"and now after it all,

i just really wanna call my dad."

~ajr, "call my dad"

Shrewstorm was usually a tom of good etiquette.

He had been taught well. He kept his mouth closed when he ate his food, always waited until he was one of the last to take the fresh-kill from his pile, and keep his mouth shut when he didn't need to speak.

But maybe this one time when he left his jaw agape and stared in shock could be forgiven.

"Shrewstorm, what the hell is taking so long?"

The silence that followed would certainly befuddle the rest of his patrol. They would become worried that he had been injured or had gone missing. They sent his apprentice, Birdpaw, off in the direction that his scent trail led and prayed that he had just lagged behind. A visible sigh of relief could be heard when Birdpaw saw that he was not far away, only mildly secluded within a grove of bushes.

"Come on, Shrew!" said the youngling, calling him by his "casual name" used outside of training sessions, "Needlegrove says we have to…"

Incredulously, he was drawn to the sight at which Shrewstorm had stopped to watch. In front of his mentor was a bruised, bloodied cat, barely able to balance on both back paws and panting as if he had come fresh off of a frenzied fit of coughing.

"Who's that?!" exclaimed the apprentice quite rudely. But even he became concerned when Shrewstorm didn't grant him an explanation he usually gave him when he used that sort of confused, nosy tone.

"Tell the patrol to bring a medicine cat," said the older tom, a growl tainting his usually thick and luxurious voice, "Now. This cat needs help."

Birdpaw obeyed without hesitation. Only on the worse of worst occasions did he hear his mentor's growl.

When the apprentice left, the bleeding tom, strewn with swells and welds, chuckled huskily as if he found the entire predicament amusing in a satirical sort of way.

"It's good to see you, my son."

The camp exploded into chaos when Shrewstorm helped carry the outsider's body into the medicine den. The apprentices flung out questions faster than a sparrow could flap his wings, the kits were abruptly hustled into the nursery amid intense protest and the warriors yowled in shock, anger, and hatred, generating an intoxicating aura of distrust that permeated the once peaceful air surrounding the Clan's home.

One might think that this was the normal response to a bruised outsider being carried into camp for medical assistance, and they wouldn't be completely off. But on closer inspection and comparison, the protests behind the most livid were fueled with a bit more passion than normal.

Everyone knew this cat.

To put it in blunt terms, everyone hated this cat.

Shrewstorm knew that painfully well. He tried his best to tune out the cacophony surrounding the medicine den, but even in the solitude of the medicine den, the screams and yowls of rage were enough to give him a migraine.

"Well?" he said after the medicine cat, Branchfeather, had suitably looked him over.

"He's in bad shape," he said, giving him a concerned look, "He's bruised all over, most of his cuts are infected and he's lost a lot more blood than any cat should in their lifetime."

He shuffled his amputated right forepaw through various herbs in his stash, "I'll try my best, Shrewstorm, but even with the best treatment, I believe he'll be dead by morning."

Shrewstorm bit his lower lip, nodding solemnly and turning away.

"Thank you," he said quietly, his voice strained and his throat suddenly as dry as sand.

He left the medicine den, pushing through the crowd of protestors and half-scampering to the warrior's den. He desperately needed to be alone.

One cat, in particular, refused to grant him that blessing just yet.

Shrewstorm knew that he was in a bad place when the scent crept over his lips.

"Shrewstorm."

The tom suppressed a sigh. "Mother, I know you don't agree with me, but-"

"SHREWSTORM!"

Out of sudden terror for his life, Sherwstorm decided to turn around and face her.

And she was furious.

"Why?" she growled threateningly as if a badger had come across a fox stealing their prey.

Shrewstorm pointlessly tried to ramble and get his word in. "He was injured, mother. He was injured and dying. He looked so helpless. I couldn't just leave him out to die-"

"THAT'S NO GODDAMN REASON!" she snapped, sending whatever confidence her son had to confront her about this into cardiac arrest. "I told you about him. Everyone's told you about him. About the horrible things that he's done! Why did you bring him back?"

