the aim of waking is to dream [PG; a future fic]

[Whiskers]

Author's Note: So, it's taken me a while, but here is a future fof fic, centered around Finchpaw-- or as he is referred to in the story, "He"-- and his daughter Brightkit/paw. Hope you enjoy.

Story Title: the aim of waking is to dream (yup, in all lowercase yo).
Author: Whiskers
Character(s): Finch (idk his warrior name so. :C), Brightkit/paw, Crowflower, Frostclaw
Genre: Future
Rating: PG, for mild bloodshed.
Warnings: This fic is so awesome it shall blow your mind. Read at your own risk.

Prologue;;

in time of daffodils(who know
the goal of living is to grow)
forgetting why,remember how

in time of lilacs who proclaim
the aim of waking is to dream,
remember so(forgetting seem)

in time of roses(who amaze
our now and here with paradise)
forgetting if,remember yes

in time of all sweet things beyond
whatever mind may comprehend,
remember seek(forgetting find)

and in a mystery to be
(when time from time shall set us free)
forgetting me,remember me
-e.e. cummings

She did not know of her parents and their legacy.

But she was her own; a blossom of orange-and-white fur, eyes the color of the stars that had ironically chased her father from his home. She was a tiny promise of the good things, her father thought. He would not ruin this promise with things from the past.

It was this reason why young Brightkit, along with the rest of her siblings, were kept in the dark regarding his old life. He only mentioned the world of Fogclan every now and again. He told his daughters of his brother, but he did not tell them that it was Firestorm who gave him the scar on the side of his face. He told them about his father, but he never told them how it was Rowanheart who had hurt their mother. He told them of little things, yes, but he was determined to keep his old world separate from his new world, a world that he loved so dearly.

It was only later, when he closed his eyes, dreamed of a familiar herb-smelling den and a calico cat, that he realized his daughter now shared the name of his once-upon-a-time mentor from the other, far away world that he was so desperate to leave behind. [/center]

“Crowflower told me you were a medicine cat once,” Brightkit says one day, two whole moons now. He nearly misses what she says though, as her sister is clawing at his tail viciously.

“Oh—yes. In Fogclan, many moons ago. I probably don’t even remember how to cure a simple cough now,” he replies. Lies. You use marigold to treat a cough, an inner voice says.

“Do you miss it?”

It’s a question that catches him off-guard. For a moment, an image of a calico cat fills his mind and he remembers arguing with her, a river of excitement in his veins. He remembers sweating, heavy breathing, trying not to kill a patient (though all he had to do was press a cobweb to a bleeding shoulder). She’s telling him no, no, stop that, wrong, bad, do it again and he’s trying not to inhale a very tempting bunch of holly berries, because even death is better than being stuck in this den. He snorts, smiles at these memories and almost tells Brightkit that…yes, he misses it.

But his mate appears out of nowhere, shaking his thoughts—they scatter in different directions as she asks him if he knows where Snowkit is. She demands it actually. He shows her that, yes, of course he has Snowkit—as if he would lose one of his daughters! Okay, he did lose Whitekit once. But that was only once and she was with Bluefur. So she had been fine the whole time.

“Dad!” Brightkit squeaks, recapturing his attention. “Do you miss it?”

He catches his mate’s eye and his answer changes. “Nah,” he scoffs, grins and lowers himself into a crouch so he is eye level with his daughter. “Crowflower’s a much better medicine cat than I ever was. I’d much rather chase you around all day.”

Brightkit squeals and takes off into a run. Snowkit darts after her with a wild yowl of her own. And of course, he follows. His mate would kill him if he lost two of their kits this time.


--


Brightkit has a voracious need for knowledge—she is like him in this respect. She is all about learning and asking questions, having small epiphanies that make her feel like the earth is moving under her very feet. She likes to jump up and exclaim “I’ve thought of something!” very loudly, whenever these realizations come to her, and in that way, they are different. He is quiet, eyes opening up, light pouring in. She is the opposite—light pours out in every direction, exterminating the dark from her mind, letting only answers and ideas remain.

She spends much time with him because of their shared curiosity. She also spends countless hours with Crowflower, though half of those hours technically go to him, as he visits Crowflower multiple times a day. They try to answer her questions as best as they can, and with both of their minds put together, they satisfy about one-tenth of Brightkit’s inquisitive brain. Crowflower is better at this task than him. This is because he is too logical, while Crowflower extends his mind past what is rationally acceptable in order to give his daughter’s impossible questions equally impossible answers (but when you measure both question and answer side-by-side, he finds that they make each other work).

