Ashfang's appearance is influenced by that of his kittypet father's, lending him a long angular body and sloping muzzle, along with a silky coat that doesn't do much to keep out the cold. His fur is silver, with spotted tabby markings on his flanks and typical tabby striping on his legs, face, and tail. His stature nearly matches RidgeClan cats for height if not bulk.

Notably, his rear leg is missing, lending him a unique loping gait. Other small, more recent scars are scattered across his face and forelegs, remnants of his involvement in Wolfstar's Crusade.

content warning: familial abandonment, depictions of depression, depictions of anxiety, loss of limb, implied eating disorder.

Every queen knew it before Shivershade did: she was in love. The faraway look in her eyes, the way she would sigh and shuffle her paws, and the steadily growing collection of feathers in her nest—it all drew to one conclusion. Gossip flew around the camp discussing the identity of this mystery tom, but before anything came to light, Shivershade moved to the nursery.

While her parents were distant and uninterested, her sister Willowleap was in and out of the nursery constantly. Her stoic exterior gave nothing away, but the other queens liked to imagine that the gray guardian was at least somewhat happy for her sister.

Despite her young age, Shivershade gave birth without incident to two healthy kits, which she named Stormkit and Ashkit for their sleek gray pelts. There was something strange, however, in the angular shapes of their faces and the silkiness of their fur. Still, it was a queen's right not to disclose the identity of the father, and Shivershade never said a word about him.

When the kits opened their eyes and started to become more independent, Shivershade resumed her jaunts outside of camp, always returning covered in the scent of crushed ferns. Once, she returned distraught, and went straight to the nursery to be with her kits. Willowleap stalked into camp only moments later, tail lashing and thunder behind her eyes. Everyone had heard the argument, but not what it was about.

Ignorant to the trouble brewing in their family, and doted on by their mother, Ashkit and Stormkit hardly knew a moment of discontent. As they grew, they began to look forward to their apprenticeship and the challenges therein.

Neither of them could have guessed just how harsh these challenges could be.

Ashpaw's heart had never beat so fast as it did during the ceremony. Looking up at his new mentor, a hardworking tom called Walnutstripe, it had suddenly hit him all at once that he was about to start training. Training to be a warrior! And he'd have his mother and sister beside him the whole way.

The ceremony night went by in a blur for him, a mix of scents and colors and the celebratory yowls of his clanmates. His aunt Willowleap's eyes met his across the clearing, and a little shiver crawled up his spine.

"What's her problem?" he asked, leaning over to his sister.

Stormpaw looked up, then shrugged. "Who cares? She's got burrs on her butt or something."

They both laughed, and the brief exchange was soon forgotten.

That night, they stepped into the apprentices' den for the first time, only to find that their nests had already been built for them by two toms their age, Lionpaw and Salmonpaw. His more extroverted sister hit it off with them immediately, and Ashpaw fell asleep to the soothing sound of low, excited chatter.

Training was more difficult than either of them expected, but at least they were doing it together; as it turned out, they'd been assigned mentors that were also siblings, so almost all of their training sessions and patrols were held together. Three moons went by like this, both Ashpaw and Stormpaw growing taller and stronger by the day, until a stranger came to RidgeClan.

They were chatting in the shade beneath the Highstone when a border patrol stalked in, tensions high, and it took only a moment to find out why. Escorted by the patrol was a lanky silver tom with a kittypet collar, unearthly blue eyes wide with concern, and his gaze raked the clearing until it landed on the two young apprentices—two apprentices which looked, eerily, so much like him.

He opened his mouth, but before any sound came out, the patrol leader called for Dovestar. While they spoke, Ashpaw couldn't tear his gaze away from the tom. He was so familiar, yet strange. He didn't hear a word they said, but their eyes kept cutting sideways towards him and his sister.

Then Dovestar turned and stalked into her den with the tomcat following. A few moments later, Shivershade was fetched and sent to Dovestar's den as well.

"What's going on?" Stormpaw said aloud. No one answered. Ashpaw crouched against the ground, stomach clenching at the way their clanmates were looking at them. As if, suddenly, they were strangers.

It felt like ages before Dovestar emerged again, expression unreadable as she leapt onto the Highstone. It wasn't necessary to call a clan meeting; the clearing was already full.

