kingdom hearts -- cat's cradle is a liar's cradle
title: cat's cradle is a liar's cradle
wordcount: 8833
rating: PG-13
notes: Crossover with the Warriors series, by Erin Hunter.
summary: There are resources to be taken advantage of in every world, if one is so inclined to looking long and hard enough.
“I cannot for the life of me understand what the Superior would possibly want with such a backwater world, inhabited as it is by felines, of all things.”
Zexion only smiles at the other researcher, lips quirked into a sly, knowing arc. “There are unlimited resources to be taken advantage of if we look far enough. Who knows what fascinating results this little endeavour will yield? I’m sure we could do with diversifying the pool of Heartless species.”
“Indeed, but one thing troubles me.” Lexaeus’s gravelly baritone cuts into their bickering, and as one, the two men turn to face him, brows raised quizzically. “Why would he insist on personally journeying to this particular world? I cannot fathom his motives.”
Vexen laughs, a sound as cold and brittle as splintering ice. “Since when has anyone been able to understand how his mind works? Besides, this is what the neophytes are for. Surely he has better things to do with his time, especially if half of the Organisation has gone off to that one world.”
The first man smirks sidelong at him, inscribing the last line of his illusion-spell into a sheaf of creamy parchment with a flourish; black ink glints momentarily in the muted glow from the computer screens, drying slowly as he fans it. “I can see some degree of logic in his reasoning.”
When prompted by the curious eyes of his companions, Zexion chuckles faintly, marking the parchment with a set of numerals - each representing an Organisation member which had been sent to scout that world - and rolls it up, sealing it with a dab of wax. “He’s curious. It has been far too long since he ventured out of the city, and perhaps he is restless. Remember, even if Kingdom Hearts is his first obsession, his thirst for knowledge follows close behind. Perhaps he sees some use for this world which we have not.”
Lexaeus raises his eyes heavenwards. “Even so, there is little to be gained from leaving our stronghold vulnerable in such a manner. Who is left within these walls? The three of us, Axel, Demyx, Luxord and Marluxia. What could a pack of cats possibly offer to capture the attention and interest of Xemnas in such a manner, and warrant him sending five of our number there, himself included?”
Vexen’s brow furrows as he battles the temptation to give a scathing reply; Zexion offers his superior a quelling look, pressing his thumb to the waxy blot, sealing his spell. “He is the leader of this Organisation,” he whispers, eyes overbright, “and we have no choice but to follow him and heed his commands, no matter how seemingly senseless.”
*
It is a fascinating little world, to be sure, filled with a plethora of creatures he has never bothered to notice before; bound as he is by the constraints of his new appearance - the product of Zexion’s skilfully-wrought illusion-magics - and even with his senses afire with newfound vividness and intensity, such trifling issues do not distract him by much, and he notices little of his natural surroundings, enraptured instead by the pervasive presence of Darkness, filtering in through this world.
To be fair, it is unfamiliar terrain, and the mere fact that he has to acclimatise with the curious sensation of being quadripedal is more than enough to keep him occupied for a few minutes; engaged as he is in the process of testing the limits of his feline form, Xemnas is only fleetingly aware of an unfamiliar scent flooding his nostrils before a mass of glinting claws and wiry muscle launches itself at him, striking him squarely on the shoulder and nearly succeeding in bowling him over.
For several heartbeats, he struggles in the snow against his dark-furred assailant, silent despite the furious snarling of the other cat; with a strength born of necessity and instinct, he draws his hind legs closer to his body, slashing at his opponent’s unprotected belly with long, tearing strokes. The feline immediately doubles back, spitting, bristling as it glares at him with amber eyes bright with fury; leaping clear, the two cats regard one another with flattened ears and lips curled back from gleaming teeth, Xemnas’s tail twitching with barely-suppressed amusement as the dark grey cat gathers its muscles, ready to spring.
“Greystripe!”
The other cat flicks an ear with irritation, rising to his full height as another feline appears on the wintry landscape, chest rising and falling with gasping breaths, its flame-red pelt windswept. “Who is this?”
Xemnas’s ears prick with great interest at the authority suffusing the voice of this youthful tom, and dips his head in an exaggerated show of respect. “I am but a mere vagrant, humbly seeking your permission to pass through your dominion.”
The dark-coloured male - Greystripe, he duly notes - hisses, snakelike, muscles stiffening as he jerks his head irritably at Xemnas, who is now seated comfortably between a pair of diverging tree roots, plumed tail wrapped neatly around his paws as he surveys the two strangers through half-lidded eyes. “An outsider trespassing on our territory. A rogue, it seems, from the look of him,” the cat rasps irritably, coppery gaze brimming with suspicion.
Xemnas’s lip curls in a bland approximation of a smile.
For several moments, the ginger tom surveys him with narrowed eyes, tail twitching absently. “I don’t recall having ever met a cat like you in the past.”
“If you have heard of me,” Xemnas parries easily, in a voice reminiscent of summer, honeyed tones warmly mellifluous and calmly assuring, “I would be very much surprised.”
The two cats are silent for a moment, and then-
“What is your name, and what is your business in ThunderClan’s territory?”
At this, Xemnas grins broadly, baring sharp canines in an indolent gesture of amusement: he had probed extensively into the background of this world, and whilst the information available to him had been scarce, he had discovered much what he needed to know.
“My name is…” At that point, he pauses, brow furrowing in a frown; he was vaguely accustomed with the idiosyncratic naming system of this world, but had yet to conjure up a fitting appellation for himself. “Shadeclaw,” he enunciates clearly, decisively, shaking his head to clear his features of any lingering traces of uncertainty. “I am Shadeclaw, and I hail from a distant…clan from a different area.”
