Credit • Perm

It was unseasonably warm—so warm, in fact, that the burn of the day still clung deep into the night. A rather inopportune time for a she-cat to give birth, Paleleaf thought dryly, a rather inopportune time for Heronfeather, of all she-cats, to give birth.

Her mate dabbed soaked moss on her forehead, a reflexive effort to slake the looming risk of heat stroke or exhaustion. Paleleaf spectated from a distance; his heart would have swollen in fondness but only Starclan knew his hesitance of sympathy for the peculiar family. There were god-fearing, too, but that hardly meant they were good cats. No, as Paleleaf stared regrettably at the black-and-white she-cat, Heronfeather dragged him into her business—threatened his position—all for that tom who continued to dab that piteous ball of moss on her forehead.

The moonlight filtered through the cracks and hairlines of the nursery, kindling Paleleaf's blanched fur in angelic glow. Both parents looked at him as he robotically examined their newborns; he had been Starclan-sent, in their eyes, a tom who kept his word and healed their many plights. They breathed an affected sigh of relief once Paleleaf determined all three kits were healthy yet small.

The next morning, Heronfeather well-rested and Newtclaw rather proud, they christened their three boys—Anikit, Caracarakit, and Gracklekit—and celebrated in the crowded nursery. Paleleaf wished he could celebrate their births—delivered by his paw, no less—but his thoughts crept around the family, crept to Heronfeather's intentions and actions, crept to her paws and what they had done. Go figure he would be haunted by this she-cat, of all she-cats. He prayed to his nightly ancestors come that night, hoping she was a test of his faith—Starclan-sent.


The skies bellowed in grey storms, cold rain, and hissing breeze—the nursery gathered closer together that day, like they do as an island-designated storm consumed their territory. Warriors also roamed their camp cautiously, eyes trained at the sky in a silent threat. Anikit understood their apprehension as soon as spine-numbing lightning cackled haphazardly above them. Heronfeather curled her skinny tail around him and his brothers, ears flush against her head.

Their father wandered into the nursery some time after the first lightning strikes illuminated the gunmetal clouds, a weary expression strewn on his face, brows knitted together. He purred, caressing his snout into mother's cheek before turning to his three boys.

He sat across from them and begun a tale so enrapturing Anikit, Caracarakit, and Gracklekit ignored the snarls of the storm. Newtclaw assured them, a warrior must do what is best for his clan in the face of danger. His tales complemented his point well; a prodigious battle against a wicked bird of prey, the scar running down across his face a testament to his words, and his glimpse at Starclan. A hawk swooped from the heavens, wingspan the size of two—no, three—cats, screeching as his tooth-like talons snatched a helpless queen up. His three boys were overawed, maybe given to the idealism their father portrayed so eloquently. Newtclaw continued, detailing how he jumped and clawed the wretched thing's back, bite down on its spine as they crashed back onto earth; other warriors assaulted the bird, as the idea of a dead mother insulted them dearly. He reiterated to his boys that they should help the helpless even if it meant their safety. He concluded his epic in a fitting encouragement: be the best warrior you can be, no matter what others say.

Anikit and his brothers took his words to heart, as the appearance of their father was a treat all on its own. Truthfully, their mother scolded Newtclaw for his exaggerated tale afterwards, worried it might leave the wrong impression on their children; the tom just laughed it off, justifying that it had been a story his own father told him—and look how great he turned out! Heronfeather narrowed her eyes, exasperated, but conceded his point.

Nevertheless, Newtclaw's advice emboldened the quite small Anikit, who had been susceptible to Gracklekit's jests. Maybe his rebellious nature stemmed from his father and the first signs blossomed in the form of his own curious insults at Gracklekit. The two nearly fought tooth and nail one day after the storms cleared and the sun breathed a sigh of recollected warmth. The biggest kit Gracklekit spared little venom in his voice as he declared Anikit, the smallest kit, only fit to be a medicine cat. He shouted the words, actually, diabolical glee in his voice, a mirthless glint of his gappy mouth, as he glared down at his brother. Anikit predictably swiped unsheathed claws at his face, tearing skin and injuring feelings. He felt some guilt as his brother rolled around in agonized pain but Anikit nearly told him to suck it up. He realized later, as his parents harshly reprimanded him, that he had little reason to feel belittled by the prospect of medicine. Paleleaf visited the family once in a while and he seemed an all right tom. Actually, he was rather warm toward the boys, always sharing small tidbits of his life, coddling them even with sweet-tasting herbs and words. Anikit supposed the way in which Gracklekit berated him set him off.

