sensitive topics FATAL FLAW

[GHOSTPAW]

It sparked within a dream. Then, it became an idea.

It looks over him, time approaching. He'd be given a new name soon. A new life. A new den to grow accustomed to. At least before, he'd had the thought of Starlingheart being there with him. Memories of the nursery were becoming more and more like himself with each day – ghostly nothings. This time he would remember, wouldn't he? He'd remember the looks others give him; frustration in Sharppaw's eyes. The prey he drags in is only average. No monsters like Tornadopaw or Forestshade could bring down. It was not as if he came home empty - pawed. It's something. It's fine... It's fine. Why did it feel like it wasn't, though? He didn't want to be like his name. Not really.

He's not fit to be a warrior, he realizes. Warriorhood was for cats for cats like Granitepaw, headstrong and steadfast. Someone who could leer over another because he was something and they were not, and not face the bubbling laughter that Ghostpaw might've. Because he isn't Ghostpaw, and Ghostpaw isn't him.

That's fine... And, it's okay.

He blinks, recalling the bleak look on Starlingheart's face at her own kill. Ghostpaw had never felt so bad before. He was glad he didn't – he didn't like to feel bad things. Maybe he wasn't made for this the same way that she wasn't. Maybe... Geckoscreech just hadn't realized. He wants to do something else. Something different. Something where he could ponder about the stars and not seem gullible or immature. He was good as anyone else. Just...

Ghostpaw drifts toward the stream, picking along the sides for something never-before-seen. Maybe if he found something new, something bright... Something newleaf's bugs prayed around and nuzzled would prove him to be good enough. It'd prove the path he wants to be on.

But there was nothing for him here.

. . .

All he sees is his own reflection, pale and unblinking in the murky water below. He did look funny. They were right. He tries not to show the crease in his face the feeling brings, cause he'd have to look at that too. He was same old same old. Just, Ghostpaw. And just Ghostpaw looks back. He hopes, not for much longer...

" I want to be... a medicine cat, " he tells himself, and his chest heaves like he'd ran seasons away. He likes the idea though. Would like it to be a little more of idea. He doesn't wanna see Geckoscreech or Chilledstar, none of those faces as he's crowned for something he doesn't deserve. The stars would help him... Like they'd helped Starlingheart. They'd help him grow up. The motion peters into nothing but a blank stare. " I'm gonna train with Starlingheart. She'll train me. " Unwavering gaze looking back at him. " We'll learn together... "

His paws brush the grass and plants. There was nothing new, nothing miraculous. No sparkling in the reeds. Only rustling...​

 

[GRANITEPELT]

One lifetime ago, Granitepaw had stricken Ghostpaw with a stone to the head. The gesture had not been personal -- it had been an expression of his innate rage, an inability to calm the flames that toil within him. Then, Pitchstar had intervened. The fool. Bonejaw, that detestable traitor. Briarstar, long dead, the forest better off for it.

There is no one here to intervene now. The marsh is flavored with the song of crickets, cicadas. Granitepaw's steps are nearly silent as they pad across soft, near-moist earth. The slate-colored tom's shoulders are tense, his jaw slack. Forest-dark eyes, murky with unseen shadows, narrow as they catch a phantom-pale figure at the edge of the water.

Suspicion begins to slither like an adder from his belly to his throat. He's unable to move, unable to speak. Ghostpaw's stares have drawn him into a maddening panic for at least half a moon now, whereas before Pitchstar's death, they'd been nothing more than annoyances.

There's motive, there, though, isn't there?

"I want to be a medicine cat," detestable voice. Thin. Chirping. "I'm gonna train with Starlingheart. She'll train me."

Granitepaw's teeth gnash together. Hard. Click.

He wants me gone so he can be closer to her. He'd never expected such cunning from the blank-faced white tom. Never. Ghostpaw knows something, had StarClan told him?

StarClan had not told Chilledstar or Starlingheart, so why would they have told this pathetic excuse for a ShadowClanner?

And yet, bile rises, acidic in Granitepaw's throat. He has the strangest sense of dread pinning him to the marshy earth. Ghostpaw is planning, alright. He wants to be the one in Starlingheart's den. In her nest. Close to her, learning spells writ from stars, learning secrets better left in her mind.

Granitepaw's claws unsheathe. They sink without effort into the mud.