Trotting quickly from the leader's den, Shivershade joined her children in the shadow of the Highstone. The familiar stranger was right behind her. "Listen closely, my kits," she whispered urgently. "I know you've never met your father, but we need to go and live with him now; we won't have to live in RidgeClan anymore."

Stormpaw blinked owlishly. "We're leaving? But..."

"We must go," his mother urged. The cat beside her, his father, was starting to glance nervously around as the clan's gazes grew more hostile.

Dovestar's voice suddenly cut above the ringing in Ashpaw's ears. "Shivershade has chosen to leave the clan to be with her mate. They, and their kits, will be escorted peacefully to the border, where—"

"I don't want to leave," Ashpaw said, and only realized he'd spoken at an audible volume when Dovestar paused and looked at him.

"Sweetheart, I'm sorry, but—" Shivershade began, but Ashpaw cut her off.

"I don't want to leave!" he repeated, crouching and digging his claws into the ground as if he could physically hold on to this, his home. His fur itched with the weight of all the eyes on him. "This is my home, I can't—"

Everything around him dimmed to a low whine. All he could hear was his own panicked breathing. The voices of his family were as incomprehensible as bird chatter.

The next thing he knew, he was in the medicine den, surrounded by the soothing scent of thyme. "Focus on your paws," murmured a quiet voice. The medicine cat was in front of him, paws tucked under his chest as he continued his quiet litany. "Focus on how they feel in the cool earth. Listen to—"

"Sootwhisker?" Ashpaw whispered, and he stopped speaking, gaze darting to his face. His eyes were unreadable. "Where's my mom and sister?"

"They're waiting for you on the border," he replied.

He tucked his face under his paws. "Forget it. I'm not leaving just to be a kittypet."

By the next sunrise, a patrol returned with a message from Shivershade. She and Stormpaw were with Sterling, his father, at a Twoleg "cabin" half a day's walk to the west. They were waiting for him there.

Ashpaw didn't leave. He ignored the message, and he ignored the strange looks he got from Walnutstripe, like his mentor didn't know who he was anymore. Lionpaw's brother, Tigerpaw, who'd always been a fly-bite, started going out of his way to make Ashpaw's life harder. He ignored, too, the jabs about him being a half-cat, the way Tigerpaw and his friends wrinkled their noses when he passed, and the tail-length of empty space around his nest.

But he couldn't ignore it when, while the apprentices were in the training hollow, Tigerpaw crowed, with a particular note of triumph, how his family were lucky to be rid of him.

Before he even knew what he was doing, Ashpaw had launched himself at the tom, claws tearing into tabby fur. As Tigerpaw yowled in shock and rage, he quickly found that his strike had landed only by the grace of surprise; pain radiated up his shoulder as he was slammed into the ground, and he shrieked as teeth found his leg.

It took three mentors to wrestle them apart. Ashpaw pretended he didn't see Lionpaw's horrified eyes across the hollow.

He lay in his nest that night, leg throbbing and wrapped in herbs, and replayed the argument he'd overheard in Dovestar's den. Walnutstripe's voice harsh and angry. "He's out of control! He should have left with his mother." His body felt raw, hollowed out by the grief and rage that had escaped him earlier. How had all of that fit inside him? He felt so small.

Quietly, Ashpaw rose and slunk from the den. The forest was quiet as he picked his way west, keeping to deep cedar shadows. It was easier, once he was over the border, to pick out his family's faint scents from the scatter of undergrowth, and easy to follow them all the way to a Twoleg nest. It was made of trees, stacked strangely in straight, horizontal lines.

Shuddering, he crept closer to the nest, but nothing stirred. There weren't any monsters, so he risked leaping onto a ledge in front of the nest. His family's scents were faint. It remained silent and its eyes were dark.

He waited there until morning, then crawled under the porch and dozed off. The heat of sunhigh woke him and, with still no sign of any activity, Ashpaw started back towards camp.

As hollow and dejected as he felt, he still couldn't ignore the way his stomach clenched in hunger. He wasn't yet back on RidgeClan territory, so it couldn't hurt to catch some prey and eat it here; he could just join a hunting patrol and make up for it later.

Almost as soon as the thought occurred to him, he heard the whistle of a dove's wings, and dropped quickly into a crouch just like Walnutstripe had showed him. It didn't take long to locate the stupid, noisy bird, and Ashpaw concentrated hard on creeping towards it, paws drawing silently over the pine needles.

