#wra chapter be upon ye

[thedo0zyslider]

Explosions Across Lifetimes - Chapter Twenty Four: Magical Mistakes - 3k words

Scott and Fwhip both make some mistakes, but one of them is more egregious than the other

A03 Link

Playlist

Fwhip lands in the cold mountains of Rivendell, the snow crunching underneath his boots as he does so. He is here for one reason and one reason only, because Scott had offered to give him the crown. Well, it was more like insisting he takes it than giving it up to him, really.

The Count was a little unsure of what he'd do with the crown once it was back in his hands. He wanted it for himself of course, every ruler did. But Scott had just seemed so desperate to be rid of it, the elf having practically begged him over their communicators.

He had started to wonder that maybe Jimmy's weird behavior at the last meeting or two had been related to the loss of the crown after all. That just maybe the Count had somehow made a horrible, cursed object then passed it around to all his friends for fun.

Scott was waiting for him, outside the small, private residence the elven king had constructed for himself at the start of his rule. He said it was for personal storage, and for when he wanted to get away from the palace. (And, according to Jimmy, it was also for when he, erm, had visitors who weren't there for any kind of formal business. Though that secret wasn't going to be leaving the Count's lips anytime soon.) The house had a very warm look to it, which was a stark contrast to how the man standing in front of it is currently looking.

There is something…. cold about Scott, much more than there normally is. His skin looks paler, and the tips of his fingers give off the impression that they are hardened with frostbite. His eyes are sunken, and shrouded with dark circles, like he's been missing sleep. The whole area around him seems colder too, and usually Rivendell's weather does reflect its ruler's emotions, but today it is different somehow. Like this cold is fueled by something more than Scott's sour mood.

The elf doesn't even greet him, he just removes the crown off his head and shoves it into Fwhip’s hands. He's not even smiling either,and Scottt normally smiles all the time, whether it be for business, or a genuine one, the eleven ruler is normally full of smiles and teases. To see him so…downtrodden is unsettling, especially when the reason isn't his demon sibling trying to kill everyone.

“Here, take it!” Scott says, and Fwhip fumbles to grab a hold of the crown before it drops into the snow below. His voice sounds off, more raspy than it was before, and when Scott spoke he lacked any of his usual energy. The elves’ hands briefly brush his, and it is then he feels how cold they truly are. And he doesn’t touch Scott very often, but he does know his friend is never usually that cold. Scott has a normal body temperature half the time, maybe one slightly colder, but not one as cold as the damn arctic ocean.

“Dude, are you okay?” The Count asks, his own creation now firmly clutched in his hands for the first time in almost three or four months. It was still as heavy as it had been when he first placed it on that festival table, but not enough to hurt someone’s neck if they wore it for too long. He was mostly just glad it seemed to be free of scratches, even with the magical aura he could now feel radiating from it. “You look like a hot mess, not gonna lie.”

“I’m fine, I’m fine.” Scott reassures him far too quickly, and the Count narrows his eyes with every word that comes out of the elves mouth. “Just, had a bad day or two is all.”

“You don’t have to lie to me, Scott.” Fwhip responds, not feeling comfortable just… leaving when his friend looks like that. Now that he was closer he could see just how unkempt the eleven king truly was, his hair being a mess and no jewelry adorning him. And Scott always had jewelry, or makeup, or something that enhanced his natural beauty on.

“I mean it, I’m fine-!” Scott begins again, and is cut off by the sudden sound of elytra wings swooping downwards and a startlingly familiar voice yelling out a premature apology right above the two rulers' heads.

The interaction is cut short by Joel, who had apparently been spying on them the whole entire time, swooping in and taking the crown from Fwhip’s hands. How the Mezlean knew they were there, the Count had no idea. But maybe he had just been lying in wait, and had walked into a perfect opportunity to get what he wanted.

Regardless, it ended up with Fwhip trying and failing to chase the little menace of a man down, and Scott retreating to his cabin; with no one quite knowing why his empire was so stupidly cold, or what terrible thing had befallen him to make him look such a way.

Fwhip finds out just exactly what’s wrong with Scott a few weeks later, when he goes to visit his sister in the cliffs. The mountains that surround her empire are cold, unusually so, but he figures that the wind is just extra strong that day, or maybe they had a heavy snowfall the night prior. It’s nothing he can’t handle, and certainly nothing compared to any of his prior visits to Rivendell.

He didn’t expect it to be because of Gem, with a white streak in her hair and looking like she was frozen half to death. She’s standing with her back to the door, and the air around her is chilly, just like it had been at her neighbor's empire barely a fortnight before.

“Gem!” He yelled upon opening the door to the bottom floor of her house tucked away in the mountain side, making his way over to his sister in an instant. “What happened!?” His voice is loud and high pitched with worry, brows furrowed as he examines the change in his sister's hair and the dullness of her skin. Concern and anger wash over him like a wave, drawing out any reasonable thought that would have maybe crossed his mind about all this.

“Oh, Fwhip! God!” The wizard turned around at the sound of her brother's voice, the half dragon at her side in an instant. “It’s nothing! It’s fine!” Her words were quick, and rushed, and the wizard frantically tried to hide the now white parts of her hair. But Fwhip grabbed her wrist gently, stopping his sister and flinching at how cold her skin had become.

“Who did this, Gem?” He asked, holding on to his twin despite the near unbearable cold seeping from her and through his gloves.

“It was Scott—but he didn’t mean too!” Gem said, voice slightly panicked, as if she had anticipated her brother's quite negative reaction to the news. Which she probably had, the wizard having had plenty of experience with her brother and his rather short temper at times. ”His ice magic has been acting up, and he wanted to control it more. When we were practicing he hit me with an ice beam, that’s all!”

“He what!?” Fwhip yelled, grip on Gem’s wrist tightening unintentionally. Though he loosened it once he realized, the half dragon's tail now flicking angrily against the wooden floor below them.

“It was an accident! It’s all gonna be fine! We’re already working on a way to fix it, okay!?” Gem broke free of her brother’s grasp, and put a hand on his shoulder, trying to keep him calm. Though it was already too late for that. As soon as the Count had seen what happened to his sister, he’d become determined to hunt down whoever had done this to her. And he knew that was probably why Gem had seemed so startled at his arrival, and probably hadn’t wanted him to find out until it was fixed, but it was too late for that now, wasn’t it?

“It’s not okay, Gem! He hurt you!” Fwhip yelled again, slowly beginning to shuffle towards the same door he entered from.

Gem caught what he was trying to do, and shuffled after him just as slowly. “He didn’t mean too, Fwhip! For the last time, it was an accident! ” She protested once more, though they both knew it was in vain. Once the Count’s mind was set on something there was very little anyone could do to change it.

“He still hurt you!” Fwhip growled, already turning the doorknob and throwing the door open. He shoved his goggles over his eyes, a low growl seeming to permanently be coming from the back of his throat.

“Don’t do anything, Fwhip! He didn’t mean it!” Gem called after him, her brother already out the door and equipping his elytra again. She moves after him, trying and failing to grab his arm and drag him back inside.

