Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The body lay at the base of a black and gnarled oak tree, a thick canopy of bare branches woven together blocking out the sky above, abandoned and alone except for the luminous moss beginning to creep up its fur. The body's eyes stared ahead, half open and unseeing, just as they had been when it was discarded.

There were sounds of cats coming from a ways away, the sounds of yowling, paws kicking up mud, and many voices speaking as one. The sounds did not bother the body, as it did not think or feel without its soul. The pounding of paws grew closer and the harshness of short, panting breaths faded in with the cacophony of other sounds. 

Three cats skidded into the clearing where the body rested. The body felt a pull to one of the cats, the one that must be its missing soul. The body had been kept from its soul for a long time, now there was something wrong with it, something that festered and rotted inside. Its soul did not know that, but the body did not warn it, as the body could not speak without its soul to puppet its jaws, to breathe, to think and form the words.

The pull grew stronger as its soul grew closer. Its soul slipped back into the body like it had never left, but it had, and the body did not warn it of the damp squishy things that grew and ate away its insides. Its soul did not feel the same as before, wearing the body like a costume rather than its rightful skin. The body remained separate from its soul. Its soul was not aware of this, but the body did not warn it, as the body was dead and its soul was alive with eight chances left to live. The body would waste away long before those chances were up.

Its soul puppeted the body to stand, to test out its range of movement after so long being still. Nothing was off in the slightest, not that its soul could tell, but the body knew. 

It knew of the mould and moss and mud and maggots. It knew of the wriggling things that crawled inside. It knew of the rot that grew under the skin.

The body knew and its soul did not, and it would stay that way because while the body was dead, its soul lived on.

Bramblestar lived on.

Chapter Text

Everything was fine, nothing was amiss. The day was warm, one of the last they'd know before leaf bare, and there was not a cloud in the beautiful cerulean blue sky. Birds sang, squirrels played in the trees, mice scuttled around the undergrowth. It was perfect. Almost too perfect, but there was something that marred the perfect image.

In the dappled shadows under the forest canopy, a lone tom cat tugged aggressively at his foreleg, the limb trapped in a deep crevice between two large rocks. He pulled and yanked at it, yet his foreleg remained ensnared in the stones. He yowled for aid, but ultimately, knew he was alone in this part of the forest.

No one would hear him.

The tom tried to use his claws to dig the limb out in desperation. When that didn't work, he tried to slowly slide it out. He finally freed it by wiggling it around until it popped free. He stumbled back momentarily, then inspected his foreleg for injuries.

Some of the fur had snagged on the stone and torn away, revealing a strip of raw, bleeding flesh underneath. The tom stared at the wound, no more painful than an annoying itch, uncomfortable at most. The more he scrutinized it, the more he was sure there was something off, he just couldn't place a paw on what it was.

Not being able to think what it was, he started off into the woods, not paying much mind to his foreleg as the weird feeling of the wound faded to the back of his mind.

Despite the tom’s absence, no animal returned to the rocks. Not a mouse scuttled, not a squirrel played, nor birds sang. As the sun began to sink in the sky, a lone, curious fox approached the rocks. It sniffed the air, then slowly approached the crevice in the rocks.

Blood was splattered around and inside the thin, yet deep hole. Blood that resembled wet mud more than the red that ran through the veins of most living creatures. Blood that reeked of something sour and festering. The fox reared back with a shriek and bolted off the way it came.

The sun rose and fell and rose and fell and rose and fell, the blood dried, yet the smell of death lingered and rocks remained empty.

Chapter Text

Something in ThunderClan reeked of carrion, specifically the kind that was left out on the surface of a thunderpath in the oppressive heat of mid Greenleaf. No one knew where it had come from. Warriors and apprentices had searched the entire camp, checking in every bush and behind every rock for the source, but found nothing.

The stench was so putrid that some cats began to complain of headaches and nausea, while others refused to sleep in camp, opting to shelter in a makeshift den under a bush near the thorn tunnel, and even then, the smell permeated the air.

The place where it seemed to be most potent was at the top of the Highledge, where the leader’s den resided. A dark figure was hunched over himself by the back of the den, prodding the weeping, softened flesh around the gash on his leg.

He regarded the injury with frustration. It had puzzled him for the last few days, as he felt no pain or discomfort from it, despite the fact it had clearly become infected. He could feel something moving under the skin, though he couldn’t see it in the low light nor find it with his claws when he picked at the flesh. He had debated seeking help with the matter, but it being so soon after the clans had been rid of Ashfur that Imposter, he did not want to give his clanmates more reason to worry about him.