For instance, Brightkit will say, “Why is the sky blue?” and Crowflower will tell her that the sky is actually one big garden of blue flowers. She asks how they get watered when rain falls DOWN not up, and he tells her that these are special flowers and that they only need sunlight—that’s why the sun is in the sky, see—and that when the sun goes away, that’s when they weep.

When he hears things like this coming from his best friend, he can’t get himself to tell his daughter that Crowflower is absolutely wrong because he is too caught up in the story too. Secretly, he loves them, loves how wonderfully unfathomable these answers are. It’s a hidden pleasure of his, listening to Crowflower like he, too, were an eager kit. He tends to listen to Rainstorm as well, because Rainstorm’s stories are also ridiculous, yet alluring and are from a whole other world. Of course, since Gingerstar died, there haven’t been many stories from him in a while.

“Are butterflies poisonous?” she asks one day, picking up herbs and setting them in piles, mimicking the movements of Crowflower and yes, him too, because he is helping Crowflower with the sorting. But it’s because he’s a good friend, not because habit moved his paws, not because there was an itching in his throat when he saw all the herbs in a wild heap. Plus, his daughter is undoing all their hard work and neither one has the heart to tell her to stop—so he might as well undo her undoing, it’s the least he can do for Crowflower, since Brightkit is his daughter and he’s responsible for her.

“Oh no!” Crowflower says in a shocked tone. “No, no, of course not!”

“Why don’t we eat them then?” she continues.

“EAT THEM?! Because! Eating a butterfly would be like…eating a flower! Butterflies are like… the soul of the flower in flight!” Crowflower gasps and drops chamomile in the dock leaves.

He fixes his poor, stricken friend’s mistake and is not surprised when Brightkit continues her torrent of questions.

“Oh. Huh. Hey, if we’re not sick and we eat herbs, will they prevent us from getting sick?”

“Absolutely not,” he snorts for Crowflower, who is still recovering from the last question.

“Why not?”

He takes over Crowflower’s pile, “If you have nothing wrong with you, then the herbs have nothing to fix. It’s like swallowing….a rabbit when your stomach is already full. It does not cure the hunger.”

“Ohhhh. So I suppose you won’t get sick if you do eat them?”

“You might,” he tells her. “In fact, some of these herbs are designed to make someone sick, to rid poison from the body. Others are perfectly harmless.”

“Why?”

“Why are some poisonous and others aren’t?” he asks, and she nods vigorously. “We…don’t know exactly, of course. But it’s just a quality of that plant—each one is different. Herbs are like cats, Brightkit. No two are the same, each one acts in a unique way and the only way to get an understanding of them is to study them thoroughly. And even when you study them, they can surprise you—you can learn things you never knew about them, though you thought you had discovered all their uses in the past. A poisonous plant can prove to act differently when dried, for instance—I don’t actually know this of course. I’d need to experiment.”

There is silence in the den. And then,

“Dad, are you sure you’re not a medicine cat?” Brightkit squeaks and she looks baffled—it occurs to him then that he had talked too much, answered her a little too thoroughly.

Crowflower laughs. “What a wonderful question, Brightkit.”

“I—I was—not now, of course. I’m a warrior now, I have warrior duties, I go on patrols and I hunt,” he’s talking quicker than he normally does and Crowflower notices, sending him a strange look.

“We know,” says Crowflower in a suspicious voice, “You don’t have to remind us, Finch, ol’ friend.”

“Why aren’t you a medicine cat then?” Brightkit says. “Anymore, of course. Why did you quit?”

“Several reasons,” He says and for a brief, scary second he forgets these several reasons. He grasps at straws for a few seconds before he remembers. “Your mother, for instance—despite Pineclan allowing mates, I wanted to be…there for her. And I wanted to learn other things, like how to fight and defend my family—I had already mastered medicine, so why not try the life of a warrior, especially now that I could? Plus, there were no spots open when I arrived in Pineclan anyway, so even if I had wanted to continue being a medicine cat, I would have not been able to.”

“Soooo you’re like both!” exclaimed Brightkit. “Oh! So, if you wanted to be a me—”

His heart thumps a warning and he stops her. “Brightkit, no more questions, please.”