“Which clan?” the red-furred cat shoots back swiftly, the edge of a command rippling in his quiet tones.
“DuskClan.” The lie rolls effortlessly off his tongue, lingering in the air, heavy with implication; it is a spur-of-the-moment name, the first thing that came to mind when he thinks of the Organisation - a band of Nobodies, beings defiantly violating the laws of nature by their continued existence - and of the Dusks he sends prowling through other worlds. “A clan that has, much like the ephemeral time of day it takes its name from, been swallowed up by Darkness. It is gone now, and I am but one of the sole survivors.”
Some of the tension ebbs from the ginger cat’s shoulders, and he nods with something bordering on satisfaction. “Very well,” he murmurs calmly, dark green gaze settling squarely upon Xemnas’s own. “I suppose I believe you. You look somewhat familiar,” he tacks on abruptly, squinting closely at the other cat, muzzle wrinkling as he inhales the scent of the stranger. “It’s almost as though I’ve seen you before.”
“Yeah,” the grey tom grunts, still surveying Xemnas with mistrust, “that’s because you have seen a cat like him before. Me.”
“I was wondering if I could find some shelter for a few days,” Xemnas meows suddenly, having the grace to put on the most apologetic expression he remembers. “I have been travelling for quite some time now, and…”
He let his voice trail off, and allows his body to droop slightly, as though tired and defeated. The two cats bristle and exchange glances, clearly weighing the pros and cons of allowing a total stranger into their haven.
“It’s not as if we haven’t done it often enough,” Greystripe says pointedly, his tones troubled. “But in the past, it was always cats from other clans, cats we actually knew.”
His companion sighs, flattening his ears slightly. “Yes, but as a leader chosen by StarClan, I can say now that we have no right to turn away those in need of help.”
Leader. Xemnas’s ears prick up at the word, and he allows himself a wry smirk, whiskers twitching with the motion. Perhaps this world has some use after all.
“He isn’t the first one, Firestar!” The grey tom’s voice rises to a yowl of frustration as he claws at the frosted earth beneath his paws, dislodging clumps of frozen soil. “You remember the last Gathering. Leopardstar and Tallstar reported sighting several new loners at the edges of their borders, though those cats fled as soon as the patrols got close enough to investigate. As for Tigerstar-”
The final word is exhaled with pure venom, spat with bitter vitriol, in the same instant that the ginger tom’s hackles rise, a snarl breaking his erstwhile calm. “Do not mention the name of that traitor. We cannot trust any testimony he offers.”
“There could be survivors from my clan,” Xemnas interjects, voice smooth with mock concern. “Perhaps I should go seek them out instead.”
“And be torn to shreds by ShadowClan patrols? I think not,” Greystripe growls unexpectedly, mood shifting mercurially; he turns to Firestar, his features grim, speaking from between gritted teeth. “Who knows, perhaps this one could help us. As much as I hate asking for assistance from strangers like these…we have to face the truth.” Sorrow descends, heavy and leaden, into his voice, and he turns towards where Xemnas can hear the distant roar of a river, pounding against unyielding rock. “We lost several warriors over the course of all those dog attacks. It would be foolish not to take what help we can get, even if it comes from sources such as this…Shadeclaw.”
For several moments, the young clan leader transfers his unblinking scrutiny to Xemnas, his expression unreadable; weariness is written onto the lines of his face, and his green eyes are dark with bitterness, with regret. Then, with a single brisk, abbreviated jerk of his head, he nods and whirls, leading the way back towards the camp.
*
“Where are we? And why are we the only pair sent out?” Her exasperated meow rises by a couple of octaves, and Xigbar resists the urge to roll his eye with extreme difficulty, reaching out with a paw to cuff the she-cat over the head to shut her up.
Larxene rounds on him, spitting with fury. “Xigbar!”
He sweeps his tail over her mouth, muffling her words. “Shut it, kitten, we’ve got different names in this world, remember? We decided on them before we arrived. I’m…er…Xigb-zigzag…I got it! I’m Jaggedstripe, you’re Lightningpaw, and you’re my…apprentice-doodad.”
She frowns at that. “Why am I your apprentice?” she queries doubtfully, trying to bite down on his tail just as he increases his pace, trotting out of her reach. “I’m not anywhere near as young as those little fluff-balls they train.”
Xigbar suppresses a groan. “Firstly, we’re the only pair doing recon because you’re a newbie, and as such you need supervision. Which makes the whole apprentice thing fitting, if Xaldin’s judgment is to be trusted. And secondly, we’re in some podunk world he was investigating, saying he had found something interesting that was worth utilising. Now will you can it?”
The pale ginger tabby flashes him a playful grin, all teeth and winsome feline charm. “No,” she responds with an infectious sing-song cheer he doesn’t quite care for, her blue eyes bright with mischief; Xigbar swipes at her with unsheathed claws, but she darts nimbly away from him and he misses dismally, paw striking a splintered tree stump.
“Damned cat world,” he growls aloud, gingerly lifting his paw to inspect the damage. “Can’t even give me my other eye and depth perception back.”
The she-cat opens her mouth to bite back a cheeky rejoinder, but pauses midway, absently sniffing the air. “Hey, looks like we have company, old-timer.”
“So I can tell,” Xigbar responds drily, bristling at the scrawny, ragged line of cats which have him and Larxene surrounded. “Shit.”
A mottled tom with mangy fur the colour of tree-bark shoulders his way to the front, bristling at the sight of them; he stops just before Xigbar, eyes narrowed with scathing contempt as he takes in the two of them, a sneer rippling across feline lips. “Get out of our territory, crowfood.”