He leaped. The dove started to take off, but his claws snagged its wings and he brought it back down to earth. One of his back paws landed on something hard.

As quick as he landed, white-hot pain surged through him like a lightning strike. He opened his mouth. He could hear some cat screeching; how terrible they sounded. As the world began to fade around him, body thrashing against the pine needles, he saw the flickering image of cats rushing towards him. Was that StarClan? Was he okay?

Was he dying?
His mouth tasted like dust. He opened it, but no sound came out.

"Don't try to speak," came a voice. Sootwhisker swam into focus above him. Someone was licking the fur around his leg. The air was thick with herb-scent. "You've been hurt, but you're going to live."

The dusty gray tom disappeared from his line of vision. Sometime later, only seconds, or perhaps moons, he came back into view carrying a lump of moss. It brushed against his nose, and he lapped instinctively at the scent of cool water.

"His wrappings have been changed and new poultice has been applied, Sootwhisker." Ashpaw's ear angled towards the new voice, a young tom's. "There's no sign of infection."

"Very good, Bearpaw." Sootwhisker's eyes caught his, warm behind his gruff veneer. "Get some more rest; you're still exhausted."

As if freed by his words, Ashpaw's tether to consciousness once again dissolved. Pain and sleep came and went in waves. He became accustomed to the dusty halo of light that clung to the fur of the clan's healers, bringing with them the scent of herbs and the relief of water and poppy seeds.

Then, he opened his eyes one night and the fog was gone. He felt truly awake for the first time in.... His mind blanked. How long had he been here? Slowly, Ashpaw stretched out his front legs, and sighed in relief as he felt some stiff joints pop. Then he stretched out his back legs—or tried. Pain flashed in his back left leg, and he cringed, letting that leg fall limp again as he stretched the other one instead. The left one felt strange, though, fur clumped with herbs around his thigh, and he craned his neck to look down at it.

His stomach dropped.

Quickly, he pressed his mouth to his front paws, trying not to wake the sleeping Bearpaw as his body shook. His leg was gone. What was going to happen to him? Did this mean he couldn't be a warrior? Would RidgeClan let him stay?

Why couldn't his mother be here?

He must have made a sound, because Bearpaw stirred, eyes as warm as honey as they opened in the dark. Silently, he stood, padding closer to him. Ashpaw tucked his face under his paws, unwilling to meet those eyes, unwilling to answer any questions, but he only felt the barest brush of the other tom's fur as he lay beside him.

Ashpaw's life settled into a new routine. Every day, Bearpaw cleaned his leg and reapplied a poultice and herb wraps. Sootwhisker began to instruct him in stretches that he could perform while lying down, and made sure he did all of them no matter how much he complained.

A fog began to settle over him again, but it wasn't like the one when he'd first been hurt; this one was... grayer, somehow, and it leeched the energy from him like a too-hot day. He still hadn't asked Sootwhisker what was going to happen to him. Most days, he was too tired to care even if he thought about it.

He slept a lot. Too much. Sootwhisker began to wake him periodically and make him run through stretches. It was only when he stopped complaining about them that he started introducing different exercises, and finally, helping him to stand up.

It was difficult at first, and even a few awkward steps made him pant and shake. But, slowly, it started to get easier. When he could make it all the way across the earthen den without breathing hard and with only minimal support, Sootwhisker told him he could start walking around outside.

Fresh air came as an immediate relief, breezing away the scent of herb-dust that clung to his fur. When his eyes adjusted to the sunlight, Sootwhisker escorted him to a sunning stone to lay down and bask in the open air. The warmth of the stone brought relief to his aching body, and some of the fog lifted.

His gaze was drawn across the camp clearing, watching his clanmates eat, share tongues, and come and go on patrols. Then he saw a familiar gold pelt emerge from the warriors' den, and he flicked his ears back. "Lionpaw's gotten big," he commented warily.

As if sensing his thoughts, Sootwhisker sighed. "You've been in my care for almost three moons."

The number hit his chest like an impact, breath momentarily stolen. "So he's..."

"Lionwing, now."

"I'm twelve moons old," he said quietly. He should've been a warrior by now.

"He came to visit you, you know," Sootwhisker said quietly. "I don't know if you remember."

He didn't. Dimly, he wondered if Lionpaw had visited him out of loyalty to his sister, Stormpaw; they'd been such good friends in the apprentices' den.

