#pick up his wet little meow meow body from the river like

[elsewhereuniversity]

rescue mission

It’s been five weeks and two days since Fake Dana was kil- disappeared and Real Dana came back. I didn’t know exactly what would happen to me should I complain about it to anyone but the dean, so I was laying low, but… the recent discovery of my roommate’s skin being a bright shade of green changed some of my plans.

When I told him - Threeox - about Real Dana murdering Fake Dana, and now living invisibly on the campus (I’d never seen her again), he sighed, locked the door and windows, before making me sit on the floor between our beds and getting out a small wooden key out of a seemingly lidless box made of shimmery dark brown wood. The box was amazingly carved, so much so that looking at it too long made me dizzy, and I had to close my eyes not to faint as the patterns on the lid started to sway as to a sharp breeze.

“Threeox, what’s that about ?” I asked, a little confused - and a whole lot scared.

That was probably not my smartest move - Threeox doesn’t talk per se, he just… gets his point across in a remarkable way that I had yet to pin down. A series of drawings of a cat with five eyes and a full ten minutes of interpretative dancing later, I kind of gathered that Fake Dana was trapped in the mirrors in the North Dorm, and couldn’t get out because of all the iron.

Naturally, I tried to organise a rescue mission, but gathering partners proved difficult. Real Dana apparently gained quite a reputation among the Student Witches, and everyone kept looking at me weirdly when I asked where Fake Dana was and if we could, like, rescue her maybe ? No one wanted to talk to me for more than two minutes, fidgeting uncomfortably and asking me if I’d packed my suitcase yet. I wasn’t going anywhere without Fake Dana, but hey, who am I to contradict the masses ? I’d just have to lay low a little longer.

It started on rocky grounds but I did gather for this mission a few seniors, all knights that had a history of being kind(er) to the Changelings, even though I’d never heard of them before. Their names were Toll, Bell and Eulogy, which - okay, some of us have weird names, but… It’s not that hard to pick a happy one. I couldn’t quite remember what mine was now but people had no trouble remembering me when I talked to them, so I assumed that was fine.

Add to the knights a freshman, EXO. Freshmen are probably a bit too young and frightened for that, but the fearless EXO wasn’t, uh, exactly a freshman ? Freshperson ? They were at least two metres tall and they had that look in their eyes that told you not to mess with them or they’d do unspeakable things that I, well, couldn’t speak of. Just know they were good for stuff like this. Or so I assumed, since they were the one who brought the knights to my bi-weekly “Where is Fake Dana” search.

We got some supplies: the baseball bat Fake Dana hid under my bed that one night the dean decided to do a room check, a good couple teaspoons of charcoal, some rags, a freaking battleaxe that Toll swooshed around like it weighed nothing, and that one river rock the archivist kindly lent us, and we departed for the wild wild north. Midnight seemed an appropriate time.

The dorm looked fancy, not gonna lie, the iron structure glimmered and almost rippled under the moonlight. I felt EXO shiver as we entered, their eyes losing any life that they might have had, their skin getting that weird greenish hue it didn’t have just moments before. The knights also shivered, but that might have been the cold.

The entrance was deserted, no sign of life save for a calico cat who meowed at us and tried to eat my shoelaces. She promptly departed when I told her they were a gift from the president, though I didn’t specify which president. It was the president of the cross-stitching club I was in in middle school, and she, uh, suffered from a slight eye issue after she looked through my hagstone. I mean, I did warn her about seeing the Nethers through the hole, but she didn’t listen.

Anyways, enough of that. Toll started to hack at the nearest door with his axe, waking up the poor unsuspecting students living there. “Where the fuck is she ?”, I asked, peeking around Toll’s shoulders. The two girls looked at each other, at Toll’s axe, at each other again, and one of them ended up spitting out “Basement. Third door to the left. Hope you die a slow, painful death, girl, you deserve it.”

Eulogy, true to her name, sang a few verses in Tamil, and we all collected our spirits before walking towards the basement. The iron in the walls seemed to sing to the beat of our steps, the doors creaking to the rhythm of our breaths. EXO seemed paler and paler under the dimmed overhead lights, until Eulogy sprayed us all with what I can only assume is water from that Wishing Well we’re not exactly supposed to talk about. That seemed to calm us down a little. I squeezed EXO’s hand when they looked at me questioningly, my smile thin and eyes dulled by fatigue. I couldn’t sleep that well since Fake Dana was gone, so I just wanted this to be over with already. 

The third door was cracked open, but no sounds emanated from behind the heavy iron and the weird, Tolkien-inspired words of advice in elvish. I could recognise “The way is shut, and the Dead keep it”, which wasn’t even the full correct quote. The door swayed to an invisible breeze and it opened way too silently for something made of rusty metal. As we went down the stairs, we could hear the stone crackle with contained electricity, so much so that Toll, Bell and Eulogy decided to stay up to guard our backs. EXO grit their teeth but didn’t stop, grabbing Toll’s axe on the way.

“Good luck, bro, and good riddance, you girl,” Eulogy waved, and the three knights were gone as if they were never here. I wondered what she meant by that, but I couldn’t ask in time. EXO gestured to the stairs, mouth shut tight. I was kind of getting tired of everyone telling me I should leave, so I hoped at least Fake Dana would help with that. Hadn’t I been working so hard to rescue her ?

At the bottom of the narrow stairs were two doors, also made out of metal, and what Threeox told me about - the mirror.

Ten feet tall, circled with iron chains, the metal behind the glass pane was reminiscent of clouds, though it was most likely silver. I could see a prostrate silhouette in the bottom right corner, faint tremors running through her whole body, sobs muffled, whimpers of pain spread between fits of coughing.

I yelled something I couldn’t really understand, a guttural sound that made her raise her head, and I saw Fake Dana’s eyes grow wide as she recognised me.

“Missed me ?” She smiled, teeth sharp.

My throat went tight as she started to slam her fists against the glass. “It’ll be okay soon. I promise,” I said, examining the lock keeping the iron chains together.

“Hey, move, I’ll take care of it,” a voice I pinned on EXO whispered in my ear. “Tell her to stand back.”

I did so, and Fake Dana retreated to the far side of the mirrorspace. With three swipes of his axe, EXO managed to hack away most of the chains, and the rest I hastily discarded, fists pounding on the glass as Fake Dana pounded back. 

“The key. The lock.”

“Fuck.” I started rummaging through my satchel, finally finding the small piece of wood that has slithered into the bag of crackers I keep for the crows. “Where is that fucking lock ?”

EXO gestured to the back of the mirror and helped me turn it around, their skin starting to sea as they kept pushing the metal. They eventually managed to shift it enough that I could wrestle my arm in and fit the key into an oddly shaped keyhole. 

The back of the mirror started glowing a pale green before cracking open, revealing a room barely large enough to fit Fake Dana. Tears welling up in my eyes, I did my best to extract her without causing her too much damage until she finally made it out to the other side.

“Friend,” I said. “I didn’t think I’d ever find you ! Thankfully Threeox helped, and there’s - look,” I continued, turning back to face my rescue team, forgetting it was only me and EXO now.

They were smiling, too, and they gestured at the stairs. I understood what they meant - out.

I turned to Fake Dana again, still somewhat relieved to see her dry her tears and gracefully get up without giving me the time to offer help. She smiled like nothing was wrong. I followed her up the stairs and into the hall, her naked feet sizzling and leaving angry red marks on the floor, probably due to the iron dust covering every inch of the place. EXO swung the the front door open, touching the iron pane with a quickly blistering hand, and as I looked at them more closely, I couldn’t help but mouth “Threeox”. 

“Oh shit, right, come here !” Fake Dana grabbed my face with both her hands, her palms wet with leftover tears and blood, the feel of them sending shivers down my spine. She spat in my eyes like she’d done before, and suddenly the night became less bright, her skin less pale, EXO’s features morphing into the face of my roommate, skin going from that red I’d been kinda surprised about, to the vibrant green that the cat warned me about. 

Toll, Bell and Eulogy were nowhere to be seen. I started wondering if I’d dreamed about them, if they were ever here at all. Their names had stuck in my mind and once again I wondered what mine was. I know Sizzle, my roommate, was quite upset before shoving me out of the room - which room was that again ? 17 ? 23 ? I forgot.

Fake Dana interrupted my thoughts with a light shove on my arm. “You can leave, now, you’ll remember who you are soon. It’s okay, it’s done.”

“What’s done ?” I tried to ask, but my eyelids suddenly became so heavy I had trouble keeping them open.

The last thing I heard were guttural sounds, so unlike Fake Dana’s voice, and a wet caress on my back.

I woke up on this train a few moments ago. I don’t know where it’s going, except from “Far away” and “Not where I came from”. My suitcase is filled with all my belongings, except the iron jewellery I acquired during my two years as Elsewhere U. And as I look at the landscape we are zapping by, I do not recognise the streets nor the trees.

The only thing keeping me from falling asleep again is the sticky red liquid pouring out of my nose, making me curse out loud as I scramble for a handkerchief. The blood stops flowing after a while, and I catch my reflection in the window across me.

I have several streaks of white hair, the contrast sharp with my otherwise dark brown ponytail. My eyes are bloodshot and I have blood caked on my face in the shape of hands. My skin is pale, my eyes gleam a quickly fading red.

I remember it now. My name is Dana.

x

[twilights-800-cats]

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Chapter 24

Feathertail blinked in the sunshine, wincing at its strength. The air still smelled of rain from the night before, and it filled the area around Eagle Rock with the sharp smells of wet pine and grass. The water had blown its banks here, too, but not so severely as the pool by the waterfall – it still made a suitable place to bury the dead.

Boulder, Sheer, Claw, and Swift’s bodies had been buried beneath one of the pines, and marked with one of the stones that had fallen with Sharptooth. Crag and Talon’s paws were still caked with wet mud from the work, and they lay together, cleaning each other with rasping tongues.

Now it was Stormfur’s turn.

Feathertail felt numb as she watched Stoneheart and Crowpaw lower Stormfur’s body down into his grave – separate from the others, given a place of honor beneath one of the oldest trees in the mountains. Close to the water, but far enough away to protect it from rot, like a RiverClan warrior deserved. Nightpaw joined them as they scraped the turned earth over him, sealing him away.