Gracklekit still had a swollen gash on his head once the day of their apprentice ceremony arrived. Anikit shared a feigned sympathetic glance which Gracklekit saw right through. Caracarakit, the quietest of the two, took the uncharacteristic opportunity to tease Gracklekit, saying he looked like a split coconut. Anikit suppressed his chuckle until Gracklekit himself giggled. Their small sniggers soon turned into roars of mirth. Gracklekit would apologize to Anikit, prompting Anikit to do the same.


His heart beat fast, rain slapping his face in controlled harmony. The overcast days stretched long and for moons, pregnant in cold rain and thunder, before it finally collapsed under its weight. Thunder loomed as it did his first few moons alive but its attitude had changed, the rain no longer a chasmic keen but a blood-pumping motivation. One more lap and Anipaw could drink feverishly at the stream, dangerously parched and lethargic. One more lap and Anipaw could satisfy his mentor's ridiculous orders. One more lap and, by Starclan's grace, he could too collapse under his weight. He rounded the small lake's corners, kicked up pebbled sand and gravel, and he squealed as he almost slipped in mud. He regained his footing nearing the end of his race—Kapokstorm's sneer his last wretched motivation. Maybe Anipaw would have joyfully embraced relief if Kapokstorm didn't order another set of laps—faster and more precise this time, Anipaw. He bit his tongue but all he wished for was to insult her face.

The next day, they hunted until indigo replaced the sky's azure, until Anipaw's limbs and eyes ached in fatigue. Kapokstorm listed all his victories and failures that day, quite indignantly; first a squirrel, then a vole, then several species of birds, then what he thought was a gecko but turned out to be a stick—Kapokstorm gave him a hard time after that embarrassment. The day retired in another sore clamber to his bed and rest. Terrifyingly, he dreamt of his mentor, multiple times at that point, ordering him to run another lap. She greeted him even in sleep, what kind of specialized agony was that? Kapokstorm roused him not even bright but early, earlier than his siblings, Anipaw noticed sorely. All he wished for was to sleep and insult Kapokstorm's face.

"You know, my mentor organizes picnics with mom and dad!" Caracarapaw once mentioned in passing, his wide, toothy grin scintillating. Anipaw grumbled once again, specialized agony that Kapokstorm was... Said mentor shooed him off his sun-baking rock, intolerant of a simple chat with his brother. Actually, she was intolerant of anything Anipaw did in his downtime; it seemed like she had no concept of rest or reward, just drilling, perfunctory duty and commands. And to think his parents handpicked her for him, a bright and shining example of a stoic Jungleclanner, to teach him and to run him like a machine. What was her problem? Where were his picnics with mom and dad?

Another rainy afternoon, Kapokstorm pushed Anipaw back to camp once she discovered he had forgotten to throw out his old bedding. Inexplicably, and without much provocation, she shrilled grievance after grievance, smothering Anipaw in disgusted disappointment and insult. A lump formed in his throat as cats glanced at the commotion, a sob threatening to escape his mouth. But the she-cat took an already demoralized Anipaw and said his brothers were better, more prepared for warriorhood than he. Suddenly, a white searing anger roiled in Anipaw's chest, racked his body in an enraged tremor, and spat ridiculous curses in his head. Staring back at his mentor, Anipaw silently challenged Kapokstorm; once sure her tirade ceased, the young tom marched back to the apprentice den and sat on his 'old' bedding, ignoring his mentor's snarl. Anipaw relaxed further into a nap, her sermon like rainfall on jungle trees and humming streams.
--
Anipaw shifted from paw to paw excitedly, an ecstatic look of pride on his face. Starclan graced that day in a warm escape of overcast and fog, the sun bathing the skies in baby blue and relaxing sunshine. He witnessed both his brothers, as elated as they could be, receive their warrior names—Gracklepool and Caracarafrost. They stepped down into the crowd of congratulations and praise, Anipaw last to say his. Bittersweet happiness swelled in the three boys, as their littlest brother still donned his apprentice name— and the voice of a particular Kapokstorm interrupted their shared moment. But, at that point, Anipaw ignored his mentor's orders and waited for his brothers at vigil's end, looking forward to promised hunt.
--
An unhealthy resentment clung to Anispine the moon after his brothers' promotion—the looming, oppressive figure of Kapokstorm a black stain in his apprenticeship. Emboldened again—this time by his brothers' success—he danced around his mentor like a matador to a bull. She would demand, sermonize, marshal his free time into work and duty—no rest for the tom who failed to listen the first time. And not the only time, as Anipaw dodged the she-cat like the plague. He would camp out by the warrior den early into the morning and once his mentor awoke, would slip out on a solitary hunt—all in effort to annoy his toad-faced mentor. Anipaw would humor her and occasionally followed her instruction, though half-hearted and blithely.