Larxene smirks and pads forth, slender frame brushing against Xigbar’s side; for a moment, he is tempted to tread on her tail to hold her back, but she stops of her own accord, staring fearlessly up at the other cat. “Why should we?” Her voice drops to a guileless purr which sends a column of ice lodging firmly in Xigbar’s spine, and the sniper fervently hopes this rough-and-ready young neophyte will not jeopardise their operation.
“Stay back,” he hisses, and actually leans forwards to grab her by the scruff of her neck, tugging her out of the dark brown tom’s face. “Sorry ‘bout that, yeah? We’re…uh. We’re lost.”
“Then get lost elsewhere,” the feline snaps viciously, aiming a warning blow at Larxene’s head. In the blink of an eye, she slips beneath the sweep of his paw, pressing her body close to the ground, and before any of the other cats in the patrol can react, she surges upwards, twisting mid-leap to latch her claws onto the tom’s shoulders. She drags him down, wriggling out from underneath him as he scrabbles desperately for his lost footing. It is over in a matter of seconds, and a victorious Larxene stands over the spitting cat, a clawed paw held to his throat.
She smiles, ivory fangs bared in a broad, feline smile. “You were saying…?”
“Mudclaw, enough.” The soft, vehement hiss carries over faint howl of the wind, and the other two cats - both surveying Xigbar and Larxene with varying degrees of animosity and wariness - turn to face a black cat with a prominent limp, who shuffles over to stand next to the wheezing tom, panting in the cold turf. His eyes are cold as river-stones, and he only gazes steadily at the two strangers, unperturbed by the breeze which buffets his dark fur. “I would like to reiterate what my clanmate said. What, precisely, is your purpose here? You are evidently strangers to this area.”
Xigbar shrugs, sorting out the details of their deception in his head. “Hey, like I said, we’re lost. We’re travellers, and were wondering if we could see your leader. StarClan sent us news which could potentially alter the entire balance between the clans, and I’d figure you’d want to hear about it.”
At his words, the entire patrol affixes him with stares burning with curiosity, piercing him with the suspicious gazes of several feverishly bright eyes; even the dark-furred male with the twisted paw falls into an incredulous silence, and Larxene shoots him a sidelong glance, tufted ears flattening with bewilderment.
“StarClan speaks to you, a lowly rogue?” the one dubbed Mudclaw snarls, struggling upright and shaking his dull pelt to rid it of clinging clots of earth. “And yet they are silent to Tallstar and Barkface? I find that hard to stomach.” A sneer settles heavily across his features as he leers at them with blatant hostility, eyes flickering between the two of them to affix Larxene with a mocking glare. She gazes uninterestedly back, tail twitching lazily behind her.
“Rogue?” Xigbar echoes with great amusement; before he can continue, the black cat flicks his tail at the brown tom’s direction, cutting him off mid-tirade; he steps closer, eyes narrowing as he takes in Xigbar’s ragged features, and for an instant, the sniper is almost annoyed with his own appearance.
He can see what the lame cat sees, can clearly see his own feline face - courtesy of Zexion’s illusions - reflected twofold in the cat’s eyes; he sees a rather mangy grey tabby, every bit as scrawny as they are, the monochromatic backdrop of his fur overlaid with thin herringbone stripes; he sees a single golden eye, and an empty socket where his other should be, and thin scars crisscrossing his nose and cheeks. He sees a sleek, angular head topped with battle-torn ears, sees wiry muscles overlaid with healed clawmarks and a dozen other battle scars, badges of pride testifying to his so-called bravery, and sighs inwardly. He sees what the other cats see, and more, and he almost anticipates the questions simmering on their tongues, taste the half-baked pity that wafts through the air from their tense bodies.
He would be having a word with Zexion as soon as he got back from this damned circus. Surely knowing him for more than ten years would have warranted getting a better disguise than this, he muses offhandedly, casting a sidelong glance towards Larxene, who he half-expects to start chasing butterflies any moment now: the smug smile she wears is so utterly complacent and content that he can’t help but wonder what she has in mind.
“Whatever happened to you?” This time, the speaker is a markedly younger cat, a brown tabby with morbid curiosity rather than naked aggression in his eyes; Xigbar smiles, opens his mouth, and glibly launches into the beginnings of his spiel.
“Dog attack,” he says cheerfully, tossing his head as he speaks; he is almost ready to launch into an over-exaggerated tale of epic proportions, until the black tom shakes his head as though dislodging an annoying gnat, pivoting awkwardly to face the direction from which he came.
“Questions and stories can wait, Onewhisker, until we have heard the judgment of Tallstar.” His voice is heavy with finality, and even Mudclaw does not contest his decision; Xigbar exchanges a meaningful glance with Larxene, who grins lazily back, all sharp white canines and wicked charm. As the patrol surrounds them, his ‘apprentice’ falls into step beside him, keeping pace easily as she gives him a devilish wink, heavy with the implications of a thousand unspoken words.
Their game of beautiful madness began now.
*
Through the driving rain, he shadows the dark tabby though the streets, ignoring the frosted gales which buffet at his fur; the shaggy pelt of a longhaired cat is a paltry defence against the elements, but for now, it will have to do; the most he is permitted to do with the constraints of his new form is to cast a mild deflective spell, which sends the wind parting as soon as it laps lovingly, familiarly, at his sodden coat. Whilst the feline some distance in front of him shivers slightly in the downpour, fur standing in rain-slicked spikes, Xaldin is comparatively comfortable, and feels only the gentlest of breezes against his drenched pelt.
He will have to act soon, if all the pieces are to fall perfectly in place.