For the next two moons, he continued his daily outings to the sunning stones, sitting to watch his clan continue on without him. Most days, Bearpaw joined him there. Ashpaw had found him to be a quiet, contemplative sort of tom, who took his work seriously. Sometimes, he would talk to Ashpaw about what he was learning, but most of the time he was just a familiar presence; he wasn't aware yet just how much of a comfort Bearpaw's presence had become.

"Do you ever think," Ashpaw asked one day, watching distantly as some kits played war outside the nursery, "that we're all just here to die?"

Bearpaw flicked an ear, but didn't look at him. He was watching too. "Everything is."

His answer surprised him. "What?"

Now the tom turned. His eyes were calm. "Everything dies eventually. That's all we're supposed to do." Then he smiled, an expression that was almost strange on so serious a cat. "Leaves a lot of time to do what we want to."

That night, he asked Sootwhisker if he could start training again.

"One more moon," he told him, and he would talk to Dovestar.

One more moon.

At seventeen moons old, old enough to be a warrior already, Ashpaw restarted his training. Sootwhisker had already warned him that everything he'd learned before may not apply now that he'd lost a leg, and he was right; even the most basic hunting crouch was rendered useless by his new imbalance.

The apprentices' den was smaller than he remembered. He had to slink on his belly to get inside the narrow crevice, and hold his head low once he was inside. Two apprentices stared at him owlishly from their nests, and discomfort squirmed in his belly.

"What are you looking at?" he grumped, and they hurriedly looked away.

He was grateful when his mentor showed up early the next morning, ruddy pelt passing by the hollow's entrance. Picking his way through the sleeping apprentices, Ashpaw met the other tom outside.

Together, he and Honeythorn walked to the training hollow. The red tom was... nice, he supposed. He didn't look at Ashpaw like he was a disgusting kittypet, or like he was broken.

Instead, he treated Ashpaw fairly during training, pushing him where he needed to be pushed and relenting whenever he needed some space. He never honey-coated anything to spare his feelings. And, frustratingly, Honeythorn was still patient even when Ashpaw lashed out in desire of an argument.

Working together, they began to develop new variations on combat and hunting forms, suited to Ashpaw's missing limb. He began to regain his confidence as well as his independence, and Honeythorn responded by sending him on more of his highly coveted solo hunts.

This time by himself, away from the prying gazes of his clanmates, was always a welcome reprieve. It wasn't that he didn't want to hunt with his mentor—on the contrary; he even found himself enjoying Honeythorn's company. But the serenity of the fir forests on the slopes of their territory, safely shielded from the sky, provided a quiet sanctuary for his mind.

By accident at first, he would stumble upon Sootwhisker or Bearpaw harvesting herbs in the forest, but that soon became intentional—whether he would admit it or not, he found another kind of sanctuary in the familiar company of healers.

Bearpaw was a different kind of familiar company, one he certainly wouldn't admit to; but it was getting harder to ignore that every time he closed his eyes and imagined what happiness looked like, it was the image of Bearpaw, with his fur haloing gold around his head in the dusty sunlight of the medicine den, that was seared into his mind.

At twenty-one moons, Ashpaw returned from one such solitary hunt when he noticed the tension hanging over camp. Only a beat later, he smelled the blood, and a cat cried out in a familiar voice. Prey forgotten, he sprinted to the medicine den so quickly that he scraped his shoulders on the stony entrance. He almost didn't recognize the two cats lying side by side.

Almost.

He caught snatches of the story from other warriors: Honeythorn and his son, Owlpaw, had been on a border patrol earlier, when they'd been ambushed by a lynx. Owlpaw had taken the initial brunt of its attack, and it had killed one of the attending guardians before Honeythorn managed to push it off a ledge to its death.

A victory, but it felt hollow when all he could focus on was Owlpaw's raspy, uneven breaths in the medicine den.

"Is that yarrow?" he asked quietly. Night had fallen. Cats had come and gone, including Owlpaw's mother, Laurelfern. The last he'd heard, she'd taken her other son to go get something to eat.

Bearpaw raised his head, shredded herbs still clinging to his whiskers. Moonlight glowed around his fur in the dusty air, deepening the black of his stripes and washing out the rest. He nodded.

Rising, he padded over to the healer and his patient, and bent his head to scent the injury through its cobwebs. "I don't smell any infection."