His ears pricked at the sound of soft breaths coming from behind him. He turned to glance at the entrance of the den. Another cat stood there, herbs clenched in his jaws and milky eyes unseeing as they stared him down.

“Jayfeather?” the shadow in the corner mumbled. “Why are you here?”

“Squirrelflight asked me to check on you,” the pale gray tabby huffed and set down his bundle of leaves. “She's worried you-”

“I'm fine!”

“And I'm a badger,” Jayfeather snapped, then paused to sniff the air. “Did something die in here?”

The figure turned away, not giving him a response, and resumed picking at his wound. Jayfeather grumbled and pushed the herbs towards him.

“Squirrelflight is worried you aren't recovering well.”

A paw reached out of the shadows and dragged them closer. “Thank you. Tell her I'm fine.”

Jayfeather scowled, but turned to leave nonetheless. Before he was gone, the figure stopped him.

“Would you bring up some herbs to fight off the smell in here? It’s so bad I can barely think.” Not the truth, but not quite a lie.

In the moments that followed, the den was incredibly quiet, making the usually unheard sounds of breathing, shuffling, and a beating heart seem to echo throughout the space. The silence was not broken when Jayfeather dipped his head respectfully and bound down the Highledge.

The silence was not broken when he soon returned with a bundle of rosemary and lavender, herbs that cover the smell of death. The silence did not break when the creature wrapped the fragrant herbs around his rotting wound with the cobwebs and leaves found in the corners of his den, once he was sure he was alone. The silence did not break from sunset to sunrise.

Come morning, the putrid odor that had tormented ThunderClan had vanished and no one had a clue as to why, some cats fearful of what the abrupt start and end of their plight could mean. However, their fears were eased by the sight of Bramblestar stepping out onto the Highledge in the early light, looking worse for wear, but standing tall. The silence had broken.

The clan was happy to see their Leader once again after so many days of nothing from him, their fears falling to the back of their minds.

Some things had finally returned to their rightful order.

Chapter Text

Despite the appearance of normalcy, there was something deeply wrong with Bramblestar. He’d only noticed it days ago, but that wrongness squirmed under his skin and behind his eyes and deep in his chest. There were many times he found himself absently tearing up his pelt, trying to claw that wrongness out. Even now, in the seclusion of his den, he picked at his skin, feeling the imaginary worms writhing underneath.

Imaginary, they had to be, it was impossible that there would be anything crawling through him like that. On the other paw, knowing he was likely going insane wasn't comforting at all. He vaguely remembered Bluestar from his early apprenticeship, how the once wise leader had spiraled into senseless madness. Was he cursed to fall down that same path?

He shook his head to banish the thought. He wasn't going insane, he was fine. He glanced outside his den, watching his clanmates go about their lives, unaware of his plight. He intended for it to stay that way. If they thought there was anything wrong with him they would panic, or maybe kill him, thinking Ashfur the Impostor had returned for his flesh suit to puppeteer. He felt sick to his stomach. Why had he thought of himself as such, his body little more than a puppet for another's use? Why would his mind say as much?

He sunk his claws into his wounded leg, hoping it would distract him from his unwanted thoughts. He felt nothing, only smelling the sourness under the scent of the wilting rosemary and lavender tied around the gash. Something squished under his claws and wriggled against his paw pads. He held his breath and inspected his paw. Skewered on the tip of one of his claws, a fat white worm twitched as life drained from its pale body. The blood drained from his face until he was as pale as the dead maggot.

He clawed at the unhealing wound, much more frantically than before, tearing up the binding that hid it and revealing pawfuls of those white worms squirming just under the skin. He wasn't imagining it. He wasn't imagining it. His breathing grew erratic and his paws shook as he tried to scoop out the maggots, but there were more with every one he removed. His heart should've been thundering in his chest, yet the only sound was a silent scream, trapped in there with the maggots.

Crushed bits of worm were scattered on the sandy floor around him. The gash had been torn wider and thick, dark blood flowed sluggishly from it. Despite it all, the maggots no longer ate away at the flesh. He wished he could go back to thinking he was just spiraling into insanity.

He had no such luxury. Bile burned at the back of his throat and he coughed up lungfulls of something sticky that might've been blood. It spattered amongst the maggot remains and dribbled from the corners of his mouth.

He licked the blood from his muzzle and stared at his darkened paws. He didn't know how long he stayed like that, it could've been seconds or days, just staring blank eyed at the mess he'd made of his den while a part of him quietly died. 

His eyes burned.

No one could know.

