Long overdue, isn't? Sorrrry guys. If you just happened to click on this story and have no idea what it is, I suggest you read its predecessor 'The Poisoned and The Pure'. If not, things may explain themselves.

On the battlefield, there is ash. There is the ash of a fire finally dead. Its embers are guttering husks, and its heat, which once scalded everything it touched, is growing cold. Growing cold with the corpses. There is no one left alive. No one for them to burn, for their blaze has finally turned on them.

She knows that she's done this. Every slit throat, cracked spine, gutted belly are a result of her fire, the inferno that broils below the surface, red-tipped tongues of passion and thirst. This blood, she has wanted it, for so long. She thought she'd never see it, feel its hot pulse beneath her paws. Somehow, it gratifies her, this presentation of gore.

Now, they share her scars.

In this red-and-grey landscape, it doesn't matter that everyone she knows is dead. They've fought with her, and they've died for her. Good for them. But she's sated, satisfied, and that's all she feels.

Moving, she stares down at the faces. Some she knows, and most she doesn't. She's looking for someone. She'd like to know he's dead. Beside her, she finds a little she-cat, pretty beneath her dusting of blood. Her lovely dapples are stained a slowly-dulling crimson. Terror remains in what were her eyes.

The victor continues down a path simply teeming with bodies. In death, there are no differences, no alliances. One enemy lies with another, locked in lethal embraces.

The sky is thick with ash. The blue sky above it weeps with it, and seems that the clouds will cry over the slaughter they've witnessed and wash away the sins. Cleaning the battlefield won't be easy. In years, perhaps, this will again be a pretty, secluded meadow, the slaughter swallowed by the earth. Now, it's only a cesspit of blood and demise, already reeking. She should really get out of here, before some carrion creature comes crawling out to lick up the scraps.

Maybe she's the real scavenger, feeding off this deathly miasma, gorging the beast within she's only just woken.

Then she finds a puddle of tabby fur, and she's not sure who it is; if it's the one she hates or the one she needs. She's either too excited or dying of fearful anticipation. Before she can roll him over, or even think of touching him, she wakes.

This time round, she foregoes the obligatory post-nightmare gasps, although she can't control the flutter of her heartbeat. This is old territory she's navigating, but she's no more prepared for the dreams than she was in the beginning. They've gotten better over the moons. At least now, where she goes without waking, she's the one with the power. She's already won.

He's wrapped around her, the one that's made her what she is, far closer than he should ever be. But he calms her, with his touch, with the soft, gentle sound of his breaths. He seems entirely innocent, but she knows he isn't. He's got scars, although they're hidden; together, him and her are a matching set.

Slowly, she eases out of his grip, wondering if he'll wake disappointed in the morning, or if he'll even have a clue what he's done in the first place. It wasn't proper, but once she settles her old score, she can love him as much as she wants. Because she's not in one of her dreams; and the fight hasn't been won for her.

"Go back to sleep." She glances back at him, a lazy dark slump in the darkness, and wonders if he's even awake. Just in case, she doesn't reply. Maybe she's hearing things. It wouldn't be the first time. But then her tabby companion reluctantly uncurls, sitting by her side. He's still too close- their fur brushes as they breathe. He shouldn't be distracting her, but every time, she lets him.

"Bad dream?" he asks, his side swelling against her own.

"As always," she murmurs, dragging her tail over the rough fabric of her nest, the irritating material she'd happily exchange for anything else the world had to offer.

"We'll fix that," he tells her, the same vow as ever. Dynamics are changing, but his words aren't.

Even now, they're striving to chase the dreams away. They're still planning and plotting and calling on old favours. It's not a question of if she can purge them from her mind, but when. How bloody and brutal the affair can become. Who they'll lose in the process; just what she'll dream of when she's tasted the blood she's longed for, and if he'll still be there to smile and whisper with her in the aftermath.

Ditching the noble idea of propriety, she leans against his solid tabby shoulder, ignoring the fact that she could kill him in the tomorrows to come.

We don't need no education

We don't need no thought control

-Another Brick In The Wall, Pink Floyd

Resourcefulness is a useful skill, if no one knows you have it. Khia's discovered this; she's lived at Tillman's all her life- although she's considerably younger than she'd like to be- and in her moons as something of a resident, she's picked up things. Unintentional tips and hints, offhand information in passing comments.