He’s really gone, Feathertail thought.

She hadn’t slept the night before – hardly any cat had. They had been too busy assessing the damage, treating wounds and collecting the dead. Feathertail could remember Night’s wails of grief as she saw Boulder’s body lined up with the others. If she closed her eyes, she could see Hawk, Ice, and Swoop’s gazes of confusion, or see Bird cuddled close to Swift, mourning her littermate and babbling that it should’ve been her instead.

“Today, we honor the lost,” rasped Stoneteller as the last of the earth was packed down.

All eyes turned to the old Tribe cat as he limped his way forward. There was an air of reverence to the ceremony – Stonetellers did not leave the cave unless it was for something so important. Snow walked by his side, her bright white pelt still streaked with herb matter and blood. Behind them, Shadepaw and Sun carried between them a thick stick.

Stoneteller stopped before Stormfur’s grave. Snow sat beside him, while Shadepaw and Sun took a position such that Stormfur’s grave was underneath the stick they carried. Feathertail saw the claw marks on the stick, and remembered grating her own claws through the soft wood. It’s appreciation for what he did, she recalled, dimly.

“The Tribe of Endless Hunting receives Boulder, Claw, Sheer, and Swift – brave cave-guards and prey-hunters who gave their lives to save us all,” Stoneteller meowed on, lifting his chin. “And we will forever honor Stormfur – he was not of the Tribe, but he gave his life for us regardless. He was the storm of our salvation. His sacrifice spared us from Sharptooth, and we thank him.”

“We thank him,” chorused the Tribe cats.

We thank him, Feathertail thought.

Snow nodded to Shadepaw and Sun, and the two young cats gently sank the stick into the soft earth of Stormfur’s grave. It stuck out tall and proud, a marker that would show even in the deepest snow. The two stepped away and dipped their heads.

The Tribe cats approached then, offering stones and feathers to cover the turned earth. Feathertail swallowed, trying to fight her trembling limbs. She wanted to spring at them and scream that they had the wrong cat, that Stormfur was still alive, just hiding somewhere – but her body refused to obey.

A soft scent touched her nose, and she felt Brook brush against her. Feathertail swallowed, breathing in her gentle smell. She looked down at the Tribe she-cat and knew, instantly, that she had forgiven Brook for her betrayal. There was no room in her heart to be angry, not when she was so sad. Feathertail pressed her muzzle against Brook’s, feeling like her heart was about to burst.

“We cannot thank you enough for what you’ve done for us,” rasped Stoneteller. The old tom was looking at Mistyfoot, his eyes full of sorrow. “The Clans will always be welcome here.”

“Always,” echoed Snow.

“Thank you,” Mistyfoot murmured. Her blue eyes, soft with loss, rested on Stormfur’s grave. She bent her muzzle and picked up a small, round stone from between her paws. She rested it gently on Stormfur’s grave, rubbing her muzzle against it as if to leave her scent for him.

She raised her nose to the sky, as if she could see Stormfur there, somehow. “Good bye,” she said. “I’ll bring them home, Stormfur.”

Crowpaw stepped forward, a bundle of wool in his jaws. He rested it on the grave before murmuring, “I hope you’ll be comfortable in the stars.”

Stoneheart limped forward, and he laid down a chip from one of Sharptooth’s claws. “I’ll miss you,” he confessed. “I’ve never had such a good partner in battle.”

Dock was Nightpaw’s gift, and he tucked it beneath Mistyfoot’s stone. “We were in danger all the time,” he meowed, sniffling. His pale blue eyes were wavering with sorrow. “But you never failed to make me laugh.”

Shadepaw tucked the sprig of an old willow into the dirt. “May it remind you of home,” she prayed, pressing a paw against her gift. “And thank you, for all that you taught me. May you have swift running, good hunting, and shelter when you sleep.”

Feathertail blinked as all their eyes turned to her. She swallowed and got to her paws, taking her gift in her jaws. Brook brushed against her as she padded up to Stormfur’s grave, bending her neck to rest the feather lightly against the dirt.

“I’m thankful they buried you by the water, brother. I think you’ll like it here,” Feathertail told him. She took a deep breath, hoping to catch one last bit of Stormfur’s scent – all she found was dirt and dampness. “I’ll miss you.”

Feathertail lifted her head, swallowing again. Now it seemed for sure that Stormfur was well and truly gone, never to return. She looked up at the sky, soft and blue, searching the clouds like Mistyfoot had. She thought one was looking down at her with a sparkle in what looked like an eye. Was that Stormfur?

Were they back in RiverClan territory, she and all of RiverClan would have lifted their muzzles to sing Stormfur’s spirit to StarClan – but it wasn’t something cats of the other Clans were familiar with, and Feathertail couldn’t help but wonder if it would work here, under the Tribe cat’s skies.

I’ll sing for you when we return home, she thought. For now, she hoped that the Tribe’s traditions would allow Stormfur’s spirit to reach the stars. He had died for their sakes – it only seemed right to respect their ways.

Too soon it was clear that it was time for them to go. Talon and Crag stepped forward, offering to show them the way. Feathertail glanced at Brook, wondering if the small she-cat would join them, only to meet her eyes and see pain there.

“I’ll miss hunting beside you,” Brook meowed. “I hope I can see you again one day.”

Feathertail leaned forward and brushed her muzzle against Brook’s, breathing in her soft scent. Maybe if she held it in her mind, she’d never forget the days spent patrolling among the stones with the pretty tabby, and how Feathertail had unburdened herself in the cold, clear mountain air.

“I’ll miss you, too,” Feathertail whispered. “More than anything.”

———————————————————-

Days passed as they walked, Mistyfoot leading the way down the mountain and into the soft grasses that stretched between them and their way home. They dodged Thunderpaths and Twolegs and dogs with ease, their stride purposeful though their hearts were heavy.

Feathertail’s paws felt strange now on the earth, and, when she turned one over to examine it for a thorn, she found that her pads had hardened over such that the barb hadn’t even pierced them. Even her pelt felt too warm, now, despite leaf-fall having taken a firm hold on the lands below, turning the leaves golden and red. The chill in the air was nothing compared to frozen-water in the mountains.

There was little said, but in reality, there was little that needed to be said. Each cat seemed to be mourning in their own, private way – but their purpose was firmly ahead of them now, and they had nothing to keep them from their goal.

Soon enough, as they trotted together up a steep hill, Feathertail found herself ahead of the others. Her muscles were accustomed to the slope thanks to hunting so often with the Tribe. She reached the top first, and she took a deep breath.

The smell of Thunderpath was overwhelming, and stretched out before her she could see a familiar tangle of the gray stone rivers ahead. There were more fenced-off squares of farmland between them, the tall plants inside a hundred shades of gold. Corn, Crowpaw had called it, what seemed like a lifetime ago. Beyond that…

Feathertail saw the small peaks beyond the Thunderpaths and sighed. Their long journey was finally coming to an end. She had to resist the urge to turn her head and cry out in delight at Stormfur – he would never walk by her side again, not in life.  

“Hightstones!” cried Nightpaw.

The small black tom had hauled himself up to the top of the hill, his tail up and eyes bright. He looked back at the others as they, too, reached the top. “It’s Highstones! We’re almost home!”

As the others gasped, purring at the thought of finally being in the forest again, Feathertail found herself recalling this sight from the top of the mountain, with Brook by her side. How it had all seemed so small from up there. She looked over her shoulder, wondering if she could spot the exact cliff she was thinking of. The mountains were pale in the distance, however, and too far away.

Her heart clenched, and she looked ahead. While the others were chattering excitedly, Feathertail found herself struggling to move forward. Beyond Highstones was a Clan full of cats that didn’t love her, cats she had been told by her ancestors to save regardless. Beyond Highstones was a RiverClan without Stormfur.

Behind her, though…

Feathertail looked back again. Stormfur is in the mountains, now, she thought. Was his spirit even among StarClan? In the mountains… She thought again of Brook, recalled her sweet, gentle scent.  

In the mountains is my heart.

“Feathertail, are you all right?”

Feathertail blinked, turning her muzzle back around. Shadepaw was waiting for her on the hill, but Mistyfoot was already leading the others down the slope and towards the first Thunderpath. Feathertail swallowed.

“I’m fine,” she said. “Let’s go.”

As she picked her way down the hill, Feathertail turned inward again. Mistyfoot is going to lead the Clans home, and I’m going to help her. But after that…

After that, I’ll go back for all that I left behind, and I’ll find a way to live without you, brother.

[closetdwellertales]

anna’s hope

I

Anna wanted a baby. 

On the long, cold nights when she fretfully waited for her husband to come home, and on the dawns when he finally came home and she wished he hadn’t, and on the dizzyingly hot days of field work, with insects swarming in her face and on the strips of bare, wet skin, and on the dull winter days when the house was filled with the buzz of her spin and her husband’s silence, she wished for a baby. She wished for it as desperately as a traveler wishes for the smallest shadow on a scorching day. It does not help the thirst, or the heat, or the exhaustion, but at least it helps you forget about the sun for a few minutes.

She was not too ambitious. Her baby did not have a face, or a character, or a dream of hers to grow into. She imagined a bundle of cloth that made meowing, gurgling sounds when she carefully scooped it up and pressed to her breast. It would be simply a soul to take care of - and, hopefully, a soul that would eventually take care of her once she became old and frail. It would be someone to love that would love her back. Her husband’s love was rough and bitter, with the aftertaste of bruises on her ribs.

Anna wanted a baby - ever more desperately as the years passed. Her husband wanted a boy heir, so their desires crossed yet bore no fruit. There must have been a fault with either of them. Anna prayed to every saint she knew and even donated her mother’s silver earrings to Mary the Mother of God, hoping that the gift that adorned the ears of three generations of good earthly women would skew Mary’s judgement in her favor. Those were well-made earrings, after all, bearing the handwork of Anna’s grandfather, and she saw no reason for the Queen of Heaven to scorn them in any way. 

Then her husband died.