It’s something he’s never said in his life before—after all, how could he, a cat of only questions, say something so treacherous? Yet he’s scared of her question and he can’t ask or answer anymore right now. Now, he needs to sort herbs, and let his thoughts fade into one unnoticeable stream of background noise.

Brightkit looks crestfallen and she excuses herself. He feels guilty and promises he will apologize and make it up to her later.


--


She becomes an apprentice much too soon. She and Snowkit and Whitekit. All together. He feels so proud and so miserable all at once, because his little girls look ten times bigger and he imagines them climbing all over his paws and squealing how much they love him. Kithood is over. He is still a father but no longer a parent. Or is it the other way around?

Snowpaw is ecstatic when Aspenstar says he will mentor her. It fits. Snowpaw is too feisty; she needs the leader’s firm command.

Whitepaw goes to Swallowpelt and he can see her suppress a groan. She loves her “aunty,” but he knows that she’d rather have someone fun. Like Shrikewhisker, probably.

And Brightpaw goes to Rainstorm and this, she is ecstatic about. The large tom looks quite surprised, and moves slowly. He hopes that Brightpaw will help Rainstorm cheer up and knowing his daughter, he is pretty sure that she will do just that.

They’re growing up, he’s growing up—he’s still so much a kit at times and one never stops growing or learning—and he can’t help but think of when he became an apprentice. Standing opposite Brightnose, scared to death, his future in medicine one vast plain of questions. Now, it is just one vast plain of remembering, dreams and passing thoughts. An ache appears in his chest, so astonishingly strong, he pulls back, like he was bitten by an adder. He feels confused and then realization strikes him just as sharp: he wants it back, doesn't he?

“What are you thinking about?” his mate whispers in his ear and he senses concern in her voice, though for some reason, she is hiding it behind a quiet smile.

His eyes leave the apprentice ceremony to look at her and he rarely ever keeps something from her and he never lies to her, and he always answers. This time, he is hesitant.

He nuzzles her gently and pauses, his face lightly touching hers, so she can feel his smile and be reassured. He whispers into her ear his answer:

“Nothing.”


--


He does not want to be a medicine cat.

He repeats this mantra day-in, day-out, and avoids Crowflower for good measure. For a while, it feels like it works. Brightnose no longer haunts his dreams. He sleeps soundly.

He does not want to be a medicine cat


--



It takes a badger attack to wake him up.

He had not even known he had been asleep. Nevertheless, he had been, living with eyes closed, dreaming past reality, denying the discontent that sat like a stone at the bottom of his heart. He had had these moments of realization before—twice actually. The first time was when he met Frostpaw. She awoke something in him then. The second is when he revealed all his secrets to the clan. He had been the most alive in that moment and he remembered it with happiness, even if it created the disaster it did.

When he wakes now, it is like waking from a nightmare: heart racing, frantic, frazzled thoughts bouncing from corner to corner in his head.

He is on a patrol to the farthest border, Brightpaw and Rainstorm beside him. He is trying not to disturb Rainstorm’s teaching—but he finds himself commenting every now and then, unable to stop himself from being a father to his child, his Brightpaw, whom he lost to Rainstorm a moon ago.

But then the badger comes out of nowhere. There are no words. There are no sounds. There is just the smell of rancid breath and then—blood. Blood everywhere, blood from nearly everyone—the badger’s blood, Rainstorm’s blood, Otterfur’s blood, Barktail’s blood, Sootstorm’s blood, Elmfur’s blood—but not his blood. He’s too busy pushing Brightpaw away, telling her to go, run, leave, you are not fighting, you are no warrior yet.

His daughter runs after what feels like two decades of convincing. And though it’s only been—two minutes? Three minutes?—the badger is gone.

And two bodies are strewn about, thrown away by the badger, though not before the damn animal tore into these cats. For a second, he sees nothing but red, the red of their bodies. He has seen blood before but has he seen this much at once?

And this is when he wakes up. The red jolts something inside of him and he opens his eyes. He can see clearly now.

“Otterfur, don’t move. Your leg looks broken. Elmfur-- go get Crowflower and Lynxheart. We cannot move Sootstorm and Barktail in the condition they’re in,” he orders in a voice that sounds like him, but isn’t him—because this is a cat he had abandoned a long time ago. “And Rainstorm—find me some cobwebs.”