This back and forth inevitably culminated.

Anipaw idly fiddled his claws into the dry moss of his bedding, his mind thoughtless. His tail curled leisurely behind him, watching as batch after batch of too-eager apprentices followed their mentor into a day full of arduous training. Peculiarly, Kapokstorm was a no-show; instead of giddy relief, dread saturated Anipaw's bones. Typically, his mentor would pester him for a while then leave after Anipaw made it clear he wasn't moving. That day, however, she showed up not after the first round of patrols in the morning, not after the sun peaked in the sky, not after dusk crept and darkened the sky, but after Anipaw voluntarily exited his den. Eyes followed him to the kill pile, watched him eat, followed him walk back to the apprentice den. The young tom chanced a glance at his mentor and immediately regretted it; Kapokstorm, waif-like and pallid under the moonlight, leered at him. They stood in a tableau, the two in a heated staring contest. Anipaw lost first as he continued into the den, not prepared for whatever Kapokstorm had in mind.

He barely had a paw on his bedding before he heard a hiss of command—which Anipaw willfully ignored. He sneered at the she-cat, shaking his head dramatically. As he turned his head, teeth clamped down on his nape, unforgiving and sharp, a growl reverberating onto his skin. Anipaw saw red.

Twisting his whole body, Anipaw caught his unsheathed paw on the she-cat's ear, intent on tearing it to pieces. Kapokstorm momentarily slackened her jaw but enough so Anipaw could swipe another paw at her portly, dumb face; she let go of him, then. An uncharacteristic snarl escaped Anipaw, one he did not know he was capable of, and slapped claws on his mentor once more. She snarled, too, hers much more threatening than Anipaw's, and nearly attacked him before a few cats stepped in.

Their leader reprimanded both, Kapokstorm for her temper and Anipaw for his insolence. She suggested, quite severely, that the two should cooperate in the future. Right then, the leader demoted the she-cat, assigning her to apprentice duties, and suspended Anipaw's apprenticeship until he reconciled with Kapokstorm.

A sense of relief washed over Anipaw as he saw his hellish mentor for one last time.


Quirked-brow, apathetic-faced, conniving Paleleaf kept an eye on Anipaw throughout his apprenticeship. He half-worried Kapokstorm would be too strong a character to shape Anipaw into his parents' picture of perfection, and his apprehension fought the winning side: Kapokstorm had been demoted for (nearly) attacking Anipaw. Useless, useless, useless that she-cat was, thinking she'd a chance at leadership—her tempter the size of a newborn kit's claw. He discovered opportunity under all the guilty soot and mortar of Kapokstorm's shameful downfall: Anipaw, albeit insolent and fiercely independent, soaked up new material like a sponge. Paleleaf realized how steadily Anipaw stood at Kapokstorm's torrent of onerous training, receiving the brunt and manipulating new knowledge at quick, lightning-fast speed, though his own desire for freedom weakened his workability. Paleleaf reminisced on his previous apprentice, however, and remembered how unworkable he was too; in six moons, he straightened him out and Paleleaf grudgingly released him like a recuperated butterfly, despite the apprentice's pleas to stay.

He'd work Anipaw's parents into borrowing him, Paleleaf hoped, he had talent. Talent like that deserved an exalted position like his, praised for his intelligence and wit and holiness. Any cat would want that lavish promise, and he hoped Anipaw was that type of cat.

