The old tom blinked open his eyes to dawn light. As he shifted in the mossy nest of the Medicine Cat den, his bones and joints ached with protest. His lungs made a terrible wheezing sound as he heaved with effort. Such an old body, such haunting memories; only one thing really brought the old cat joy. Each day he would wake, painfully achy no matter how dry his nest was, and would go to the back of his herbs store to sort out his supplies. Over and over again he would sort; by color, by smell, by use, by name. It didn't really matter, so long as he could keep his mind preoccupied from the aches and sharp pains of his body, and the caustic thoughts of the past.
Every now and then a puddle will form in the cave. The rain water will trickle in through the cracks and crevasses, forming in a dip by the back wall. The old tom might catch a glimpse of himself, and he will scowl at the ugly reflection. His fur is a grizzled gray and white, clumping at the ears, paws and belly especially. His shoulders stoop in a permanent slouch, his limbs look stiff and frail, and his big nose is dappled with browns specks from aging. He will scowl at this reflection, and the memories will return.
The old tom had not always been like this. One might have called him handsome, but of course he could never have a mate; Medicine cats can't have mates. His fur had been long and sleek; fully groomed and with a becoming glow. His broad shoulder's had been straight, partly with pride, partly with defiance; which is all the same really. The only thing that had always remained the same no matter which season passed by, was his electric blue eyes. The only thing that ever changed about the bright, piercing color was emotion; which now was a dark coldness. This replaced the warmth others had known. It suited him well.
Mitetail felt the cold stone of his den scratch his flanks as claws barely missed his pelt. Snakestar's gleaming hazel eyes were filled with a violence, such a violence only brought to such pretty eyes by desperation. Her sandy pelt was fluffed out, and her teeth were bared viciously. "Make the poultice! We need it!" Snakestar's voice was like venom to the Medicine Cat's ears. "Pineclan has taken more territory and we have to win it back!"
"I wont! I can't....its destorying our clan-" Snakestar thrust her face close to his, a snarl erupting from her throat. Mitetail looked into those hazel eyes, and noticed something that made a chill spike his spine. There was a fog looming at the corners of her eyes; Snakestar was going blind and she couldn't even realize it. Battles had been raging on through out Pineclan and Twilightclan territory. It had started with simple skirmishes, then wild accusations of prey stealing, and finally had accumulated to an all out war.
In the past half moon, Mitetail had watched his clan slowly deteriorate. Fur began to shed off, first thinning pelts then leaving ugly bald clumps. Senses were dulling, same with reflexes, and muscle mass. Yet the battles were steadily getting worse and all the gray and white tom could do was try and heal his clan the best he could. The fastest he could.
"If you don't make the poultice....then I'll find someone else who can." Snakestar began to pad out of the den. "You'll step down as Medicine Cat."
Maybe it was selfishness or maybe it was the naiveness that comes with youth, but Mitetail agreed to make the poultice. As the tom exited his den and headed toward the fresh-kill pile to pick up prey for the Queens, he spotted Snakestar leave camp with her best fighters; all bristling and growling with exhilaration for the coming battle. The kits, oblivous to the outside quarrels, were playfully milling around Mitetail's paws. So innocent, so young. It was hard for him to believe that all of the blood-thirsty Warriors of Twilightclan had once been this way.
A screech of panic outside the Nursery sent Mitetail on end. He raced out of the den, stopping dead when he saw the attack patrol. Their fur was torn, mostly old wounds ripped open, and their eyes gleamed with a contempt that only comes from defeat. Huddled together, they carried the writhing body of Snakestar. It was her that had screeched. Mitetail's ears flattened and a gut feeling told him already what he would come to know.
Talonstripe limped over to the Medicine Cat, his amber eyes filled with terror. He had only just been made a Warrior recently. "Mitetail! We were fighting Pineclan, winning actually, at the border. Snakestar was wrestling with Nettlestar when suddenly she started fumbling around like a kit. That was when she started shrieking that she couldn't see...anything...at all." The young tabby tom looked desperately over his shoulder at his leader, who was scrambling around her like a grounded bird.
