now does our world descend [FirexHare/ future]

[Whiskers]

Story Title: now does our world descend
Author: Whiskers
Character(s): Firestorm and Harepaw
Genre: Future fic
Rating: PG-13-- for one swear word, some suggestive romantic stuff, and some violence. Though really, it isn't bad. Just want to be safe.
Warnings: For reasons listed above and this fic is pretty sad. So if you don't like sad endings, don't read.

Author's note: This story was inspired by Pyro's journal about Harepaw getting blinded and since Finchpaw got my attention last time, it's only fair that I show Firepaw some lovin' (but it's shorter than Finchpaw's by a good 3500 words or so). I tried out second person for this fic, which I've done...twice before, though never as long and as intricate as this, if you want to call this 'intricate.' As usual, the title is from an e.e cummings poem which you can find right here in case you're curious about the whole text. Some lines are scattered throughout the fic since I think it really fits the whole idea.

I shall be doing an in-depth Rowanheart look at the 'blinding scene' too, but I don't think it will be a fanfic, more of a long drabbly one-shot. And now-- I present to you, the actual fic:



do you understand the sadness of our geography?

You hate her.

She appeared to you like a demon straight out of your personal hell—speeding through the air out of the dark depths, into your world, your territory, with your prey clutched between sharp, moon-soaked fangs. When you close your eyes this is how you force yourself to picture her: She has sandpapery fur that stings like needles. Green smoke eyes that speak their hunger, greed, wickedness. An ugly hunched form that hurts to look at. That is Harepaw. That is what Harepaw should look like—a disgusting devilish costume to match her Pineclanner soul.

But unfortunately (fortunately) she doesn’t look like that, and you are reminded of that when you are awake, eyes open, gazing at her and all her ridiculously inappropriate innocentness, complete with perky ears and wide capture-the-sunlight eyes. And that’s probably why you hate her the most, because she looks too damn cute to be truly evil after all. In fact, the most sinful thing about her are her legs and flanks—because her legs go on for miles and her flanks tease yours, touching and whispering and playing.

But other then that, she is as innocent as her namesake—a flighty, adorable, juicy hare.

Looks can be deceiving though (and she looks so good) so you hate her.




She’s flinging up the leaves around you, and they twirl around her like stars. She’s so beautiful when she moves—perhaps the most beautiful. Whether she’s running or jumping or climbing or just walking, the grace that she moves with and the confidence that goes hand-in-hand with that are her greatest gifts.

“So you’re Firestorm now? I’m impressed,” she teases lightly, sauntering forward. You catch yourself watching her delicious legs and you yank your gaze up to her eyes. “I’m guessin’ ya’ daddy let’s ya do what ya want since you’re a big bad warrior now, right?”

“Of course! I always do what I want. I’m talking with you, aren’t I?” You throw back, a little hot in the cheeks.

“Oh and wouldn’t he be furious if he found out,” she muses.

She has no idea.

now does our world descend
the path to nothingness




Maybe the thrill of being bad makes you want her. Because whenever you’re around her, your blood rushes a little faster and your whole body is a whole lot of degrees warmer, making you a quiet, flickering flame (controlled, beautiful, potentially dangerous—so not the usual you).

Or there’s the moments that makes your blood slow in anticipation instead. You are almost-not-quite touching and the world around you is leaning in. Everything feels like it could crumble, break, fall apart and you’re thinking how you shouldn’t, how you should stop, how she is the enemy. But you don’t listen to these thoughts anymore.

You’re trying something new.

You’ve never been bad after all. You’re good. You follow all the rules. You know right from wrong, you’re smart and no one has to worry about you. But not anymore; you’re changing, becoming a bit reckless, going against what you know is right. You reason that it’s because you want to get a taste of what it’s like to be bad (to be him) and because of the adrenaline that you get whenever you break a rule. You’re using her, getting what you want through her, giving back nothing in return.

Because your heart is yours to give away and you are not giving it to her willingly.




“The more I spend time with you, the more I think about stuff,” you tell her. “It’s like my dad says—you Pineclanners are poisonous.”

“’Shrooms for the faith,” she giggles. “But it goes both ways, y’know. An’ ‘sides, you’re teachin’ me about Starclan. That has to be worth somethin’.”

“Are you learning anything?” you doubt that she is; most of the time she asks the same questions over and over again. But that’s because you’re a bad teacher.

“Yeah, ya bet I am” she slowly gets up from where you two are lying down in the Gathering clearing. She points her muzzle to the sky and closes her eyes, taking a deep breath. “I can almost feel ‘em, when I’m here. If only for a secon’…” and she and the rest of the world quiets down to near silence; but the night owls and grasshoppers cannot help but hum.

Slowly, her eyelashes lift and her eyes open. There is a small quirk of a smile—somewhat disappointed—but it vanishes as she turns her head and speaks, “Of course, it’s probably just the thrill of bein’ graced by the presence of Mr. Firestorm.” Then she winks at you.

It’s playful flirting and she does it with all the toms. But she still makes you feel special.