“ Fwhip! Fwhip wait! ” Gem’s call falls on deaf ears, for her twin is already gone and out the door. The Count is heading down the mountain, on his way back to his own empire to grab a little something. A little something to do a bit of damage to his eleven friends' empire. Not a lot, just enough to send a message.

He lands near his storage system, blindly grabs a random amount of TNT he had stored away some time ago, and starts flying back towards the mountain range.

Fwhip arrives at the eleven empire the fastest he thinks he ever has. Usually, the flight takes a good hour or so, and this one probably takes much less time, with the borderline dangerous amount of rockets he’s blowing through. But Fwhip’s flown this fast before, and is pretty confident he’s not going to be the one blowing up anytime soon.

Once the Count’s landed he does a quick search for Scott but gives up rather quickly. Of he can’t lay into the elf for hurting his sister, he’ll just have to go through with his original plan after all. Not that he;s complaining, the half dragon had been itching to blow up something for some time now, to hear the sound of TNT go off and watch the land be destroyed by the explosives he himself had made.

He lands in front of Scott’s house once again, and takes out the TNT, not caring who sees him. The Count places it in a way that would do that most damage, that would explode the most area, knowing exactly where and how far apart to place each one precisely. He was well trained in the art of exploding asshole’s’ houses, afterall.

Though Fwhip doesn’t get far in the end, because there’s the sound of boots crunching in now behind him, barely five minutes after he himself has landed. And with the sound of footsteps falling behind him, there comes a familiar voice that, in the moment, the Count wishes would;ve never showed up.

“Fwhip!?” His brother's voice is directly behind him, and the half dragon turns, startled by the sound and with white hot anger still coursing through him. “WHy are you placing TNT around Scott’s house!?”

“He hurt Gem.” Fwhip spits out the sentence rather harshly, and quickly turns to resume what he’d been doing a moment prior. But Sausage is determined, and moves to grab hold of the others arm, jerking him back and away from the TNT rather harshly.

“What are you doing man!?” Sausage pulls him back further, and Fwhip is not in the mood. So he thrashes his free limbs and his tail wildly, trying and failing to dislocate himself from Sausage’s strong hold. It reminds him of when they were both children, and things like this were just harmless and innocent play fights, and not his stupid siblings getting in his way.

“Blowing up an asshole’s house!” He responds, and fishes for something in one of his coat pockets. AN item he normally would have on him, and hoped he did now, or else this plan wasn’t going to work, and nothing was going to be blown up.

His fingers brush it after a moment, and the Count brings an already worn and used piece of flint and steel into the air. The man next to him sees what he pulls out, of course, and all his dam yelling and protests seem to get ten times louder at the sight of it.

“Wh—put the flint and steel down, Fwhip!” Sausage says, and tries to wrestle the item away from him. Fwhip unfolds his wings behind him, unbalancing the both of them with a growl and almost smacking his brother directly in the face with one. He moves back to his work, balance regained quickly, and goes to throw the flint and steel that he’s already set on fire, towards the red mass of explosive in front of him. If the Mythlander won’t let him get close enough to light it himself, the Count will just have to do it through other, probably more risky methods.

“Fwhip, don’t!” Sausage warns him, and tries to get in front of the Count, but it’s already too late. The flint and steel was already thrown. One piece of TNT is already beginning to ignite, and all the Mythlander can do is grab the others before the first goes off and sets off the whole lot of them.

There’s a loud boom, and Fwhip closes his eyes and covers his ears for a minute or two. Considering how close the two of them are standing, he hopes Sausage does the same. When the noise is done he opens all his senses again, and the outcome isn’t the best, but it’s also not the worst one that could’ve happened.

Only one TNT goes off, thankfully, somehow, maybe because Sausage managed to grab the rest of them in time; but it still causes a good deal of damage. It’s still enough. Half of Scott’s house is gone, the stuff that was held inside now being torn and scattered across the ground, and some of the ground surrounding it has caved in. There are screams for the civilians nearby, and Fwhip figures it's probably too late to turn tail and run. Especially with Sausage yelling at him like he is.

“ Fwhip! I told you not too! What the hell man!?” It’s a rare thing, to see Mythland’s King close to genuine anger. Fwhip knows this all too well, and it’s what sets in just how badly he’s messed up here. Sausage keeps yelling, though the Count barely hears it, as his ears are ringing from something. Maybe the amount of sounds that had just happened, he doesn’t know.

When the rining clears and the Count can think clearly again, it hits him just how badly he fucked up. It hits just how badly he’d let his anger get the best of him, how carried away he;d gotten, and what exactly he’s just done.

Fwhip comes to his senses fully when Sausage finally finishes tearing into him after a good five or so minutes, and stands there, awaiting a response. The Count looks at his brother's expectant gaze, and just blinks back unknowingly. He doesn’t know what answer Sausage wants from him, and couldn’t even give the right one if he did know it. Because there is no right answer or any good reason for any of what just happened.

Sausage repeats the question he’d apparently already asked a moment ago, voice trembling with barely restrained anger. It's enough to make Fwhip flinch, and then stop himself from doing so, because he has no right to act scared in this situation. Not when he did this, and he’s the reason Sausage is so mad in the first place. “Why, why did you do it!?”

Fwhip can only give one reason, a sad reason all things considered. A bad reason. The exact same shitty one he’d given before.

“He hurt Gem.” Even to the Count that reason now sounds weak and flimsy, he can only imagine how it sounds to Sausage. His own voice is small, a newfound shame gradually starting to leak into the edges of it, and it’s certainly a stark contrast to how his brother speaks at the moment. It reminds him of Gem desperately begging him not to be stupid barely an hour before.

“That’s not a good reason to blow up his house!” The Mythlander yells again, throwing his arms up in the air. Fwhip just blinks at him, the coldness in the air enveloping him by the second and sinking into his bones. He can’t tell if the coldness is from the empire around them, or the man in front of him, but regardless it is all becoming just a bit too much for the ginger to handle at that second.

“I….I need to go.” That is all the half dragon can muster out, before he’s turning and opening his elytra and leaving the mountains for good that day. He just…he needs to go home. Get his head straight, properly process this without a sibling angrily yelling at him and telling him just how wrong he was. That part can always be saved for later.

“What , Fwhip!” Sausage’s yell, all the ones telling him to come back, follow him until he’s out of hearing range. They keep doing so all the way down the mountains, into the Grimlands and all the way into his bedroom back in the manor.

He’d messed up big time, and the Count could only dread how the next monthly meeting would go; considering how it was less than one week away. There’s not enough time to hide this, to sweep it under the rug, because it;s going to be brought up regardless of however it's handled. His mistakes are going to be laid out for everyone to see and blame him for, and Fwhip has dug himself into a hole he can;t get out of; he’s made a mistake he can’t even think of a way to fix.

He thinks about how Jimmy’s going to react, and knows that will be the worst part to endure.

[cobawrites]

A Gust of Wind (Vash x Reader), Chapter 8

Vash x Reader, GN! Reader, Mutual Pining, Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn Romance, TW: Mental Health Problems. Reader awakens to an unfamiliar world, left alone and struggling with mental health problems from before the crash. Vash emerges as a guiding light for Reader, and vice versa.