Mitetail slowly walked over, his legs stiff. As he neared, the Warriors parted out of the way; most of them trying to avoid looking at their distraught leader. He touched his tail gently to her shoulder, crouching down beside her. Snakestar looked toward him, yet past him, in a chilling way. The young sandy she-cat still had the prettiest hazel eyes he had ever seen, but the threatening fog that crept at the corners of her eyes before, now masked them in a bleary way.
"M-Mitetail? I'm okay...I'm okay aren't I?" She began to fidget again. "W-why can't I see, Mitetail!!??"
The gray and white tom bowed his head and stooped his shoulders, something he would begin to do often; something that would become habit. "Oh, Snakestar.....your....you've gone blind."
The bad memories persist after that. The ones that are most scarring, most painful. Mitetail had watched helplessly as Snakestar stepped down from being leader and became Snakestrike as an elder. He watched with disdain as Weaselfur became Weaselstar; Mitetail didn't particularly like him. The dark brown tom was too brutal, to open to fight. Even among his own clanmates.
Snakestrike stopped eating. She later stopped drinking and slowly started slipping away. Mitetail could only stand beside her and try to keep the fading beauty of the young she-cat alive.
Snakestrike, I brought you a mouse. Plump, freshly caught.
I'm not hungry.
Why don't you try drinking some? Heres some moss, freshly dipped in the stream.
No...thank you. Mitetail..I can't see, but I can feel that everyone treats me different.
Everyone treats you the same.
No they don't. I look different don't I? Are my eyes all white? Or all black?
Of course not. They are still hazel. A very pretty shade.
That's nice of you to say....but I don't...I don't like waking up anymore Mitetail.
What? W-what do you mean?
I...I'm just a burden now. I can never see anything, so what's the point of opening my eyes after a pleasant dream where I can see. I could just....live in my dream.
No. We need you. Weaselstar hasn't been leader long, he needs your wisdom.
I wasn't leader long either, Mitetail. Not leader long enough to protect my clan from all that fighting. I just feel into it. I was so mean to you.
It's okay. You thought fighting would protect your clan, I understand that. You can always go outside and try using your other senses.
Mitetail....I can't hear very well either. That poultice is a deadly thing. If only I could have realized that earlier. I think I'll go back to sleep.
Eat first. Drink, please!
No. I'd like to be alone now.
....As you wish, Snakestar.
She died only a few sunrises later. Mitetail had walked into the den to stay with her, to try to comfort her; as he did every day. It had torn him apart to see her lying there, looking as though she was having a wonderful dream. When he tried to wake her, she didn't move. She wasn't breathing. Snakestar was gone. He had attacked anyone who came into the den. Mitetail can't remember why, maybe he was so angry and sad that he didn't want everyone to see the truth. That his herb had killed her. An herb he had learned from his mentor, who had learned it from his mentor and so on. An herb he was told to never, ever use unless it was an emergency and to not use it more than once.
The old tom blinks away from the puddle, from the ugly reflection. He wasn't really that old. Not old enough to be an elder, yet somehow he looked like something that should have already died. He figured it was all the stress, all the guilt and suffering he went through every time he thought of that pretty eyed, pretty furred she-cat that he had helped kill. A mew from the entrance of his den disrupted him from his sorting.
The old cat turned, slowly, stiffly. A young tabby tom was standing just outside the den, his pelt ripped and torn from deep wounds. His pelt was patterned with defined stripes and soft flecks; with green eyes that gleamed powerfully. He knew who this cat was. He knew from the moment the young tom was Apprenticed to Blackclaw that he was the one of the chosen. One of the cats that would do Weaselstar's evil bidding, that would be trained in the dark ways of battle. Weaselstar chose his Apprentices carefully. And every new Apprentice under Weaselstar or his minions would have plenty of wounds to heal.
"Ah, Ivorypaw. I've been expecting you."
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