Without much hope, he feels for the familiar, cloying embrace of Darkness, but on this dismal night, the most he can sense of its presence is a dull, persistent pulse of power at the base of his skull, reminding him of his ties to it. The lancer briefly contemplates summoning it to do his bidding, but decides against it: the cat striding purposefully before him has enough darkness in his heart to be able to sway and commandeer Heartless, and this is a risk Xaldin cannot take.
So he watches and waits, biding his time.
It is his second visit to this world of cat-warriors and their strange formalities. The first time he ends up here, Xaldin almost dismisses his landing in the forest as a fluke and makes to open a portal home, only to find Zexion’s illusion-spell activated, and himself in the guise of none other than a cat.
He curses and swears eloquently for several seconds, before calming down sufficiently to take stock of his surroundings.
Assimilating himself into this feline society is difficult; they are a mistrustful lot, and when he is found by the hostile patrol and manhandled-no, cathandled, ha ha ha-into their territory, Xaldin has to think fast and talk faster to escape without having his throat slashed open.
Surrounded on all sides by the judgmental, jewel-bright eyes of a multitude of cats, and without the protective whirl of dragon-metal and turbulent winds guarding him, Xaldin weaves his tale of being a lost vagrant, hurriedly throwing together a makeshift name for himself in the process. Another eccentricity of this world is the peculiar naming custom, and as far as he is able to tell, cats are set apart by the suffixes of their names; it is without much thought that he follows suit, confidently giving his name out as Blackstorm.
He is there for nearly a month, and familiarises himself with their customs; he learns of patrols and warrior duties, of the other clans and of ranks within a clan, of vigils and ‘sharing tongues’, - he is initially horrified by how touchy-feely these cats are, until he discovers to his immense relief that this only consists of communal grooming, and nothing much else - and of strange conclaves called Gatherings, held only during full moons.
And thus, he formulates his plans.
It is easy to see the lust for power which has Tigerstar, exalted ShadowClan leader, wrapped securely within its constricting hold; a single spasm of its coils, and the heartless cat will tread firmly upon the path of Darkness, a slave to his black desires.
Xaldin wonders what sort of new Heartless he will create, and relishes returning to The World That Never Was to feed Vexen his theories of feline Nobodies and their potential use to the Organisation.
Tonight, on this dreary, miserable evening, Xaldin is confident of his plan succeeding; any sane being would be rightfully suspicious of his words and motives, and the way in which he seemingly gains the trust of Tigerstar so quickly, but the lunatic is too enraptured by the notion of absolute power which Xaldin offers. It is an easy matter to convince him to use the darkness in his heart to call upon the Heartless, and end what he has begun. Still, the lancer is uneasy; his adversary is a formidable creature, with his steely will matching his lust for power, and there is no way of knowing what measures he will not stop at to get what he wants.
Xaldin has learnt from experience that those who entertain manic dreams of being in power are deranged maniacs themselves: after all, Xemnas is testament to this, and exceeds expectations every time he sets his schemes into motion.
“Tigerstar.” His voice is a low, rumbling purr, cutting easily through the rush of the downpour; the dark brown-striped cat whips around, unusually long front claws unsheathed.
The cat relaxes slightly and blinks fat raindrops from his eyes, amber stare boring in Xaldin’s. “Blackstorm. What are you doing here?”
“Am I not allowed to go out for a little midnight stroll?” The lancer spares the feline no time to respond, and instead lies down on the cold, wet pavement, tucking his paws beneath his chest, a bland cat’s-smile tugging at his lips. “Will you not join me for a small chat, warrior to warrior?” he suggests calmly, tail-tip flicking idly behind him.
“I have no time for this.” For an instant, Xaldin’s jaws clench, as a faint spark of annoyance prickles at the back of his neck: what if he does not have as strong a hold over this totalitarian fool as he had originally thought? However, despite the frostiness of his words, the dark tabby prowls closer, seating himself warily opposite the lancer. Xaldin’s smile widens. “Make it quick. This place reeks of Twolegs and their foul trappings.”
“What do you intend to do to get rid of your enemies?”
“I will destroy them from the inside out. With the eminent threat of my next course of action hanging over their heads like a death sentence, they will have no choice to do as I say, and once I have them under my power…” Tigerstar’s low, ponderous murmur trails off, and Xaldin leans forwards eagerly, ears angled towards the dark-furred tabby. “I will crush them, as one does to a bothersome fly.”
Xaldin snorts inelegantly. “An unsophisticated plan,” he rumbles with satisfaction, and for a barest instant of a second, the ShadowClan leader remembers who he is, and sneers balefully at the lancer, flexing his claws; the moment passes as swiftly as it comes, and his features smoothen into one of utter indifference again. Xaldin’s whiskers twitch with amusement. “Why don’t you call upon that power in your heart, hmm? That darkness which lies within your blackened soul is more effective a summons to your best hope of success than any battle cry.”
It has been a long time of tedious planning and subtle manipulation to reach this point; more than a quarter of a year of his time has been poured into this project, not only to satisfy his scientist’s whimsy, but also to conduct a psychological study of sorts, if only to sate his own personal curiosity. “Think about it,” he prompts with a toss of his head, lazily stretching out his syllables. “Think of the unlimited possibilities which will be available to you. Imagine, if you will, what will be in store for you! If your hatred, if your wits and cunning has borne you this far, then think of the power of darkness that will give you what it is you want, and beyond. After all,” Xaldin whispers slyly, taking his time to speak, “we both know you were meant to live for so much more.”
