If he were honest, and Crowpaw tried to be, it wasn't often he thought of his mother. Once, those memories were all he could think of, but they seemed more like fanciful notions of a life he'd dreamt of rather than lived himself. They existed in snippets, screenshots of a movie he'd watched long ago, only showing the barest, most tantalizing details. Stretches of sand, play fighting his littermates, the freedom to be whoever he wished to be-- and, her.

The scent gave him pause-- it was distinct, familiar, but foreign at the same time. It brought swells of memories flooding back and crashing against his stoic demeanor, and his step hastened towards where she waited, regal and patient. "Mom?" He gasped at the sight of her, suddenly immobile. Golden eyes met with blue, her son taking in the sight of The Huntress and holding in his breath as if one sound may break the illusion. Losing her the first time was culture shock, but on the tailwind of Ghostcrown's exile, it could devastate him.

It's me, my Crow.

Melody did not stray far from her tone, and in that moment Crowpaw knew it was the sweetest sound he'd ever heard. His favorite song that he hadn't remembered the name of, finally rediscovered. His paws carried him close, close enough to see the distinct ripple of musculature beneath her cotton-soft guise, a reminder to him that she was not just sweet song and loving embrace but a dagger, an ice-cold steel and sharp edge. The jagged slice above her eye whispered truth to these realizations, and he was suddenly aware that his recent bouts of unmaintained brutality did not spark from adrenaline alone. No, his bloodline was the kindling and his heart the flames.

"I'm not as handsome as dad is unfortunately." Tinged humorously, his own voice noted her wandering eye before it rested on him. He did not sport the patchwork pattern of Ghostcrown or Spiritpaw, their ivories a balancing agent against the utterly trench-dark black that was signature across Crowpaw from the crest of his ears to the farest reaches of his tail's wisps, nor did he share his mother's Bengal blossoms across his skin. He was sable and twilight, his gaze liquid starshine. "Are you here for him?" If there was acid in his words, he didn't intend it; rather, it lurked in his voice at all times now, but became most prominent when regarding his father's name or misfortune.

His name indeed was a prevailing problem for most of his youth: Dodging scorn, navigating through trials and tribulations, and being encouraged to follow a god who spoke against him. But where a lesser man would crumble beneath that weight, he rose taller and strove ever harder, determination his shield and himself the swinging sword. He intended to outshine the shadows of his name.

And he did: Crowpaw wielded fire and mettle.

However, that fire dimmed. Where it would lap against his skin and explode outward from his core, it parted and cooled where she pressed her paw to his cheek and then to his leg. He felt pride at her observation. He was no longer her little boy, the scrawny little tyke rolling around in the sands; there was hardly any indication that he'd ever been that small, growing tall and his shoulders were pushed wider by taut muscle. "I've mostly been training myself, or getting Raypaw and Desertpaw to show me what they've learned," he informed her. He was scarcely seen in camp-- not since his ceremony, anyway. "Where have your travels taken you lately? It would be nice to know what places you haunt so I could visit you sometimes." At least I'd be able to find one of my parents, were his rueful thoughts, as Crowpaw lamented the fact that he had no idea where Ghostcrown took refuge.

He listened intently and absorbed everything she said, curiosity lighting his eyes at her mention of the city and then giving way to the deepest feeling of shock to learn that he had more siblings, cats who lived in a world of ice where his world was guarded by heat and fiercest fire. Briefly, he wondered what they were like, and what their names were, and if they looked like his mother and sister, bearing the Bengal brand. But it all silenced; and suddenly, where life and hope were found in spades on his expression, it broke apart piece by piece to reveal what rested beneath: Sadness. You know that you cannot come looking for me. White noise cracked in his ears. One parent to another and left behind by them both. Was it love? He had no other definition of it and no explanations to reassure him. You must be strong with your siblings and father.



Crowpaw moved, silently, a ghost, as if he had never been there. Only a stir of dust implied movement, and now he lingered several steps away from her, denying her touch. Denying her the right to touch him when he was given no choices, still, and no parents beyond surrogates. The off brands were never as good as the originals. "Da isn't here anymore," he informed her. His voice was bereft, lacking emotion. "He was exiled from SunClan on charges of attempted murder. Originally his penalty was to be death, but Bloodystar felt generous that day. Raypaw, Spiritpaw, Desertpaw, and I... We all got to watch our father be taken right out the nursery and paraded in front of the whole clan, watched him be charged for death, and then watched our clanmates--" here he spat the word, "--turned against him and called him a traitor. A name...a name I can handle-- but this, I'm not strong enough to take care of everyone."

Since it had happened, he'd taken on the role of protector, a silent sentinel, the front lines standing between the clan's scorn and his littermates. He fought, and he clawed, and he brought on all the disdain of the clan so that, perhaps, life could be normal for the others. He had always been the one marked for the task; from the first day he set paw on SunClan land, he was the one scorned for nothing more than a name. He had survived that where his siblings didn't have to, and it wasn't going to change now.

He did not move again when she closed the distance between them. The quick-spun anger had diminished after his outburst, all that was left behind the brittle shell aching to fold in on itself and crush him beneath the debris. "I know he isn't a murderer. I'll never believe that, but...I miss him. I miss you. I know we were raised better and to be stronger, but I just..." Crowpaw was at a loss for words, something of a first for the recently outspoken tom. Couldn't a boy just miss his parents?

He took in a stabilizing breath and leaned into her embrace. She mentioned a clanmate, someone he could vaguely recall seeing in camp a few times. An initiate, if he remembered correctly. "I know her-- or, I know of her. I've seen the scars," he acknowledged grimly.

He marveled at the berries as they spilled from their pouch, then rose his gaze to look at his mother. "When should I eat them?" There were more questions subdued on his tongue, billions swarming about his origins and her history and more direction as to his own course in history, but this one, this single simple question, felt right. He supposed it would not be longer before The Huntress excused herself and he would be left cold in her absence, wondering when again they would meet, so he hedged for more information on what was the most dire to learn.

He felt as though power laid at his paws, these curious berries that held the possibility to stand up to fear itself, and that in itself for fear-evoking. "I would never," he swore, but veiled beneath those few words was a quiet, honest thank you. It was not simply the gesture or the berries themselves, but the fact that for as long as the pouch swung against the fur of his chest, his mother would be kept close there too-- and her faith in him, unsaid but heard more clearly than if she had said it. "Where do you think you'll go next? Somewhere new or visit old haunts?"

Crow cast a long, slow look around at their surroundings, all too familiar to him as he walked these paths every day. He could not imagine a life of new sights and new places.

"Are... Are you gonna come back?" His mother had likely seen countless things in her lifetime, having once been a leader of a long-dead group and traveled further than he could imagine, and yet he could not diminish his hope that she would travel across seas and back to see him again. Her tenuous word choice caught his attention, so his original inquiry was followed in suit by a quick, "Goals?"

A delighted purr escaped him, but his attention was otherwise enraptured by her following statement. "Superiors? Are you part of a group?" He had not considered this a possibility before now. His mother seemed as though her own authority, and he struggled to imagine her taking orders from anyone. Did cats more powerful than her really exist?