First >> Prev. >> Chapter 8 >> Next

A/N: Giggled and kicked my feet SO MUCH as I wrote this chapter! Hope you guys enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!

(God, this was so self-indulgent… My touch-starved is showing </3)

                                             A Gust of Wind

                                                Chapter 8 

Vash gave a whole new meaning to taking someone’s breath away. You struggled for air with muffled wheezing as he smothered your face into the crook of his neck, pressing his hand to the back of your head, crushing your chest against his, squeezing until he could no longer feel your warm, strangled puffs of breath against his skin. He repeated his words like a mantra. You came back… You came back…

Yes, you came back, but this was not the welcome you expected, nor deserved. His touch, like fire, burned hotter than Marlene’s. As he continued to melt your body into his, something hard and metal on his chest dug into your skin painfully, sure to leave a couple of dark bruises come tomorrow. This small atonement for your sins was all that kept your tears from streaming down your cheeks.

You were dizzy, sore, and blue in the face by the time Vash loosened his grip, giving you just enough room to expand your chest once again. His face was inches from yours as you took deep breaths, and his own ragged panting invaded your lungs. His eyes, beautifully dazed, fixed upon yours.

You would have given anything to gaze into those eyes of his again, the ones that saw through you in the way that, up until now, only your mother had. The ones that carried the same distinct taint of some deeply rooted sadness, of something that could leave anyone feeling othered, and utterly alone. And here they were, those familiar eyes, like home, yet you couldn’t bring yourself to look.

“I’m sorry…” you said in a small voice, your face turned away from his. It was all you could manage. You hadn’t had time to think about what you would say once you found him. Your thoughts up to now were thoroughly preoccupied with deceiving the townsfolk and planning his escape. And besides, you’d be a liar if you denied the fact that you were simply terrified of how this conversation might go. You didn’t want to think about all the awful things you were so sure he’d say to you, and rightfully so. Despite his overwhelming, bone-crushing affection upon seeing you again, you still waited with bated breath for his response.

“Sorry?” Vash’s grip loosened a little more, his hands sliding to your shoulders. “Sorry about what?”

You couldn’t help yourself any longer. A shaky sob escaped your lips. Your hand flew to your mouth in an attempt to muffle the sounds you could no longer hold back. A hasty barricade upon a breaking dam.

Suddenly, it was Vash who was comforting you. After everything that happened, beaten, bleeding, and bruised, he was the one comforting you.

And here you were, trying your damned hardest to keep your cries from alerting the gunmen passing by outside. All for what? Because you hurt your own feelings? Because you’d done a horrible thing you should never have done? Because you were the one responsible for every one of the mars on his beautiful face? You deserved every ounce of guilt weighing down upon you. And you certainly didn’t deserve the way his kind hands cradled your body once again.

Your chest heaved painfully as you desperately choked down your cries. You couldn’t help but run your trembling fingertips obsessively along every bloodstained bandage, as if you could somehow brush the lacerations softly away.

His right hand traveled up to your face, cupping your cheek carefully, like newspaper wrapping brittle glass. Vash pressed his forehead to yours, and coaxed your chin gently so that you’d look back at him the way he wanted you to. Finally locked in the gaze you both craved, each of you wondered if the other saw in themselves what you saw in each other.

Without a doubt, this man could read right through you. His soft, yet piercing eyes left not much to the imagination. You were an open book for him to flip through and enjoy. Something about this should have felt so violating, yet there was some relief in the way he turned each one of your pages with such delicate hands, careful not to make a single tear, leaving only the slightest fingerprints of his forefinger and his thumb. It was enough to make you wish he’d turn the pages a little faster.

But who was to say that the words on the pages read the same for him as they did for you? The way he looked at you was angelic and full of love, as if he weren’t staring straight into the eyes of a sinner. What did those pages read? What could they possibly be saying?

And Vash. He paraded with the guise of a paperback, but underneath the decorative sleeve was a hardcover. You longed to touch it, if only to feel the tiny grooves of the leather, before trading away whatever secret scraps of paper you had left for the chance to read the entirety of his first page. There had to be more to this man than what you could see, even now. You wanted to see, and you knew that he wanted you to, as well.

Still, there were parts of him that maybe even he couldn’t read. Chapters he probably skipped every time he opened his book. Chapters he simply refused to recognize. But you did. You at least knew they were there. Perhaps Vash didn’t quite understand the value of the ink on his pretty pages. He would rather feed them to the fire to keep his neighbors warm on a cold desert night than to ever acknowledge that he may be worthy of something softer.

Your fingers ghosted over a particularly bloody bandage, messily tied right over his clothes. Carefully, you unwrapped it. The gash was long, and rather deep, cutting across the side of his torso. It would leave a scar, for sure.

“Take off your shirt,” you whispered, your hands already sliding underneath the hem.

Vash hesitated as you gently started lifting the shirt for him. “I’d… really rather not,” he responded.

Your fingers pressed against his belly as he placed his hand over yours, preventing you from going any further. His skin was surprisingly rough, and… Was that a piece of metal?

You started to back off, but one more look at the wound you had just unbandaged strengthened your resolve. “Let me help you,” you insisted, tensely gripping the edge of the fabric.

Vash swallowed hard, agonizingly contemplating what to say. It made no sense to refuse your help in his current state, but still. His mind raced through all your possible reactions if he were to go through with this. He wasn’t sure if he could bear much more at the moment.

“Please…” you begged, intertwining your fingers with his and gently guiding his hand aside.

He could no longer refuse you. The way you were looking at him made him wish he could repeat this scenario anywhere else, in a safer place, just the two of you. Taking a deep breath, he slowly removed his shirt.

You couldn’t help but gasp a little. Immediately, there was a look of regret on his face, and he almost began to reach for his shirt once again. However, your hands now rested softly along his ribs, catching him by surprise.

You brushed your fingertips, featherlight, over his torso, almost as if in a trance. His skin was covered all over with large scars, burn marks, and even metal bits that appeared to function as prosthetic pieces. What happened to this poor man?

Images from earlier that day crept up in your mind. Was this the price he paid for the sake of people like you? You bit your lip nearly hard enough to draw blood, all in a desperate attempt to keep your composure. This was a vulnerable moment for him, and you would do your best to make him understand just how special he was.

“Oh, Vash…” you breathed, resting your forehead on his shoulder while your hands lightly stroked each and every scar. The way you caressed his sensitive skin, the way you slowly dragged your hands along the marred tissue over his heart… It sent a shiver down his spine. A shiver that coursed right through your own fingertips.

At this, you reeled yourself in, shaking your head a little and turning around to hide a furious blush. His reaction would stay engraved in your memory for quite some time.

Clearing your throat awkwardly, you reached over for the medical supplies in your bag. You could feel Vash’s heavy gaze on your back as you did so. He watched your every move as you retrieved disinfectant and fresh bandages, and relished in how you cleaned his wound so gently. He could barely hold himself back from putting his hands on you again, trying not to get in the way of your work.