"It's hard to tell this early," he murmured. "I'm doing everything I can."

"I know."

Half a moon passed, and while Honeythorn was cleared to resume his duties, Owlpaw still fought for his life. Ashpaw's training went on pause; he understood. Honeythorn needed to be with his family.

When Owlpaw pulled through and started his speech therapy, Ashpaw began to pull away; this wasn't his space to occupy, and Honeythorn didn't need him. His mentor, however, seemed to disagree; he started to ask him for advice pertaining to his son, and his son's grievous injury. This both troubled and humbled Ashpaw: sure, he'd had experience with an injury this severe, but he wouldn't consider himself a role model for recovery. That hard anger in his chest had never left.

He was still made of jagged edges.

Honeythorn didn't seem to care, and neither did Bearpaw. The brown tabby had stepped down from his position as medicine cat apprentice as soon as Owlpaw was in the clear.

When he asked why, all he'd said was, "I couldn't do it again."

He understood.

With Bearpaw joining him in the den for warrior apprentices, they had considerably more time to spend together. He almost didn't notice that he'd started sleeping better, lulled by the familiar rhythm of the other tom's breathing. And their nests were close enough that sometimes, their fur brushed together in the dark.

Neither of them mentioned it.

Things started getting better. Owlpaw's speech therapy was going well, and Honeythorn had resumed training with Ashpaw. He even got to train alongside Bearpaw fairly often, but that also meant training alongside Bearpaw's mentor, Wolfstar.

He'd have been a fool not to notice the tension brewing in RidgeClan. Divisions were growing among his clanmates, with most of the council and senior warriors pursuing a righteous path forward. RidgeClan's disdain for their neighbors was no secret, either—a viewpoint that had been around for far longer than he—that railed against MistClan's freeform and flexible approach to faith. It was in such juxtaposition with RidgeClan, as rigid as the mountainside they called home, that this must have been inevitable.

His thoughts turned to the kits he'd seen playing war outside the nursery. Surely they were apprentices now. Did they know?

Would they survive the coming storm?

At twenty-four moons, old enough to have been named twice over, Ashpaw finally earned his warrior name.

"Congratulations, Ashfang," Bearpaw said quietly, but was quick to turn away. There was something behind his eyes that lodged directly in the silver tom's chest.

By the time he was released from the raucous celebration of clanmates around him, it was time for his vigil. All night, his mind ran wild with everything it had taken to get here, everyone who had helped him along the way... and Bearpaw. It had seemed like their friendship was blossoming into something... more, maybe, but now it seemed like Bearpaw was upset with him.

When he stepped into the warriors' den for the first time, echoing with Bearpaw's absence, he thought he understood why.

"You're not losing me," he said.

Having just emerged from the apprentices' den, Bearpaw was still blinking sleep out of his eyes, but he seemed to sober immediately upon spotting Ashfang. He remained silent.

"I'm just a den away," he continued, standing to step closer. His stomach was twisting itself into knots. "And you better train hard so you can come join me soon."

Bearpaw sighed, almost seeming to deflate, and Ashfang closed the distance between them. Their whiskers brushed, and a rusty purr thrummed in his throat.

But before they could once again share a den, this time with a new understanding of their budding relationship, a tree fell across the upland river.

RidgeClan went to war.

Ashfang and Bearpaw were assigned to the second wave. They waited behind as their friends and clanmates, including Honeythorn and his loved ones, crossed the river to launch their attack for possession of the Moonpool.

"I'm not ready," Bearpaw said, amber eyes fixed straight ahead. Into the gloom. Already, the yowls of fighting cats were cutting above the wind. Ashfang shivered.

He wondered why Wolfstar had included Bearpaw on this patrol. Was it because of his size? Sure, the tom was large, but he'd served in the healer's den before he'd ever set paw on the path of a warrior; he wasn't a fighter. Surely he knew that.

Surely he knew.

"I know." Sighing, Ashfang leaned against his side, taking comfort in the warmth of his fur. Something unsaid perched behind his teeth. "Bear, I..."

A caterwaul suddenly rang across the river. "Second wave!"

The world around him seemed to fade to a pinprick as they crossed the log. The river roared beneath him. The yowls of cats grew closer. The scent of blood grew thicker. Then it was chaos.