His movements are shadowlike, swift and soundless. Perhaps a cat deserving of warriorhood would have heard him coming. A cat deserving of powers from StarClan, though, certainly should have had some awareness.

Granitepaw's forepaw smacks the backside of Ghostpaw's head. With all of the strength in his upper body, he pushes the white tom into the murky water. Down, down to where tadpoles swam, down to where no one could hear him cry.

Despite the squirming, he does not let up.

"You want to be a medicine cat, do you?" He hisses, bringing his white muzzle close to Ghostpaw's ear. "Starlingheart doesn't want you. StarClan doesn't want you." The thrashing will require both paws, and so Granitepaw uses both forelimbs, ensuring Ghostpaw can't bob up for air. "I've seen you looking at me. Think you figured out the truth." He grits his teeth, setting his hindlegs against the earth; his backpaws slide just slightly in the mud.

"Say hello to Pitchstar for me, you useless worm."

He will hold Ghostpaw there, his breath ragged and heavy and half-mad.​

[ PENNED BY MARQUETTE ]​

​

 

[GHOSTPAW]

He was never meant to be a hunter. His attention drifted – eyes unsharpened and ears all too tuned to the most unimportant of things. There's rushing water in his ears. The idle drip of something. Crackling is only dull fuzzystatic, and then –

His skull aches – more than throb that came with a tumble or crash into bramble wall, it digs, purposeful in its ministrations; fierceness of a battle Ghostpaw has yet to ever meet. He flails, gasp nearly silent in his throat. He doesn't understand. He'd figured it out, hadn't he? He'd figured it out; snapped out of what's held him back all this time. He'd done good, and good apprentices get what they deserve. So why was this happening? Weren't the stars watching?

The sound of waves crash within his ears. The water itself is more real than its ever been. He'd never thought it otherwise, not really, but it wasn't the same as when it was flooding your nose and your lungs. He's taken a tumble. He tries to push himself back up, to move, to do anything, but something did not want that for him.

There is hissing in his ear. He can't focus. Water flooding his nose feels like a damp paw clamped over his face. It burns more than water should ever possibly be able to, inflaming his lungs. He hardly believes that he can see at all, the imagine of blue - green, bubbles before his eyes and hints of pond life fleeing the scene was real. It was all too real to be within this dream. Like a vengeful spirit, the voices hisses impossibly loud, impossibly washed out.

You want to be a medicine cat, do you?

The flailing dies, all at once. His hopes snarled into his ear like it was something to be shamed for, and perhaps that was all it is.

Starlingheart doesn't want you. He wants to cry, but he can't.

StarClan doesn't want you. Of course. Would they let this happen if they were really watching? Perhaps it was them themselves, flooding his lungs with fire because he dared to think he could be like her.

How had he been so stupid?

I've seen you looking at me. Think you figured out the truth.

His questions is washed away along with the rest of his breath; along with his vision. The colors grow dim, dimmer than night's fall could've ever made them. Spots float at the edge of his vision. And suddenly, he can't struggle anymore. He doesn't want to. He is floating on air and his ears are full of the sound of waves. A river that wants to tug his soul down along with it. Panic gives way to calmness. He is calmer than he's ever been, even if he could not understand. Perhaps things should've just stayed that way.

The last hiss is nothing but gurgling in his ear. Spluttering and spitting. His nose tingles with a feeling unknown. It's like drifting on clouds. Could you blame him if he fell asleep?

He hadn't figured anything, though. He never had.

[ gone. ]​

​

 

[GRANITEPELT]

After Ghostpaw ceases his struggle and lies limp in the bogwater, his fury begins to secede. His breath, still in short pants, slowly peters out to puffs of air. He removes his paws from the back of Ghostpaw's skull, his limbs feeling wobbly. He had done it again. He had killed again. This time, though, he cannot tell any cat -- not even Siltpaw.

He contemplates the ivory corpse for a heartbeat, and though he regrets the impulsive decision, there is no other feeling inside of him. Ghostpaw needed to die. StarClan be damned, he had to die.

Granitepaw gives the body a slight push away from the water's edge, just enough to bob away from the bank. His breathing is regulated now, and he is calmer. He is on a hunting mission, and it's time he was productive. He turns his back on Ghostpaw's crumpled white form, half-covered in brown water, slinking back through the marsh grass without batting an eye.​

[ PENNED BY MARQUETTE ]​

​