Tigerstar glares at him, and rises to his paws, rivulets of rainwater trickling from his slick fur. “We shall see,” he snarls curtly; almost as an afterthought, he glances back towards Xaldin, who still sits in the gloom of the alleyway, impassively studying the ShadowClan cat. “Sometimes, you forget yourself, Blackstorm.” His purr is thoughtful, silken and musing, and Xaldin only smirks emptily back, pricked ears picking up the undercurrent of cool, impassive menace in each syllable of the tabby’s voice. “One day, you will find you have outlived your usefulness, and I will no longer have any reason to keep you alive.”
*
When Greystripe sees the dark silhouette prowling down the boundary which demarcates the border between ThunderClan and RiverClan territory, he is flummoxed; there is something hauntingly familiar about the lithesome figure, and for a single, heart-stopping moment, he is certain he sees what he thinks is a ghost, padding sedately along the river bank, unperturbed by the leaf-bare chill which radiates off the surface of the water.
For a heartbeat, he stands stock-still where he stops, blinking rapidly, eyes watering; he is half-sure the figure will disappear the instant he exhales, his breath clouding up the air in misty gusts; however, when he opens his eyes again, the cat is closer than it was before, and the pale blue-grey feline barely seems to register his presence as it draws closer and closer to his hiding place.
A strangled gasp escapes Greystripe’s lungs before he can stop it; his muscles jerk into motion, unbidden, and he bounds across the snowy turf, ignoring the bite of sharp river-stones cutting into the pads of his paws.
To his own ears, his cry is full of wonderment and desperation; never before has ThunderClan needed the wisdom of the old clan leader so much, to guide them through their darkest hours.
“Bluestar! Bluestar!”
The cat stops, and when it raises its head to affix him with a piercing amber stare, his heart skips a beat, descending woodenly into the pit of his stomach. The figure before him is so familiar yet at the same time not, and for an instant, Greystripe imagines he can see gentle blue eyes instead of bleak gold, noble wisdom instead of cold indifference.
He stops short, his hopes dashed into the frosted ground beneath his toes. “You…what…I…”
It is wrong, all wrong: this cat is the spitting image of ThunderClan’s former leader, and everything is almost the same, except for the cold yellow eyes and the clean lines of puckered scar tissue slashed across the stranger’s face; everything is the same, from the lean, muscular build to the blue-grey fur, dappled by the weak winter sunlight, from the slope of the cat’s shoulders, to the ruminative tilt of its head.
“You’re not Bluestar.”
Saïx grins hollowly at the statement of the grey cat, pink tongue absently darting from the confines of his jaws to lick a patch of cold off his nose; he grimaces at the memories of his childhood, and pushes them forcefully from his mind, quashing all wistful recollections of winter snowball fights and stepping into boots filled with slush. “No, I am not,” he agrees coolly, almost conversationally, plumed tail quirking into the arc of a question mark. “And you’re not Shadeclaw.”
He can see he has stymied the other cat, and derives a certain frisson of satisfaction from throwing his thoughts into disarray; before he parted ways with the rest of the group, he had seen for himself the guises his companions had acquired in this world, and had filed every detail of their new appearances down for later reference. This stranger, he realises, is a darker reflection of Xemnas’s cat-form, just as he himself is apparently a near-perfect mirror of some other native of this world, and he cannot help but wonder what sort of omen this is.
The grey cat frowns. “How do you know of-”
“What I know is of no importance to you, “ Saïx cuts in brusquely; he searches through the data he has gathered on the inhabitants of this world, and draws his conclusions based on his findings. “You must be Greystripe. I have heard a lot about you from my compatriots in RiverClan.”
At this, the cat stiffens, and Saïx’s smirk grows ever-wider. “What business does a ThunderClan cat have on our borders?” he hisses softly, placing unwarranted emphasis on the single word. “Do you seek to start a dispute with us over Sunningrocks once again?”
“Shut up. Who are you? I remember no cat like you when I was in RiverClan, or any cat like you at all, for that matter.”
Saïx cannot resist purring in satisfaction; it is so absurdly easy to get under the skin of this cat, and it would be a pity to not take advantage of it. “My name is Moonheart, and I, unlike you, am a loyal RiverClan warrior. Not,” he adds pleasantly, eyes narrowing with vindictive amusement, “that a two-faced turncoat like you will have any inkling of what such a word means.”
Oh yes, he is well aware of the hypocrisy of his words; it has been some time now since he has wormed his way into the heart of the clan, and even so, gaining their trust was a long and tedious affair, though convincing Leopardstar was easy. She is fascinated and enthralled by him, by the security and calm assurances he promises, of being able to help them: the falsehoods drop easily from his lips, and he weaves her tragic tales of betrayals in his own clan, regaling her with rehashed tales of his own, as well as Axel’s treachery, surreptitiously changing the details here and there.
Greystripe flinches visibly at his words, and Saïx resists the urge to gloat with difficulty. He revels in the despair he causes, and reasons that this is good enough payback to this miserable world for allowing himself to be dragged here by the deranged caprices of Xemnas; still, he is not done yet, and there are several more nails to be driven into the coffin before he is entirely happy, so to speak.
“So, tell me, what are you doing here? Leopardstar is sick of your indecision, and even if you wish to come crawling back like a snivelling coward with your tail between your legs, it will get you nowhere.” His calm murmur is imbued with poison, his words even more so. “I pity the fool who runs ThunderClan. I wonder what it is like, to be surrounded on all sides by traitors. A clan of traitors, led by a traitor. How precious.”
How ironic.
The cat’s head snaps up, and the hatred with which he glares at Saïx is almost hot and vehement enough to sear the air and singe his fur. “Ah, but,” he purrs serenely, “I see it now. Mistyfoot told me about that forbidden affair you had with one of our own, and the pitiful, confused half-Clan whelps you sired. So I take it you have come to visit them?”
