Title: Catalyst

Author: Mij

Genre: Dark/Romance/Mystery

Summary: [Post Darkest Hour] Sandstorm has died in the battle against BloodClan, along with many more cats from all four Clans. Firestar is wracked by grief, but he can't relax just yet. Change is coming, and StarClan is burning with it. A ghostly cat haunt Firestars while apprentices witness unspeakable horrors and others are torn apart inside and out by love and grief. Change is coming, but whether it is for better or for worse, no one knows.

Author Note: This prologue begins shortly after the defeat of BloodClan. Instead of Whitestorm dying by Bone, sandstorm has died instead, and the death toll is far, far higher. Dark and graphic, disgression is advised.

Pain. The most unimaginable pain was now physical, throbbing in his body and rattling his head. Firestar's legs trembled as he walked to the Great Rock. His body was more battered and bruised that it had ever been in his entire life, scrapes and cuts and bites flecked his pelt like a twisted kind of bloody snow. One gash, longer than the rest, rippled almost artistically across one of his flanks, clotted and catching dust with every puff of cold wind. The battle had drained the fire from his blood but in his chest the fire of hate and battle still raged, keeping him warm, keeping his legs from going out and his heart from stopping and his lungs from working. That hot, cold rage of battleblood was all that kept him alive.

Another breeze and another coat of dust on his wounds and the scent of blood and bodies wafted up to his nose. It was strange, Firestar hardly even minded the scent of death now, it was relaxing, knowing that this many of his foes were dead. Cats who had wanted him dead now gone themselves. Some killed by his own claws, others by the ones that had followed him. But the battle had not been without its losses. He stepped over the slim body of a female WindClan warrior he had seen once before, a gray tabby she-cat named Runningbrook, whose body was now still and only warmed by its' decomposition. A RiverClan cat with thick, strong muscles lay beside her, so close and bloody that they were hard to tell apart and seemed to be part of one mutant cat with two heads. Firestar hardly noticed the flies swarming around him, or even their vacant expressions as they looked up to him with wide, stone-dead eyes. Dust would soon cloud those eyes forever. The dead didn't see any more.

Between the bodies and flies and dust flickered the slow-moving bodies of other cats, just as injured as he. Some would walk a few paces and sit, exhausted, and others would waver and collapse, sometimes to rise again and other times to lay and die. Firestar didn't watch them. And he didn't care for them either. His green eyes were clotted with blood and he could hardly see his nose in front of his face. His nose was clotted with blood as well. He had to breathe through his mouth, but that was hard too, because his jaw and neck were swollen from where a cat tried to smother him to death. He was, in effect, senseless. His eyes and nose useless, body too racked with pain to feel the breeze on it, ears still roaring from the battle, tongue coated in blood and dust. It was a strange experience.

And somehow oddly relaxing.

He didn't know how long it took for him to get to Cinderpelt and lay down, nor did he know how long it took for her to clean his eyes and nose and mouth and begin to treat his wounds. He wanted to protest, to tell her that the other warriors would need to be treated first, that he could always die and come back to life again, but he was too weak, too tired, and so gave in to the rhythmic licking of her rough tongue on his eyes and nose, and the warm sting of herbs as they were pressed into his wounds. And then he slept. Again, he didn't know for how long. But he did remember how long it took for Graystripe to drag his mate's body to him.

She was so bloody and ragged that he thought she must be no more than a pelt, but when Graystripe dropped her in front of him he saw the leaf-green eyes and the sweet, gentle face that he loved so much and felt his heart drop in his chest.

"Sandstorm." It was the first word that he had managed to say.

"I found her by one of the oak trees. She had killed Bone but she… I couldn't reach her in time."

Firestar stared at Sandstorm for a long time. Her mouth was open and her tongue lolling out of her mouth. Part of it was missing. Her ears, her beautiful ears, were mangled as if someone had chewed on them, and her eyes, those sweet, leaf-green eyes so similar to his own… were not so similar any longer. Only one was still intact. The other was missing. Firestar looked back up to Graystripe, his battered, exhausted friend. They had trained together, fought together, fallen in love together… And now both of them were alone. Alone and alive. The Leader inside of Firestar tried to speak now, instead of the shell that remained. He croaked again to Graystripe:

"Who else?"