You acquire a taste for rabbit; you suddenly and unexplainably cannot get enough of them and they fill you up for two meals, while giving you an explosion of energy. But rabbits are rare in Fogclan territory and so they become a delicious treat to have and your number one pursuit when it comes to hunting.

The problem is you’re not the strongest hunter, especially when it comes to rabbits. You run and you run but you never can catch one.




they stop and go, reading each others signals through a foggy lens of whatif

Autumn is soft and kind while summer was sweltering. She wears leaf-fall well, too. It fits her dusty coat. The slight chill, however, sends her diving into a pile of leaves and you wiggle in after her, though your thick coat needs no blanket. So you lie there with her next to you, as she talks about her mentor and how she’s sososo close to becoming a warrior, and you try not to breathe her in too deep.

Her comment comes unexpectedly; “Firestorm, if…if ya’ believe ‘n Starclan, do ya’ believe ‘n soulmates?”

You blink the dust of the leaves out of your eyes and glance warily at her, and you are aware of her close proximity and her heavy, saccharine scent. You bury your nose in the leaves.

“Firestorm?”

“Yes… I do,” your answer is muffled with the leaves and your nervousness, but she hears you.

“Do ya think that, though I’m not sure ‘bout Starclan, I can believe in soulmates?”

You raise your head and you two play a game with your glances—flickering gazes shifting back and forth, eyes catching each other, only to let go again and again and again.

“Of course, Harepaw. You can believe whatever you want to believe.”




(cruel now cancels kind;
friends turn to enemies)

One day, you are stretched out in the sun, Foxpaw by your side, lingering over a piece of prey that she has caught. You hear a commotion on your left and before you can ponder aloud what it is, a patrol of cats pours into the camp. Your father is leading them, and he is gliding across the camp with powerful strides. He yowls Miststar’s name and fear fills you up, drains you of the warm sunshine. Because he is not angry. He is furious.

You jump to your paws and Foxpaw flinches back, your movement so quick she probably thought you were about to tackle someone (it’s the type of thing you’d do). You leave her, head toward the patrol and stop—fully stop—when you realize what is going on.

You smell her before you see her—the scent of pine is hard to register underneath all the Fogclan. But you’ve adapted to her scent (pine-and-honeysuckles) and it enters you like a sharp claw, reopening a scab.

And then you see her and the claw digs deeper. You realize what is going to happen. In this clan, where blood runs so freely you are used to the smell, there is only one choice when a Pineclanner is involved and that is strict, violent, bloody punishment.

“What’s going on?” Foxpaw has followed you and her voice is sweet and trembling.

“They have Harepaw—they captured her. She must have gotten too close—“ you cut yourself off, because you see your father emerging from Miststar’s den and Miststar is following him. You run to him, dash to his side.

“Dad, no,” you plead and out of the corner of your eye you see Miststar’s ears twitch. You might be next, you think, because you are defending a Pineclanner here. “Stop. Stop.”

Rowanheart listens, pausing and nodding to Miststar to proceed ahead.

“She trespassed, Firestorm. As a warrior, you know the Warrior Code. And as my son, you know Starclan’s word,” Rowanheart says with a melodic tone, meant to soothe.

“Are you telling me the truth or did you send a patrol lying in wait for her?” your voice is shaking. “Let her go free.”

Like a sudden summer storm, Rowanheart’s tone thunders menacingly, “Quiet! The devil holds your tongue and clearly your mind. This is for you, my son. I do this for you. Her sin will not taint your blood, I swear it. Not you.”

There was desperation in his voice too. You remember it for days and days after.

He strides forward and Harepaw is pushed into the center of the clearing. He circles around her as he speaks—yowls, snarls, growls. You hear none of the words, your eyes are on her. She is crouched and she is scared, but she is not backing down.

You find her eyes a second before the first blow.

The claws dig deep.




(now wrong's the only right
since brave are cowards all)

“Maybe she can be saved.”

This hopeful butterfly whisper nudges your injured heart and spurs your eyes to open. Foxpaw’s soft nose is pressed against you and she’s still whispering.

“The others don’t trust you. But I do. You are more than the son of Rowanheart and I see that and I…I…I hope you prove them wrong and me right. Ask Finchpaw to treat her.”

Your breath catches in your throat. “I hate Finchpaw. And it’s against the rules.”

“Exactly. Don’t make me regret telling you this…”

Your body moves and you get out of bed, slip out of the den and find your brother, speaking the first words to him in many a moon.

“Finchpaw…help her.”





therefore despair,my heart
and die into the dirt

Your brother works quietly in the dead of night, and it’s so dark in Harepaw’s prison that you’re scared he doesn’t know what he’s doing, that he can’t see, that he doesn’t know where to apply his herbs. You stand by the entrance with nerves in a knot and you listen to Harepaw’s ragged breaths and you pray. You pray and pray to Starclan that she will be okay.