Paleleaf approached his parents and the leader with a singular request: Anipaw deserved better, and medicine would be a way to help his behavior. Though, obviously, Newtclaw vehemently denied the request—the tom a stoic and proud warrior—and his mate as well, but the leader saw Paleleaf's vision. And that was the one opinion he actually cared about, anyway. Later that night, however, he reminded Heronfeather and Newtclaw of their debt, reminded the former of her actions. They cutely backed off as Anipaw entered his medicine cat den for the first time as his apprentice.

Anipaw had a wide look of dismay and despair as the leader announced his new position, which sent a pang of hurt in Paleleaf. His hoping did not suffice, he blamed his own hubris for that, but Anipaw's attitude was nothing he couldn't change. In fact, Anipaw respected him wholly, he just saw himself unfit to become a medicine cat. Thankfully, the leader and his parents patted him in the back and wished him good luck.

A few, short moons of subtle coaxing and Anipaw already showed his inherent drive for knowledge. The young tom had been annoyingly terse throughout, something Paleleaf knew of his personality but never got used to. His very short, one-worded responses still surprised him. Even as he recited most of the important herbs exactly, Anipaw would only ever speak to him if it involved herbs or a question about medicine. No tangents or absent-mindedness, like his previous apprentices, plagued this small tom. And, even if Anipaw was given to long bouts of quietness, he would answer immediately after prompted. Though this readiness to answer lent to his bluntness; a few times the tom accidentally shared too much to his patients, listing every possible thing wrong with them. Paleleaf would shoo him away, occasionally, afraid he'd scare the younger of his patients.

But a lull in Paleleaf's success came in the form of boredom. He witnessed Anipaw aimlessly pace in their den, picking at the herbs, reorganizing them, cleaning dead moss and ferns, avoiding eye contact with his patients that led to small talk—he even started to muck around, mischief in his expression as he set up little pranks around the the medicine cat den. It had been innocuous at first, like pill bugs in Paleleaf's bedding, but evolved into hidden batches of herbs that Paleleaf had to fervently search for. He knew a stern talking down would only disillusion the young tom so he offered him a deal instead. Every completed task meant a hunting trip with his brothers, and, oh, did Anipaw's face light up like the first signs of morning. It had been the first bright smile in a while, Paleleaf guessed, as Anipaw quickly hid his expression and nonchalantly accepted his deal.
--
Anipaw had arrived late, again, for the fifth time that moon. Not a word of apology, either, as he strolled across their den and plopped down on his bedding. A sickly she-cat checked in earlier that day and, while Paleleaf had confidence in his ability, it may have been an excellent learning opportunity for Anipaw. Actually, Paleleaf could count the many times Anipaw had shirked his duties in past two moons, taking his time out hunting. He enjoyed being reasonable, liked offering chances to those who genuinely deserve second chances. But the moment one takes advantage of Paleleaf's good intentions, his mood soured and his empathy vanished. He was no Kapokstorm, his patience vast like the ocean. What he would do was speak in his language. No, not a language, but a fight.

Normally composed, withheld, intelligent Paleleaf last fought many moons ago, his mentor teaching him the basics of self-defense and hunting. His claws extended only to clip flowers and herbs, like his teeth, so he became rusty in anything involving physical exertion or activity. Anipaw frequently hunted, brought back prey for his clan despite his position, and filled his duties in clipping flowers and herbs. But, Paleleaf needed to ground Anipaw—even one last time. His attention rarely wandered but Paleleaf witnessed his interest dip, and he couldn't imagine a cat better as his apprentice than Anipaw. No, he had to challenge him, even in such an unorthodox way.

Wind overtook the jungle, hissing through the canopied foliage like a river through land. The air stung his nose in warmth, exasperated his throat and eyes, but his mission was still thumbtacked in his head. He invited Anipaw to collect herbs with him, right about the time he set out for another hunting trip. A crestfallen frown followed Anipaw the whole time Paleleaf leisurely picked at the intense-smelling flora littered across their territory. A tremor of restlessness also overtook Anipaw, Paleleaf noted, as he barely participated in Paleleaf's conversation and paced solemnly when Paleleaf examined his newly collected supply.

