Fallen Star

Her eyes are a shade of soft green that makes you think of meadows. Her dark calico fur is like midnight speckled with fireflies and stars. Her soft voice sounds like a breath of wind stirring leaves in the trees. Her every motion makes you want to dance with the same easy grace. Her body, broken and bleeding, makes you think of death.

She lies curled on the side of the thunderpath, alone and forgotten by the ones who sliced her skin, the ones who make dark crimson blood spill out and stain her pelt, the ones who taunt her, the ones who view her as inferior because she is kind inside, because she couldn't kill. Their words and sharp teeth hang in a quiet darkness in her mind. She enjoys the darkness, because it is numbing, and it numbs her pain.

Her mate. Gone. Sister. Gone. Mother. Father. Family. Hope. Gone. Gone. Gone, leaving her exposed to the harshness of the world in which she lives, the world that prevents her from using her plants to heal the way she longs to, the world that prevents her from spreading her wings and taking flight.

She is stretched out beside the thunderpath, a lost soul in a dreamless sleep from which she could never wake.

His pupils dilate when he smells blood.

Creeping through moonlit ferns, he peers cautiously through fronds that kiss his face and set his whiskers ablaze. He twitches his muzzle in annoyance before focusing on the dirty, smelly grass beside the thunderpath.

At first, he doesn't see her, the way her sliced fur blends with the night. It is only the bright gleam beside the shining thunderpath that alerts his eye.

His breath catches as he comes close. She is covered in deep lacerations, left to die, a strange, bitter scent clinging to her bloody fur. He presses his nose into cold fur, leans in close and listens, for a heartbeat, for breath, anything.

But there is nothing.

After a long while, however, he hears it.

A faint sighing, softer than a breath, coming from her parted jaws. Gingerly, he picks her up by the bloody scruff and carefully drags her home.

The silver leader gazes at her warrior as he brings in the body in the moonlight. Most of the camp is asleep, and she intends to keep it that way. She is about to snap at Stonetail, wondering why is he dragging a squirrel-that-seems-to-be-too-big-for-a-squirrel at moonhighwhen she sees

the blood.

"Bring her to the medicine den," she whispers. "I'll take care of her."

More than anything, the silver leader wishes she had a real medicine cat, and that her young Clan didn't have to function on her rudimentary knowledge of herbs.

She only hopes it would be enough to save this poor cat.

Who could have done this?

"Go sleep, Stonetail," she murmurs to her warrior. "I'll be fine." Stonetail reluctantly dips his head and slinks away to the warriors' den, casting looks over his shoulder all the while.

The leader works through the night, bandaging and keeping watch. The cuts have become infected. She has caught a fever.

When morning comes, cats wonder who the stranger in the medicine den is. They wonder how she got those terrible wounds.

The silver leader is thrilled when the she-cat's eyes, a soft green color, snap open. But elation turns to worry as the she-cat starts to pant. "Gray," she whispers. "Tess. Mother! F-father! I-I can fight...I can...just...just wait...no...no...NO!!" She would screech the last part in a voice filled with terrible fear. The silver she-cat can hear her vocal chords tear.

The leader doesn't know what to do. She just continues applying feverfew and marigold and hoping for the best.

She wakes one day to soft, warm sunlight and a sore, aching, exhausted body. She doesn't know where she is. How she got here. Who the strange, regal silver tabby she-cat is staring at her with frightened, concerned blue eyes.

"Where am I?" she whispers through a dry, cracked throat. "Who are you?" The silver she-cat is smiling so widely, relief so evident in her face, it looks like she's about to cry. "My name is Featherstar," says the silver she-cat, dunking some moss in a pool of water and giving it to her to drink. "I'm so glad you're awake."

She sips the water gratefully. When she is done, Featherstar goes to get some more. When she's drunk her fill, she sits up and immediately feels woozy. "Easy now, says Featherstar softly.

She hobbles to the pool of water and takes herself in.

Long, angry, half-healed scraches, crisscrossing her body and face. She is no longer beautiful. Her soft green eyes fill with sadness in addition to the heartbreak that was already there.

A familiar smell touches her nose. The sharp scent of marigold. In wonder, she pads around the den. A perfect place to heal others.

"What is this?" she breathes, joy kindling in her eyes.

"This is StreamClan," says Featherstar. "And you're in the medicine den."

"What's that?"

By the time Featherstar has finished explaining about a Clan, she has made up her mind. "I wish to be your medicine cat," she whispers, eyes shining. Finally, she could heal without fear, have a den to herself, a place where she could have friends, start over, forget about her past.

Featherstar's smile is joyful.

"StreamClan!" Featherstar yowls, and she is amazed by how quickly they gather. "We have a special new member joining us today." Gazes are trained on her, sitting outside the medicine den, and automatically, she shrinks away, eyes down and trembling, cuts aching.

"Fallen, do you promise to uphold the medicine cat code, even at the cost of your life?"

She holds her head up high, under delighted gazes from the gathered cats. "I do," she says, softly but surely, the strength and conviction in her voice visible all over her body.

"Then from now on, you shall be known as Fallendust, medicine cat of StreamClan!"

She smiles. She likes her name, and her title.

Hesitantly, cautiously, Fallendust takes the first few steps towards her new Clanmates and into her new life.