Anna was numb with shock. She was left alone. The silence of her house thickened. No one was going to marry an aging, poor woman who was not special in any meaningful way. And above all, her dream of a child - and of a satiated, happy autumn of her life - slipped from her fingers. It was too much of a strike to bear.

On the fifth night after the funeral she found herself getting off her bed and walking towards the river, not thinking of anything. She came all the way to the river bank, grabbed a willow branch and leaned over the edge, staring into the dark water below. Then she came around and jerked back. She lost her balance and fell - thankfully, landing on the ground rather than the cold, rapid river.

She started sobbing. There, loudly, she complained to anyone who could hear her about her hapless life and her simple broken dreams. She begged the entire world for what she knew was no longer possible. She knew that despair was a sin, but she hoped that, even if the Lord or one of His saints were awake to hear her, they would have trouble recognizing her on such a dark, cloudy night. 

When her tears and complaints ran out, Anna stood up, dusted off her skirt as well as she could and walked back home, swaying side to side from the exhaustion.

Two months later she was found to be pregnant. 

II

Anna could barely believe it, and kept wondering and questioning it even when she started feeling bumps from within. People were just as surprised, but most decided to congratulate her on what was by all accounts her husband’s parting gift. No one dared accuse her of anything inappropriate, as no one could even imagine her luring a younger man away from his family or, god forbid, flying on a broomstick to fall into the Devil’s welcoming arms. Every Sunday she could be seen in church, praying and diligently bumping her forehead into the floor every couple of minutes even after her growing belly made the task arduous. She was especially careful when praising Mary, certain that the Mother of God had her hand in the ordeal.

Despite everyone’s unspoken worries, Anna’s frail, aging body did its task well till the end. Even the birth was relatively easy, given everything. She bore a healthy baby girl with steel grey eyes and thin, dark hair. The first time Anna took her daughter to feed her, she nearly dropped her: she was not prepared to the weight of a real human baby in her arms.

She named her Hope.

III

The signs did not start at once, or, if they had, Anna did not notice.

She was too happy, closed off in her small, simple dream. She could not believe it even so, sometimes waking up in the middle of the night and rushing towards the crib to check. Every time, baby Hope was there, and Anna wiped off her brow and loomed above for a few minutes, soaking in the sight of the baby’s chest rising and falling in her sleep. Everything about her child was beautiful: the slowly growing hair, the tiny sharp nails, the plump hands that were curled into soft ball-like fists, the way that Hope frowned and flailed her arms when she wanted to be picked up. She was the sweetest, most precious child ever, according to her mother, and Anna believed herself to be the truest source.

So she did not mind the long stares of her baby’s grey eyes, so unlike her own or her late husband’s, or the way that Hope seemed to listen very closely to people around her, as if understanding everything, her baby face frowning; or how she suddenly found the cross to be in bad taste, wiggling away like a tiny caterpillar from where it hang above her bed. Anna did not mind that her baby did not want to laugh. She did not mind the lack of babble. She did not mind that Hope did not want to walk even when she was supposed to be waddling everywhere on her plump feet. She was nearing two years, but she has not said a word or made a step yet. Anna did not mind. Hope was a late child, after all, making her wait for such a long time. Perhaps she needed some more time again.

But time went, and nothing changed, and Anna found herself wondering.

People talked just like they always do. The general opinion was one of pity: everyone knew how the poor woman wanted a baby, and being dealt such a hand was simply unfair. The rumors spread, but without a proper ground to cherish on, they withered like the sprouts that rose just before a snowstorm. No one could sincerely say that the old Anna had a sin that needed to be punished in such a twisted way. That left a single option.

It happened when Hope was three. She looked like a little doll, pretty but nothing like her mother: her eyes failed to change color, like it happens with the babies, and her hair was as dark as a raven feather. Her skin was pale, and her lips never smiled, and if you looked at her face a little too long you’d feel like something was wrong with it - to anyone but her mother.

She was still silent, sitting in her chair and watching her mother with her steel grey eyes all day. To fill the silence, Anna found herself doing all the talking, asking and replying and explaining everything as she worked her broom. She fell silent when someone knocked, ashamed of herself for a second, and went to check the door. It was her neighbor, a good woman whose husband chopped the wood for Anna the last few years. She caught Anna by the sleeve and started whispering, glancing around as if she was doing something borderline sinful. 

That was when Anna heard the word “changeling” for the first time.

She went back inside, overwhelmed with the knowledge. Her fingers found the broom handle. She started sweeping again. 

The neighbor said to take the broom handle and hit the changeling a few times, as hard as she could. It was hard to say when baby Hope was taken by the faeries, and how they would benefit from a human baby, but everyone knew that faeries did things like that. Perhaps it happened because the pastor was drunk when he baptized her. But now, that baby on the chair was not Anna’s Hope, and she would never speak, or walk, or help her not-mother, and she would never give Anna what she wanted. So it was either the broom, or two eggshells to boil water in. 

Anna looked up and met the not-Hope's steel stare. Her fingers tightened around the handle.

But… she only ever wanted a baby. A child. 

Whoever Hope was, she was a child, the child that Anna watched day and night, the child that she nursed and sang to, the child that was now undoubtedly hers even if people and faeries dared think otherwise.

She was still her Hope. 

Anna’s fingers loosened again, and she smiled to her baby, knowing she won’t see a smile in return. Hope frowned and looked away first - for the first time.

IV

When Hope was five, she talked, and the first thing she asked was “Why?”

Anna startled and blinked, uncertain. Her eyes circled the room before landing on Hope - sitted in her chair, looking so nicely in her dress that Anna meticulously sewed together last month. There was no one else to speak up, but she had long made peace with knowing that she won’t hear a word from her daughter. It was as much of a surprise as when she felt the first tiny bump inside her.

“What, dear?” she asked, putting away her spin.

“Why didn’t you return me?” Hope asked in a singsong voice that flowed and trembled like a summer stream. “You know what I am.”

Anna shivered, feeling the years of talks and pity piled on her frail shoulders. She did not know what to say, so she told the truth: “Yes, I know. You are my child.”

This was not the answer that was wanted, but it was the answer, so Hope nodded and fell silent again.

The next morning, when Anna woke up, there was no more yarn to spin - all her work was done.

V

Hope spoke again only half a year later. 

The swallows took a liking to their yard, nesting under their roof for several years, and Anna had moved her chair so that Hope could see the birds. She was sitting there, staring outside and kicking her legs. Suddenly, she spoke up in a voice that was like the first gust of wind before a thunderstorm:

“Don’t you want your real daughter back?”

The arrow hit the target and pierced it through, lodging itself in the ground. Anna dropped the plate she was holding. 

Hope turned her head and stared at the shards. She spoke again, like the first distant thunder: “Don’t you love her?”

Anna blindly searched behind herself till she felt a chair and dropped into it. She covered her face with her hands. Later, much later, she said weakly: “I do.”

“Why didn’t you return me?” Hope asked again, her steel eyes unblinking.

Anna did not know what to say, so she said the truth: “Because I love you too.”

It was not the answer that was expected, but it was the answer. Hope blinked, frowning, and her silence was worse than the one that reigned in those long winter days when Anna’s husband was still alive.

Minutes came and went, sweeping over the two of them, till Hope said in a whisper that was like the first drops of the summer rain: “I don’t understand human love. I don’t know the love of a mother. I won’t know the love of a child.”

“I love you,” Anna told her again, and she picked her child and pressed her to her chest like she did through all those years. Hope was cold and heavy in her arms. “I am your mother.”

Hope did not press to her, but she did not push her away either, and slowly her heavy head rested on Anna’s shoulder.

From that day, not a single thing ever broke or tore in Anna’s home.

VI

Hope started speaking more. Anna grew used to her voice that glided and thundered, echoed and withered away before it could properly sound. She never spoke to other people, only to her; no one else could hear her, either. Neighbors whispered to one another, rumors dripping with pity: poor old Anna had finally gone mad.

Anna did not ask for secrets, or powers, or water that can bring back the dead, or medicine that helps you see the other world. She did ask, though: simple questions, like the whereabouts of a kitchen knife or Hope’s desires concerning dinner. Maybe that is why Hope answered her. Maybe that is why she started talking at all.

There were different questions, too.

“Is my daughter safe?” Anna asked once, both afraid and eager.

“Yes,” Hope said.

“Is she happy?” Anna asked. “Does she have anyone to look after her?”

Hope did not answer that, her grey eyes as calm as a lake on a cloudy day. 

“She is appreciated,” she said later. “My kind like human children. We get born old, we grow ancient. We don't have a chance to meet children. To be children. She will be liked. She will never get sick, or tired, or hungry, or old.”

“I’m glad,” Anna said, and that was almost truth, because she could not help but wonder how her daughter would look if she ever grew up. She wondered if she would have grey eyes too, and if her hair was the deep color of Hope’s braids. She wondered if her daughter - her other daughter - ever had anyone to love her, there. 

Hope watched her as she always did, and her calm eyes betrayed no thought or feeling.

VII

On the day that Hope turned seven, she told her human mother: “I know how to bring your daughter back.”

Anna gasped, something gripping her heart just like it did when she was young and fresh and she saw her husband for the first time: excitement and fear. “Is it so, my child?”

“Do what I say,” Hope told her, and it sounded enough like a ‘yes’ for Anna to not ask again.

That night, all done the way it needed to be done, her little silver cross left behind with an apologetic prayer, Anna and Hope left home. Anna felt a little bad for mingling with the unholy in a way that bordered on sin, but she comforted herself with the thought that the Mother of God, whom she considered her old friend of sorts by then, would understand her struggles better than anyone and turn a blind eye if needed.

“Don’t ask for anything except what is yours,” Hope instructed her as she was helped over the doorstep for the first time in her life. 

“I wouldn’t,” Anna said. 

Her changeling daughter did not say anything, but squeezed her hand a little harder. That was the right answer, it seems. Anna never asked for more than she could carry.

Hope could not walk, so Anna helped her onto her back and carried her, huffing with effort as the old woman’s back and legs slowly started aching. The girl’s hands rested on Anna’s shoulders, and she pointed the way. Farther, farther from home they went, farther from the village; the forest rose and swallowed them in the darkness. 