He lost Bearpaw almost immediately; the slope was dark and covered with writhing cats. Leaders were calling out commands above the throng, but it was hard to distinguish the voices of his own. A MistClan warrior slammed into his side, knocking him to the ground, and his training with Honeythorn kicked in like an instinct; he clung to the cat and rolled onto his good side, raking them with claws before he flung them off with a solid kick. They hit the ground with a huff before tearing off into the dark.

"PrairieClan is here!"

"Already?!" The reply thundered almost right behind him, and he flinched, whipping around to see Wolfstar's dark pelt outlined in the dim moonlight. "RidgeClan, retreat to higher ground!"

Without thinking twice, Ashfang turned and starting making his way up the slope. His heart wouldn't stop racing; it felt like it was somewhere in his throat. Cats continued to waylay him, the blind fury of MistClan and PrairieClan springing on him in the dark. He clawed back without finesse, drawn along by the inevitability of the battle.

He'd only just reached the top of the slope when someone called for a retreat. Who was it? Had they won? Then he saw his own clanmates tearing past him towards the tree-bridge.

They'd lost.

"Bear!" he called, head craning as cats parted around him like a river. Then he saw him, that familiar dark pelt bleached silver by moonlight. Relief almost knocked him from his paws, and he purred breathlessly as Bearpaw's muzzle brushed against his. "Let's get out of here."

When they got to the bridge, they found that the retreat had slowed to a crawl as cats had to cross over in single file. Someone called out not to overload the tree. Hysteria threatened to break loose, buzzing over the crowded, bloodied cats like a hive of insects. Ashfang glanced over his shoulder again and again, half expecting the pursuit of their enemies.

Enemies. As if they hadn't dealt the first blow.

When they reached the edge, they found two senior warriors flanking it. "You two next," one of them said. He almost didn't recognize Wolverinestrike beneath the blood and debris.

Nudging Bearpaw to go ahead of him, he fell into step directly behind. The log, wet from the river's spray, wobbled worryingly underpaw, and Bearpaw stumbled. Now that he was close, he could see a dark patch spreading through the fur of his leg; was he injured?

Almost as soon as the thought crossed his mind, Bearpaw's injured leg slipped out from under him, and Ashfang lunged forward, claws sinking into the thick fur of his haunches. Bear shot him an exasperated look over his shoulder.

"It's okay, I'm fine. You can let go."

The log suddenly lurched. Bearpaw was torn from his grip by nothing more than gravity, and he disappeared into the frothing black water below. The roar of the river filled Ashfang's ears.

The next thing he knew, he was in the middle of camp. Other cats were all around him, clustered in groups, covered in blood, licking their wounds. Crying. "Are you hurt?" Sootwhisker repeated. Numbly, he shook his head.

Bearpaw's dark fur was still lodged between his claws.

They never found Bearpaw's body—"lost to the river," they said. Lost. As if that softened this new reality without his mate. He sat vigil in a clearing full of other cats' losses, numb and silent, aware of Honeythorn nearby, but neither of them seemed to know what to say.

They were both terrible at grieving, weren't they?

To honor Bearpaw's bravery in the battle, Sootwhisker led a ceremony so that he could carry a warrior's name into StarClan. There was no celebration this time; the clearing was quiet and thick with grief.

"Bearclaw," he whispered, once, into the dark.

He would have hated it.

The darkness in his mind seemed to grow, carrying with it the hollow roar of the water that had taken Bearclaw from him. Was the river inside him now?

Would it take him too?

The river water was cold enough to send a shock up his legs. A shiver raised the fur on his hackles.

If StarClan was real, then Bearclaw would be waiting for him there. Could he see him now, standing in the shallows? It was the same river that had taken his life. The same river that now haunted Ashfang's every hour.

I should go back. The thought flickered by as the sun started setting, turning the water pink, but it only made his stomach clench. He didn't want to go back; every corner of his home was dark with absence.

In a haze, he waded across the shallow part of the river, away from RidgeClan. Away from all that grief.

A PrairieClan patrol found him. They were quick to surround him, to unsheathe their claws, to demand what he was doing here. Trespassing. Spying.

"I can't do it anymore," he rasped. "Don't send me back."

They took him to Littlestar, their leader. She'd been a RidgeClan cat too, once. Maybe she saw the hollow look in his eyes. Maybe she understood.

She let him stay.

He worked hard. He kept his head down. He tried not to think about how huge and empty the sky felt over these plains. Old habits crept back in; he started skipping meals, even the idea of food turning his stomach.

