VICE VERSUS VIRTUE / flintkit

[PITCHSTAR]

Yellowcough runs rampant, like the flames that had spread throughout the southern portion of the marsh four seasons ago. The ranks of StarClan swell with the dead. And Pitchstar couldn’t do anything but watch and pace the starry fields, his claws shredding blades of grass. It was like he was trapped in that cave he’d once called his den, watching his clan slowly wilt away under starvation’s claws.

If only SkyClan hadn’t brought the damn illness to the forest in the first place. While, in death, he realizes it’s unfair to blame them for something that was out of their control… Pitchstar worries for his clan, and most of all, his living family members.

Especially Starlingheart. As ShadowClan’s medicine cat, she’s terribly exposed to the sickness. Though Pitchstar’s chest swells with pride, seeing how wonderfully she fills the role now, he sometimes wishes she wasn’t a medicine cat… If only to protect her from being in constant close vicinity of the ill.

And now, one of her kits has fallen ill. Pitchstar’s nephew, and… a traitor’s son.

“Flintkit,” the dark-furred tabby rumbles as he stalks over to the dreaming kit. There’s a strange expression on his face. Conflicted. That’s the only word Pitchstar could use to describe how he feels, looking down at the gray-and-white tom. Does he love Flintkit for being his sister’s son? Or should he feel disgusted for knowing that his murderer’s blood runs through Flintkit’s veins?

Unfair to blame a child for their parents… The small, yet rational voice within his whirling mind whispers. But Pitchstar’s hatred for Granitepelt burns bright. Traitor, murderer, liar. And Pitchstar could not interfere, as he once believed StarClan could. They are watchful eyes, not all-powerful deities to hold the paws of the living.

Pitchstar’s tail lashes, his nose wrinkling as if he’d just tasted crow-food. What type of cat is Flintkit, he wonders? If he survives this illness, will he follow in the pawsteps of his mother, or his father?

“You must think you’ve up and died on your poor mother,” Pitchstar comments drily, tilting his head as he watches Flintkit through narrowed copper eyes. He indignantly does not mention Granitepelt. “Don’t worry, you haven’t… This is just a dream.” Should Pitchstar be relieved that Starlingheart hasn’t had to bury another member of her family? Or should he be frustrated that Flintkit still has an opportunity to turn out like Granitepelt? For now, he lingers on the former. He still feels terrible for leaving his clan, and his family, behind so suddenly, just as Briarstar had. Even if he loathes how Granitepelt managed to slither his way into his little sister's heart... He does not wish to see Starlingheart grieve her child.

“You’re givin’ death your best shot, though,” Pitchstar grumbles sarcastically, plopping down onto his haunches and curling his tail around his paws. Death could fix the ribs jutting out of his flanks and the mats knotting his fur, but it seems that death could not fix his terrible posture. He hunches over, shoulder blades peeking above his head.

@FLINTKIT ​

 

[FLINTWISH]

Flintkit does not know his family's complicated history. He does not know Granitepelt's crimes; does not know the way the stone-pelted tom has carved his mother's closest friends and family out of her life; does not know the way he will continue to do so. He knows that ShadowClan regards Granitepelt as a burr in its side. He knows that he surely suffers some of that bad reputation just for being his father's son. Other kits don't play with him; warriors regard him with pity, unless they are his mother or his aunts. When would it end? When would Flintkit get his turn to carve out his own place among these cats?

Maybe he wouldn't, he has realized. Maybe he'll just succumb to his yellowcough, void of love except for that from his mother, void of company except for that from dead cats. Another is visiting him now, he thinks, though he can't easily tell through the fog of fever. There is a wraith at the corner of his den, starry pelt dark as shadow, with eyes that burn like molten copper. Flintkit stares back with bleary green and blue eyes crusted by sick, trying to parse whether this was real. Flintkit, the star speaks, and the child turns in his nest to more fully face Pitchstar.

The tom tells him this is just a dream, and Flintkit blinks. All his days feel like dreams anymore, but at least there is comfort in the knowledge he hasn't up and passed. If he died, would he even know it? Would his symptoms clear? Would he be himself again? The questions swirl, but more pertinent now is this one: "Who are you?" He knows Pitchstar only by name, from stories Starlingheart told him before he'd been struck with yellowcough. "Do you know Poppypaw? She visited me too." You're giving death your best shot. Flintkit flinches. "When will I stop being sick?"​