a dream of daisies

1. burn the treeline

   There were many steps to being liked, she had come to know over all the moons she had been alive. It was in the way you moved, in the tone of your voice. The look of your face. The tilt of your body. But most importantly, the arguably greatest step to being liked was to be a good storyteller. Not of fiction, but to be a good storyteller, which was to say to be someone that could keep others engaged, and entertained, and spin tales that sounded just believable enough that you would not be caught in a lie. A good actor, yes. You had to be a good actor. She considered herself one of the best. And as one of the best, she knew that more than a few good stories begun with a murder.

Although she had to admit, she had not particularly thought her story was the sort that begun with a murder. She had always imagined herself more the kind for prince charmings and flaming dragons.

Fawnskip had found her prince charming, alright. She was looking at him right now, all regal and larger than life and positively dead. See, the dead part had not been very planned, although she assumed that part was never planned. Thinking you're invincible, and all that. She thought herself invincible, anyway, so it made sense that it was at least a common occurrence. Anyway, point was, she hadn't planned for him to be dead. Not now of all times. Really, she didn't even have it in her to be sad, just annoyed. Not quite angry, but nearly there, that peeved feeling in the pit of your stomach that makes every noise sound too sharp and every cat aggravating and every pelt hair moved by the breeze feel like a thousand tiny little bugs crawling all over you. Had she been alone, she might have started pacing, or kicking her leg, or- well, whatever. She wasn't alone. The clan trickled in like ants towards a kill, out of their dens and into the oppressive sunlight, and for lack of better option Fawnskip leaned down and pressed her face against Redthorn's stiff fur. She was not in the mood for acting. Starting today, she was officially a widow, and she was already done with it.

In the safe hiding place of her mates pelt, Fawnskip grit her teeth.

"I bet it was Addertail", said Rosefur somewhere to her right, but not to her. She didn't bother checking who he was talking to. "Fox-hearted cretin. Hate the lot of them."

Hate the lot of you, Fawnskip thought, and for the moment she believed it. She didn't think she could not hate anybody right then. Too much noise. Too many bodies. She wanted them gone. Someone pressed against her side, and it took everything she had and some more not to start bristling. She didn't care who it was; far as she was concerned they were all to blame. The pressure in the air was half grief, half electricity.

"Don't crowd her." That was Mousefoot, sounding pleasant even in his scolding. Fawnskip would have been half inclined to hate him on principle, too, except she agreed- don't crowd her. The next body that brushed by hers was not gentle, but demanding, going towards the corpse and paying her no mind, and finally she pulled back to check who and what in the world. Fallowtooth pressed a paw against Redthorn's throat, turned his head one side and then the other. Fawnskip was almost offended. Almost, but she was already offended at everything else, so Fallowfoot got a pass. For now, anyway. She swallowed, stood up, and circled around to Fallowtooth's side. There was no question as to what had killed Redthorn- the lacerations across the length of his torso were not deadly, but the wound on the side his neck definitely was, gaping and red and crusted with dried blood across the hair. The taste in her mouth was just as sour and ironlike. When the old medicine cat looked at her, she said nothing, but Fawnskip could still see the thoughts race across her eyes. Mousefoot flicked his tail across her chest. "I'm sorry, darling."

She did not want any damn pity, but she still forced gratefulness into her expression. No one dared offer her any condolences while the body was still laying there right in front of them, and she supposed one had to take pleasure in the small victories.

Hollystar came out only briefly, looked at the body, and retreated back in her den. Figures. She had been half crazy since tensions with OakClan had begun, and at this point Fawnskip wouldn't put it past her to lose her remaining mind at her deputy's death. Having to pick a new one? Pah! Who could she ever hope to replace Redthorn with? Fawnskip hadn't picked him as a mate for nothing. And now he was dead, because of course he was dead. No one could ever let Fawnskip have nice things. Why not? Maybe tomorrow she'd wake up and Doeleap would be dead, or Mothkit would have drowned in his sleep, maybe Addertail would Ivykit when they weren't looking. She didn't even know who Addertail was, but why not? If someone else hated him, surely she could too. Strength in numbers.

At least they allowed her the dignity of being alone for the vigil. The days were getting longer and longer lately, Newleaf quickly approaching its highest point, and by the time the sky begun to darken most cats had stepped away to be with their families or to mourn by themselves. A few tried to sit with her - if nothing else, Redthorn had been a beloved deputy - but a few sad smiles and exaggerated sniffles sent them right along their way. She was not crying, not really. But she was in no mood for company. Redthorn's rigid body was already more than she had asked for.

"Only me and you now, hm?", she whispered into the early night, although she was not supposed to speak. No one was there to listen, anyway. Whatever. Let them listen. No one would tell her off.

How strange, she thought, running a paw butterfly-light across his red fur. How strange. Just days ago she had told him she was expecting. How proud he had looked. Cocky, too, had made her want to tackle him down and wipe it off his face. There had been a strange grin about him that night, as they lay in their nest, one of his paws pressed against the sides of her still-lean stomach. He'd spent the next two days slithering around her like an apprentice over his first kill. She had tolerated it, if nothing else, for the strange satisfaction it brought her to see him like this. Not quite affection, but, well, maybe some pride herself, too. It had always seemed to her they were a powerful duo. And now just her and the wind. I'm not mad, she thought to the body, just disappointed, except she was mad. She was so mad she was just about ready to explode with it.

The moon was well into the sky by now, but the clan was buzzing, awake, even hidden in their dens. Most of the time, a new deputy was cause for excitement- then again, most of the time, a new deputy was preceded by a new leader. Fawnskip doubted Hollystar was going anywhere anytime soon. Disappointing, really; Redthorn would have made a much better leader than her, she thought. And Redstar had quite a ring to it. Oh, damn it.

She must have dozed, because the next thing that she knew was that she was raising her head off the ground and that, finally, Hollystar was up on the meeting rock, her fur ruffled all over, looking silver in the night. Fawnskip spared a glance towards the moon. Past moonhigh. She'd messed up. Again.

Fawnskip made a face, and turned back to Hollystar.

She didn't need to call. The clan was already gathering, unabashedly yawning, some not even bothering to go further than to poke their heads out of the den entrances. Good for them. Fawnskip did not care much herself. Whoever the new deputy was, it would not be Redthorn, so as far as she was concerned it didn't matter at all. She laid her head on her paws, and watched.

Hollystar skipped formalities. She always did, really- Fawnskip could pretend to be surprised, but really, nothing surprised her anymore. No one was competent. StarClan, where had all the great leaders gone? Hollystar's eyes scanned the crowd, and even all the way bellow by the body, Fawnskip could hear her swallow.

"Hawkleap", she said finally, unceremoniously and flatly, and held the tom's gaze only for a few heartbeats before turning and disappearing back inside her den with haste and a flick of her tail that might or might not have been a gesture. Fawnskip's eyes sought out the tom leisurely; his brown form was stiff in the darkness, still like stones, and she would have laughed. She would, except it wasn't funny, it was pathetic. When he stood and leapt after Hollystar inside her den, Fawnskip snorted.

If all the best stories begun with a murder, this appeared to be a disappointment.

Well, she'd just have to make her own twist, no? With a face. she curled around her own stomach, more out of principle than actual protectiveness. They could war among each other for all she cared. Like any capable adult, Fawnskip had other things to worry for- and when she looked out towards Redthorn's body again, it was all the more apparent.

Long live the deputy, she thought, not unbitterly, and closed her eyes.