Greystripe opens his mouth to speak, but Saïx cuts effortlessly across him; his voice is pointed with malice, sharper than any claw the warrior has ever felt raking across his skin. He relishes this feeling, of digging the barbs of his words into the cat’s heart and ripping it apart from within: it makes him all the more susceptible to the darkness that slumbers within him, a darkness which has grown like a malevolent canker, corroding him from the inside out. “What makes you think they want to see you? They are ashamed of having a spineless deserter as a father, and want nothing more to do with you. They, unlike you, seek to prove their loyalty to Leopardstar, instead of wavering foolishly along the nebulous lines of allegiance.”
He smiles at the agony on the grey cat’s face, and swoops effortlessly in for the kill, savouring the heaviness of the words at the tip of his tongue. “I just thought it might be better to tell you now, before you go about digging yourself an even deeper grave. Leopardstar is aware of what goes on behind her back, and you never know when her claws might slip.” Saïx pauses for effect, though he knows the damage has been done: “I implore you to listen to the words I say, no matter how unsavoury they sound. You can hate me. Abhor me. Loathe me with every fibre of your being. Plot out my death. I will welcome it all. But yet, you should know above all that I speak nothing but the basest of truths.”
“Bastard,” Greystripe hisses, in a sound too disjointed and broken to be true anger, and in that single whisper, Saïx tastes victory, sweeter than summer honey; before the other feline can continue, the rustling of bushes diverts his attention, and, shooting him a final look of bitter antipathy and pure anguish, the ThunderClan cat stalks stiffly back to his side of the border, vanishing as the shadows of the forest swallows him up.
Saïx turns to face the dark grey she-cat cautiously ushering before her two young apprentices, rearranging his features into one of blank nonchalance. They stop short upon sighting him, eyes wide with apprehension. “M-moonheart! Who were you talking to?”
For an instant, he stares at the three cats standing by the water’s edge, waiting in vain for a ThunderClan warrior he knows will never visit again. Saïx is intimately familiar with the knowledge of how to injure a heart, to tear it out and shatter it, to then cast it upon the floor like so much useless, superfluous garbage for its owner to gather the splintered fragments, and despite the fact that he has done it several times already, there is nothing quite like watching implacable mountains crumble beneath but a few carefully chosen words.
He offers them a plastic mockery of a sincere smile, amber eyes warm with feigned compassion. “No one at all.”
*
Trust is a delicate thing, and Xemnas has had to fight long and hard to gain it. The power he how surreptitiously holds over the young, foolishly idealistic and naïve ThunderClan leader has taken him some time to capture, and he cannot help but laugh exultantly at the trust the clan now places in him, the mysterious, ghostly-pale stranger with the wise, world-weary orange eyes.
Tonight marks the night he sheds away the cloying shell of his ruse.
The moon waxes, gibbous and full in the night sky, casting a pallid, shimmering radiance down upon Fourtrees. The waiting ThunderClan cats - punctual tonight, as Firestar is jittery about attending his first Gathering as a clan leader - mill quietly around the hollow, conversing in murmuring undertones; more than once, Xemnas feels the cool, impassive scrutiny of another cat burning the back of his neck, but when he looks around, he meets the eyes of no one.
They have every right to be suspicious of the confidence Firestar places in him. Even more so, if they know of the thoughts which broil like turbulent storm-clouds in his brain.
A rather large group of ThunderClan cats are in attendance tonight; along with himself and Firestar, are the clan deputy - Whitestorm, if he remembers correctly - Greystripe, Sandstorm, Cloudtail, Cinderpelt and Thornclaw.
A group of the Firestar’s most trusted clanmates. Perhaps, Xemnas reflects musingly, the young clan leader does not trust him as much as he thinks.
No matter. The Darkness itches to swallow this miserable world anyways.
No sooner does this thought leave his mind, when meows of greeting rise from the waiting cats, suspended through the air in spiralling coils; he turns, in time to see a band of WindClan cats loping into the hollow, bringing with them the scent of the wild, untamed moors; amongst their number, Xemnas sees Xigbar and Larxene, and his smile broadens. From the other side of the clearing, a handful of RiverClan warriors emerge from the undergrowth, damp fur shedding droplets of water, Saïx trailing just behind Leopardstar.
These cats are such trusting fools. It’s almost laughably pitiful.
As the cats throng together exchanging greetings and pleasantries, Xigbar keeps his distance, idly drumming the claws of his right paw against the hard-packed ground; he is conscious of the eyes fixed upon his scarred visage, and is not pleased by the unwarranted attention he gets: after almost ten years, he has gotten well-used to not being able to see things to his right, to the trail of old wounds slashed across his body, and doesn’t need a group of stupid fur-balls staring at him.
“Didn’t your mother ever teach you not to stare?” he snaps irritably at a RiverClan apprentice, who shoots him a half-affronted, half-scathing look. Its mentor ambles over, a grey, battle-scarred male, who appraises Xigbar with some degree of wariness, taking in his ragged features.
“Tigerstar’s dogs got you too, huh?” he growls in an undertone, glancing over his shoulder as he speaks; Xigbar shrugs noncommittally. “I’m Stonefur, and this is my apprentice, Stormpaw. I don’t believe we have met before. WindClan, I take it?”
“You got it.” Xigbar beckons Larxene over from where she crouches, lazily plucking struggling moths from the air and pinning them down with her paws, ripping through papery wings with glinting claws. “Yeah, nice to meet you. This is my apprentice La-”
Without preamble, Larxene brushes close against him, sending a spark of static skipping between their fur; Xigbar’s muscles spasm involuntarily, and he grits his teeth around his words, swiftly changing tack halfway through. “-ightningpaw. Lightningpaw, say hello. I’m Jaggedstripe, by the way.”