“I know it’s hard, but try not to move so much on this side,” you said, double checking to make sure the bandage was snug. “Otherwise, it’ll just keep bleeding through.”

“Mhmmm…” he hummed, although judging by the glazed look in his eyes, it didn’t really seem like he was listening. His hands snaked up your arms as he pulled you close.

Suddenly, you were pulled flush against his chest once again, and his forehead pressed softly to yours. Vash had a big, goofy smile on his face. “I can’t believe you came back.”

You wanted to smile. You really did. But you couldn’t help but feel heartbroken at the way he said those words. They didn’t quite match the look on his face. Instead, you settled for a nod and a light squeeze to his hand.

“Does this mean… you’ll stay?” He asked tentatively, suddenly not looking you in the eyes.

Your heart sank. You didn’t know what to say. Lying crossed your mind, but he probably already knew your real answer from the way you hesitated to respond.

You couldn’t do it again. As much as you cared for him, you could in no way guarantee that you could do it again. You couldn’t vow to stay the way you’d done for your mother. It was a broken promise waiting to happen.

Vash’s fingertips dug into your skin, not quite hard enough to cause pain, but hard enough that it made you look, just to be sure that it was, in fact, his hands gripping you this tightly. You turned your gaze back to him. He still refused to look you in the eyes, but you could see that his expression was pained and pleading.

“Please… Stay…” he whispered softly, his breath on your lips. “If not for me, then…”

His chest heaved slightly before he continued, taking you by surprise. “God… I was so scared. I thought you’d never come back. I thought I had failed you. I thought you would… I thought…”

At this, it was your turn to give him a hard squeeze. “You are not responsible for me, Vash,” you stated firmly, moving your head to look directly into his eyes. You couldn’t keep the frustration out of your voice. “For the love of God, don’t you ever think about yourself?”

“I am thinking about myself!” He retorted, his words dripping in a tone you weren’t used to hearing from him. It nearly made you flinch, but you stood your ground.

“Does letting others drag you into situations where you’ll get the crap beaten out of you count as thinking about yourself, then?” You hissed angrily, trying to keep your voice down. “You were worried about me, but I was freaking out about you, too! You could have died.”

“You could have died, too! In fact, you did almost die the last time, so don’t give me that!” Vash furrowed his brows. His grip on your arms was starting to sting.

“That is my business. Mine, not yours!” You said, attempting to tear yourself away from him, but he only held on even tighter. “Besides, it’s my fault that you even got into this mess to begin with!”

His grip let up and his expression softened. A few moments of silence passed by as he looked at you curiously. “Is that what you think?”

More silence. Once again, you didn’t know how to respond. You knew this was a question you’d keep coming back to, as long as Vash was the one asking. But the answer was obvious, wasn’t it? There was no other way to put it. Your demons would drag you down, and your anchors down with you.

“Listen, I am being selfish, okay?” He breathed softly into your ear, resting his temple on yours. His hands traveled up your back, wrapping you in a gentle hug, attempting to calm you down. He could feel your pulse rising. “Please, let me be selfish.”

“Let you… be selfish?”

“Yes. You said you were sorry, right?” He asked, rubbing your shoulder blades as he tucked his face into the crook of your neck. You nodded slowly. “Well, then don’t ever do that again. Don’t run from me ever again. Don’t leave me, (Y/N).”

His shaky breath felt warm against your skin. The realization was setting in for him. Swallowing your nerves, you gently wove your fingers into his hair, massaging his scalp in apology for the words you couldn’t speak. You hoped he wouldn’t ask any more questions.

Vash sighed heavily. With sudden force, he squeezed you in his arms. It was too tight, too strong to escape. Once again, you could hardly breathe. 

“Well, that’s okay. I won’t let that happen. Ever again.”

[since0202]

Chapter 32: Mistake

Jacob was shaking violently before her. Low clouds had rolled in on the horizon and it threatened to rain. The thunder sounded ominously off the shore and Grace was standing, stock still on her front porch staring at the boy she loved as he crumbled. 

“You….you slept with him?” his voice cracked from the weight of the words. She was out of tears, her eyes just burned fiercely and her voice croaked with dehydration. 

“Yes,” it killed her to admit it. Something in her cracked as she tried to move toward him. He shot her a look and exhaled a fierce breath through his nose. 

“No,” he  growled. His eyes leveled her with a silent command that locked her in place. She had to obey. Her eyes went wide and she stopped and clenched her hands around the bottom of her shorts. 

“It just...happened. I didn’t..we knew it was a mistake right away. I’m so sorry, please. I—,” Grace couldn’t move from the spot she was in and she felt like she was choking. The hurt radiated off of Jacob’s body in clear pulses as he shook wildly. She thought he was going to explode, a part of her really wanted him to so that she could feel the pain she knew she deserved at this moment. 

The thunder clapped behind him again, louder this time, the storm coming in too fast. The sound echoed in her head and she felt a rush move through her. Another change—a strangled small sound escaped her lips as she tried to step forward toward him. 

Jake’s face twisted in anger, his teeth clenched, and his fists hung heavy by his sides. His breathing was fast and loud and she braced for impact. Oh how she wished he would. 

A cry like that of a wounded animal escaped his lips and she felt her insides twist wildly in excruciating pain. Was he doing that? Grace’s eyes widened in fear.

But then, the anger was replaced with debilitating sadness and tears sprang to his eyes. He went limp, his eyes casting to the ground and Grace felt the constricting pain loosen.

This was somehow worse. Much worse. After a few terrifying moments of silence he raised his eyes to hers, black with quiet rage, took one ragged breath and said with venom laced in his voice, “I hate you.” 

Grace broke into a thousand pieces, whimpering in the spot she couldn’t seem to leave. Before she could get anything out, he had turned, phased and left through the trees. It felt like someone had cut a taut thread holding her body together. She felt her body let out a scream as he left, still unable to move, so Grace did the only thing she thought she could do. She called out to him in her mind desperately:

JACOB! JAKE. JAKE PLEASE. JACOB, COME BACK! 

But she couldn’t hear him anymore. She collapsed in a heap on the ground. It felt like she was bleeding but she had no physical wounds to speak of. The ache in her belly exploded into a thrashing snake that burned and tore at her. Thunder echoed around as rain came crashing down around her in a torrential downpour. There was no relief.

She felt everything for what felt like forever and then, excruciatingly, she felt nothing at all. For however long Grace had laid there, it rained on her and she welcomed it. She turned onto her back and let her mouth hang open as rain dripped down her throat. Nothing offered any relief. She was empty. 

Grace heard splashing footsteps approach. She was still soaked through and shivering but she pulled herself up and stood, uneven on her two feet. Her vision blurred from the rain and she rubbed her eyes to clear them just in time to see Rachel, stomping toward her. 

In one fell swoop, Rachel raised her arm and slapped Grace as hard as she could across the face. The searing pain whipped through her cheek and into the back of her head, sending white lights popping behind her eyes. She wasn’t sure if she let out any sound other than heaving a breath before she righted herself to see Rachel rigid with anger. 