Stopping, enough to catch Anipaw's attention, Paleleaf set his herbs down and faced the younger tom. He detailed grievance after grievance but refrained from insulting or belittling his apprentice. Kapokstorm made the mistake of disrespecting Anipaw and Paleleaf knew that that was a reliable way to completely lose Anipaw's interest. He concluded his speech in a deal, like he had before, like he had to many cats he wished to persuade to his side, like he knew would force Anipaw's paw. If the apprentice won, the leader would reinstate him back to warriorhood, back to the dream he half-longed for. If the mentor won, Anipaw would just have to follow Paleleaf's orders more closely. A terribly mismatched and downright unfair wage but Paleleaf needed to pique Anipaw's interest. And like how he had hoped, Anipaw agreed to the deal.

Anipaw capitalized his already deft skills and displayed great determination as he toppled Paleleaf over for the third time since their fight began. Paleleaf sucked in a pained breath, his forehead kissed the jungle floor, before he stood himself up. A scoff emanated from his apprentice, and a taunt jabbed Paleleaf's pride. However, Paleleaf was not Kapokstorm, or the boy's parents; he knew how to swallow his hurt and bruised pride.

The walk back to camp was pleasantly quiet; Paleleaf saw none of the smug elation he expected from Anipaw, now that he had a real chance at warriorhood once more. A sense of victory waded through Paleleaf's chest—in spite of losing to Anipaw to the brawl, he had not lost him entirely. Paleleaf stalked up to the leader's den before Anipaw stopped him, promising to stick to his duties despite his boredom and impulse.

In a couple of moons, Anipaw would become Anispine, venturing into the Cave of Stars as an apprentice and exiting as a certified medicine cat.

Paleleaf congratulated him, victorious.


Green eyes wandered tentatively to sweet-smelling chamomile—it sat just outside Jungleclan. A voice filtered through his head—collect some white-petalled goodness, it prompted. Behind territory borders and beyond grasping reach, the bush swayed temptingly in the cool soothing-skies breeze. Its delicious scent permeated the air and the tom's mouth salivated. Their supply lacked any sprigs of the flower, and no greater opportunity presented itself like this one.

Anispine scooted closer to the boundary, his body kissing the lush floor in a crouch.

Paleleaf confirmed healer-types as extensions of their ancestors or gods, and thus, removed from clan politics or sanctions—or, in this case, borders. He never met a Tidalclanner before, and, optimistically, never would meet one. Again, he skimmed his eyes across the dark, waxy foliage blanketing this portion of their respective territories. Anticipation fueled him enough to cross into Tidalclan.

Picking at the flowers enthusiastically, he hardly noticed another presence before it slapped him straight on the face. His hackles rose reflexively, jumping back to distance himself from the threat.

A youngish-faced Tidalclan fighter(?) dug her claws into the grassy ground, a frown deep in her expression, a warning clear on her tongue. Anispine forced himself to back off though his body screamed to at least have one scratch in—as the she-cat had. He managed, despite his voice wavering in withheld indignation, an explanation of his occupation and why he had been picking at a bush. But the she-cat called him an idiot and approached him again, dangerous intent woven into her small frame. Anispine narrowed his eyes, dropping his collected chamomile and calm, his own dangerous intent woven into his own small frame.

Another body shoved Anispine back, a pleasant yet pleading voice halting the she-cat in her tracks. It spoke fast and decidedly, persuasion deftly handled and convincing the Tidalclan warrior to yield. When she did, Anispine glanced at the cat, ready to chew them out for butting in, but one look and a name gleamed inside the medicine cat's mind—Lightningclaw, Paleleaf's previous apprentice. But the tom already marched back into Jungleclan before Anispine could say anything.
--
Anispine lay languidly on a freshly made bed, new moss and ferns and scent. However, Paleleaf cut his leisure short, assigning him to a new arrival in their den. He grumbled indignantly despite clambering off his bedding.

His brows shot to the moon once he recognized the patient—Lightningclaw, again, looking him up and down. Anispine shook his surprise off, slipping into his gentle, prodding questions to gauge the patient's condition. Lightningclaw dodged and averted a lot of what Anispine tried asking—almost coyly, Anispine noted. The medicine cat chewed at his cheek but annoyance refused to prickle in his chest. Instead, he bit back short retorts, coaxing the warrior to answer truthfully.