"There is no good reason to leave him out to die!"
"OH REALLY?!" he pushed back, "What about trying to murder your leader? What about going behind the Clan's back and sending battle plans to the other Clan? What about the thousand times he's lied? What about that time where he tried to kill an innocent apprentice? And what about, oh, I don't know, the part where he abused me? Is that good enough for you?"

The anger in Shrewstorm's belly boiled over. "No! You know what, it's not! Maybe I would have cared more about your fucking opinion if you were something more to me than wishing he was dead!"

The next thing he felt was the burning sting on his cheek as his face was flung to the side.

A tense, uncomfortable silence followed. Shrewstorm slowly moved his paw to his cheek, feeling the driblets of blood seep in between his paws.

Did his mother just...slap him?

Even the she-cat realized her mistake, haste filling her voice as she tried to mop up her error. "Look, Shrewstorm…"

"Don't."

Her gaze deliberately averted his as he got up, licking the blood off his paw slowly, dramatically.

"You've told me my entire life how horrible of a cat he is. But he can't possibly be that much worse than you are."

Shrewstorm's mother didn't object when he left the den to ask to take a walk by himself.

Shrewstorm's dreams were hectic and tumultuous.

Noises filled his ears, comprised mostly of reprimands, as the darkest images from the corners of the inner machinations of his mind played on repeat like a scratched record.

In truth, despite his manifested will to listen to his father, he was concerned that quite possibly he could be almost just as bad as his mother had convinced him she was.

"Your father...wasn't the nicest of cats. He did some mean things when he was here o he had to go sit in the...time-out territory."

His mother had told this to him when he was only four moons old, yet it stuck with him as the first time someone had told him about his father.

He had one faint glimpse of him one of the nights following his birth. The tall, intimidating figure of a tom looming over his weak, fragile body.

What left him aggravated was how...crafted the image was now. Before yesterday, his mother had alluded to the details of who he was and what he did, changing that shadow into a venomous, threatening and terrifying tom frothing at the mouth and his pupil-less green eyes shining through the night sky.

That's not at all what he saw that morning. To him, he looked more like a wise, worn elder sans the bruises and cuts and swelling. Not at all like the villainous cat who would kill on sight that his mother told him about.

He looked like a tom with a story to tell. A cat with sins weighing heavy on his soul.

And what pried Shrewstorm from his nightmares was the unsubsidized urge to learn who his father really was.

He crept around the massive throng of sleeping warriors precariously and snuck to the medicine den, where Branchfeather's trembling snores allowed him access to the den.

There he was, lying on his side. He didn't look much better than when he was brought in and his dreams looked all but peaceful, but the tom had to try his damnedest swallow down his instinctive purr of affection.

He crept forward, prodding him gently. "Father."

Slowly, the big tom opened his eyes, blinking away the blurriness protruding his pupils, and looked over to the younger tom. "Is that you, son?"

"Yes, father. I-I came to see you because-"

His face instantly hardened. "Excellent. Someone competent enough to hunt. Bring me a rabbit, boy. And make sure it's fat. I like all of my prey fat and juicy, y'hear."

Shrewstorm's eyes widened in shock and dread crept slowly into his belly. This was not the warm welcome he expected. Was his mother right about who he was all along?

Suddenly, the older tom burst into wheezing, affectionate laughter, causing the other's frame to relax and fail to fight off the first signs of a smile. "Na-a-a-ah, don't worry 'bout it. I'd never do that to my son. I ain't gon' be this cruel on my deathbed."

Shrewstorm's chuckles faded. "So...you know then?"

"'Bout what? Death? Boy, I've known I was gonna die soon for the longest of times!" Another chuckle surpassed him as he looked right up in the stars, "At this point, I'm just glad it's now so we could get it over with."

"Don't say that!" exclaimed Shrewstorm, "Uh-Branchfeather can still fix you! There's still a chance you can be saved-"

"Then what?" said the father, keeping the witty smirk that came from old age plastered on his face, "Face it, son. I ain't got no use here. All I am is just a tom dragging a bunch of sins around. And believe me, that ain't fun at all!"