The toms were flippant like that; they guard the halls, not their mouths.

She always tells her brother where she goes, because in the crowded old house, he is the only one she trusts completely, with her words and secrets. Her observations. Khia is in possession of another two 'brothers' and a 'sister', and although it is clear they share relations, they are not siblings. They'd shared a mother, but that was in the moons after their birth and not before.

Khia and Cariad are not obviously related. She is small and slim, where the black tom has a bulkier build clearly destined for scraps and blood-shedding. His pelt is plain and dark; she is a medley of fawn and dark dust, streaked with dapples. Perhaps her green eyes hold some of his amber, and the right lighting can reveal the flecks of viridian in his molten gaze. Her aunt-turned-mother has the same eyes, but none of her cousins do. The grey tom, Brine, has gold. Ruari and Etch share a charismatic amber.

The others, of whom there are many, are no relations of hers. That doesn't mean the guards don't shove her in a pen with the other kits. They don't share blood but they share a prison. They all look the same in the darkness.

There's a lot of Twoleg junk cluttering Tillman's; these are her resources too. When she escapes on her daily jaunts around the house, she can hide, no matter how bad the smell is. Every room reeks. Khia watches, even the things she ought not to watch, the things she doesn't understand. It's the scenes she spies on that make her think there's a reason they're all kept below in the basement. It's a mercy, misguided as it is.

The more she grows, the more she sees.

The queens who huddle in crates and boxes and all manner of hollow objects are prisoners too. The toms- the Bayard, most of all- do not run one large, happy family. They run a business of repute. It's so easy to begrudge them for it. There's only privilege for some and pain for the rest.

Ru has caught her out of the pen many times. The first, she'd only made it as far as the steep wooden steps. Her legs were too short, so she gave up on the third worn ledge and waited for him to collect her. The red tom later remarked her pout was most unbecoming.

The second and third time, she hadn't learned the trick of silence. She'd been a stumbling, clumsy thing, lucky Rhydderch was the one to find her. Now, he just knew where she liked to haunt, those she was most likely to watch. He wasn't her father, but he parented her. It was him, the silver-tongued charmer, who told her and Cariad that Arrah was not their mother. Tillman's crumbling, reeking abode was not their home.

He'd left it at that, because for once, he was awkward with his words.

Cariad was sullen after that, insisting their parents didn't want them. They'd been abandoned, and it was thanks to the Bayard's questionable hospitality they were alive at all. Khia hadn't want to hear that, or feel the bitterness perforate her skin. She tried to cheer him up, but none of the ongoings aboveground were particularly merry.

He was miserable; she failed at being chipper; the kits around them were whinging lost souls; the pen queen was a snarky, snappy shadow in the corner. Meals were at odd, irregular intervals. Rhydderch visited everyday, looking perhaps a little wistful, and returned her when she was done wandering.

Until the sleek scarred she-cat slips into the house, a dark tabby on her heels, imperial in her imperfections. Khia watches the Bayard hobble out to meet the pair. To her, 'the Bayard' is a title. To their apparently esteemed guests, it's only a name. For a moment they politely talk of weather and revolution. The grey queen with the scars is called Miss, her striped and benign companion Emory. Together, they pretend not to notice the smell. When they ask for privacy, the Bayard obediently limps, bones creaking, from the entrance hallway. Khia crouches behind an extravagant, discarded blue vase and watches, ears twitching.

Something is different about these two, and it's not the pale puckered skin marring Miss's thick fur.

"This place smells foul," Emory remarks in a hushed undertone, sparing a repulsed glance for the towers of Twoleg treasure. "Even worse than last time."

"We're not here for the smell," the she-cat reminds him gently. "We need every bit of help Bayard can give us."

"It's not for free," Emory mutters.

"It's perfect," Miss disagrees quietly.

This ends their moment of privacy; the Bayard reappears and ushers them into a relatively clean room to discuss business. Khia follows them into the small space. A squat white box is pressed against one wall. Dirty Twoleg garments litter floor, heaped into nests. When trades aren't being concocted, the guards and other toms often sleep here.