--


Sootstorm is saved. Barktail is not. Unfortunately, part of a medicine cat’s job is sometimes deciding who lives and who dies. It is not always a conscious decision. It is not one of heart or of mind, but it is one in the bones of a medicine cat, an instinct that pushes them to make a choice, a choice that should be impossible. He feels this in him. And he picks Sootstorm. If you asked him why, he could not tell you.

He feels this push in his bones though. It inspires him to work, with the tender touch his brother made fun of him for, with the precision that makes him an excellent hunter and with the passion that comes from the bones, and that never leaves you, even if you try to leave it.


--


They need all the medicine cats now. And though he isn’t one, he is one. So he enters the den and Crowflower accepts him with not only a nod, but a smile (and a flower—a forget-me-not, actually) and Lynxheart is the one that tells him to make the poultice before he can even offer his services.

He has been busy for several hours, intensely concentrating, when Brightpaw once again appears. She had been watching from outside the den, eyes illuminated with questions, fears and moonlight.

She does not enter, but she walks to the entrance and she sits. She watches and watches, and he feels as though she is not the only one watching. In fact, if he glances very quickly over, he can see Brightnose. It makes him work harder.

She is silent for a long time but eventually, Brightpaw clears her throat and whispers,

“You’re good at this.”

He does not mean to smile, but sometimes, things like smiles sneak up on him.

“Thank you.”


--

He goes out hunting with his mate, but he cannot focus. He’s more than half gone. His nose is smelling herbs, his ears are hearing the steady breathing of patients. He misses a squirrel. He never misses squirrels. Squirrels are his specialty.

“What’s got your head? Have you eaten a bad mouse recently?” his mate says as she saunters toward him. Her paws are muddy so he assumes she has just buried her kill.

He hears her words with the ten percent he is dedicating to this hunting, but that’s only enough to reply with an intelligent, “What?” before the rest of him tunes in. “I mean….no. Why?”

She flicks his nose with a paw. “Because lately you walk around as if you’ve seen a ghost from Starclan or something.”

He should laugh; she is, after all, expecting him to laugh. His tone is slightly annoyed instead.“No, I don’t,” he retorts.

“Yes, you do.”

“No, I don’t.”

“You came short of the squirrel by a tail-length. Our eight-moon-year old daughters pounce better than that,” she smiles. “So what’s going on?”

She’s being perfectly reasonable. If he was in her position, he would have questioned her strange behavior much sooner than this and he would have probably overreacted, suspected the worst. She is calm and easy-going and willing him to share his thoughts.

He can’t; he doesn’t even know his own thoughts. And though she is not pressuring him, he feels her eyes heavy on his fur, and he wants to escape again.

“Nothing’s going on,” he replies sharply. “I’m tired, that’s all.”

Her smile drops. “I’ve noticed that too. I don’t want to pry—“

“Then stop it,” he cuts her off. “I’m fine, it’s not important, and it’s my business anyway. Let’s just hunt, okay?”

He didn’t even realize he had closed his eyes to say this until he opens them again. He stares at her, the shock that he feels toward himself unregistered in his own eyes. Likewise, any reaction that she has is unreadable.

She jerks away from him and tosses over her shoulder a casual, “Fine. Do what you will,” and though her tone suggests otherwise, he suspects he upset her and he instantly feels terrible.

They lose each other in the woods and return separately to camp.


--

“Brightpaw, may I ask you a question?” he says to his daughter a whole week later, as they sit by the stream, staring at the silver fish that swim by.

“I believe you just did,” she replies with a wink. He snorts at her and then splashes her.

“Ack! Fine!” she giggles. “Ask your question.”

He cannot believe he is going to ask his eight-moon-year old daughter this. But he does. “How do you know what you want?”

“Uh. I dunno. I don’t think it’s important, though,” says Brightpaw. “It’s more important to know what you need.”

“And how do you know what you need?”

“You feel it. It isn’t a question. It’s like…a bird and flight. Or a fish and breathing under water. Why?”

He ignores her question, going on to the next. It’s interesting talking to someone else about these things—not Crowflower, not his mate, but his own daughter. “What if what you need clashes with something you already have? Something you need as well?”

There is a brief pause where Brightpaw narrows her eyes and stares at him. Her eyes open wide as she comes to her conclusion. “This is about your fight with Mom, isn’t it?”

He can’t hide anything from her, he swears. “It’s not a fight,” he manages to say, which is his way of confirming her question. “We’re still talking.”