“How fucking dare you.” her voice was seething and Grace flinched at it’s acid. She opened her mouth as if to reply but Rachel’s eyes warned her not too. “How dare you treat me and my brother like this. I have no idea who you are but if the old Grace is in there, relay this message to her as well.” She paused for a second and leaned in so her face was close to Grace’s. “FUCK. YOU.” Rachel was fire and Grace was dry grass. She was consumed by her rage and turned to ash. Rachel took one last look at her, spitting on the ground next to her and walked away.

Grace staggered on the spot and pulled herself up the steps holding onto her left cheek where Rachel had slapped her. As she pushed through her open doorway, sopping and dripping, she slipped in a puddle of her own making. She landed hard on the wood floor just inside of her front door and stayed there. Her heartbeat slowed and she hoped that sleep would take her at least for a little while. But the pain returned to keep her awake as long as it wanted, raking her over the coals and making her see Jacob’s pained face, hear the echoing words ‘I hate you’ over and over and Rachel’s tearful, enraged face as she screamed at her. 

Grace fell into the unending black. 

July

August

September

The cool, late summer air pushed through the open window. Soft steps down the stairs leading into the kitchen complemented the peaceful silence that hung in the air right before sunrise. The coffee machine sputtered quietly as the soft footsteps made their way to the couch, covering the sleeping boy with a light throw blanket, his broad, russet back exposed. 

Steam wafted from the top of the coffee cup as it was pressed to full lips. The sun slowly rose, breaking over Grace’s face as she stood on the edge of the beach letting the cold turning water lap up and kiss her toes. She stared out over the horizon, letting the day wash over her, trembling from the cold or the anticipation. Shaking the last of the pain prickling in her hands free, she took a deep breath and turned to go back inside. 

A couple hours after day break, Grace walked over to the sleeping form on her couch. 

“Hey, wake up. Breakfast,” she nudged the grumbling boy in the shoulder and waved an oversized stack of pancakes in front of his face. The boy’s eye peeped open and reached for the stack. “At the table.” Grace said, her voice monotone. 

Embry slumped into the chair across from her and dug into a stack of pancakes untouched by Grace. She picked over a bowl of yogurt and watched him chow down. 

“Late night?” she offered. He nodded between bites, his eyes rolling into the back of his head in pure bliss at the food. 

“Yeah, ran damn near to Canada. Thanks for letting me crash,” he said mouth full. Grace nodded. This was a regular thing with most of the pack. Her home was a stop gap between Forks and the rez. Sometimes, if they were too tired, they’d crash at her place, not able to make it all the way home. She left her door unlocked and would often find a snoring member on her couch, in her armchair, or on the spare mattress she set up in her office for just such an occasion. 

At first, she had internally protested their presence. The first week after Jake was gone, Grace didn’t leave the house. Embry and Quil had made quick work of the locked door without damaging it (much to Jared’s dismay) and found her in bed, conscious but not responsive. 

“Should we call someone?” Embry had said worriedly as he sat on the side of her bed after trying to make her look at him. “Ti’Hal maybe?” Quil shifted uneasily from foot to foot and nodded over his shoulder. Jared and Embry followed him out into the hall where he quietly said, 

“Let’s try to find Jake first. And if we can’t, then we’ll bring in Ti’Hal, yeah?” Jared was peering through the door with fear in his eyes. While he’d never seen it himself, he recognized something in Grace that he’d heard only in the legends. He kept his mouth shut though and nodded to the others. 

“Yeah, let’s find Jake.” 

But they were unsuccessful. No matter how far they ran in any direction, they heard nothing. After that first week, Embry, Quil, and Jared would casually start showing up at Grace’s place, prying open the door and sleeping over on the couch or munching on snacks in the kitchen. The noise roused Grace more than once and when she finally found enough energy to creep down the top steps looking haggard she was met with a delighted wave from Quil. She scowled and turned back up to her room locking herself in. 

Seth and Leah quickly followed suit, then Brady and Collin, and even Sam. Sam had taken one look at her after that first week and the next day Emily was there, tidying up the house, cooking meals, and rolling Grace onto her side like an elderly patient to change her sheets. Leah had hauled her from the bed from under the arms and put her in the tub, carefully undressing her and turning on the hot water. Grace had broken down into tears in the bathtub as Leah had washed her hair like she was a little kid. Leah didn’t protest when Grace leaned into her, getting soap all over her shirt and sobbed. 

She’d refused to see Ti’Hal, mostly due to shame. She wasn’t ready to hear the extent to which she had royally fucked up. Not yet. 

Grace crossed her arms, sitting back and staring past Embry toward the door. 

“So...the big day is upon us,” Embry said gently. Grace snapped her eyes back to him looking for clarification. When she dazed off like that everything went out of focus and she lost all connection to solid ground. “Bella and the leech are getting married?” he prompted. 

“Oh, yeah,” Grace said, closing her eyes tight to shake off the blurriness and come back to center. “Yeah, tomorrow. You still coming?” 

Embry shrugged his shoulders not meeting her eyes as he finished off his pancakes. Grace got lost again and only came to when Embry patted her shoulder and said goodbye. 

“Are you gonna be able to walk in those?” Grace said skeptically, sitting on the front deck of the Cullen house and watching as Bella scraped across the wood leaving marks. Even though the weather was still fairly warm for September, Grace was wrapped in a blanket wearing a giant oversized sweater and sweatpants. She was constantly cold these days. 

“Can’t I just go barefoot?” Bella said, unsteady on her feet. Alice looked like someone had punched her in the stomach, not that she would feel it if they had. 

“Absolutely not! This isn’t some backyard hoedown, you will wear the Jimmy Choos and you will appreciate the Jimmy Choos.” Alice chided. She tried to demonstrate again for Bella, gliding gracefully across the deck. 

“To be fair, it is in a backyard,” Bella said. Grace pointed a finger at her and her eyes lit up momentarily before being clouded by dull pain. Bella watched the fleeting moment of joy dissipate on Grace’s face with increased worry. 

It had been three months. Three months since Jake had taken off. No one tried to go after him at first, but it became clear as the hours turned into days and turned into weeks that he wasn’t coming back. Whatever broke in Grace that day had broken in Jacob too. 

After a month, Bella asked Edward to go looking for him, hoping that the luck he had last time in finding Jake would happen again. But nothing came of it. He and Carlisle reached out to their contacts but they were very limited in offering identifying information considering they were trying to keep the pack’s existence a secret. 

He was just gone. And Grace was left behind. The pack was in disarray as Grace lost herself. Sam had banished her from patrols and trainings since she couldn’t stay focused. Her recasting was almost nonexistent—anytime she tried to recast she ended up miles away from where she intended. She was thrown completely out of sync. 

As she sat watching Bella scrape her way across the deck, Grace felt that familiar buoying sensation that made her feel like she was thrashing around in an open ocean, unsteady and untethered. This feeling was constant ever since she felt that thread snap in her when Jake left. She rubbed absently at the dark purple bruises under her eyes from the ongoing lack of sleep. It was if her body was punishing her for what she did during the day and her mind took up the task at night throwing nightmare after nightmare that would leave her screaming herself awake in a cold sweat. 