Before the RiverClan cats can respond to their introductions, a harsh caterwaul resounds through the space, and a hush descends over the three amassed clans; ShadowClan appears, fashionably late and bringing with them a strong sense of foreboding which brings a broad smile to Xigbar’s face; he can pick out the dark, broad-shouldered form of Xaldin, who paces sedately behind the rest of the group; from this far, he is certain he sees smug satisfaction playing across the lancer’s features, though who knew, it could only be a trick of the moonlight.
The five members of Organisation XII barely glance at one another as they turn their attention towards the Great Rock, where the four clan leaders now stand. Xaldin leans back on his haunches; he can almost taste the anticipation in the air. In front of him, Saïx sits and gazes unblinkingly at the leaders, blue-grey pelt silvered by the moonlight, still as a statue despite the occasional gusts of cold which have the cats around him shivering intermittently like leaves; to his far left, Larxene yawns ostentatiously, pale tawny fur rippling as she stretches, claws scouring furrows onto the earth. To his immediate right, Xemnas stares solemnly into empty space, whilst Xigbar absently scratches indeterminate patterns onto the patch of ground in front of him, every line of his body tensed and alert.
A roiling mass of clouds slides across the face of the moon, casting Fourtrees into shadow.
“Cats of all Clans!” Tigerstar calls, voice carrying easily over the silence; the other three leaders stare sharply at him, but he pays them no heed, launching swiftly into his diatribe. “I have news for you. Listen well, for great change is coming to this forest.”
He pauses for emphasis, and amongst the WindClan cats, Larxene rolls her eyes, a soft hiss of irritation escaping from between her clenched teeth. “Get on with it already!”
“Great change,” the dark-furred tabby repeats silkily, orange eyes glinting like chips of fiery stone. “And StarClan has shown me that it is ShadowClan’s task to…bring about this change.”
Firestar is the first to react, leaping to his feet as his warriors add their voices to his. “What manner of insanity is this, Tigerstar?” he demands, his confusion and anger making him seem older, more commanding.
The ShadowClan leader smiles, as candid and blithely assured as any child who is incapable of differentiating between right and wrong. “Insanity? I think not. See, StarClan has sent me an omen, that they approve of what I am about to do.” The light of manic lunacy glitters in his eyes, and Saïx draws a breath he doesn’t realise he has been holding as he leans forwards, muscles tensed.
“They have sent shadows to cover the moon. If that is any omen, they are trying to warn you all of the Darkness in his heart.”
Xemnas can take it no longer, and rises to his feet, plumed tail sweeping indolently to and fro. He stalks to the forefront of the gathered mass of cats as dozens of alarmed gazes flicker towards him, and bares his teeth in a broad grin, tipping his chin up as he speaks; in that instant, Tigerstar’s yowl slices through the frozen silence, a harsh, discordant screech which makes even Xaldin’s whiskers tremble slightly.
From the dappled patches of shadow covering the forest floor, squirming silhouettes arise, responding to the impetuous command of the ShadowClan leader. Before the eyes of the horrified multitude, the wriggling, writhing black mass splits and shifts in shape, dull yellow blots appearing on misshapen heads; vaguely feline figures materialise from the pulsing puddle of darkness, and common sense finally seizes the minds of each cat alike.
For a single heartbeat, there is only eerie calm, and then pandemonium breaks loose.
Terrified cats swarm towards the borders of the hollow, seeking to race back towards their respective camps, pushing and scrabbling desperately against Saïx as he calmly opposes their flow, making his way towards the Great Rock; he sees a flash of bright ginger fur scrambling towards the frenzied exodus from the corner of his eye, and turns in time to see the ThunderClan leader tear after a fleeing white phantasm, a caterwaul of fury trailing in his wake. “Shadeclaw!”
When he makes his way up to the top of the rock, he finds Larxene and Xigbar already there, gazing dispassionately down at the tumult. “Another day, another world, huh?” the sniper offers casually. Saïx ignores him.
“Where are Xemnas and Xaldin?”
“Last thing anyone saw of the boss was him running off that way,” Larxene replies happily, flicking an ear towards the direction in question; her eyes are bright with longing as she surveys the screeching throng down below, a multicoloured mass of fur swiftly being overtaken by the remorseless tide of shadows. “Wish I could join in the fun.”
Saïx follows her gaze and averts his eyes from the chaos; the moon, newly-revealed by the passing cloudbank, swims at the periphery of his vision, and he feels the old berserker fury stirring within his blood. “Not tonight,” he murmurs, as much for his own benefit as it is for Larxene. She shoots him a reproachful glare, but quails slightly under the withering look he affixes her with.
Xigbar makes himself comfortable on the rough surface of the Great Rock, resting his chin upon his paws. “Funny, even the Shadows take on different looks around these parts,” he remarks with some enthusiasm, watching as a sleek, angular feline variant of the familiar Heartless snap at a fleeing tortoiseshell female, a clawed paw passing insubstantially through her chest to tear out her heart. The three watch as the cat stumbles, falters, and vanishes; in her place is another catlike Shadow, with wide, staring golden eyes, which immediately falls upon the she-cat’s former comrades without skipping a beat.
A cacophony of wails split the air. Xigbar yawns and curls up into a tight knot of grey tabby fur. “Wake me up when the rest of our merry little band show.”
*
Tigerstar staggers through the forest, a spurt of jubilant laughter bursting from his lungs; Xaldin trails him with increasing frustration, weighing the pros and cons of summoning a lance to just impale the demented cat through the head and be done with it, but desists with great reluctance.
