Warriors: Cloak of Time

= Chapter 8 =

A cat of fire eyes left destruction in their wake.

It ran in their blood, you see. Rather then suppress their devastation, they relished in it. With pain came gain, they would always think.

As they moved through the spruce trees, flanked by only ghosts; their eyes flickered.

No one knew what they had done.
No one living, at least.
And everybody knows that the dead don't talk.

HeatherClan were off to Sweetened Creek, as today was the day of their annual ceremony. The ceremony, it was to celebrate new life, and just the way it continued, moons after moons, despite disasters and the constant changes that the Clan went through. It was to celebrate endurance and resilience.

But the feline who walked with enigma as their guide didn't care for such trivial things.

Everyone was so bubbly and cheerful. It grated their nerves down to their fragile bones. High-pitched voices and bright smiles...at least it only lasted for a day.

They closed their devoid eyes as the world washed over them in a glittery flutter of butterfly wings. It was too bright today. The mood felt sharp and stingy against their fur. They didn't like it.

It wasn't as if they hated happiness. That wasn't the case at all! They just happened to dislike this manner of happiness. It reminded them of kits, with their naive eyes and carefree existence. Kits just rubbed them the wrong way. The happiness was an annoyance; it got on their nerves.

With a sigh they stood, tuning out the mindless chatter that filled their ears with a buzz of white noise. None of this mattered to them. Life didn't seem to excite them very much anymore. They hadn't struck another in so long.

And they found they missed it.

But they'd chosen their path, the one entwined with dark matter. And no matter if it veered into misery, there was much excitement whenever they caused others to bleed out. That flood of endorphins, the rush of the kill, the mess and aftermath that trembled inside their skin...

They had to destroy today.
They had to.

It was as if their organs were failing; as if there was a disease drifting through their bloodstream. They were dependent on their crimes. They loved everything about what they did. The way the shame and guilt caved into apathy and nestled against their chest. The way it gave them purpose and drove away the dissatisfaction that they'd now grown accustomed too.

Their crimes meant everything to them.
Their crimes were, of course, murder.

They'd done it before and today they would do it again.

StarClan knows it was overdue.

After all, one can live with illness wrapped around their head and weakening their flimsy bones to crushed cement.

But when the illness starts to beat in place of one's heart and breathe for one's lungs, that is when it must be cleansed.

"Can you believe there's only one?" A voice shattered through the walls around the melancholy cat's train of thought.

They swallowed bile slick with anger as rusty and quick as a dull shade of carmine.
Why did Wolfstorm, that foolish tom, have to speak so loudly?

"I know. It's so strange! Even Forestspirit and the elders from SilverClan and ShadedClan think so. They said, in their time and before, this has never happened. Only one living kit in all of the Clans!" Echolight, Wolfstorm's companion exclaimed. Her brown tabby and white pelt were exceedingly well groomed for the occasion.