Post by Blackie on May 2, 2009 11:05:06 GMT -5
This is where they had met together and confessed their hearts. Here, on the edge of the ugliest place in the forest. Far from their separate camps where no other cats would think to come and look for them. She had told him all about it one day in the midst of a fever. How she had met him on the border of their territories. He had wanted to speak with her, so she snuck him here so they would not be found. He told her he cared for her, loved her. She loved him back. Her emotions became stronger than her loyalty and she gave up her Clan's trust for him. She only told one other cat, her best friend. A rogue. She had drifted very far from home while still sleeping in a den with other warriors. After time, her belly began to round out and she knew she would soon have to move to the nursery and the Clan would have to realize she had a mate somewhere. The leader had learned of her friendship with the rogue and asked to speak about it with her. She confessed everything, even her mate and coming kits. The leader forgave her, but made her promise to check her loyalties. If she stayed with her Clan she had to be loyal to her Clan, mate or no mate, friend or no friend. It was a huge sacrifice for her, but not big enough to give her kits a broken life. And then he had come. He shuddered to think that he was the reason her kits came to a broken life anyway. It was his fault.
And now she was dead.
The tabby cat plodded along the Thunderpath's edge where the grass made a green strip before disappearing into the forest. His head was hung very low. Torn, cut ears laid against his head, yellow eyes gazing at faraway memories through their developing cataracts. A dozen old scars from forgotten battles decorated his strong muzzle. His gray fur was becoming spiky with neglect, creating a strong stench he no longer tried to fight. Each paw lifted and fell with slow, precise movements. His pads were very hard and cracked from moons of endless traveling. The loner looked old, very old. As indeed he was . . ., but he had never felt it before. Not like he felt now, defeated with one last mission. A pointless mission.
Pippin drew in a shaky breath and looked out in the general direction of the ThunderClan camp. Somehow, he had to get there without violating any of the warrior rules. He couldn't afford to anger the forest cats. They needed to know about Blackpelt's death; at least the kits should know. Brownstar too, he supposed. No doubt, the old leader would like to find out what had happened to her warrior. It was Brownstar's duty as leader to care for her cats, but would she really care? Would the kits even care? Pippin remembered their encounter with Shard. She had been so angry and bitter toward her mother. Would her littermates do the same? He would have to apologize to Blackpelt's kits, beg them to forgive him for taking away their mother and assure them of her love. Her deep, deep love that carried her all the way from distant lands to the river where their small lives began to blossom in the affection between forbidden cats.
Stopping where he was, Pippin lifted his silvered muzzle to the sky. He tried to lift it above the reek of the Thunderpath so he could catch the smells he needed. Didn't the Clans patrol their borders frequently? The old tom cat growled irritably. He needed someone to help him. Preferably and old sensible warrior like himself. Pippin couldn't stand young cats. His own kittenhood had been a nightmare under the cruel claws of his insane father. He envied Clan kits and apprentices, even young kittypets and strays who were allowed to remain safe with their mothers. They had nothing to fear, didn't need to be constantly looking over their shoulder to make sure death wasn't about to pounce on them. Pippin shuddered. It was over now, he told himself. Dragonscar is dead because of Blackpelt. If it hadn't been for her, he would now be here to ruin the lives of her kits and grandchildren. Surely her Clan will honor her for it. But he wasn't sure. There was no knowing until he was within the camp.
After padding on a few fox-lengths further, the loner stopped to listen. He could smell cats nearby. A patrol? Perhaps. Silently, Pippin prayed that they would not be hostile toward him. The last thing he wanted was a fight with trained warriors.
And now she was dead.
The tabby cat plodded along the Thunderpath's edge where the grass made a green strip before disappearing into the forest. His head was hung very low. Torn, cut ears laid against his head, yellow eyes gazing at faraway memories through their developing cataracts. A dozen old scars from forgotten battles decorated his strong muzzle. His gray fur was becoming spiky with neglect, creating a strong stench he no longer tried to fight. Each paw lifted and fell with slow, precise movements. His pads were very hard and cracked from moons of endless traveling. The loner looked old, very old. As indeed he was . . ., but he had never felt it before. Not like he felt now, defeated with one last mission. A pointless mission.
Pippin drew in a shaky breath and looked out in the general direction of the ThunderClan camp. Somehow, he had to get there without violating any of the warrior rules. He couldn't afford to anger the forest cats. They needed to know about Blackpelt's death; at least the kits should know. Brownstar too, he supposed. No doubt, the old leader would like to find out what had happened to her warrior. It was Brownstar's duty as leader to care for her cats, but would she really care? Would the kits even care? Pippin remembered their encounter with Shard. She had been so angry and bitter toward her mother. Would her littermates do the same? He would have to apologize to Blackpelt's kits, beg them to forgive him for taking away their mother and assure them of her love. Her deep, deep love that carried her all the way from distant lands to the river where their small lives began to blossom in the affection between forbidden cats.
Stopping where he was, Pippin lifted his silvered muzzle to the sky. He tried to lift it above the reek of the Thunderpath so he could catch the smells he needed. Didn't the Clans patrol their borders frequently? The old tom cat growled irritably. He needed someone to help him. Preferably and old sensible warrior like himself. Pippin couldn't stand young cats. His own kittenhood had been a nightmare under the cruel claws of his insane father. He envied Clan kits and apprentices, even young kittypets and strays who were allowed to remain safe with their mothers. They had nothing to fear, didn't need to be constantly looking over their shoulder to make sure death wasn't about to pounce on them. Pippin shuddered. It was over now, he told himself. Dragonscar is dead because of Blackpelt. If it hadn't been for her, he would now be here to ruin the lives of her kits and grandchildren. Surely her Clan will honor her for it. But he wasn't sure. There was no knowing until he was within the camp.
After padding on a few fox-lengths further, the loner stopped to listen. He could smell cats nearby. A patrol? Perhaps. Silently, Pippin prayed that they would not be hostile toward him. The last thing he wanted was a fight with trained warriors.