She tightened the blanket around her to brace herself against the feeling more and gave Bella a weary smile when she looked her way. 

“Bella you have to promise me you’ll practice  this week. There’s only five days left!” Alice squealed. 

“I have been practicing,” Bella said with a terrified look on her face. 

“Just….practice more then!” Alice said cheerfully. 

Bella dropped Grace off at Sam and Emily’s place in the afternoon. Grace plopped into the nearest chair in the kitchen. Emily turned to look over at her as she kneaded some bread dough on the counter. 

“How was it?” she said nonchalantly. Grace made a sound of affirmation, not wanting to elaborate. Sam walked out from the bedroom door, pulling a shirt over his head before kissing Emily on the temple. He looked across the kitchen at Grace and she gave him that desperate faraway stare. 

As far as Spirit Bird’s went, she was probably the worst in her histories. Completely useless to her Alpha and unable to do anything of value at the moment. The girl who had decimated a horde of newborn vampires in a clearing was long gone. She could hardly lift her arms above her head. Sam glanced from Grace to Emily who gave him a worried nod, encouraging him to say what they had discussed earlier. 

“I think it’s time to see Ti’Hal,” he said in a stern voice. Grace took awhile to react, slow and encumbered with fatigue at just existing. She let out a tired breath and tried to protest: 

“Sam,” she croaked weakly, but he just shook her head at her, throwing what little energy she had to fight out the window. “Fine.” she said sullenly. Let Ti’Hal tell her she was broken, that there’d been a mistake, that she wasn’t actually the Spirit Bird but a perfect fake who destroyed lives instead. 

Ti’Hal’s home was small but well maintained thanks to the community. She held most of the tribes histories and so she was treasured amongst nearly every member of the tribe. Sam handed Grace over to Ti’Hal on the doorstep much like a child of divorcees. She felt like that a lot recently: a helpless kid who didn’t know what to do or how to exist in this world. It drove her crazy, but the painful stupor kept her still. 

Ti’Hal gave Sam a small, sad smile and took Grace’s hand leading her into her home to the small comfortable living room. She had a fire going and Grace trembled at it’s warmth, only a faint echo of the warmth she used to feel with Jake. She slumped to the floor and Ti’Hal shuffled away to the kitchen to make some tea as Grace stared into the fire. 

Before long Ti’Hal was next to her, handing her a cup of tea and settling into the armchair next to her. Grace leaned her back against the side of the armchair and let out a whimper. 

“Where have you been, Little Bird?” Ti’Hal said softly, her gentle, raspy voice mixing in with the flames. Grace wasn’t sure how to answer and shook her head. “There is so much pain you have caused each other. Why? Why do you fight so hard against who you are?” 

Grace turned her body to look at Ti’Hal. Anger, the only emotion her body would let her feel completely other than pain, was apparent on her face. Ti’Hal continued. 

“You’re angry about the imprint. What you see as cruel fate interfering with your happiness. But what if you are seeing it through the wrong eyes?” 

Grace’s face contorted to that of confusion. “Who’s eyes am I supposed to look through if the whole problem is I’m fighting against who I’m supposed to be?” 

“Grace, you are exceptionally perceptive at feelings, but you are not listening. What has your heart been telling you this whole time?” 

“That he will leave me for his imprint so I retroactively fucked us up as a form of self-destruction and protection to ensure at least one of us ends up happy.” Grace said aggressively. Ti’Hal shook her head. 

“The imprint...the imprint is more than a means to an end. An imprint happens when the wolf warrior needs it most, when they are exactly who they are supposed to be. It is the purest form of fate, that is dictated by the fated’s actions. You see fate as cruel, something you cannot control, but you are the one dictating it with every move of your muscle. So why do you insist on betraying yourself?” 

“I don’t understand,” Grace said slowly. 

“Stop worrying about fate and become your truest self. Only then will it fall into place. Who you’re meant to be, who he is meant to be. If you don’t, you will continue in this dance around one another and only end up suffering.” 

“That’s it? Just be yourself? That’s your world changing advice?” Grace said, the anger back again. She was on her feet. Ti’Hal nodded, so sure. “Ti’Hal what?! Don’t you see what’s happened? I fucked up! I broke. And I destroyed the only thing that was good...for me.” She choked. 

“Where there is a break, there is healing. You are the Spirit Bird. So heal. The uncertainty will dissolve when you make the decision and become who you are meant to be.” 

“They made a mistake. The ancestors. I’m not...I don’t think I can do this. I’m not strong enough for this,” Grace was shaking, swaying in place. A hard look came across Ti’Hal’s face and her arm shot out with such speed and force that it startled Grace. 

“Fight HARDER for yourself.” Grace felt fire run up her arm, ignite her veins from Ti’Hal’s touch and the dull cloud of pain cleared. Hot flames licked down her body, burning away the cold that had trapped her since Jake was gone. The snapped thread still hung empty in her body, but she felt the solid ground under her feet for the first time in awhile. 

Ti’Hal let go of her and the feeling remained, echoing in ripples up and down her body. “He will return. His soul has heard the call of another’s and he won’t be able to stay away for too long. I suggest you prepare yourself by heeding my advice. Become who you were meant to be, for the good of the tribe, for your pack, for young Jacob Black. For you.” She said firmly, the last words echoing in Grace’s head loudly. She nodded, swallowing hard, to show she understood and crept toward the door. 

When she pushed it open, the cool air washed over her feverish body and she shivered from the sensation. Her senses had been dulled for so long and now she felt everything again, the pain, the rush of the wind, the sound of the ocean crashing nearby, the warm earth under her feet. 

As she took a step out of the door, onto the grass, her body shifted and she recast deep into the forest, coming to a stop next to Sam. He was addressing the pack and turned to look at her. The pack followed his gaze to her and she looked to each of them, resolved to heal, resolved to find her way back to them. 

[ranekvilmas]

Unraveled (Chapter 2, Part 3)

The elf tried to scream, but her words were cut off into a silent plea for help, frozen in fear. The Creature could taste the poor elf's fear, it was delicious. Do it... she thinks as he readied the killing blow.

"After you, I will kill Quin, Valis, Blythe.. and anyone you love. Then I can take my time with the little pups you have scurrying around your home. I bet they will taste wonderful. You're so woefully weak, it's pitiful!" 

All the while she was begging for her life, bags now dropped and forgotten.   For Ranek, the words were enough to finally break him. The threat to all he held dear tore the rest of his defenses and rationale away from him. "You.. will not TOUCH them!" He hissed, sending the knife down and into an innocent Quel'dorei's heart.  He stared deep into those violet eyes, watching the life drift from her. "They will be safe, and I will protect them.."

Those last couple heartbeats had shattered the illusion Terror filled eyes greeting Ranek's, confused and going limp as she slid to the cobblestone.  "....Why?...." Were the last words that came from the elven woman’s lips as the visage disappeared and the innocent woman was shown to him.