"You've asked for a large order," the hunched tabby begins. He rasps in a way that grates against her ears. He's hoarse in a way she'll never like. "Large demands call for larger payments."

"You'd think the destruction of a an old city foe is payment enough," Emory growls. To Khia, it seems Emory holds the fire, the grit that Miss lacks. But she's never walked the grey queen's dreams nor heard the venom of her thoughts. Khia doesn't realize what kind of corruption a vendetta can wreck. But even Emory's bravado in the face of the anile old tabby gains him nothing.

"PureClan is good for business," the Bayard rumbles. "But we aren't arguing politics. We're discussing prices."

Miss flicks her tail dismissively. "We'll pay whatever you want for the lot. Food, bedding."

"We can't give you the entire batch. Enough for your doomed plans, yes. Three moons food and bedding, yes."

Emory looks set to argue again. Miss reigns him back with a look that threatens to break her soft veneer. The she-cat appears ready to comply with whatever price and demands the Bayard makes. She's either naive or desperate.

Khia twitches her nose. Over the musk of accumulated rubbish, she smells something familiar and begins to think she hasn't chosen her hiding place quite well enough. An imposing russet tom stands behind her, above her; but he's grinning. With a nod to the trio in the laundry, he picks up her small basket and moves down the hallway.

She's set down on a stack of newspapers, and immediately, tumbles from her roost.

"Spying, Khia?"

She grimaces up at him. "They were talking about us, weren't they? The kits."

Rhydderch lets his smile fall. "You shouldn't listen in on conversations you aren't privy to, Khia. You shouldn't even be up here."

Frustration gnaws at her, stamps her foot against the small patch of wooden floor she can reach. "That's not an answer," the dappled she-kit tells him sternly. But she's afraid. The Bayard was using words like doomed, and Emory destruction, and she knows they weren't meant lightly. Something dark is outside Tillman's, and the pair in the next room would like nothing more than to drag Khia and her penmates into its midst. She shoves her nose into Ru's muzzle, vehemently wishing he'd stop sidestepping answers. He doesn't seem to like the truth, the one tom she actually likes.

"Don't you worry, Spots. Nothing's going to happen to you, I promise."

She jerks away, because she knows it's true. He's not above abusing his power and privilege to keep her safe, to keep her in the darkness downstairs rather than let her into the one beyond the house.

"It's not about me!" she insists. "What's out there? What about Cariad and Brine and Ruari and Etch? All the others?"

The reddish tom peers into her eyes, consternation on his face. "Let me tell you something about your parents. They didn't give you to me so your life could be thrown away in some futile revolt. You're here in this hole so you can live."

The comment about her parents passes over her ears. "Revolt," she echoes. Rhydderch groans, pushing his face into a discarded, dented box.

"Let it go, Khia, let it go," he warns, stooping to clench her scruff between his teeth. He rises again, and she feels the familiar sensation of her stomach dropping through her paws; really, she's too old to be lugged around anymore.

She wants to know more, but although Rhydderch likes to speak, and loves the sound of his own voice, she knows he won't say anymore about this. Besides, he has a mouthful of her neck fur, and prompting a conversation out of him would probably land her on the floor. It's happened before, and though unintentional, it hurt.

But she's not done talking about this. As soon as she's dropped back in the crowded pen in the basement, she'll head straight for Cariad. She tells her brother everything, always.

ALLEGIANCES- TILLMAN'S:

BAYARD: haggard reddish tabby tom

RHYDDERCH: lean red-furred tom

UMBER: hulking dark tabby tom with with chest and chin

CIAR: black tom with wide amber eyes and muscular haunches
ROAN: dark grey tom flecked with white
OERIC: pale golden tom with ginger stripes and white paws
EDOM: dark russet tom

LLWYD: grey tom with white underbelly and black patches
ARGYROS: silver tabby tom with bright, round blue eyes

SKAH: long-furred white tom, mismatched blue and green eyes

GUARDS:

RAFAEL: black-and-white tom
ENECO: bright ginger tom with white belly
ALAIN: tiny silver tabby with splash of white on his chest
TUBAL: solid grey tom, amber eyes

BRICE: dull brown tom with darker speckles

EDMOND: plain tabby tom

BJORN: large black tom with squashed muzzle

EDOCTA: small yellow tom

AMENKO: golden tom with white paws, chin and belly
NEKHT: white tom mottled with brown