The shadows seethed with life. Anna could feel countless eyes on her. Eager. Waiting for something.

“A butterfly grows,” Hope said, in a voice like the first autumn leaf falling. “It changes. First, an egg. Then, a caterpillar. Then, a cocoon.” She shifted. Her small body was so unbearably heavy on Anna's shoulders. “A fairy grows. It changes.”

Anna’s heart soared and sank.

“I could not stay,” Hope whispered. “I need to grow. I need to change. Humans would hurt me.” Then, after a pause, more hesitant than Anna had ever heard: “They would hurt you too. I cannot stay. I could never stay.”

Anna made two dozen steps before she found her voice again, and she said, with all the conviction her tired soul could muster: “I will always love you, Hope.”

And Hope shivered, and then, leaning in, her lips close to Anna’s ear, she whispered something to her mother.

Anna remembered that, even though she could not remember anything else from that night - aside from walking home with a brown-haired, brown-eyed girl that looked just like her and nothing like Hope.

And she also remembered Hope reaching out to her, planting a single kiss on her wrinkled forehead.

She never felt a single tug of pain in her overworked back or legs ever again.

VII

On the night Anna returned from the forest with her daughter in tow, she dreamed of the Mother of God. She stood on a cloud, regal, too blinding to look at properly, but Anna squinted and saw her mother’s earrings sparkling in Mary’s ears. Those were good earrings, worn by three generations of good, working women, and Anna saw no reason for anyone to look down on them.

She baptized her daughter again, just in case. This time, the pastor made sure to not have a lick of liquor for three days in advance and breathed at every person attending so that they could smell and see for themselves. 

Anna decided to name her Patience.

Patience was just a little weird, but anyone would be after spending seven years in fairies’ care, so people made peace with it rather soon. Weird people are not necessarily bad, especially if they can spin yarn better than anyone else in the village, and there is no point in asking if it is a gift from fairies or the God. After all, it was Patience's hands that made it, and her hands were baptized - twice.

Anna loved her, with her entire being, unquestioning and soft. It was nothing like her love to Hope, but it was just as strong. Patience was a good girl, and, luckily enough, she was quite happy growing up - it turned out that fairies appreciate it when you are kind to their own offspring, enough to pay you back in kind.

Anna still went to church on Sundays, and she still was a good old woman who could not be accused of a single sin except for slight naivety, so no one minded that she was a little weird, too - she met fairies too, after all. But she still was careful when she left at night, every now and then, because people like talking about things they cannot understand.

She went to the forest, far from the village, to whisper what the changeling whispered to her once when she was carrying her on her back: the gentlest sound of wind rocking the crib, of a hand running over feathers, of a heart beating - she called her other daughter.

And Hope came to her.

[need1etail]

Chapter Twenty-Two

I lied

Needlepaw looked puzzled. “What do you mean?” she asked.

“You know what I mean!” Alderpaw cried, trying to choke back his anger at Needlepaw’s obtuseness. “SkyClan left the gorge after the rogues attacked them, and no cat seems to know where they went. We were supposed to save them! We just got there way too late!”

“How can you be sure?” Needlepaw asked, tilting her head to one side.

“Because the other Clans—our Clans—drove SkyClan out of the forest. That was so shameful, it’s been kept secret ever since. My visions were telling me to go to SkyClan and bring back the territory by the lake—to clear the sky, like in the prophecy.” Alderpaw’s voice began to shake as he realized the depth of his failure. “I messed up! I didn’t understand the first vision right away, then Sandstorm died . . . We got to the gorge too late. We couldn’t find what lay in the shadows because SkyClan already left. Now the sky will never clear! Who know what will happen to the Clans? And it’s because I’m a terrible medicine cat!”

He crouched down on the hard Twoleg path and rested his nose on his paws, letting out a desolate whimper. It seemed there was nothing but darkness ahead of him.

Needlepaw said nothing, and when Alderpaw at last looked up again, she was watching him with her tail curled neatly around her forepaws and a sympathetic, yet skeptical look on her face. “Are you done?” she asked.

Alderpaw flicked an ear, annoyed with Needlepaw and himself for breaking down in front of her. “Yes, I guess I am.”

“Look, Alderpaw, I don’t mean to be harsh, but you’re being stupid and self-pitying.” Alderpaw flinched at the words. “It would have taken the rogues a long time to set up in SkyClan’s old camp. And from the way you described Frecklewish, all ragged and skinny, the attack didn’t happen just yesterday. With the timing of your vision, there’s no way we could have made it to the gorge in time to save SkyClan.”

Alderpaw took all that in, beginning to feel a tiny bit better. “So?” he mewed at last, his voice pitiful and small.

“So,” Needlepaw responded, smiling as she rose to her paws and headed off down the alley, “your vision must mean something else.”

Alderpaw was silent for a moment, thinking it over. At the end of the alley they spotted the bridge a little way downstream, where Bob had told them it was. To his relief, it wasn’t a huge Thunderpath carrying monsters across the river, but a narrow, wooden structure a bit like he half-bridges that jutted out into the lake. With no Twolegs in sight, it took only a couple of heartbeats for Alderpaw and Needlepaw to dart across.

On the opposite side of the river, a small stream trickled into the main current, tracking through the long grass with a belt of woodland beyond. Alderpaw’s spirits rose as they headed into the trees, but he still couldn’t stop worrying over the meaning of his quest.

He head to admit that what Needlepaw had said made sense. But if my visions weren’t leading me to SkyClan so I could save them, what were they telling me to do? It was hard for him to feel that anything had accomplished on the journey. We haven’t saved any cats. We haven’t embraced what we found in the shadows. We barely managed to survive ourselves. And we lost grandma. Is there something else I should have done?

Without guidance from StarClan, Alderpaw felt as helpless as a kit.

Together Alderpaw and Needlepaw trekked across open country for several sunrises, heading toward the setting sun. They crossed Thuderpaths, skirted Twolegplaces, and found their way through fields where strange animals cropped the grass and watched them with curiosity. Now, toward the end of another tough day, Alderpaw was weary and cold, tired from sleeping under bushes or drafty hollow in the ground. He longed for his comfortable nest in the stone hollow.

At least my hunting skills have improved more, he thought, warming at the thought. Nearly starving is a good way to concentrate my mind of the prey, just like Toadstep and Rain wanted me to.

From time to time, he and Needlepaw had picked up the cent of other questing cats, which reassured them that they were going in the right direction. But each time they found the traces, they were fainter and more stale, as if the others were moving faster and drawing farther ahead.

The daylight was dying, and gray were massing overhead. A chilly wind blew across the grass, ruffling the cats’ fur. Now and again Alderpaw felt the sharp sting of rain, and he guessed a storm was coming.

That’s just what we need! He groaned inwardly.

Suddenly Needlepaw, a little way ahead, let out an excited cry and began racing forward.

“Wait! What’s the matter?” Alderpaw called after her.

“It’s the farm!” Needlepaw tossed the words over her shoulder. “The one we passed through on the way!”

Bounding after Needlepaw, Alderpaw spotted the shiny fence and the field where the tall, yellow-brown plants had grown. Now only spiky stubble remained, and there was no sign of the monster with the spinning.

Needlepaw reached the fence and easily scrambled over it, then pelted onward toward the cluster of Twoleg dens.

“Wait! Come back!” Alderpaw yowled, but Needlepaw ignored him.

At the same moment, the skies opened and rain cascaded down, drenching Alderpaw within heartbeats. He could barely see Needlepaw ahead of him through the driving screen of raindrops. When he reached the fence, the shiny strands were already so wet and slippery that it took all his concentration to clamber over.

A sharp pang of sick grief stabbed through Alderpaw as he remembered Sandstorm. This is where everything went wrong. This terrible sharp fence, and the sticky mud that made her wound worse. We must have passed her grave on the way without realizing it. Oh, grandma, I’m so sorry . . .

Landing awkwardly on the other side and sending silent curses to the fence, Alderpaw pushed aside the bitter memories and managed to spot Needlepaw, still heading toward the center of the farm. “Stop! Come back!” he called again, but if she heard him, she paid no attention.

“Fox-dung!” Alderpaw snarled. He knew that the sensible thing to do was to leave the farm, shelter under some trees until the storm was over, and then work out the best way to go. But he had no choice now but to follow Needlepaw.

She ran past the cluster of Twoleg dens and headed into the field with the big yellow barn. Wide wooden doors barred the entrance, but there was a gap at the bottom, and Needlepaw managed to squeeze through. Growling in annoyance, Alderpaw flattened himself to the muddy earth and dragged himself through after her, the bottom of the door scraping his back fur.

Staggering to his paws, Alderpaw looked around. The huge barn was divided into sections by wooden barriers, different than Barley’s open barn, and he stiffened when he saw that horses were standing in two of them.

“Needlepaw, watch out!” he called, then realized that long tendrils were tethering the horses in place. Thank StarClan! There’s no way they can get at us!

Needlepaw ran into one of the empty sections, then popped her head out and beckoned Alderpaw with a flick of her ears. “Come on, mouse-brain.”

Alderpaw followed her. Inside the section, the barn floor was covered in the same dry, yellow grass that Barley let them sleep on. A warm animal smell filled the air; the scent of horse was strongest, but Alderpaw detected mice too.

“Why did you come in here?” he asked Needlepaw, anger swirling inside him. “Haven’t you learned anything? Twolegs are dangerous!”

Needlepaw settled down among the spiky stalks and began to groom herself. “I’d never want to live with Twolegs,” she mewed between strokes of her tongue, “but they do have nice warm dens, and loads of food. Would you really rather be outside in the rain right now?”

Listening to the rain battering down on the roof, Alderpaw had to admit that the annoying apprentice had a point. Letting out a sigh, he sank down into the stalks beside her.

“We can leave when the rain stops,” Needlepaw promises. “For now, we’ve got a safe place to rest and plenty of mice.”

Abandoning her grooming, she sprang to her paws and dived into the heads of stalks. Heartbeats later she emerged again with bits of the stalks all over her fur and the body of a plump mouse gripped firmly in her jaws.