 And the Creature ripped from his shadow, mad laughter filling the air as it seeped through the crevices between his knife and the elf's flesh. Pallid flesh began to turn dusky as that void corruption devoured the fleeing soul with glee, laying claim to the still cooling corpse. Pale locks turning dark as if now living strands of shadow. It was still then the chest rose once... then twice. With a start she sat up, grinning and laughing as a hand lifts and pulls away the man's blade tossing it aside as the wound began to seal, blood still on the dress.

"Stupid little bird! I'm free!" Words so use to being in her mind now slipped from newly owned vocal cords.

Ranek slowly fell backwards, disbelief and confusion written all over his face. "No.... what have I done..?" His hands started shaking, moving away from the body as the laughter filled the air. He watched in horror as the Creature took over the body of the woman he just killed. 

"What? What the fel..." As the failure and guilt, sorrow and hopelessness filled his body, he looked at the woman, startled as she sat upright and grinned at him. "You.... what have you done!?" He pleaded with the reanimated body, the disbelief in his voice was music to the Creature’s ears.

"And it is what you did. I couldn't of done this... I had no body, no solid form and shape..." she carefully pushed herself up, dusting herself off. "Ooh! This fabric feels so lovely," she ran her hands along the curves before grinning at poor Ranek. "She is very lovely, don't you think?" The violence he committed obviously didn't phase her. It gave her a body, who cares about the poor creature he slayed in cold blood.

She leaned down to look at him, tilting her head. "And really. You should say what the Void... void," she spoke as if he was some dumbfounded child. 

He looked up at her as she stood, disbelief that all of this was happening. He stared at the closing wound , then up to her face. 

You did this. You didn't listen, you failed again. 

The voice was once more his own, hollow and devoid of emotion as the reality sank in.He clenched his jaw, fighting the depression taking over as well as the frozen lump in his stomach. "You.. used me. You manipulated that.. INNOCENT woman." He put his hands on either side of his head... then the wolf brought him back by howling in rage.

She peeked at him, having been busying herself by fixing the fabric to cover the hole. There was a pause before smiled so sweetly, "Ranek no one is innocent. So you didn't kill an innocent woman, she just happened to be the one walking by..." she covered her elongated ears at the sound before speaking again, "Our deal was I couldn't harm your loved ones. I never did, I kept my word."

"She -was- innocent. She did not deserve to be murdered. You manipulated me. You manipulated our deal... why am I surprised.." He moved his hands to slowly stand up, jamming a finger into the center of her chest. 

"You wanted a body.. why? There were other ways to do this.. but you made ME do it for you." He snarled, rising anger taking over as he took a step closer as his hands clenched into fists. "What else have you not been telling me, shadow?"

She set her jaw, oh this was new, narrowing now void tainted eyes, "Mortal... I held our deal. It is not my fault you didn't think of every possible outcome of fine point! You didn't think. That's on you, not me! I said what I wanted. Freedom. And looks," she lifts up both hands letting them fall limply back to her sides, "I have freedom." 

She is right. Nothing can be done about the deal. I did not make it airtight, just like in Drustvar. Just like the other times.

He clenched his jaw, pure rage emanating from him. He screwed up, this was his fault, yes.  But he did not have to bow and let her get away.

"Had." He said flatly with barely controlled anger and loomed over her as she took a step back.

Had?

This gave her pause, eyes narrowing as she turned them fully upon the worgen. "Excuse me?" She asked softly as if not fully understanding him. 

"We have our deal, I am honoring it. I didn't have to... I could've killed them like in those dreams. I could've made you feast on that stupid woman's intestines like they were a fine meal... but I didn't. I played by your rules, like I did his."

@nighthaunter-wra​

[disneywarriorcats]

Chapter 2

Over the course of the day, they passed a wide variety of cats, some Disney knew by name, others he didn’t. Some he had interacted with on a nameless basis, simply settling a score for them over a dead rat or some other food source. He nodded to anyone who caught his eye, though most tended to stare at him curiously as he went along with the kit at his side. These were cats who had heard through a distant grapevine of his endeavor to start a clan, and they watched him carefully, perhaps hoping he wouldn’t stop to ask them to leave their lives behind and start anew with him.

Of course, he would never ask them to do such a thing. He knew how important their livelihoods were to them, however fragile they may have been; street living was no easy thing. Only the toughest and smartest—and luckiest—of cats lived to be as old as Disney.

As they passed a pair of black cats standing over a box of half-eaten chicken, Mickey pressed against Disney. “They don’t look very friendly.” With their gleaming golden eyes and bared fangs, Disney quite agreed.

“They won’t hurt you,” Disney promised. “City cats are far more civilized than most would think.” Indeed, the city cats had a particular code of honor, unspoken but well-known to those who had been there long enough to understand. It took longer for newcomers, the street-found. It wasn’t something that could be taught by word of mouth, but by action and reaction.

Still Mickey eyed the cats wearily until they were out of sight. “Are-are there a lot of cats around here?”

“Sometimes,” Disney said. “Some city cats come and go as they wish, others are here permanently. “This city is large; in some areas, there are more cats. In others, less. We’re in one of the areas with less cats.”

“Ohh,” Mickey said with a nod. “What are the other areas like?”

“Much like this,” Disney said, indicating the surrounding area with his tail. “The further out we go, the less crowded it will it is, on every side. Some areas are occupied by large groups of cats. One large group lives on the outskirts of the city, to the east; two others I know of live within, one to the north, the other south.” Upon finishing speaking, a series of bells tolled somewhere in the distance, echoing through the city walls. Disney looked up in an attempt to trace the sound. He swiveled an ear toward Mickey without looking at him. “Do you hear that?”

“Uh-huh.” Then, “What is it?”

“Church bells,” Disney answered. Now he turned to Mickey. “Those are the bells of the Notre Dame cathedral.” They started off again. “If you ever return to the city streets, Mickey, you must never go there. The fellow in charge of that territory isn’t very welcoming toward new cats. I suspect there will be an uprising soon.”

The kit’s eyes grew round. Such a strange world was that of the city cats. So steeped in unspoken rules and territories and turf wars, all rather overwhelming for a young cat unfamiliar with anything outside his own home. Every street-born kitten had an innated sense of the code and vague territory borders; for street-found cats, this was harder to get a grasp of.

He poked his head out from around Disney’s chest. The alleys peered back at him, though he expected a mass of cats from the cathedral’s doorstep. “He must not be a very nice cat.” He wrinkled his nose.

“Oh, no,” Disney confirmed. “Frollo is anything but.” He left the matter at that.

At the point that the sky had turned red, Disney and Mickey were long out of the range of the bells of Notre Dame. Disney caught another rat, which Mickey begrudgingly shared with him, and they found refuge for the night in a worn cardboard box. They set out early the next morning. Breakfast, much to Mickey’s delight, was not a rat, but a few strips of bacon and piece of chicken Disney discovered in the dumpster of the first restaurant they passed.

They made their journey in pleasant spirits. Disney told Mickey all he could of the day-to-day activities of the street cats. He spared the kit the harsher details: the wars in the north, the growing unrest in the south around Notre Dame, the difficulties of finding food. And not a word left his mouth of the Old Territory. The memory was too fresh. Too much danger lay in speaking of what lived behind the Gates.