Sheltered by the dark, you feel free to express yourself and look inside yourself. Usually you’re so scared of what you’ll find you never dare to do that—to think, to explore—but now you dive head first and come up with a very unsettling answer: you care about Harepaw a little too much and it might be like-like and it could be a little bit of love. And this terrifies you.

“She’ll live,” Finchpaw says at last, in a horribly sad, helpless tone. “I can’t do much for her. Like most of Miststar’s victims, I can never get to them in time to prevent scarring. But she’s not in danger of infection…”

“Her eyes?” you’re surprised you have enough courage in you to say this outloud. You’re even more surprised that Harepaw has not spoken yet.

“I’m sorry…I wouldn’t know how to start to fix them. Harepaw, I wish I could do more.”

Something in you snaps and you can’t feel anything but anger and anger at the wrong cat. It spills out of you, a heated whisper. “What do you mean? She can’t be blind. Your job is to fix her, Finchpaw! Do your damn job.”

Finchpaw lets out a short growl. “Firestorm, calm down. This is not the place for one of your temper tantrums.”

“I’ll calm down when you heal her! You have to do more, you can’t—she can’t be blind.”

A sigh. “I know how hard this is for you—“

“You know nothing!” you hiss as quiet as you can manage. “You have no idea what it’s like!”

And then Finchpaw laughs. Your ears pull back and your body shifts, retreating, but he continues to softly chuckle away.

“I don’t know what this is like? I watch Frostpaw get daily beatings and she won’t even let me touch her, help he—“ he stops, draws in a breath. “Get out, go away. I can’t talk to you. I thought maybe you changed…but you’re still as close-minded and selfish as ever.”

You do not move though. Your anger is completely gone and you roll Finchpaw’s words over in your head and you wait for the jealousy to come (because he’s thinking of Frostpaw), or the hatred to hit you full force. But you don’t feel any of these things. You have changed, after all. And Harepaw’s the one who changed you.

“You love her?” is what you say after the long silence.

He doesn’t even question who you are talking about; he answers right away. “Yes.”

You nod and you do not know why you feel a slight shock passing through you, which eventually fades to sadness. You lost your brother a long time ago…but now it feels as though you’ve lost him again. You can never relate to him in this way, a way that only those in love can understand, and you are not in love (you can’t be), so you are forever separated. Reconciliation will not bring back the kit days, the fun times, the bond that brothers share.

“I’m sorry,” you say tiredly. “I’m sorry. I’ve learned my lesson. I know where you’re coming from now. I shouldn’t have…”

“It’s fine, Firestorm. I forgive you. Now… Harepaw’s asleep. We should go back to our dens.”

Finchpaw starts to walk past you but you stop him abruptly. “She’ll be killed in the next few days, Finchpaw,” you gulp in air as you say this, try to keep your voice from going louder. “We have to get her out of here. Help me. Please, please help me.”

He agrees and you devise a plan.





The plan is not easy to pull off, but you do it. With the help of the rebels—which you’re a part of now. It’s weird to think of, to feel the title ‘rebel’ on your shoulders, but you think you like it—you manage to get Harepaw to the border, with Finchpaw and Frostpaw by your side. Later on, you’ll think back and wonder how you did it—it was so impossible, so inconceivable—and you wouldn’t believe it yourself (but then, you liked to think of those three days as nothing more than a bad dream).

Then, at the border, it’s time to say good-bye. You tell her how sorry you are and how you’re going to put an end to Miststar’s reign. You tell her that you’re thankful for everything that she’s done—for opening up your eyes, for washing away all the tainted pieces in your mind(because she is pure and you were full of sin, not the other way around), for teaching you about yourself. You tell her that you hope the best for her and that you want nothing more than to give her her beautiful eyes back. You ramble on and say everything but goodbye; and then she speaks.

“Y’know, I think I might like you,” she says in a hoarse not-Harepaw voice, when you two are to one side and Frostpaw and Finchpaw are over in their corner. She’s trembling, and some of her wounds are bleeding. She still needs time to heal.

You smile and you wish she could see it. “I think I might like you too,” you say back. You’re both so careful, tip-toeing around that one-four-letter word, both “thinking,” instead of knowing or just feeling. You want to take back your words just so you can say that you like her (like-like) with complete confidence. But you don’t, and you don’t because youandher are impossible.

“So we maybe kinda like each otha’. What now?”

There was no what now for them.

“I don’t think being secret lovers will work for us,” this is your answer; your voice breaks and you glance over at Finchpaw and Frostpaw (because it works for them and that’s unfair). “I wish it could, but our worlds don’t fit together right.”

Harepaw slowly nods. “You’re righ’… I wish you weren’t.”

“Me too,” you lead her over the border line then and Crowpaw emerges from the forest, waiting just as he said he would. You thank the stars Finchpaw is medicine cat apprentice. You let Crowpaw take over as her guide, swallowing all words that you’ll never get to say and all feelings with it.

“Goodbye, Harepaw,” you call after her.

but from this endless end
of briefer each our bliss--
where seeing eyes go blind
(where lips forget to kiss)
where everything's nothing
--arise,my soul;and sing