Their encounters did not cease there. No, the two continued to stumble into each other in various situations—at camp, territory, dens, and even picking at the kill pile. Somehow, in someway, Anispine would spot the pale red tabby in his peripherals, and he could not refrain from glancing at him again and again. Their conversations would seesaw between guarded and revealing; the tom was inexplicably magnetic, Anispine concluded grudgingly, and he had no clue how to approach his conclusion.

One morning, Anispine asked him out—well, er, wrong choice of words, Paleleaf would have his head for that—he meant asked him to accompany him in collecting herbs for the herb supply. Yes. But Lightningclaw sensed the implication of his request and mercilessly—Anispine almost didn't mind—teased him.

Lightningclaw was inexplicably pleasant, too—walking for hours seemed like heartbeats in his presence Anispine shooed that thought as quickly as it reared its ugly head. Completely professional, their relationship ought to be. Many a time Anispine theorized Paleleaf to have some sort of weird crush on his mom—gross—because he mentioned her constantly. But he knew Paleleaf would never breach his marriage with Starclan. Anispine was also married to Starclan in that case, he realized with a cringe. Yes, Lightningclaw would just be a friend Anispine tolerated and invited him on herb runs. Just friends.
--
He formally met his half-siblings one afternoon, Lightningclaw being the mediator. Caciquebeak, Orioleheart, and Towheefeather—all warm faces and understanding gazes—greeted him wholeheartedly. Anispine knew them, spoke to them in passing, but never held a more-than-one-word conversation with them. Their meeting extended well into the night, his own brothers joining the chat, musing over their pasts and futures. Towheefeather shushed the group suddenly, severity pooling into her face. She explained the situation that which their mother kept closely guarded; their fathers were siblings, and Newtclaw's brother killed a she-cat. Anispine kept quiet as her voice wavered, not sure what to say—his brothers a similar state of apprehension.

All siblings retired to bed, heavy-hearted.
--
It rained the day Paleleaf died.

Glum gray rain softly stroked the earth, a low chime of pit-pat on the faceless jungle trees above their camp and cave. Anispine curled into the farthest corner of his den, one paw slowly tapping the pool of murky water he got to know. He had set a sprig of chamomile and rain lilies on his flank as a goodbye, warriors carrying him off to be buried. His heart twisted painfully; he looked away, unable to witness his lifeless mentor anymore.

He drowned in the lake, Anispine heard, maybe in the afternoon or morning, he didn't know. But his death left a hole in Anispine still couldn't patch today.
--
Lightningclaw had been a blessing the few moons after Paleleaf's death; he still possessed a fair bit of knowledge about herbs to be useful, and Anispine needed the help. Their friendship blossomed, maybe into something Palealeaf would scorn. However, Anispine kept his loyalty to Starclan—no matter how tempting the opposite seemed.


Lightning struck across Jungleclan in random intervals, frightening prey and predator alike. Anispine, along with his just-friends Lightningclaw, were out collecting herbs but a storm caught up to them. They noticed the darkening skies, the sun shining desperately as pregnant clouds swallowed its path. Thunder grumbled but no lightning cackled, at first. Soon, it rained in torrents, and flashes of white marred the earth.

Both toms hastily jogged back to camp as the rain soaked their pelts to the bone. The sequestered hole-in-the-wall camp came into view before a massive shot of blinding light struck too close. A ringing overwhelmed Anispine's ears, his eyelids scrunched close as it dug deep into his skull. He bumped into LIghtningclaw, who had been in a similar state of sensory loss, and clung to him, leading their disoriented way back to camp.

They made it, somehow, a few warriors ushering them into the caves and boulder and tree roots. The ringing never fully faded, Anispine noticed, but he has not realized how his hearing has muffled or how he has to ask others to repeat themselves occasionally. He still thinks his hearing is fine, despite that.
--
Now, Anispine works by himself in the medicine cat den, sending Lightningclaw off before his temptation becomes to great—Starclan, bless him. He does not know of his mother's true intentions. He does not know the foul play in Paleleaf's death. Something lurks omnipresently behind him, however, and he has yet to notice.