“This is for you,” she meowed, dropping the prey in front of Alderpaw. “Just to say sorry for not listening to you out in the rain.”

When did Needlepaw ever listen to any cat? Alderpaw reflecting, smiling and shaking his head. “Thanks,” he told her, and sank his teeth into the warm prey.

Needlepaw caught another mouse for herself and settled down to eat it beside Alderpaw. Gradually Alderpaw managed to relax. The warmth, his full belly, and the repetitive sound of the rain outside soon lulled him to sleep.

“It’s good to see you again.”

Alderpaw opened his eyes, aware at first of the glimmer of starlight on the surface of a pool and the soft splashing of water. Leaping to his paws, his heart beating wildly, he realized that he was standing beside the Moonpool. Sandstorm stood beside him, her pale ginger pelt glowing with a frosty light and the sparkle of stars at her paws. She was purring, and her green eyes shone with love for her grandson.

“Grandma!” Alderpaw breathed out, rushing forward and nuzzling her chest with his head. “I’m so happy to see you.”

Sandstorm bent her head to touch her nose to his ear, and Alderpaw let out a soft whimper, not wanting to leave her.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Sandstorm reminded him.

“I know that now,” Alderpaw told her. “It was your time to go.”

Sandstorm smiled. “I sensed when I decided to go with you to search for SkyClan that I might not survive the journey. I’m glad I came with you. Going on that quest and passing on to StarClan made me feel like I was doing something important when I died instead of just sitting around the elder’s den. And your quest gave me the chance to relive a special memory with Firestar.”

Alderpaw’s heart swelled and warmed for her grandmother. “Are you and Firestar together now, in StarClan?” he asked.

“Yes, we are,” Sandstorm purred. She sat down at the edge of the Moonpool and beckoned with her tail for Alderpaw to join her. “Now,” she continued, “tell me how your journey has gone. What have you learned?”

Frustration welled up inside Alderpaw. “It’s been absolutely horrible!” he burst out. “I don’t think I’ve learned anything at all.”

When Sandstorm only waited, her green gaze fixed on him, he began to pour out the story of everything that had happened since she moved on to StarClan: finding Darktail and his cats at the gorge; discovering that they weren’t the real SkyClan, and that SkyClan had been driven out; trying to decide what to do, then escaping from the camp and being washed away with Needlepaw. “Please tell me what to do now!” he finished.

When Sandstorm did not respond, Alderpaw let his head droop wretchedly. “I know I’ve made a complete mess of everything.”

“How?” Sandstorm asked.

Alderpaw thought that was obvious. “I didn’t get there in time! If we were meant to save SkyClan to ‘clear the sky’, now no cat can do that. I led every cat on this quest into great danger, and what have we accomplished? Nothing!” he spat. “I’ve failed.”

Unable to even look at Sandstorm anymore, he let out a despairing wail. A moment later, he felt her nuzzle his cheek, and a sense of comfort spread through his whole body. He managed to look up.

“Do you know the difference between you and Sparkpaw?” Sandstorm asked.

Alderpaw couldn’t see the point of the question. “What?”

“Sparkpaw believes she’s solved every problem,” Sandstorm replied, affection glimmering in her eyes, “and you believe you’ve caused every problem. You’re two sides of the same leaf. But you haven’t caused this problem,” she went on, lifting his head with her paw. “You have not failed. And it is not too late to fulfill this quest. It will merely require a different path.”

“What do you mean?” Alderpaw asked, but even as he spoke the words, he felt himself being shaken. The starshine on the surface of the Moonpool began to fade, and Sandstorm’s shape faded with it. “Wait!” Alderpaw cried in alarm. “What different path?”

But he was already waking, to find Needlepaw, shaking his shoulder. “It’s stopped raining,” she meowed. “I thought you’d want to know, since you’re so eager to get home.”

Groggily, Alderpaw sat up. “Yes, let’s go home,” he murmured. But, he added silently to himself, we’ll need to follow a different path . . .

[oldwarriors-fireandwater]

Chapter Thirteen

The Clan huddled together in clusters, despite the rain. It had picked up into a steady downpour, and though it masked the smell of Sunwhisker’s blood and her death-scent, there was little reassurance that came from it. Beetleclaw, who had let out a great yowl of fury upon the sight of her body and sworn to flay every ThunderClan cat, was now slumped silently against Petalstream. He had nearly taken to the river to make good on his declaration of vengeance, and it had taken the strength of both Whiteclaw and Voleclaw to hold him until he relented.

Firepaw sat beside Beechpaw. The pair were on the edge of the gathering—neither were close to Sunwhisker, so they stayed back to let her friends and kin see her.

“Poor Minkpaw,” Beechpaw murmured. “Grasspaw, too, but he's holding up better.” He nodded in the former’s direction—she had her face buried in Shadepaw’s side, tail lashing about.

Firepaw hummed his agreement. Minkpaw’s usually so strong, he thought. But family is important to Clan cats. “Hope she’ll be alright.”

Beechpaw sighed and lowered himself to a crouch. “How was the battle?” he asked. “You know, aside from… the obvious.”

Firepaw hesitated a moment. “It was… hard, I guess. They were pretty tough.” The scratches on his face and his split nose had dried, but the wounds stung. “Sandpaw was there. She nearly tore my nose clean off.”

“Ouch,” Beechpaw replied, wincing for effect. “Yeah, I think I fought with her for a moment once. She's no joke, I'll say. Might even call her a -claw or a -fang one day, but I dunno if she hunts well too.”

“What do you mean?” Firepaw asked. A few cats shot them irritated looks, so he lowered his voice after an apologetic bow of his head. “About calling her a ‘claw’ or ‘fang’, I mean.”

“Either would mean she's a skilled fighter,” Beechpaw said. “Though -fang would mean she's equally regarded as a hunter and fighter.”

Firepaw twitched his whiskers. “Oh.” He lifted a paw, licked it, and drew it over his bloodied nose. He thought on this for a moment before continuing. “So Blackclaw, Whiteclaw, Beetleclaw, and Voleclaw… they got that name for being good at fighting?”

Beechpaw glanced around in an odd sort of way before he looked back at Firepaw. Very quietly, he replied, “Well, there’s a sort of rumor that Beetleclaw and Voleclaw got their names because of being Hailstar’s kits—he was the leader before Crookedstar—but no one likes to talk about it.” His eyes darted about again, as though making sure no one was eavesdropping, and added, “Beetleclaw and Voleclaw would certainly rip off your nose if you asked about it.”

“What’s wrong with how they got their names?” Firepaw asked, voice a whisper. He was having trouble understanding the drama of it all.

“Well…” Beechpaw jerked his chin, gesturing for them to move back. They stepped a few paces farther away from their Clanmates and sat again. “You know how names are important. It makes certain ones mean less if you just go throwing them on any old cat. Do you think you would ever get named ‘claw’?”

Firepaw knew there was no malice in the question, but he flattened his ears, a bit embarrassed, before replying. “Well, no.”

“Exactly,” Beechpaw said. “Now, if, say, most ThunderClan cats knew you weren’t our best fighter but heard that Crookedstar named you Fireclaw or something. They’d start getting the idea that all our ‘claw’ cats are weak, and they might be inclined to step over the border a bit more, you know?”

Firepaw considered this before he nodded. “That makes sense.”

Beechpaw twitched his whiskers. “It’s also a thing of honor, too,” he added. “A cat who got a name like that might think their leader doesn’t think much of them if they went around naming just anybody it.”

Firepaw was quiet for a few moments before he meowed, “Thanks. Cats don’t always take the time to explain things to me.”

Beechpaw grinned. “Some cats think you’re minnow-brained, but it’s only because you weren’t raised here. You’d probably be on the same level as the rest of us apprentices if you had been.”

Firepaw smiled, pleased with this, and turned his attention back to his grooming.

Eventually, he heard pawsteps coming their way from behind them, and Firepaw glanced up to see Mudfur padding towards them. The medicine cat nodded briefly to them. “Got a few scratches, I see,” Mudfur meowed. “Mind if I have a look at them?” He didn't wait for a reply, and crouched beside Firepaw to sniff at a scratch along his flank.

“Everything okay?” Firepaw asked.

Mudfur sat up. “It doesn't look too deep. Still bleeding anywhere?” After a shake of Firepaw’s head, he went on, “Good, good. Just be sure to give all the scratches a good wash. Your nose will probably be smarting a while, but I see no reason to worry.”

“Er—alright,” Firepaw replied. “Thank you.”

Mudfur nodded. He turned his attention to the gathered cats for a moment. “You know Yellowfang better than I,” he said. “Do you think she’s alright? I offered her fresh-kill and she nearly bit my tail off.”

Firepaw swallowed, throat tightening as he recalled the warning she tried to give him. “I think she’s mad,” he said, quietly. “She saw a bunch of crows before the battle and told me not to go out because they bring death or something.” He shuffled his paws. “I mentioned it to Leopardfur, but she didn’t think anything of it.” He got an unsettled feeling, deep in his stomach. “Mudfur… is it my fault that the battle happened?”

Mudfur quickly shook his head. “No, lad. No one would have taken Yellowfang’s word seriously, given that she’s an outsider.” He twitched his tail. “Although… I suppose that does give me an idea of sorts as to how to improve her situation.”

Firepaw hardly felt comforted, but he nodded anyway. “What do you mean?”

“If StarClan sent her a sign about Sunwhisker’s death, perhaps this might be their way of proving she is still a true medicine cat.” He smiled wryly. “I’ll speak to Crookedstar… though it might embarrass my daughter to hear she ignored a medicine cat’s sign.”

Firepaw was quiet. I’m not sure I understand, he thought. StarClan seemed to be a whole lot of myth and stories… but maybe there’s more to it if the crows were sent by them.

“I’ll be off, then,” Mudfur meowed. “More cats to see to.” The medicine cat padded away, and Firepaw watched as he quietly weaved his way through the Clan.

Time passed, and eventually, cats began to move away from the body. Beetleclaw moved closer to Sunwhisker and crouched beside her. He whispered something, then straightened back up and nodded once. Petalstream padded towards him, as did Graypool, and the three began to move her body. Cats parted so that they could slowly drag her out of camp and through the reeds.