“Everything has fallen into place,” the ShadowClan cat raves, swaying dangerously as he babbles incoherently to nobody in particular; the lancer’s nose wrinkles with disgust, and he decides he has grossly overestimated this particular creature. Had he boasted as much mental strength as he had originally imagined, he would not be losing his mind right now. “In the span of a few hours, the entire forest shall be mine.”
“Yes,” Xaldin responds sardonically, “if there even is any forest left for you to lord over once the Heartless are done with it.”
Tigerstar ignores him, making his way towards where Xaldin suspects is ThunderClan territory. “Now all that is left for me to do is to lead the…the Darkness towards my enemies and destroy them entirely.”
He stops short, however, when he pushes through the tangle of bramble into the ThunderClan camp; visions of ruin and despair fills his eyes, and for a moment, the tabby pauses, stymied; then, a high, deranged screech splits through the air and the red-furred blur launches itself at him. “Tigerstar!”
Xaldin glances around, and sees Xemnas seated atop the Highrock, amusement scrawled lavishly across his features. The Superior watches with unconcealed mirth - or a very good imitation of it - at the scene unfolding below him, a smile plucking at the corners of his lips as the two sworn foes writhe on the ground at the base of his perch, clawing bitterly at one another.
“I was just having a nice, friendly chat with Firestar.” Had he not known Xemnas as well as he does, Xaldin could almost swear on his life that he is joking. “About the dangers of trusting strangers and of placing so much hope on the first vagrant who feeds him the most perfunctorily compelling of tales.” The flame-pelted cat looks rather worse for wear after this ‘friendly chat’, though Xemnas is as unruffled as ever, not a single hair out of place. “Was it a surprise to return to find all your precious followers dead and gone? To find the love of your life trying to tear your heart out?”
“What have you done?” Firestar’s half-incoherent yowl is high and tight, filled with unspeakable anguish; the entirety of ThunderClan is no more; each and every one of his comrades are gone, and only implacable Heartless fill the camp, watching with hungry eyes as he grapples desperately with Tigerstar. “What have you done?!”
When Xaldin passes through the circle of feline Shadows, they shrink instinctively away from him, and he makes his way up the Highrock to seat himself beside Xemnas, the satisfaction swelling through his voice palpable as he speaks. “There should be enough Heartless and perhaps even new breeds of Nobody created from tonight’s massacre to keep the Dark City flourishing for several more months at the very least.”
Xemnas inclines his head in a brief nod; the Shadows inch closer, claws skittering against the cold earth. He is the only thing keeping them from leaping upon the fighting duo, preventing from tearing the two cats apart from limb to limb, though Xaldin suspects it is only a matter of time before he tires of this sport. “Indeed. My thanks to you, for scouting out all the useful resources of this world. However, it is still truly a pity you did not manage to find any recruits to add to our ranks. But then and again, this is a realm of an admittedly advanced society of felines, is it not? One cannot help but wonder what would possible happen if we inducted them into the Organisation.”
The lancer nods inattentively, lids sliding slowly shut as he feels for the throb of Darkness which pulses in tune with the beat of his physical heart. “Xigbar, Saïx and Larxene have departed. We should follow suit soon.”
Xemnas nods, a slow, regal dip of his head. “Give me a moment,” he purrs lazily, a hint of pointed canine momentarily visible as he smiles.
Then he flexes his claws, sending a peculiar sensation of dread rippling up Xaldin’s muscles; a curious hum of power reverberates through the clearing, resonating deep within the very marrow of his bones, and the lancer grits his teeth against the low, urgent buzz at the back of his skull, the telltale drone of Darkness awakening and responding to some external influence, Darkness which recognises and bows to the power of its master. His hackles rise involuntarily, and as he closes his eyes, he can feel that quiet murmur of power which makes his fur and whiskers stand on end, which sets his teeth on edge as it passes him.
Strange.
Then, a sudden burst of energy crackles through the air like a bolt of white lightning, the backdraft of which is enough to flatten his ears and cause him to squint against the glare of Nothingness which flares brightly through the clearing; the cat-Shadows chitter and mewl with distress, pressing further back, and finally, silence descends over the former ThunderClan camp like falling snow.
The metallic tang of Nothingness lingers through the air, an indescribable, faintly chemical odour reminiscent of cleanly-burning ozone; the screeching, snarling knot of teeth and claws is gone, and in their place are two inverted Shadows, white and faceless, with long, spindly limbs and the insignia of the Nobodies branded upon their foreheads. Zip-toothed jaws snap open and long, prehensile tails quirk with confusion as the Dusk-cats shudder where they stand, one swiping half-heartedly at the other, their sharply pointed, angular ears swivelling at Xaldin’s snort of surprise.
“Something for Vexen to study,” Xemnas offers serenely, as he feels for a seam of Darkness with his claws; he finds a faultline and tears at it, ripping open a portal for them.
Before Xaldin allows himself to be swallowed by the darkness, he gives the destroyed world a final, measuring glance, mentally marking off yet another point on his internal checklist; as he watches, one of the clothespin-legged Dusks is beset by a trio of Shadows, and the last he sees of the ThunderClan camp are the feline creatures clawing at one another in the snow, jag-jaws and zipper-teeth snapping furiously as they struggle in the unnatural silence.
Even the natural sounds of the forest are gone, seemingly stripped away; the bloated orb of the moon shines down upon them, offering scant solace to all it casts its pallor upon. For a heartbeat, Xaldin surveys with satisfaction the fruits of his labour, and allows himself a small chuckle at the foolhardy, self-destructive nature of those greedy for power and ambition.
They depart the world as suddenly as they appeared in it, leaving no memory of their having ever been there, save for the catlike travesties of nature which set off towards human civilisation, hungering for what they have lost.
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