Yewthorn trailed after the rest of the cats in his patrol in a bored, leisurely saunter, his ears flicking toward the docile sound of song birds, as he pushed through the foliage. Ahead, the gentle gurgle of the creek signaled the mid-point of their trek, and with a lazy yawn, the tom considered what he’d do once he was back home. First, he’d probably check in on his growing broad, knowing that Mornigmist could use the chance to stretch her legs and get some fresh air. Their kits were now almost three moon old, and if they weren’t a pawful before, they definitely were now. Just the other day, he had taken only a few steps into the nursery before he was covered in a swarm of mewling, biting kits, excited to see him. How Morningmist dealt with them from sunrise to sunset, I don’t know, he mused as the band slowed into an abrupt halt.

Curious, the tom furrowed his brows, watching as his clan-mate announced the sudden scent of Lichenclan. “Yeah, we’re by the Lichenclan border, numb-skull,” Yewthorn echoed back with an eye-roll, his mouth parting to draw in the familiar arid scent. His clan-mate returned the insult with a backhanded retort, and a few chuckles rippled across the patrol, Yewthorn included. As the Thistleclan cats checked the border for any unusual scents, the mink tom strode toward the water’s edge, bending down to take a much needed drink. While the cold winds of leaf-fall hovered on the island’s horizon, the wicked heat of summer only persisted like a sinister force. The last few weeks had been sweltering, and Yewthorn’s dense coat did little to shelter him from the horrid heat.

As his chin raised from the cool waters, a sudden familiar scent wafted from over the riverbed, a scent that sent his stomach into his toes. No, he breathed as his vein chilled. It can’t be. With a haste shake, the mink tom returned to his feet and walked back toward the band, his ears flicking back toward the river as an anxious wave washed over him. I’m done with that part of my life, he reminded himself as the leader of their patrol cleared the area. Still, as the rest of the band moved back into the trees, the tom remained steadfast in place. He remembered the moonlight illuminating her garish scars, earned from a battle she was forced to fight in, the way their bodies danced beneath the stars, and the heaviness on his tongue when he had said her name out loud to his mate.

With another shake of his head, the mink tom strode forward, moving to follow the rest of his patrol into the coniferous forest and out of the heat. When a sudden hiss turned his blood ice cold. Eyes widening, Yewthorn glanced over his shoulder, searching for the familiar tortoiseshell face, while his stare danced forward once more, measuring the distance between him and his clan-mates. Shit. With an irritated snort, the tom darted forward and called out. “Go on ahead! I’ll catch up in a second. There’s a hare over here just begging to be caught.” A clan-mate shouted back in response, some insult about how he probably already scared it off, and then Yewthorn darted back toward the creek, his heart in his throat.

Instantly, his eyes locked with the dark she-cat between the ferns, and he swallowed. I can’t, he breathed, remembering the rage in Morningmist’s trembling body when she discovered the redwood she-cat moons ago. But, an ache in the tortoiseshell’s stare drove him forward with a hesitant tread. As the riverbed softened beneath his claws once more, the tom bent forward, so only the slow body of water separated them. “Shadowface,” he started with a haste murmur. “We can’t do this again,” his toes sunk forward, easing into the icy cold water. “I’m a father now, and I have a mate,” his gaze drifted back toward the coniferous forest as if the calico she-cat herself would materialize like a mist.

His eyes darted back toward the Lichenclan she-cat. “You’re a beautiful she-cat,” he added. “I’m sure some tom in your own clan, or in another clan. I’m not here to judge! Would love to have you.” Yewthorn closed his eyes, knowing that the following words would devastate the she-cat. “But, it’s over between us. You have to get over me.”

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Somewhere in the distance, the loud shriek of a bird resounded into the trees like a sudden strike of a thunder. Someone must have caught a bird, he thought nervously as his ears flicked in the direction of his patrol. We don’t have a lot of time. His attention returned to the tortoiseshell she-cat, watching as she drank in his words, her brilliant green eyes soft with a sadness he didn’t understand. I’m sorry. His stare flickered downwards, and he observed how, like he, she had taken a stride forward, so her toes were drenched in the soft, peaty mud. Only the trickling river separated them, but even with that realization, the tom knew there was so much more that divided them.

He wondered then. How did I do this before? Thinking about his treks across the border seemed so unbelievable to him now, as if he had been a completely different cat living a completely different life. With a soft exhale, he raised his stare, waiting as the she-cat wrestled to find the next words. His name came first, soft, but forced, from her maws, and then she continued, her voice low beneath the sounds of the forest. Brows furrowed, the mink tom leaned forward into the creek, wincing slightly as the cold waters inched over his forearms and his feet sunk further into muck. She didn’t? He twisted his maws in confusion. Then what does she want? He watched, a small flutter in his stomach, as Shadowface’s eyes darted around the riverbank, the forest, but never his face.