“Where will they take her?” Firepaw asked.

Beechpaw shifted his paws. “If Beetleclaw knows of a favorite spot of hers, they’ll lay her to rest there. Otherwise, we bury them somewhere along the river.” Quietly, he added, “My parents both went under a nice willow with a view of the stepping stones. That was where my pa asked her to be his mate.”

Firepaw hesitated, unsure of what to say. After a moment, he touched his tail to his friend’s side in a show of sympathy. “Maybe you can show me sometime.”

Beechpaw grinned. “Yeah. It’s a nice place.”

Firepaw hadn't seen Crookedstar climb atop the fallen log near his den, so the sudden yowl startled him. He craned his neck to see the tabby tom standing tall on it. The leader waited a few moments until all were watching him, and he sat.

“RiverClan,” he said. “Today we have lost a beloved Clanmate to ThunderClan. Sunwhisker was a mother, a mate, and a friend to all. She was dependable and kind—she nursed my own Silverstream when her mother passed.” He took a breath before he continued. “Because she was slain by a warrior, I will go ThunderClan tomorrow at dawn to demand reparations for the loss, as the Code demands.”

“What if they refuse?” Weaselfoot asked. “They've done it before.”

“There were accidents before,” Crookedstar meowed. His voice rasped a moment as he continued. “As with Oakheart. Thistlestar had lost his sister in the river a season before, an accident too, so I allowed it to pass. This was no accident. Her throat was torn.” He flattened his ears. “Did anyone see her killer?”

There was a pause of quiet. Cats glanced around, waiting for someone to speak.

The tabby! Firepaw recalled. A bit nervously, he raised his voice. “I did. Or… at least I think I did.”

“What did the cat look like?” Crookedstar asked, fixing his gaze on the apprentice. “Any detail helps.”

Firepaw frowned. “Sort of a dark tabby,” he said. “Not Tigerclaw. Another cat. They were sort of tall, I guess?”

Crookedstar thought a moment. “What color? Brown or gray?”

“Gray,” Firepaw said.

Crookedstar nodded once. “Darkstripe, I would wager.” He sighed heavily. “Very well. I will assemble a patrol in the morning. As for the rest of today… get rest if you need it. If you're able, please hunt. Dismissed.” He jumped down from the log and immediately turned and headed into his den.

Firepaw stood up and shook his wet pelt out. “I think I'm going to go to the den,” he said. His legs were sore, even though the day was still hardly spent.

“I'll join you,” Beechpaw said. “All the prey will be hiding anyway. Maybe we can do some hunting after a nap.”

Firepaw snorted softly and turned to lead the way towards the den. He padded inside, relieved to be free of the rain at last. The tom found his nest quickly and set to grooming his pelt. Beechpaw settled beside him to do the same, and once the pair had finished their work, they curled up to sleep.

[wildheart-warriors]

Bonus Chapter: Oakclaw’s Departure

[150 Follower celebration! Hope you guys enjoy the bonus content <#]

“Crookedstar?” Oakclaw’s voice inquired from outside the leader’s den. Crookedstar turned away from his meal, a half-eaten fish, and stretched his forelegs out of his nest.

“Come in,” he purred. Oakclaw moved slowly, his eyes down cast, and sat just inside the entrance. “What’s wrong? Did something happen?” Crookedstar sat up in his nest, watching his brother worriedly.

Oakclaw opened his mouth, but no words came. He swallowed hard and tried again. “Crookedstar, I...I’m leaving Riverclan.”

Crookedstar was on his paws now, icy horror flooding his body. “What do you mean you’re leaving? Why?” He demanded. Oakclaw was everything to him, the only kin he had left.

Oakclaw flinched, curling in on himself. “...Bluefur. We, um, well... She’s had my kits, Crookedstar” his voice was barely above a whisper. He wouldn’t look up, couldn’t meet his brother’s eyes. “I’m joining Thunderclan, to be with them. I’m so sorry.”

“You’re leaving to go to Thunderclan. Because you had kits with Bluefur. A Thunderclan warrior.” Bluefur, his friend. He remembered his first gathering, talking to the then apprentice.

“...Yes.”

“How could you do this?!” Crookedstar hissed. His hackles stood on end, tail lashing furiously and ears pinned flat against his head. “You’re my brother, Oakclaw! You’re next in line to be deputy, for Starclan’s sake!”

“I love her,” Oakclaw replied. He lifted his head for the first time, eyes flitting up for a brief second. “More than anything, Crookedstar.”

“What about me?”

Oakclaw fidgeted uncomfortably. “You’re my brother, Crookedstar. Of course I love you. But she needs me, my kits need me.”

“You’re a filthy traitor,” Crookedstar spat, his voice hoarse. “You’re betraying everything you ever worked for.”

“Riverclan will be fine without me,” Oakclaw retorted.

A dark shadow seemed to pass over the den, slinking along the wall behind Oakclaw. Amber eyes flashed, and Crookedstar’s blood ran cold. Oakclaw didn’t notice, still glaring at the floor with his tail twitching.

He couldn’t let her take Oakclaw from him too. Not like this. He wouldn’t drive away his only surviving kin.

“...When are you leaving?” He finally sighed, forcing his hackles to lie flat.

“Tomorrow at dawn.”

Crookedstar stood slowly and paced forward, pressing his head against his brother’s shoulder. “I’m going to miss you so much.”

“I’ll see you from across the river,” Oakclaw mumbled, his voice cracking.

“Do you want to tell the clan yourself, or should I, after you’ve gone?”

“I think it’d be easier for everyone if you did,” Oakclaw replied.

“Okay.”

***

Dawn found them walking in silence, camp at their backs and the river ahead of them. Crookedstar’s paws were numb from wading through the snow, his pelt damp from brushing against dewy plants, and his heart heavy with grief. He was still angry, fury boiling in his gut, but he forced the feeling down. If he lashed out now, he knew he’d never get the chance to make it up to Oakclaw, and he’d lose his brother for good.

Oakclaw’s pace picked up as they neared the river. His brother’s tail twitched with excitement, his eyes full of light. Soon he was sprinting towards his new life. Crookedstar followed, his footfalls heavy and much less enthused.

They came skidding to a halt on the icy pebbles banking the river. Early morning light shone down, glittering over the snowy ground and through the swollen river waters.

The undergrowth across the river shook, and a familiar shape slipped out into the open. Crookedstar bit his tongue to keep from growling. Oakclaw sucked in a breath, glancing at him with so much joy in his face.

“There she is,” he breathed. Bluefur looked a little different, rounder and more soft; she certainly had the look of a queen. “Will you come across with me?”

Crookedstar nodded reluctantly. Oakclaw plunged into the river eagerly, and he followed. Bluefur yowled a greeting as they neared.

Wet and cold, they emerged from the icy water, and Oakclaw immediately raced to her, butting his head against hers. “Hey, no, you’re all wet!” Bluefur shrieked, batting him away. Oakclaw laughed, and Crookedstar died a little inside.

This was what he wanted. This would make Oakclaw happy, happier than he or Riverclan could. Why, Starclan, couldn’t he have fallen for one of their own warriors? Petalfur or Graypool? Anyone but Bluefur.

“Crookedstar,” Bluefur added, once she had fended off the sopping wet Oakclaw. “It’s good to see you.”

“You too,” was his strained reply. Bluefur’s smile faltered.

“How are they? The kits?” Oakclaw asked, trying to break the tension. Bluefur purred and swatted his flank with her tail.

“They’re fine, as always.”

“How many are there?” Crookedstar asked quietly.

“Three,” Bluefur purred. “Two she-cats and a tom. Stonekit and Mistykit look like me, and Mosskit is a miniature of Oakclaw.”

Crookedstar sucked in a breath. He wanted to meet them, his nieces and nephew, his kin. Oakclaw looked so, so happy. Like this was all he’d ever wanted.

“I hope I can meet them one day,” He finally said.

“I’m sure you will, in about five and a half moons,” Bluefur replied. “I expect you’ll be there for their first gathering, unless you forget how to swim and drown before then.”

“Do you know if Sunstar will be okay with this?”

“...No, we haven’t spoken with him yet.”

Crookedstar pounced on the opportunity. “You could come to Riverclan instead,” he mewed. “I would welcome you.”

Oakclaw and Bluefur were both quiet, not meeting his gaze. “...I wish we could, Crookedstar. But things are more complicated than that. There’s a lot that I can’t tell you, but the fate of Thunderclan may hinge on my choices.”

Crookedstar snorted and looked away, spurned. “I know it sounds presumptuous,” Bluefur mewed. “But Starclan sent a prophecy, and I have seen visions.”

“Well, I hope it turns out alright for you,” Crookedstar’s reply was curt and cold. He stood, and turned away. “I must return to my clan. There are announcements that need to be made.”

Oakclaw moved to his side, pressing against him. “I’m sorry, that things turned out this way. But I’ll still be here for you. We’ll see each other across the river, and we’ll talk at gatherings, and someday I’ll introduce you to my kits. It will all be okay.”

Crookedstar sighed, and stood pressed against his brother for what would likely be the last time. Then the moment passed, and he waded into the river.

When he reached the shore and looked back, they were gone, leaving him alone in the still morning. He had never felt more hollow.

***

Crookedstar stood before the gathered Riverclan, his throat tight. “Riverclan, I wish I could bring you good news this morning,” He paused and took a shuddering breath. “But today is not a happy one. Oakclaw has left Riverclan.” The clearing was at once filled with a cacophonous racket, his clanmates yowling questions and accusations. He lifted his tail, and slowly they fell silent again.

“Oakclaw broke the warrior code, and a half moon ago, his kits were born to a Thunderclan queen. He chose to join her clan to be with her and his children.”

“He’s a traitor!”

“How could he do that?”

“Good riddance, then.”

The crowd was outraged, muttering to one another and yowling their fury. Crookedstar let them. He was empty inside, and now all he wanted to do was sleep.

“That is all,” he finally meowed. “The meeting is adjourned.” At last the bristling clan began to disperse. Crookedstar leapt down and trotted back to his den, in need of a good grooming and a nap.