"But you can't go yet!" whined the son, "I haven't even gotten to know you yet!"

The smirk slipped from the old tom's face.

"Ah, I see how it is."

Shrewstorm bit his lower lip as silence filled the air between them.

"Come sit, boy."

Shrewstorm flopped down on his back next to him, his ears perked as he settled himself.

"What exactly has your mother said about me? What I've done?"

Alarm flared in the tom's body. "W-What? Why?"

"Just curious."

"W-Well," he stuttered, now nervous and uncomfortable, "she said that you...tried to kill Adderstar, you went behind the Clan's back and revealed our battle plans, you killed an innocent apprentice, you've lied, you've cheated on her, you've abused her, you've…"

Shrewstorm trailed off as he saw his father chuckling. "What?"

"It's a marvel how you're still here, wanting to talk to me."

The son's stomach trembled. "What d-do you mean?"

"It's true," the father replied, his voice losing stability for the first time, "All of it. It's true."

Every single organ in Shrewstorm's body jarred loose and fell to the base of his tail. He wanted to cry out, but his voice caught in his throat, sending him spiraling into a hysterical coughing fit. His father waited until he had calmed himself.

"Why?" he rasped, the worry that he was going to tear up in disappointment sneaking up on him.

"You know, you're not the first cat to ask me tha-"

"Just tell me why, damnit!" snapped Shrewstorm, his anger and hurt surfacing for the first time.

The father bit his lower lip in pondering concern. "I'm afraid I can't give you a clear answer, son. I can say now that I've changed. At the time I was young, intensely headstrong, trigger-happy, screwed up in the brain-"

"That's it?" retorted the son, his frustration mounting more and more, "You think that'll make up for everything you've done to the Clan? Everything you've done to my mother?!"

"Is it enough to say that I regret profoundly everything I did to them?" he growled back.

"No!"

"Then why are you here?"

Shrewstorm's spiky retort fizzled out, and he let out an aggravated huff. He almost ended the conversation right there, walked right out of the den and went back to sleep. In fact, he found himself drawn to the entrance to the den right about now…

...but then he remembered why he was here. Even after everything his mother told him, he was still desperate to find a good side to this fucked-up tom. He had always been taught to harbor empathy, and he didn't have a good reason to not allow his father to be the one exception now that he had a chance to actually know him.

He sighed, his hackles slumping. "Suppose that was good enough for me."

The smirk was back on his face now, causing Shrewstorm to roll his eyes. "Can't stay away, can you?"

The son nestled down on his belly, his face still marginally attentive even though he was a lot farther away now.

His father turned his head to look him in the eyes. "You wanna know why I came this way? After I was injured?"

"Please."

The father sighed, a whimsical look crossing his face. "When I was away, long after I was exiled, I came across this small little kittypet family. Your basic family layout, father, son, mother, daughter. They saw that I was starving and they offered me some company. I, being shriveled under my pelt for the last few days past then, accepted their company, their food-"

"Wait, you accepted Twoleg food? You?"

"Hey," he said, shoving back playfully, "You'll do anything when you're starving."

"Fair, fair. Carry on."

"Anyways, I stayed with them for a while, about a moon or so, but what I'm most interested in there are the kits. Brother and sister get along really well, they're polite, they share their food, and they openly love their parents. Now for the longest time, I'm here thinkin' 'D'awww how cute,' until I realized something one day."

"What's that?"

He turned his gaze from the sky to look his son in the eyes once again. "Son, I got regrets. More than I bother to even count. But the one that I realized was most weighing me down, blocking me from being happy with myself, is truly getting to know the family I left behind."

Shrewstorm's heart skipped a few beats at that.

"So I left. I thanked them for the bread and board and started walking back. Got into a couple ugly disagreements along the way," he gestured to his wounds with his tail at that, "But I don't remember feeling as gratified as I did when I walked through the territory and saw you for the first time. Because I knew from the moment I saw you that you were truly my son."

Shrewstorm's jaw slackened, his eyes beginning to water.

"So thank you," said the father, fighting back tears as well, "Thank you for coming out to talk to me. I'm...I'll be the first to admit that I may not have had the courage to do it myself."

