Work Text:
i.
You are carrying herbs back into camp when you catch a glimpse of him, rolling with Deerkit, kicking up a cloud of dirt, tiny paws flailing. You pause- of course you do, because although the voice in your head is telling you that he is not yours- surely this is their first time out of the nursery? You weren’t even there when- and it’s as he’s sent tumbling over onto his back that you see his open eyes.
Familiar, yet unfamiliar- the same eyes you’ve caught staring back at you from the surface of a puddle, steady and unyielding.
Or once in the white rapids of the river, indistinct. Indisputable.
He may not be yours. But he has your eyes.
ii.
You can smell it on him. You’re well acquainted with the smell of blood now, and at once your mind is racing; cobwebs, comfrey, goldenrod… But you’ve been in the medicine cat den for too long, and you can see it on his face. He is not the one who is hurt.
His eyes- he looks at you for too long as he speaks- and they’re red chickweed in greenleaf, and you can imagine another scent; sun-warmed stone and earth, and you can almost hear Raggedtail calling, laughter in his voice, just a few tail-lengths away-
He shoulders past you, and you stare after him.
iii.
Raindrops slice through the air like cold claws, and you are crouching, shaking, soaking wet. Their gazes encircle you, snare you. Every cat’s expression is devoid of sympathy. Their detestation is like a physical weight, like Mothermouth has collapsed upon your shoulders.
He stands looking down on you, his eyes bright in the dimness, the downpour, luminous as a thunderpath monster’s.
His opens his jaws, and you can guess what he is about to say. You consider turning away before the words come.
You don’t.
iv.
The battle rages around you, and he is at the centre of it, the eye of the storm. He destroys, he devastates, and he is smiling all the while-
His eyes are like a brand of fire in the sunlight and you can’t stand it any longer.
You unsheathe your claws.
v.
His eyes are closed now. The scars are like veins of lightning. Like twisting snakes.
His wheezing breaths fill the den, (you should be worried that some cat will hear) and he writhes like a caught rat, claws thrashing.
You stand out of reach, drawn up to full height.
You can feel the juice of the berries clinging, viscous, to your fur. You can almost see- see it seeping slowly across the floor, leaving livid stains.
In his last moments, what possesses you to admit to him that you are his mother?
After all.
He is yours.