Chapter Text

The night was cold and the moon was new, letting the stars gleam brighter than normal, so high and distant above the ground. Squirrelflight stared at them as she lay in a spare nest in the warriors' den, unable to sleep. Her gaze drifted back to the den above the Highledge, hers and Bramblestar's. She stubbornly looked away again, though worry and frustration coursed through her.

In the past, even when their fights had been bad, they'd both slept in the same den at the end of the day, even if it was in separate nests. This time, there had been no fight, no argument. He'd secluded himself in that den and not let anyone in. Not her, not even Jayfeather or Alderheart. It was unlike him, no matter how distant he'd been in the past.

At first, when he'd returned from the Dark Forest, he'd acted similarly, yet he'd let Squirrelflight remain by his side then. She'd thought he'd been recovering when he'd started to interact with the clan after some days had passed, everyone had, but this felt different.

It was different.

She wished he would talk to her, tell her what had caused this, but that was never how their relationship had worked in the past, and was even more unlikely a possibility for the future.

It was a sad reality, but their relationship had never been built on trust. Yes, they trusted each other with their lives, but not their struggles and secrets. Those were theirs alone to bear. Sometimes, Squirrelflight preferred it that way, but now, when she was sure from the tips of her ears to her paws that something was terribly wrong, that lack of trust was more than a hindrance.

She huffed and laid her head in her paws, closing her eyes. She desperately wished Leafpool was here, or Firestar and Sandstorm, anyone to share her worries with. The night dragged on and she eventually fell into a fitful slumber, her troubled thoughts following her into dreams. 

Much later, just before the sky would start to lighten with the pre-dawn, a dark shape slipped out of the den above the Highledge. It slunk across the clearing with a slow, unsteady gait.

It stopped just in front of the warriors’ den, staring longingly at the dark ginger she-cat that slept by the entrance. It hesitated, then backed away.

“I'm sorry,” it whispered hoarsely with strangled, dried out vocal cords before disappearing back above the Highledge.

The next day, Squirrelflight once again tried to get Bramblestar to speak with her, and once again he refused to even let her see him.

Once again she slept in the warriors’ den, curled in a nest empty of the cat she loved, who she was sure loved her back.

Chapter Text

Ever since Bramblestar had escaped the Dark Forest, the dark had felt sniffling, claustrophobic. It seeped into his dreams and dragged him back to a place he never wanted to see again. When it got to be too much, he'd creep close to the entrance of the den, where the sunlight warmed the sandy floor, but would quickly back away in fear someone would see him. Would see what had become of their leader.

He should've left when he had the chance, snuck away in the night and found a solitary hole to lay down in and wait for death, but no. He'd tried. He'd lost his nerve the other night and went crawling back to his den like a coward, unable to bear parting from his clan, and the cat who had gone to the Dark Forest and back for him.

He wondered if it would've been better if she hadn't saved him. At least as a ghost he wouldn't have to deal with… this.

Even if he could muster himself to try sneaking away again, he wasn't sure how far he'd get before his body betrayed him as his muscles and ligaments rotted away to crowfood. It wasn't worth the risk, though would it be worse for someone to find him more decayed than his current state, just a conscience in a limp pile of flesh and bone?

He paced the den, pondering the question. Weighing his options. The wriggling of the maggots under his skin failed to distract him from his dilemma. What did pull his attention away was the fact he'd grown used to the maggots, that he'd somewhat come to terms that he was neither alive nor dead.

He wondered what would happen to him when his body finally wasted away. Would he lose a life and wake up to his body fully restored? Would he wander aimlessly as a spirit as he had before he'd found Rootspring? Would he go to StarClan, or would the Dark Forest drag him down into its rancid depths as it had his father and brother?

He shuddered at the thought and shook himself. That wasn't important at the moment. He was distracting himself, letting his mind wander. Was it even a question of ‘let’ when he couldn't control when his mind spiraled and he found himself coming too StarClan-knows-how-long later?

He needed to focus.

Focus.

Focus on… what exactly?

His yellowing claws slid out from his patchy furred paws in frustration. Yet again his thoughts had slipped from his mind like water off duck feathers. He grit his teeth and felt an uncomfortable burn rise behind his eyes. He cursed, which turned to a fit of hacking up more blood and maggots, a common occurrence over the last few days. It was a wonder no one had heard him yet.

He crushed the maggots with a scratchy growl as his frustration flared into anger. He pushed the remains aside to the steadily growing pile of worm viscera at the back of the den. Once his anger faded, replaced by weariness, he returned to his pacing.

Day turned to night, night turned to dawn. Bramblestar's pacing continued.

No progress made.

No conclusion reached.