“What is it?” he murmured gently, trying to draw the confession out of her, but the she-cat continued to babble, disregarding his comment altogether as she mentioned her clan. Yewthorn drew his head back slightly as he wracked his brain for some sort of clarification. What did I say to her? He tried to recall that night, the moon, the stars, but all he could remember was the warm touch of her flank, her hot breath on his neck. “I’m glad to hear that,” he murmured nonetheless, watching as her eyes finally settled over his face like a sudden hit. Their stares locked as a chill ran down his back and into his tail. She continued then, a seriousness beneath her words as her mass sunk further into the mud. Trying to find me? He blinked in return, unsure if he wanted to hear what followed.

As the she-cat meowed, first about their night together, a stillness washed over the tom, a hush that waxed with each word, and then it slowly burned into a blaring hum, loud like blood in his ears when she said it: You were already a father. Yewthorn exhaled, loud and muzzled in the same breath. You were already a father. “I-,” he started with a swallow. “I, did I hear you right? Did you say,” his words felt as heavy as a bear on his tongue. “A father?” he breathed as his claws unsheathed into the wet earth. “Three sons,” Yewthorn echoed, his throat suddenly arid and hoarse. The mink tom stood there then for what seemed like a lifetime, his heart in his ears, his breath in his mouth; and then he caught the she-cat’s desperate stare as the sounds of the forest returned, the waters of the creek moving around him in a slow and steady tandem.

“I,” he started once more, unsure of what to even say. Three sons, his mind echoed as he tried to wrap his head around this new world he had entered, this world where his idiotic mistakes suddenly had consequences. “Do you want me to,” Yewthorn dropped his gaze, his head shaking as he wrestled for some sort of response. What am I supposed to say? “I’m sorry,” he murmured at last. “I, I never thought,” his stare raised toward the she-cat and then over his shoulder, back toward the coniferous woodland, his home, the nest he shared with his mate and kits. His kits. His heart ached, filled with love for them, and now it ached for the children he never met, who didn’t know he existed. How many lives have I ruined? He eyes returned to the she-cat then, slick with hurt. “Do you think I’d be able to meet them someday?” he asked.

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The tortoiseshell seemed startled by his request, her eyes widening above the river that separated them. Only the soft trickle of the water, its current tugging at both of their pelts, answered with its soft, bucolic hum. Swallowing, Yewthorn flicked in ear as he anticipated her response. She deserved to tell him no, to ban him from ever meeting the children that were never his, but she didn’t. Not entirely. With a soft inhale, the mink tom acknowledged her decision with the smallest duck of his head. But, as she continued, her voice hardly audible over the native sounds of the forest, the tom raised his crown, his own eyes widening at the mention of Quickstrike. The dark warrior from the Gathering? Yewthorn blinked, wondering then what the tom meant to her, to his children. Not that it mattered. He and Shadowface were not destined for more than their one trek beneath the stars.

“No, I understand,” he murmured lightly as the she-cat hesitated, another painful truth on the tip of her tongue. “Oh,” came his response when Shadowface revealed that his third son, Heatherkit, had died before he even met this earth, the island, and for a reason he couldn’t name, a terrible sadness suddenly came over him, an ache that settled somewhere in the depths of his stomach. It hurt. “I-I am so sorry,” he apologized once more, at a loss for words. But what can I say? The dark she-cat had already lived a life of torment and sorrow, while he had lived his own life in oblivion, free from the horrors of her world. Yewthorn lifted his stare to observe the minute fractions of her face, watching as a rooted furrow threaded over her brows, as if there was more she had to tell him.

His stomach twisted as his ears swiveled back toward the coniferous forest, intent for the sound of his band. It was silent. Shadowface meowed once more, a sudden fire flickering beneath her green hues. But, even in her resolve, a sadness hovered in her voice, a tone that asked him for more, to continue this secret in solitude. At least that, he could do. “Of course,” he meowed with another minute nod. “I’ve,” his voice trailed into the thrum of the river. “I wouldn’t want to cause you more pain. Not more than I already have.” It was the least he could do for the she-cat. The island did not allow for their kind to mix, those from different clans. It was unspoken between them, but both he and Shadowface knew that their children were marked as omens, eyes watching them from birth. He didn’t like it, but perhaps the best he could for his kits was to continue as if he didn’t exist, even if it would eat away at him from inside like an insidious disease.

“I,” he started as his stare flicked back in the direction of his patrol. “I should probably go,” he murmured with a dip of his head. “I promise that if I ever see them, I’ll,” his brow furrowed. “I’ll only watch from afar. I won’t intervene.” Backing from the stream, Yewthorn cast her one last forlorn look before returning to the bramble and thorn, his paws thudding methodically over the needled floor. It wasn’t long before he found the rest of the patrol, a chuckle on his lips as he rolled his eyes with a shake, explaining how the rabbit bested him by leaping across the creek. His den-mates called him a bird-brain, a toad-licker, an idiot, but the mink tom only returned the taunts with a laugh, too melancholic to even fabricate his own insults. All he could think about was the children that were now his, would never be his, and how he had ruined more lives than his own with his reckless mistakes. The only thing he did know was that when he returned home, and the sun slumbered beneath the stars, he would have to tell his mate and forever atone for his sins.

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