He settled down in the relative dark of his den, alone with his thoughts, and finally groomed the ice from his toe fur and the damp from his coat. His numb paws warmed, and he curled in his nest, staring blankly at the wall in front of him.

There was no one, now. Even his brother had been taken from him. Everyone he loved either left him or died, and he was powerless to stop it. Oakclaw had mentioned Willowbreeze, and the thought of her made his heart ache. He wanted to be with her more than anything, but he was terrified. The pattern had held true till now; he’d lost his mother, father, and brother. If he loved her, would she die too? If they had a litter together, would he have to watch his kits die?

A familiar shadow fell across him, and Crookedstar tensed, his shoulders shaking almost imperceptibly. He curled in on himself and shut his eyes tight. Willowbreeze would find someone else. She had to.

[jbankai89]

Do You Believe in Fairies? [2/5]

A/N: Posting this a little earlier than I intended. Enjoy! :)

Chapter Two – The Companion's Song

“Your highness,” Guang-Hong said uncertainly, “forgive me, I still do not understand...what am I doing here?”

The human looked up at the Fairy Tree as he spoke. It hugged the edge of the river, and its branches grew out like a living spiral staircase into the grand home that was built high in the canopy. Guang-Hong regarded it nervously, as though his eyes were being cheated by some spell. Yuri had heard that many humans feared high places, though it was also possible that Guang-Hong had never been invited to the home of one of the Royal Court before, and was thus intimidated by it.

“Did King Oberon not tell you why I called for you?” Yuri asked as he touched the human's cheek, and he watched as the human flushed a deep scarlet, and took a small, nervous step back.

“He just said you wanted me, your highness,” Guang-Hong replied in the same soft tone, “he did not say why.”

“I want you as my Companion,” Yuri said gently, as though he was speaking to a skittish deer, “do you know what that word means?”

“In the human world, it has many meanings,” Guang-Hong replied, though his nervous tone did not abate following Yuri's brief explanation. “With Fae...if I remember, it is something like a familiar?”

“Essentially, yes,” Yuri said as he nodded. “A human Companion is a friend, sometimes an advisor.” Yuri waved his hand invitingly, and he led Guang-Hong up the tree's branches and into the high canopy.

High above, planks of highly polished wood rested upon the sturdier branches, creating square flooring beneath the leaves of the trees, protecting Yuri's various belongings—food, furniture, and his mementos from his grandfather from the elements. There were no confining walls like one might find in a human home, though there was a partition in the sleeping area to provide a little privacy while they changed clothes. Birdsong filled the air, but none dared land in Yuri's home without his express permission. Despite Viktor taking over the throne, he was still a prince, and that still garnered a certain level of respect from both the birds and the beasts of the forest.

Yuri climbed higher, stopping in the area of the tree that served as the kitchens, and he produced a platter of seed cakes and maple water for his guest. Guang-Hong accepted the food and drink graciously, while Yuri sat down across from him to watch him eat and speak further on what he wanted of the pretty young human.

“What I want from you, quite simply, is to teach me about humans,” Yuri explained, and ignored Guang-Hong's look of mild surprise as he continued. “The human that I want, he does not believe in Fae. I do not wish to take him in the ways of my people, by kidnapping or trickery, or by striking a bargain with his family. I wish to have him only if he chooses to have me.”

“How strange,” Guang-Hong said in that same soft, delicate tone of his, and tilted his head to the side. “I mean no offence, your highness, but it's just that I have never met Fae before that wished to not kidnap their beloved.”

“None taken,” Yuri replied, and touched Guang-Hong's hand gently. “You needn't be nervous, I will not send you away as frivolously as some of my kin.” He paused and poured himself some of the maple water, which he sipped while he thought on how to best answer the human's remark.

“It does not make sense, even to me, why I wish to do this for my human,” Yuri said after a moment of contemplative silence, “he is...special. He exudes such strength without lifting a finger, and I am always impressed by the books he reads. I do not know where he gets them, he dresses like a commoner, and they are clearly books for the higher classes. He comes so close to the territory of Fae without fear—even most nonbelievers avoid this place, but he doesn't. Nothing frightens him, and I do not wish to take his strength from him by kidnapping or tricking him. I want his strength to remain. I just don't know how to make him see me, or how to court him in the way a human might.”

“If it is not too bold to say, your highness, I think it is very noble of you to treat your intended with such...respect,” Guang-Hong said, and his expression brightened when Yuri did not take offence to his statement. “If you wish it, I could go to this village as a travelling Bard, perhaps befriend your intended, and go with him to his reading place, and play. Is music not one of the few times Fae may show themselves to anyone, even the nonbelievers, and dance?”

“This is true...” Yuri paused as he cradled his chin in his hand thoughtfully. He had no concerns that Guang-Hong might double-cross him and use it as an excuse to flee the Court. He had been theirs for many centuries, and was as close to kin as he could be, but so too did Yuri know how lovely his beloved was. Humans, so full of love, both sexual and emotional, sometimes cannot control these feelings; not how a Fae child could. “I will let you go to him, but before I do, I need to ensure that you will behave yourself before my intended.”

“Anything, your highness,” Guang-Hong said at once, his voice just on the side of breathless, and watched as Yuri produced a small crystal vial in one hand, while the other he twirled through the air with a flourish, ending with his fingers pointing skyward, as though he was holding something delicately in his empty hand. Guang-Hong's breath caught, and a light pink, iridescent smoke trickled from between the human's lips, ambled slowly through the air, and poured itself into the vial. Yuri corked it, and stowed it carefully in the pocket of his breeches.

“Your—your highness...what did you do?” Guang-Hong asked, his eyes wide, and he pressed a hand to his chest. “I feel...I feel...cold.”

“I took your love from you,” Yuri explained, and brushed his fingers across the back of the human's hand. This time, he did not react to the intimate touch. “I left enough that you would not become a creature without conscience, but your romantic and sexual love are mine, temporarily. I do not want you falling in love with my human.”

“Your highness, I would never—!” Guang-Hong protested, his eyes widening with shock, but Yuri merely offered him a rare smile.

“It is merely a precaution. You have not met my human yet, and soon you will see why it would be so easy to fall in love with him.”

~*~

The following day, Yuri went with Guang-Hong to the gardens, and he helped the Fae pick out a rose for his intended.

“I like this one,” Yuri said as he lifted the long-stemmed bloom. It was perfectly formed, its petals a deep red, and its fragrance was sweet, but not cloyingly so.

“It's perfect, your highness,” Guang-Hong said with a small smile, “any believer will know where such a bloom comes from; perhaps they will be able to aid in swaying the beliefs of your intended.”

“Perhaps, but my faith is in your plan. If all else fails, I know your ability with a lyre will aid in opening his eyes.” Yuri spoke as he cut the rose, and with a delicate brush of his fingers, he removed the thorns one by one. He then crouched to the ground, and chirruped.

Out of the woods darted a cat. It appeared to be a simple domesticated feline; long of body, with thick, light brown fur, but a darker shade on his paws and face, as though he'd stepped into an ink pot and drunk from it.

The little creature stopped in front of Yuri and mewed, bowing respectfully before it sat down and gazed up at the Fae with a look of inquiry in its brilliant blue eyes.

“Take this to my intended,” Yuri said as he pressed his fingers to his temple, then moved them to the cat and tapped it just below the ear. “Can you see his face in your mind?” The cat meowed again in affirmation. “Good; go to him.” He offered the rose to the feline, and it bit down gently upon the stem before it wove back into the trees and disappeared.

Yuri straightened up, and strode over to Guang-Hong. The human mirrored him, and regarded Yuri with equal parts fear and respect. Yuri cradled his cheek in his hand, and pressed a kiss to his forehead.

“Go in good health,” Yuri said, and pressed something into into the human's hand. Guang-Hong looked down curiously, uncurling his fingers to see a small cloth parcel resting against his palm. Guang-Hong tugged on the twine, and inside the cloth he found a small pile of ruby red, teardrop-shaped berries.

“If you find yourself struggling to befriend my beloved, offer him some of these after eating a few yourself,” Yuri explained, “they are wolfberries, and invite friendship to those who eat them.”

“Thank you, your highness,” Guang-Hong said with a small smile before he tied back up the little bundle and pocketed it carefully. “I will not fail.”

“I have every faith in you,” Yuri replied immediately, and kissed Guang-Hong's cheek. Even without his love, the small show of friendly affection brought a bashful smile to the human's face.

Yuri walked with Guang-Hong to the edge of the wood closest to the village. He kissed his Companion's cheek one last time, and watched him walk away, knowing that his love of the Fae and his fealty to Yuri would keep him from abandoning his task.

The Fae Prince had every confidence in his newfound friend.

~*~

Guang-Hong was gone for three days.

On the first day, the Reading Man returned to his usual spot near the forest alone, but instead of a book for reading, he brought with him four things—a journal, a pen and ink, and a familiar-looking rose.

Yuri bit his lip nervously was he watched his human sit down with his knees brought close to his chest, and he pressed the journal against the dark material of his breeches. He balanced the ink pot on a flat rock, and rested the rose on the grass next to him. After he dipped the pen in the ink, he sketched the rose roughly, and yet despite his clumsy human hands, he managed to capture the beauty of the bloom without even trying. It was little more than a coarse line drawing, and the wet ink seemed to sparkle in the midday sun.

Below the drawing the Reading Man began to write, and Yuri bowed over his shoulder to read.

Who are you?

Of all the strange events to happen in my life, none compare to a cat wandering into my father's smithy and resting this rose upon my anvil, only to scurry off as quickly as it had come.

Had my father not witnessed it, I doubt he would have ever believed me otherwise. He and Mother are very excited by this, and they say that I have won the affection of a Fairy. They say it will bring good fortune on our lives, and they urged me to accept this offering, because Fae are quick to anger, and would not look kindly upon a refusal of such a heartfelt offering.

Fairies? Ridiculous.

The whole town is enamoured with the concept of Fairies; it's maddening. Whoever sent this rose is a real person with a well-trained cat, not some sort of magical demigod. I do hope that it is a man, at least, for my interest in the fairer sex is spotty, at best.