He tried not to think about Honeythorn. Was he angry? Ashfang hadn't even said goodbye. But maybe it was better that he'd just disappeared. Maybe it was easier.

Tensions were on the rise again, this time between PrairieClan and their secretive neighbor, MistClan. A fight broke out on the border. Then another one, this time between MistClan and his former home; RidgeClan's new leader, Mushroomstar, even lost a life.

Sitting in a shaded patch in PrairieClan's camp, he noticed a squeal from the nursery. There were kits playing outside. Playing war. Ice trickled down his spine, raising the hair there. Even out here, in the open hills, he suddenly felt trapped.

Was it happening again?

Sleep didn't come easy to him now, and it was no different tonight. The burrows that PrairieClan made their dens in were dark at night, closed off from even the full moon's light; in RidgeClan, there at least would have been a glimmer through the stone crevices. As heartbeats crawled by, the walls seemed to close in on him, crushing him to the woven grasses of his nest.

He hauled himself upright and slunk through the tunnel, belly brushing the dirt and the tips of his ears skimming the ceiling; he felt suffocated by the earth. Only when he emerged into the cold night, the PrairieClan camp stained by the silver moon, was he able to breathe.

His ear tilted at the sound of chatter growing nearer; the Gathering patrol typically wasn't this loud upon their return, respectful of the cats who were asleep in preparation for dawn patrols. But tonight as they streamed back into camp, they were abuzz. Littlestar and Cindersong made their way directly to the fallen tree to call a clan meeting.

Apparently, a group of cats had splintered off from RidgeClan. Ashfang was surprised to hear the name of Honeythorn's best friend and mother of his kits, Laurelfern.

Laurelfern was leaving RidgeClan?

His head spun; did that mean Honeythorn, Owlheart, and Kestrelthorn were going too? Did they, too, see the rot in the belly of the clans? Not just RidgeClan, no, but all of them; kits played war in all of them. Teeth bared quick in all of them. They were all guilty in the blood that had been spilled that night.

The clans were rotting from the inside. Did they see it?

Ashfang kept his mouth shut even as his new denmates disparaged his old. He went on patrols. He mended barriers. When he ate, he ate alone. He even shut out Basilheart, the kindhearted tom who Ashfang was trying to convince himself he only liked tolerated because of his propensity for herbs; he pretended not to notice the pang of guilt in his stomach when Basilheart caught his eyes across the clearing.

But, by now, he was good at this. By now, he knew how to shut everyone out so he could spiral alone.

Then, one day, a patrol returned with news that changed everything.

They'd found traces of her by the river, they said. Some of her fur, signs of a scuffle, and her blood, on their Ridge-side border. Of course, with signs like that, she was dead. Littlestar was dead.

Now, being outside didn't make the feeling of suffocation stop. War was coming again, wasn't it? The last one had taken so much from him, from everyone, could they survive another? Everywhere he looked, he saw potential casualties.

He couldn't stay.

It was the dancing moon which drew him out into PrairieClan's fields, white with snow, and it was the moon who laughed when he saw a ghost.

Ghosts weren't new to Ashfang; his air was thick with them. He didn't realize until morning that the cat he met that night was still in the realm of the living. Bearclaw was alive. He found him in the barn under the name of Summit, given to him by the barn cats who'd fished him out of the river last winter.

Unknowingly, they fished Ashfang out of the river too: he took his first clear breath when he looked into Summit's eyes and saw their future. Not in RidgeClan, or PrairieClan, but here in the barn.

He didn't expect his decision to be met with understanding, struck with the memory of his mother and sister's departure, but Cinderstar was kind; she blessed them, and with a solemn agreement to remain united against Foxglove's threat, sent them home.

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Ashfang was born of the mountain and the mountain will always live in him, but he's spent much of his life feeling disconnected. From the strife of his kittypet heritage, to his terrible loss in Wolfstar's Crusade, he's never felt truly at home. This changed when he found his lost lover in the snow, a year after losing him, and he joined Summit in the barn.
From the [clanless plot adoptables], Ashfang fills two roles. One, the role of Refugee; once a clan cat, he has come to the barn to live a peaceful life. And two, the role of Prudence; he's seen the cost of war, and has no interest in seeing it again. He will do what he can to stop Foxglove's ideology from spreading.

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