how the mighty fall ❧ // warrior cats

INTERLUDE II

     Every time lightning flashes, Coal sees the yellow eyes. He tries to turn his back on the den's opening when it starts, hoping that putting the storm behind him will soothe his frayed nerves. Perhaps if he cannot see the brilliant white strikes, then they will not bother him. After all, the earlier storm brought nothing but a damp nest as soon as he looked away.

     But as he squeezes his eyes shut, tail curled tightly around his body, the yellow eyes refuse to leave. No longer delivered by lightning, they arrive with every clap of thunder, jarring him wide awake again and again.

     Clay notices his brother's uneasiness. "It's just a storm," he says, head cocked to the side as he looks Coal over. The black tom's ears twitch in Clay's direction before flattening once more.

     "I know," Coal grunts. "Just don't like storms. You know that."

     "I also know you're the worst liar ever."

     "Am not."

     "You are."

     Coal ignores Clay, snorting softly and making a show of rearranging the moss in his nest to his liking. This fidgeting, aimed to make the brown tabby give up on pestering Coal for answers, only serves to make Clay more curious. He scoots his own nest closer, laying his chin on his snowy white paws and staring intently at his brother. "You have to tell me sooner or later."

     One black paw shoots out, gently swatting the ruddy tom over the nose. "No, I don't. Go to sleep."

     Clay swats back, perhaps a little too hard. Moss gets into Coal's mouth and nose, eliciting something between a sneeze, a cough, and what might be a bitter insult that a crack of thunder drowns out. "Lay off, Clay," the thin tom finally snaps, adjusting to not only keep the den entrance at his back, but to put his brother there, too.

     A cold gust of wind whisks through, ruffling Coal's fur, and he buries his nose under his tail, glancing sideways to see if Clay has given up to shelter himself from the chilly weather. Naturally, he has not; always the brother with the more inquisitive spirit, very little can deter him. Generally, this leads to the accidental stepping on of toes (and feelings) that don't need to be stepped on.

     And this rings true the moment Clay asks, "Is this about Mom and Dad?"

     Coal bites down a snarl. The big tabby didn't see them die; he did as he was told and ran away without a second thought. But Coal didn't. He remembers watching the oak burst into flames as lightning struck its highest branches. He remembers seeing his mother tackle the cat who attacked his father, latching on like a starved leech, desperate for blood. He remembers hearing her scream for him to run, to keep his brother safe.

     And he also remembers the killer's yellow eyes, bright even among flashes of fire and lightning.

     "I just don't like storms," he finally insists in no more than a whisper, trying to bury the memories deep below. This time, Clay listens, sensing he's touched a nerve, and simply lies down beside his brother, pressed close. Draping his tail over Coal's back, he gives his dark counterpart a gentle shove.

     "I'll let you know when it's over," he offers, this time with a touch more tact than previously.

     Coal wants to thank him. He wants to believe his brother's caring nature will be enough to fix the buried fears that weigh him down. He'd love to believe that more than anything. If only it worked that way.

     But it doesn't. It never will. No matter how much Clay offers his help, the memory of watching their parents die will not be chased away.

     Coal sighs and surrenders; the yellow eyes stay.