“Yeah, but not really. So it is about that,” she says again, insisting it with her eyes.

“Only half of it,” he says quietly. “The truth is…you remind me of a part of me that I let go a long time ago. And now I think I need it back.”

“Wait—me?!” Brightpaw hops to her feet, squeaking. “What did I do?”

“No, no, it’s not your fault,” he tries to soothe her. “It’s…it began with your name. I didn’t even mean to name you after Brightnose—did I? I don’t know. But you remind me of her because of that, and you’re just like me when I was younger, so curious—you’re not even a medicine cat apprentice, yet you know half of the herbs, Brightpaw!”

Realization flashes across her face. “I knew it,” she whispers. “I knew you wanted to be a medicine cat again!”

“Want or need,” it’s a statement, because he knows that only he can answer that question.

But she answers. “Need,” she says. “You need it, because without it, you’re only half of you. So you have to go back.”

“But your mother,” he says like a helpless little kit.

“Dad,” Brightpaw sighs as though he is stupid—and maybe he is. “Stop being so scared of what she’ll say. She may hate medicine cats, but she loves you.”

She says nothing after that, and he does not either. But he knows now, is sure of himself and his decision—and who he is. Funny how long it took to come to this conclusion. He thought that once he came to Pineclan and got his mate’s love in return, all soul-searching was over. But he had been wrong about that.

Brightpaw, on the other paw, is right. She is his second chance, he realizes She is his new-leaf rainfall—and even now, he can feel himself opening again, like new flowers open, petal by petal, greeting the sun.


--

He gets up the courage to tell his mate the next day and he is proud that he keeps eye contact with her, proud that his voice does not crack, proud that he feels certain of this.

But yet, he almost flinches when he sees her begin to open her mouth—

She snorts. “Oh that’s all? I’ve suspected that since the badger attack. At least you’ve finally decided to tell me.”

“Wh—really? Oh.” Like many things in his life, this moment feels anti-climatic. He’s thankful for this. Here he thought this would be a long, painful conversation, but it is already done with—

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” she asks.

Not quite done. His eyes dart quickly to the ground, then back up. He feels ashamed of his answer and very much like a two-moon-old kit. “I was scared of what you would think.”

She snorts yet again. “Why? It’s your choice and I’ve always encouraged you to do what you want. I don’t particularly like this choice…but I can live with it.”

He pauses his smile and his happiness a moment, so he can confirm that she is truly fine with this. She looks fine. She looks like she does not care. He tilts his head and asks anyway, “So you’re truly okay with this?’

She hesitates. “I’d rather you didn’t. But if it’s what you want to do…I’m not stopping you.”

He smiles, but this grin does not shine like he thought it would, and he does not purr his utmost thanks. Because he knows that this is not exactly a happy ending, that this is not what she wants. She is compromising after all—this is not easy on her, this is not what she wants, yet she is gracious and supportive, a miracle. He touches her nose gently with his own and whispers that he loves her and she sighs and rolls her eyes, but she whispers it back.

They decide to go out together, to make up for the time lost when he had been withdrawn and, well, mousebrained. As they exit camp, she bumps him playfully.

“But are you suuuuure you want to smell like herbs all day?” She teases.

He bumps her back as he laughs. They are going to be just fine. Maybe this is a happy ending after all.


--


His story is not a single path; it is a web of them.

He used to think that he traveled a long road, with broken parts and smooth, newly paved parts. He thought that, when he made important decisions, his path would change directions. This opinion has changed and he thinks differently now. It is not the path that you follow, but the roads that intersect with yours. It is those cats that you meet, the ones that put you in the wrong or the right direction. There are many of these cats in his life. Without them, his path would be a lonely one.

Also, he discovers, it’s not always about traveling forward, but about going backward sometime. After all, here he is now, at the Moonpool again, Brightnose is opposite him and he feels like an apprentice when he tells her of…everything, as though it is the truth he kept from her all those moons ago.

Her eyes glint after he is done. “Your daughter sounds…interesting. I’d like to meet her sometime,” she says.

“I’ll bring her to the next gathering. Her name’s Brightpaw by the way,” he pauses and then let’s impulse run wild. “After you.”

Brightnose is shocked and splutters something—it sounds like an awkward thank you, which is not necessary—before calming down. “W-well…I’m glad that you’ve finally found where you belong then.”

“Me too.”

[/size]