The next days of their journey found them sleeping in alleys and under wood staircases. Rats and mice, which Mickey greatly preferred, made up their breakfasts and dinners, with the occasional dumpster raid when they could find a decent one.

And so it was, as promised, that a few days into their travels Disney stopped to teach Mickey how to hunt, beginning with the hunter’s crouch. Mickey sank low to the ground, his belly fur brushed the pavement. But his hind end stuck up in the air and his tail dragged low to compensate for this new position. Disney pushed the kit’s hind end down. “Very good,” he said. “Now raise your tail just a little, yes, like that, excellent.”

As he watched Mickey try again, he couldn’t help but see Oswald, bright-eyed and eager to learn, staring down a flock of geese nesting on a field in the Old Territory. The kit crouched, wiggling his haunches. “Dad, are you gonna teach me how to hunt geese?”

He’d chuckled. “Not today, Oswald. I think geese are a little big for you now. Maybe when you’re older.”

“Puh!” Oswald had muttered.

But the kit in front of him this time, now beginning to practice his stalking, was not Oswald but Mickey. And the two looked nothing alike. Disney sighed softly. He narrowed his eyes in thought as Mickey stalked across the pavement. “Slow a little,” he said. “Too fast, and a rat might hear you.”

Mickey took the advice to heart and did just that. “Is this better?”

“Much!”

The lesson continued for another while after that, until the sun was rising to its center position in the sky. At that point, Disney decided it would be best for them to move on; Mickey later found the opportunity to test his newly practiced skills. A rat sat nibbling away at a cardboard box, not having yet noticed the cats.

Mickey dropped into the crouch and stalked, just like Disney had showed him. Step by step he grew closer to the unsuspecting rat, stopping in between steps as the little creature paused in its feeding. When, when he was close enough, he sprang, but too soon. The rat scrambled out of the path of his paws; Mickey darted after it, driving it away from the wall, out into the open alley, then chased it straight into Disney’s paws. Disney finished the rat off and met a disappointed Mickey. “That’s alright, son,” he said. “You’ll get it next time. That was very good.”

“Yeah?” Mickey perked up. “Even if I didn’t catch it?”

Disney purred. “Sometimes some of the best catches are made with teamwork.” It hadn’t been uncommon for his cats to catch birds in pairs or groups of three or four. “Let’s eat this and rest for a while,” he said. “We’ve still a long way to go.”

So they settled down in that alley to share the rat. Mickey still grimaced at the sour taste. Disney chewed slowly, thinking of the clan that almost had been. They’d had a good system, a good territory; plenty of food and water, even if they were as close to humans as they were. They’d had all they wanted then, before the skies had gone dark. Before the wra--

Disney didn’t realize Mickey had said something to him until a small paw poked him in the shoulder. “Hmm?” The kit was looking up at him expectantly.

“What are you thinking about?”

Disney swallowed, then sighed. “A group of cats I used to lead,” he said, staring into the streets, down the alleys on the opposite side. The alley he stared down seemed to darken and narrowed, grow loud with a high shriek. He tore his eyes away. “A clan, we called it.”

“Oh.” Mickey chewed thoughtfully on another piece of rat. “Did…something happen?”

A pause. How could Disney tell a six-moon old kit about what haunted the Old Territory without making him jumpier than he already was? Was there a way to do so? No, Disney decided, there wasn’t. If the kit were staying with him, he would wait until Mickey was older. But Mickey wasn’t, so there was no need to mention it.

“We had some disagreements about my leadership,” he answered. “Most of my cats left in favor of another group. The few that stayed left a few weeks later.”

Again, he thought of Ub. What was his old friend up to these days? Had he finally made his way to the Universals? Or had he made his own way in life?

“Why did they leave?”

“There wasn’t much left of the clan by then. It’s a bit hard to have a full clan with only two cats.”

“Do you think you’d ever try again?”

Now Disney stopped chewing. He’d fleetingly thought about it, about starting anew. Finding new cats to join him in a new clan. The failure of the first was all that stopped him thus far from following through. The wounds were fresher than he realized. He sighed. “I’m not sure.”

One day, perhaps he might. For now, he had to return Mickey to his housefolk. The clan would have to wait.

And if not in my lifetime, then when? Never, appeared to be the likely answer. If Disney didn’t create the clan, no one would. He looked up at the sky. He knew now that he’d been waiting for a sign from StarClan for the beginning of the new clan. His warrior ancestors, at least, had not abandoned him, though he felt farther from them some days. On those days, he reminded himself that the stars still shone over his head. Even if they were quiet.

I would rather have stars and silence than no stars at all.

“What was the clan like?” Mickey asked.

Disney thought back on those times with fondness. “Small,” he said. “But close. We protected each other. We took care of each other. We may have been small, but we were a family.”

Mickey bit into his rat with a little more enthusiasm than Disney had ever seen. His eyes were bright, filled with thoughts of the clan, of living with a group of other cats. He gulped down the piece and looked up at Disney with a smile. “I think it would be fun to live in a clan,” he said. “If I weren’t going home.”

“Well,” Disney said with a chuckle, “if you don’t live far and I start another, we may be able to work something out.”

“I’d like that,” Mickey said, biting off another chunk of rat. “Can you tell me more?”

And Disney did. He told Mickey where he’d gotten the idea—a lone ginger tom, no stranger to the streets, nor a stranger to travel, who had come a long way from the city and who had come from a large group of cats who called themselves clans. They cared for one another, protected their boundaries, and lived alongside three or four other groups—he hadn’t been sure how many.

He told Mickey all about StarClan, the warrior ancestors who watched over the clans and who the clan cats went to in times of hardship and need. He told Mickey of the ranks: the leaders and their seconds-in-command—deputies—who headed the clans; the warriors who hunted and fought for those in their clan, and who trained younger cats to become warriors when they were old enough; the medicine cats, who treated the injured and sick; the elders, the oldest of the clan who held memories from times past, the most revered and respected in the clans; the apprentices, those in training to become warriors.

And Mickey listened with undivided attention and wonder as Disney relayed each detail. When the old tom had finished, Mickey took a breath. “Wow! I can tell my friends I met a real clan cat!”

“Almost,” Disney said with a laugh. “I hadn’t taken my leader name yet.” Leader name, or his nine lives. Each leader got nine new lives, the ginger tom had said. The ceremony itself was kept a secret, but each warrior knew when their new to-be leader left camp for the night that they were off to receive their new lives and name.

“Ohhh,” Mickey said. “Do you think one day you will?”

“If I can start a new clan. Until then, I’m just Disney.”

Their conversation paused while Disney disposed of the rat, then continued when he returned.

“What would your leader name be?” Mickey asked.

“Well, I suppose that depends on what warrior name I took,” Disney mused. “Although I may simply take the name ‘Disneystar.’”

“That sounds nice,” Mickey said. “Could you—” he paused to yawn “—tell me more about clan names?” His head dropped to his paws; he struggled to keep his eyes opened.

“Another time,” Dusney said. “Now, I think it’s time to sleep”