A newcomer came to town today, and approached me at the inn's tavern. He bought me a tankard of mead, and broke bread with me. He was kind, but something tells me that he was the sender of the rose.

I sincerely hope that it is not the soon-to-be king. I know that Prince Jean-Jacques only showers me with material affection because it infuriates his father and his fiancée. Nothing would come of it I'm certain, which is a blessing. I hold the same feelings for him as I do hair lice—that is to say, little more than an annoyance that is difficult to get rid of.

The Reading Man sat and wrote almost continually for most of the afternoon. He paused to discard his shirt when the flecks of ink began to dot his sleeves, and Yuri felt his mouth go very dry at the sight of him.

His beauty of the face was matched only by his godlike physique. Muscle straining against tan flesh, it spoke of his work as a blacksmith, and Yuri yearned to touch him; feel him, watch his face in the throes of pleasure.

His beloved was perfect, of that Yuri was certain.

As the afternoon passed, his human paused in his scribblings to wander to the stream to clean his hands of the ink, have a drink, and then search for some food.

Like last time, he did not seem to question the existence of a fully-grown peach tree, heavy with fruit, so close to the edge of the wood, nor that it was the wrong season or clime for such a thing. He plucked the fruit from the tree, and Yuri gritted his teeth in frustration.

After his human ate, he returned to his journal, and continued to muse about who may have sent him the gift. He came back to Guang-Hong several times, and scoffed at the suggestion that it was Fairies. Each negative remark made Yuri ache with sadness, and at dusk when his human blew gently on the ink to dry it before he closed the journal, packed up, and headed home, Yuri learnt something new, for the Reading Man had signed his name.

Otabek Altin.

~*~

On the second day, Otabek returned to his usual spot, but this time with someone else in tow.

Yuri smiled when he recognized Guang-Hong.

“You're quite brazen for a h—erm, for coming out here, I mean,” Guang-Hong said, his gaze fixed resolutely upon Otabek as he spoke, but Yuri did not miss the brief flick of his eyes over to where Yuri watched, smiling and nodding encouragingly to his Companion as he refocused his eyes on Yuri's intended.

“Why's that?” Otabek asked, his voice rumbling from his throat in a mild, almost emotionless tone of voice.

“Well, aren't these woods supposed to be the realm of the Fairy King and his subjects?” Guang-Hong asked innocently, “they always want firstborn sons when they can get them.”

“There is no such thing as fairies,” Otabek said firmly, his voice quivering as though he was just barely keeping his anger in check. “I wish people like you would start seeing sense. Little wingèd creatures who flutter around stealing children and cobbling shoes? It's ridiculous.”

“Well, if you are so certain that they do not exist, why not lure one out?” Guang-Hong asked in the same honey-sweet, innocent tone, and he arched a brow at Otabek in challenge. “What do you have to lose? If you are right, nothing will happen. If I am right, well, I think you will have a lot of apologies to mete out.”

Otabek hesitated; Yuri held his breath.

“All you need to do is bring a few leaves of foxglove with you back to this place,” Guang-Hong explained quickly, “and I will bring my lyre. All Fae love music and dance.”  

Otabek did not speak for a long moment, but crossed his arms as he narrowed his eyes at Guang-Hong suspiciously.

“How do I know that this is not some sort of trick?”

“Trick?” Guang-Hong asked, and cocked his head to the side.

“Yes, trick,” Otabek said, “how do I not know if you planned this with someone from the village, and if we do this...thing, all I will see is one of your companions with false wings pasted to his back?”

Yuri bit the inside of his cheek to stifle his laughter at Otabek's very apropos use of the word companion. Guang-Hong seemed to be having a similar experience, and he was pressing his lips together hard enough that they had turned white. When he'd calmed down, he spoke with the same air of challenge in his voice, one Yuri knew that Otabek would not back down from.

“Well, that's just a risk you'll have to take, now isn't it?”

~*~

The third day arrived, and Yuri rose with the sun to prepare for his dance with his human.

Yuri used his opal comb to free his hair of tangles, and he plied the sprites with fresh cream and clover honey in order to have them help him braid it. They wove threads of white gold through his hair, and he dressed in a silvery-grey tunic and white breeches, ending in fitted silver slippers and white stockings.

Yuri completed his look with the diadem that he had never before worn outside of the Royal Court. It was a simple circlet of moonstone dotted with tumbled jasper and tiger's eye, the crystals standing out starkly against his yellow hair.

As he descended from his home and made for his human, Yuri could hear the gentle, excitable whispers of the other Fae of the Court follow him as he strode from the fairy ring and towards the edge of the wood.

“...going to court a human...”

“...I've never seen Prince Yuri put so much work into his appearance before, he must be quite taken with this human...”

“...I hear it's a nonbeliever, one he has been trying to shift the views of for quite some time...”

“Scandelous!”

“Don't they have anything better to do than gossip?” Yuri muttered to himself as he passed another cluster of whispering Fae.

“Well, it is uncommon for them to see their prince so immaculately dressed,” a voice said, and Yuri ground his teeth together in annoyance as King Oberon fell into step with him. “I hear you even sent off my son that I gave to you to try and sway your human. He must be something quite special if you put this much effort into claiming him for yourself. Maybe I should—”

“—no, Viktor,” Yuri interrupted, his voice just short of a growl, “if you see him, you will want him all for yourself. I saw him first. You already took the throne from me,” Yuri's voice wavered for a moment, and dropped to a whisper. “Please...don't take my human too.”

Yuri bit back a curse when his voice cracked. Before he could blink, Viktor dragged him into a bone-crushing hug, and he pressed a kiss to Yuri's forehead.

“You know that I cannot control the lines of succession,” Viktor said gently, softly enough that they would not be overheard. “My ascension to the throne was predetermined, you know that.”

Yuri debated the pros and cons of debating with the king how predetermined it actually was, given that many the mystics had been uncomfortably close with the current king, even before he took the throne. However, Yuri did not want to darken this day of all days with such talk, and instead he chose to not answer. Viktor seemed to understand, and kissed his temple lightly.

“Go in good health,” he said, and Yuri nodded.

“And you, your majesty.”

Yuri resumed his walk, and as he ventured farther from the Court, the whispering stragglers, both human and Fae alike, petered out. He was left to walk alone, save for the occasional curious woodland creature who would join him for a time.  

As he approached the edge of the forest, Yuri felt his skin tickle in an irresistible pull towards Otabek's usual spot. Yuri smiled to himself; this sensation was proof enough that his human had brought the foxglove.

Barely ten feet from the break in the trees, Yuri could clearly hear two distinct voices speaking to one another.

“Did you bring the foxglove leaves?” Guang-Hong asked.

“Yes,” Otabek groused, “this better be worth it. It cost me my entire morning's wages for these things.”

“Are you telling me you're beginning to believe?”

“I'm telling you that you'll owe me fifteen silver pieces when nothing happens.”

“Fine, fine, you'll be eating your words soon enough, my friend,” Guang-Hong said teasingly. “Are you ready?” Yuri heard the soft plucking of a stringed instrument being tuned. He heard Otabek grunt in affirmation, and slowly, a sweet, tinkling melody floated through the air.

Yuri recognized the music easily; it was a simplified version of Procession of the Fae, a common song played within the court, which invited all to dance. It was a melody no human outside of the Fairy Court was permitted to hear, and Guang-Hong was taking a great risk in playing it for Otabek.

The sweet, sweeping melody lifted Yuri's spirits, and even if Otabek had not been present, already Yuri felt the compulsion to dance. He took a deep breath to steady his nerves, and as silently as a summer breeze, he stepped through the foliage, and lifted the veil.

At last, his human would finally be able to see him.

“Nothing's happening,” Otabek said over the music, and Guang-Hong exchanged a smile with Yuri.

“Oh really?” he asked lightly as he continued to play. “Turn around.”

Otabek turned, the expression on his face giving Yuri the impression that he had just rolled his eyes, but the look of minor annoyance and disbelief crumbled when he saw what stood before him. His mouth dropped open in shock, and Yuri held out a hand to him.

“Will you dance with me, son of Altin?” Yuri asked, his voice shifting to a more regal tone that he used with the lower beings of the Court, and it seemed to add to his ethereal quality as Otabek's eyes shifted from abject shock and disbelief to awe.

Mutely, Otabek reached for Yuri's hand, and their fingers intertwined. Yuri marvelled silently at how their hands seemed to fit together like the pieces of a puzzle.

Yuri pulled the human to him, and Otabek went willingly. His dumbfounded expression never left his face as Yuri led him in a dance, twirling him effortlessly across the grassy plain, alternating between leading and being led, and marvelling at how good and right it felt to finally be in the arms of his beloved.

Otabek met Yuri's graceful movements easily, and matched them with those of his own design. When Yuri took to the air, Otabek did not flinch away as they danced on the wind. He took Yuri in his arms, spinning him and drawing him back into a warm, all-encompassing embrace, and regarded him so intensely that Yuri almost lost himself in his gaze.

Yuri had the forethought to remember that most humans could not match Fae in stamina. As the afternoon bowed to the evening and they danced upon moonbeams that rained down from Lady Moon's swell, Yuri caught sight of the moisture on his human's brow, and the way his chest had begun to heave. Without a word, he led Otabek back down to the welcoming earth.

When they landed, Guang-Hong slowly stopped playing, stood up, and offered Yuri a short bow before he disappeared back into the trees. Yuri saw the bow out of the corner of his eye, unwilling as he was to turn his gaze from Otabek, and broke the vial in his pocket, returning Guang-Hong's love to him. All the while, Otabek stared at him with wide eyes, his lips dampened and pink as he tried to catch his breath, and after several long moments of silence, he finally spoke.

“You're real,” Otabek said with breathless amazement, and reached up uncertainly to touch Yuri's cheek with his rough hands. “You're really real.”

Yuri smiled warmly.

“Oh, yes, my precious Otabek,” Yuri said after a moment's pause, “I am very real.”

Yuri closed the distance between himself and his human, and sealed their lips together in a kiss.

A/N: If you like my work, please consider throwing a few bucks into my Digital Tip Jar. I am a starving artist, and I like not actually starving to death :P

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