SHRIKEWING
He watched MireClan from the shadow of the medicine den, a gouge in the earth lipped with ferns. The war party was soon to depart, as first light broke over the top of the swamp oaks and cottonwood trees, lines of gold light parting the curtains of drooping black willows.
"Death come unto me," an elder sang, their creaky voice ringing through the muddy hollow. "I am not afraid; fly me away."
Every MireClan warrior was groomed as if for their funeral, elders and queens weaving through their ranks to spread their pelts with mint, lavender, and rosemary. Their medicine cat doled out ragweed petals and burnet leaves for strength, chamomile for courage, daisy leaves for stamina, and some herbs even Shrikewing couldn't identify. Something unique to the swamp, no doubt, but the warriors who consumed it seemed to gain a frenzied look in their eyes, their hair standing up on end.
"Leaves must die, kin must die; all cats die the same," another elder chanted as they moved among the warriors, laying hawthorn berries at their feet. "But I know one thing that never dies: the glory of the dead!"
As the chant finished, they pressed their paws into the haws and daubed their paws, until their pads were stained red as blood.
"I care not where my body lies," the elder cried, and the warriors repeated the battle prayer in unison.
"I care not where my body lies!"
"My spirit blazes on."
"My spirit blazes on!"
"I care not where my body lies!" the elder said again, his voice swelling now.
"I care not where my body lies!"
"My spirit blazes on!"
The warriors howled now, "My spirit blazes on!"
Strange and stranger rituals, to his eyes. Murkpool had told him about MireClan's battle ceremonies, but he never thought he'd be lucky (or unlucky) enough to witness them himself. But he could see the bloodthirst in their eyes, the way they sheathed and unsheathed their claws in anticipation.
Whatever it took to get them going, he supposed. Their Clan had a reputation for berserk ferocity in battle for good reason, something LeafClan would be acquaintanced with again soon.
Shrikewing watched them gather to leave; Burdockstar, Nettlefang, Sparrowflight, Paleface, Thrushear, Larkfeather, and all their MireClan allies. He knew some of the warriors by reputation, others by quiet observation during his stay in the muddy hollow.
Sleetfang, a notorious raider with an adder's glint in his eyes; Toadfoot, the deputy; Mudspeckle, Lichenface, Yarrowslip, Newtsplash, Mudspeckle, Loachwhisker, Snakethroat. Their apprentices trotted behind them, and by the way they exchanged fervent looks and excited chatter, Shrikewing surmised it was the first time they'd been out to a proper battle.
Their first time wearing mint and rosemary in their pelt like a ready-made corpse, paws stained with hawthorn berries. He'd never been in combat himself, but he pictured himself as a young apprentice, sickly sweet herbs smeared in his fur, with some elder screeching at him about glorious death before his first encounter with enemy warriors.
No thanks. Let MireClan keep their traditions.
With a yowl, Burdockstar led her warriors charging out of the thorn tunnel and the muddy hollow, toward the poppy fields. Toward LeafClan. Toward the battle.
Shrikewing retreated back inside to the dark stillness of the den, holding his nose against the sharp scent of sickness and herbs. Nightbird curled up in his nest, face tucked beneath his tail, his flank rising and falling with slow, heavy rhythm. Unresponsive.
Jaywind curled up in her nest nearby, half-lidded blue eyes tracking the medicine cat as he retreated back inside.
"Have they gone, then?" she asked hoarsely, raising her head. "Fox-dirt on this swamp sickness, I wish I could be out with them right now."
"They've gone," Shrikewing confirmed. He glanced over Nightbird, monitoring his breaths. "But I wouldn't wish that too strongly, if I were you. I fear it'll be a bloody day."
Hot-headed Nettlefang leaving fires behind him everywhere he went like a lightning cloud, with no Nightbird to help keep him in check. HillClan, overruled by their prophecies. And MireClan—he'd seen well enough how they really felt about LeafClan.
The idea of a pact after Paleface became leader, well… he couldn't help but regard it with a healthy dose of suspicion. But they were closer to Rowanstar's defeat than ever before. In all the stars, just let it be over.
"Fear? What do you have to fear?" Jaywind countered. "There will be HillClan and MireClan behind them."
Shrikewing said nothing, that leaden feeling still nestled in his gut. Rowanstar had fierce warriors behind him as well; Hawkwing, Boulderstep, Owlswoop, Beethorn. Triumph or defeat, he still wondered whose else blood might needlessly spill over the poppy fields.
If Sparrowflight, Paleface, and the others failed here, then they were all exiles. Enemies to their own Clan. That night, being made to decide to flee with Nettlefang or stay, he'd cast his stone with the rebels.
And all he could do was wait, and watch, and trust in another warrior's claws. That, and heave his prayers up to StarClan. His prayers only went up to his littermate, Briarstalk, hanging onto bloody thoughts of revenge.
Rowanstar had never learned his part in trying to take his life. Asterstripe had kept that much of his word, although his loose tongue had Splitears and Rooktuft killed, his mentor Murkpool banished to the elder's den. All to save his own wretched life.
But Shrikewing hadn't been any less of a mouse-heart, biting his tongue, biding his time. One day. Just the right opportunity, one day. He knew the false leader only had one life, and he'd spread the seed of dissent around, whispering it one day in Sparrowflight's ear.
One day. Rowanstar would catch a cold, a cough, a headache, a gash, something, and end up in the medicine den. And then he'd receive foxglove seeds mixed in with the rest of his herbs, and that would be that.
Seasons of simply holding onto the fantasy, the idea of fixing it all like that. It would be between him and StarClan, and StarClan knew it'd be deserved. Then maybe he could dream peacefully at night.
Fate swept him up first. A woozy MireClan leader imprisoned in his den. A young warrior bursting in to break her out in the middle of the night.
'Now, will you come with us? There's no time for indecision; tell me yes or no!'
Briarstalk swam up in his mind, his heart gripped with ice, and he couldn't say no.
There was no rewinding the seasons. Now they were committed, and it was either fight or die. And if they didn't prevail today, Shrikewing would make sure he lived long enough for the next opportunity.
It would come. Rowanstar would reap the fate he had sown for himself. And then things might finally make sense again in LeafClan.
Shrikewing's eyes flicked over the bundles of herbs in MireClan's medicine den. Fresh cobwebs and horsetail for bleeding, comfrey for wounds, poppy seeds for pain, goldenrod for poultices.
"Rest for now, Jaywind," Shrikewing mewed quietly. "We still may need your strength."