warning // gore

The sun was warm on his dark pelt as the warrior stretched, a familiar musty scent on his tongue. The earth around him was damp, the air heavy with rain, and he wanted to rejoice. He was home again, and spinning around, he beamed up at the lean, dew-laden trees bowing their branches toward him. He knew this land like the back of his paw, even now, and the nightmares were quick to slip his mind as he bounded through the undergrowth. Ghostcrown slipped back into the tunnels he had frequented as a Mudlark, slipping down through the mud in search of treasure or rescues.

Then he hit a wall.

Ghostcrown blinked as he stared at the end of the tunnel. That wasn't supposed to be there. The ground quivered beneath his paws as he stared at the obstruction, then slowly, he turned back to look up at the surface. It should be there, a glimmer of sunlight, but the rumbling around him grew louder and the dirt walls began to crumble beneath his paws. The tunnel was collapsing. He knew it, his heart was slamming violently against his ribcage, his legs ached with the urgency to run, but fear held him still. Not again.

The black tom took a deep breath, and he ran for the surface. He burst out the lip of the tunnel with a gasp of triumph as it crumbled behind him, but he had no time to process this victory before he noticed the stagnant water pooling around his feet. He looked up slowly as the tidal wave struck him.

The muddy waters caked his throat as the tom flailed helplessly, caught up in the flood as it flung him down the angled slopes, jarring him against one obstacle and then the next. He gasped as he sank his claws into driftwood, struggling to haul his body onto it. It scraped painfully across his belly but he grit his teeth and pulled harder, and it split into pieces beneath him, one whipping past in the current and the other dipping beneath his weight. He howled in frustration as the useless chunk of wood spun off and he was left floundering, coughing on another mouthful of dirty water, his eyes stinging and feeling sick to his stomach.

The flood dragged on, Ghostcrown caught up inside of it, but he refused to give up. He couldn't die like this too. He had his family to fight for. And as he fought on against the current, he struck his way to the bank and pulled himself out, and the scene shifted around him.

The SunClan camp was ablaze, heat scorching his muddied fur, his paws shaking as he remembered the terrible heat of the earth. He knew why he was here. He lifted his eyes to the medicine, to the hazy outline in the mouth of the medicine cat's den, flames roaring on all sides of her, and lurched her way.

"Raypaw," he began weakly, but his muscles moved of their own accord. Ghostcrown lunged forward and slammed her against the ground with a visceral crack. His claws dug in beneath her ribcage as he dragged them across, the apprentice screaming as he sliced her open, caught her by the sternum, and yanked her up into the air. A snarl rumbled in his jaws as he contemplated the bared skin of her throat. He glimpsed blood rushed in single file down the pulsing veins, rushing by the pale meat beneath her split fur, a vicious hunger awakening inside of him.

This was what he was made to do. Her pleading fell on deaf ears as he grinned, feeling her blood flow thick and watery down his paw, no longer afraid of the flood. He lofted her higher by her rib cage, murmured sweetly into her ear, and in one swift stroke he tore out her throat.

His senses were overcome with it all, overjoyed, ecstatic, her life was flowing into him now and it felt so, so good. She was powerless at his feet, he had done it, he was a killer after all, like they all claimed. He wanted to revel in it . . .

Then a terrified shriek tore free of his lungs, and Ghostcrown stumbled back as he regained his senses. "No, no," he begged, stumbling forward and holding her throat closed, his paws sliding off the sides of the slippery gap, his breath hitched. He forced her rendered throat to be whole again, begged the blood to stay put and flow backward, to refill her veins even as her heart stumbled to a halt beneath him, the flow becoming weak and then still beneath his grip. "Raypaw, please," his cries brought no response, and he buried his face in her fur, tears streaming down his face to mingle with the tracks of blood falling from the sides of his mouth.

And then.

The camp was burning around him again. Ghostcrown spotted his daughter in the medicine cat's den and he hurried to save her, his eyes wide and anxious and pleading as his paws thrust her to the ground and tore gashes into her. The sharp, bitter taste of her blood turned sweet in his mouth. The warrior panted as he stared at her delicate flesh, sorely tempted, but he had his strength this time. "Shh, shh," he murmured, leaning down to help her up, "I'm sorry, I don't know what came over me."

But then the desire was back, it took over his entire being. His teeth sank into his scruff and he jerked her to her feet, spun around, and shoved her hard into the flames. Raypaw screamed as she burned, her flesh blistering and splitting as her fur peeled away and her skin split, and screaming, her father plunged after her. The fire abated from his steps, and he was in the center of camp.

And again, again.

It was just a nightmare. It wasn't real. He would never do this, not in real life, he had promised himself this wasn't him. He had never taken a life, he never would, certainly not his own kin. But as he stared down at her body once again, he just felt empty. Even if he woke up, and he wasn't sure he ever would, she would still be dead. It would still be his fault. He would still be a killer.

If this was real, she would fight back. Raypaw would never die this easily. But how could she stop him? How could an apprentice stop his father?

This time, he stood over his pinned, terrified kit, the desire eating away at him. He was hollow, the need to kill was all that was left, one more time and he'd escape this cycle. Just accept this is who we are, the murmur in his ears reassured, and the dream will stop. Dorsalray couldn't remember when the voice had come. Two trials ago, five? Seven? Of course, Inkspray was here, quietly encouraging him to land the strike one more time. He would always be buried at the depth of his nightmares.

"I can't, she's my daughter," someone whispered, distantly, but Dorsalray couldn't hear. He dispatched the small cat dutifully, felt her blood run through his mouth. The nightmare was slower to fade this time, the drug wearing off in his system. There was no denying this bitter dream, there was no acceptance either, he fought and he lost over and over until the flames disappeared once and for all and he woke in the real realm, staring sightlessly ahead as his dream replayed behind his eyes.