QUEENS:

ETINE: small black-and-ginger tortoiseshell

MEDEIA: sleek grey she-cat with black dapples and creamy underbelly

RIMASE: cream she-cat, dark blue eyes
ARRAH: pale grey she-cat with darker, steely streaks

AKANTHA: long-furred white she-cat with green eyes
KALLIGENEIA: pale, creamy-furred she-cat with brown paws, tail and muzzle

MEGARIA: lithe clouded tabby, large hazel eyes
SKYLLA: short-haired white she-cat with odd, bat-like ears
TETHYS: smoky black queen, flat muzzle
ZURINA: tiny white she-cat with mismatched eyes
LIADAN: grey-and-white she-cat
AMBRE: tawny white-pawed queen

ADONCIA: white she-cat with cream back and brown ears and tail
GISÈLE: yellow-eyed pale brown tabby

MALLORY: slim black she-cat, brindled with gold

OREA: large golden tabby with paler underbelly
YERAZIG: long-furred tabby she-cat

PELE: ticked red tabby
BERLIN: dark blue-grey she-cat with black tail tip and paws
EBRU: blue merle with dense patches
RIO: plump lilac she-cat

EMESE: light fawn queen with a brown stripe down her spine
CHIASA: blue tabby tortoiseshell with white legs and underbelly
BASILIA: pale sorrel she-cat

BELAKANE: fawn tabby she-cat

FUMBE: bulky black she-cat, white tail tip
ISOLD: pale grey she-cat with white socks and icy blue eyes

ANWYN: chocolate tabby she-cat

ELUNED: dark grey she-cat with white paws and pale flecks

RHAMANTUS: small yellow tabby she-cat

KAMALA: petite red tabby

SARIKA: short-furred white she-cat with dark grey spots on her head, lower legs and tail

JAELLE: long-legged brown mink she-cat

KITS OVER THREE MOONS:

ANAT: white she-kit with brown muzzle and tail

CEADDE: grizzled black tom-kit

WREN: pale lavender tabby she-kit

RUARI: dark russet tabby tom with bright amber eyes

CARIAD: bulky black tom with short tail

ARGANTE: sleek silver tabby she-kit with dark fawn stripes

MODRON: dark golden tabby she-kit

CHIMALLI: pale brown tabby tom

BRINE: grey tom flecked with darker streaks, gold eyes
CAPRICE: large she-kit with a thick black pelt

ETCH: soft-furred, dappled grey she-kit

NUR: red tom with faintly striped legs and tail
HARROW: large grey tom with one clouded, milky eye

ELETTRA: bright sorrel she-kit with ginger rings around amber eyes
BEELZEBUB: ghostly grey tom with green eyes
AZAZEL: sandy-gold she-kit, ginger muzzle

CILLÍN: tawny tom with thick black stripes

GIDEON: cream tabby tom with kinked tail

AELLA: wiry cream she-cat with ginger patches

LYRIC: little white she-kit with green eyes
JALEH(dew): silver she-cat with faint grey speckles

IIRO: large dark brown tabby tom
KIN(gold): heavyset golden tabby tom

TUI: thin black she-kit with white throat

BESNIK: marbled blue-grey tabby tom

SALACIA: salt-and-pepper pelted she-kit

CORT: white tom with dark brown splashes

THADDEUS: bright ginger tom with white paws and blue eyes

BRAVA: faint yellow tabby she-kit, amber eyes flecked with green

AHRIMAN: sleek white tom with round blue eyes
GINTARE: tawny she-kit with amber eyes and white stomach

AUSRA: red tabby with pointed muzzle

KHIA: pale, rosetted fawn she-cat

BALENDIN: solid, dark grey tom

IGNÁC: burly, fiery red tom-kit, narrow, dark eyes

That's it. Decided to roll the prologue and Chapter 1 into one segment, otherwise they both would've been too short. I hope the idea of 'Tillman's' is clear to you; if not, it's essentially a kit-farm. It started off as a Hoarder going overboard, who is indeed Tillman. He's a bit old and senile now, and things are basically run by the Bayard, who sells kits to city cats for whatever his little feline heart might desire. Anyway: welcome to The Tainted and The True!