Silence filled the air, this time with a solemn, dark aura.

"Dad?" said Shrewstorm, his voice beginning to crack.

"Son?"

"Why...Why do you have to go?"

"Awww...come here."

Shrewstorm's head was drawn to his weakened chest, where he could hear his diminished heartbeat and his chest's faint rise and fall. His father draped his forearm around his nape, filling his body with comforting warmth.

"I'm not ready for you to go after all.." he whimpered, a couple of tears dripping onto his father's ruffled fur.

"Well," he chuckled, "sinners gotta go to hell eventually."

"But why?" he complained woefully, "You've changed! You're obviously not the cat everyone said you were!"

"Boy, StarClan has always judged you by your worst mistake. That's how it's been since the beginning of time. I've made mistakes and a lot of them. But I like your gift, your empathy. Even when I'm gone, if you keep on doing what I think you've been doing, you're gonna spread a whole lotta love around this world long before you're dead and gone."

Hearing those words was heartbreaking, but yet Shrewstorm felt empowered in a...peculiar sort of way. Odds are he wouldn't forget those words for a long time.

"I love you, dad."

"I love you too, son. Now go to sleep, it's much past your bedtime."

"Heh."

They lay in comfortable silence, sleep peeking through the corners of Shrewstorm's mind until one last question drew him awake.

"Dad?"

"Son?"

"I...don't think I ever got your name. What should I call you?"

His father smiled. "Well, you can continue to call me father. But fun fact. My closest friends call me Talonfang."

"Thanks, Talonfang."

"Anytime, Shrewstorm."

Shrewstorm's eyes widened. "How did you-?"

His father chuckled.

"Just a gut feeling."

Shrewstorm was lightly shaken awake.

Sunlight streamed into the den, making it difficult for him to focus for a couple of moments. He sat up and blinked away the remains of his deep, dreamless sleep, his eyes floating to a solemn-looking Branchfeather.

"How's father?" he asked quietly.

There's still a chance…

"I'm sorry, Shrewstorm," he said, his head bowed, "He passed away this morning. In his sleep."

Shrewstorm sighed heavily, his shoulders slumped in bitter disappointment.

"Would you like me to prepare a vigil?" said the medicine cat quietly after a moment.

Shrewstorm only took a brief moment to consider that.

"No," he said, "I...think it's best if I do the ceremony alone."

Branchfeather nodded. "Very well. I'll give you some space."

"Thank you."

He left the den, leaving Shrewstorm alone with his father's body. The son took a moment to admire how peaceful he looked, how he was out of his pain, free from his regrets.

Good for him.

Shrewstorm grabbed the body by the nape and carefully dragged the body out of the camp. On his way out, he saw his mother among the early risers for the morning. She was likely on the day's morning patrol.

There was a moment where the two uncomfortably made eye contact, but the mother nodded respectfully, allowing him to perform the ceremony without interruption.

But almost certainly would they be having a talk later.

By sunhigh, Shrewstorm had finished burying the body.

He had found a nice place near the edge of the territory, near a growing pine tree. When he had finished the ceremony and vigil, he spent the next couple moments leaning against the pine tree.

The last conversation with his father played over and over again. His whole kithood had been a deliberate attempt to craft the antithesis of whatever his father was, and it was almost ironic how much Talonfang had savored his empathy, his will to listen.

Well, no wonder he admires it. I was probably the only cat he knew that actually listened.

But now was not the time for distrust or misplaced grievances.

"If you keep on doing what I think you've been doing, you're gonna spread a whole lotta love around this world long before you're dead and gone."

In the end, his mother had succeeded in making him the complete opposite of what his father was.

But if his father, now a resolute and thoughtful soul walking among devils, approved of it, then that would be just fine with him.

No doubt.

This was...difficult to write.

Damn.

There are several reasons why this resonates with me, the most prominent one being that these are based on events from my own life. It was hard to dwell on this and tie them together into a comprehensible story.

But here we are. And I am quite proud of it.

I hope you enjoyed.

Best,

~Res