackfang's training to credit. The leader who should have been. Rosestar accepted the compliment with a dip of his head.

"It broke my heart to watch Rowanstar return to camp and sit on the Hollow Ash," Thurshpaw whispered. "It looked wrong."

Rowanstar? That could only mean he was back from sharing dreams at the Moonshard, a true Clan leader now.

"Then he's returned from Standing Stones," Rosestar said, feeling a hot flint in his gut. "Tell me, did he slip off the Ash?"

Thrushpaw only shook his head. "It was as if he climbed it a thousand times."

That ancient, hollow tree that he had climbed every day and slept in every night, from where he chose the Clan's names. Now, another cat's perch, another cat's den, now stolen from him. He pictured lightning splitting the tree open and engulfing its stubby, stag-headed crown with flames, but the rage subsided only into more grief.

It wasn't the tree's fault.

"Thrushpaw," a warrior's voice hissed from outside, and the small shape of Sparrowflight peeked through the lichen curtain. "That's enough now. Time's up."

Thrushpaw cast a glance over his shoulder and then turned back to Rosestar with a helpless expression, as if trying to search for the proper words, one last snatch of conversation he could steal from the one-time leader.

"Go on, Thrushpaw," Rosestar mewed. "Stay out of trouble."

The apprentice nodded, padding back out toward the den. He looked back, mouth closing and parting, but never forming the words, leaving them lingering voiceless in the air as Thrushpaw raced out again.

Once again, gloom and silence returned to the medicine den, and Rosestar curled back up. But even with eyes closed, sleep didn't find him; just the ceaseless flurry of thoughts, each one like a thorn in his chest.