"Longtail, Mousefur, and Goldenflower," Graystripe said quietly, "Thornpaw and Ashpaw are missing. Brackenfur's leg is broken and Brightheart is… Brightheart may not live much longer. The other clans lost just about the same as us."

Firestar-the-Leader nodded, but Firestar-the-Cat hardly heard him. His mind was still fixed on Sandstorm, his beautiful mate. The love of his life. How could she-

"…Firestar? Firestar, what should we do?"

Firestar looked back up to Graystripe, "Bury the dead here at Fourtrees. We can't move them all back to ThunderClan. Everyone who's able needs to bury. Bury all of them, from all the Clans. They can't be expected to be in any better shape than us. Where is Whitestorm?"

"Whitestorm is with Willowpelt, he's sending her back to camp to take care of their kits."

"Tell him to organize the burials. I'm going to rest a bit longer."

"Of course, Firestar."

Graystripe bent to pick up Sandstorm again and Firestar shook his head, "No, Graystripe, I will bury Sandstorm. And I will sit a silent vigil for her tonight."

Graystripe paused and then nodded, "Very well, Firestar."

Cinderpelt visited him again and brought him herbs that would strengthen him for his vigil and when he was starting to feel their restless effects he dragged himself to his feet again, picked up Sandstorm, and dragged her out into the battlefield. Cats were already burying the bodies of loved ones left and right and another group of cats were dragging the bodies of BloodClan warriors off to the side of the Thunderpath where they would decompose and be forgotten. Firestar pulled Sandstorm to the base of the oak tree she had died at and began to dig. He thought that the pain from battle was terrible, and the pain of knowing the Sandstorm was dead was greater, but for the rest of his life he would not know a pain more great than digging Sandstorm's grave in the hard-packed soil, tearing his claws on rocks and snagging them on roots. Blood and soil mixed until Firestar was sure that his paws were just stubs on the end of his legs, but the digging was still not done. Firestar felt his shoulders start to tremble. He was on the verge of collapse when a warm muzzle touched his shoulder and Firestar turned to see Graystripe standing next to him. With an unuttered message Firestar took a step back and Graystripe began to dig until the hole was big enough and they were able to drag Sandstorm's body into it and cover it. Then Firestar sat, not speaking and not looking at Graystripe, who saw his bloody paws and brought Cinderpelt to him. Cinderpelt cleaned his claws and treated them as she had the rest of his body and without a word left again, leaving Firestar to grieve.

It was late in the afternoon was Firestar had dragged himself half-dead to Cinderpelt, and early in the night when Graystripe had brought Sandstorm's body to him. And now, at midnight, he began his vigil beneath a slim, dark moon.

"Be careful," he had said before the battle, "BloodClan is dangerous. They don't drive off, they kill." He would never say it but he was worried about her then. As he had worried about her his entire life. But Sandstorm had just laughed and flexed her claws.

"Then we'll just have to do the same!" It was words like those that made him glad he fell in love with a warrior. But now the memory was only bitter. Being a warrior had made her strong.

Being a warrior only got her killed.

"Is that so?"

Firestar looked up. A strange cat sat in front of him. She was a ghost. Or something made up by his mind he knew. He could see the texture of the tree through her smoke gray body. Her eyes were dim and green and surprisingly large, so large he could see the whites of the sclera around them. When the breeze shifted he caught an acrid smell of burnt fur and flesh.

"Would being a warrior only kill a cat, or would it show them the world as it truly is?" said the cat.

I'm going insane.

"Insanity in itself is hard to define. Rip off the mantle of the night and you will see below the pale, naked body of truth that every living thing in the world seeks. Is insanity the drive to find that seam, that weakness, in the darkness, or is it the force that compels you not to? Cast aside the light of day and you will see the burnt reek of what once was and what will be again…"

Insane. Insane insane insane.

"…Slit a stream by its belly and find it wriggling with worms and maggots. Crack open the bones of the earth and find the undying rage that forces mountains to bow to its will and oceans to tremble and surge. Cast death aside and find life. Cast life aside and find death…"

Shut up. Control yourself. Don't go insane. Insane. INSANE.

"…There is no rest for the weary, and no rest for the grieving. Hope and Fire lie in an everlocking battle to death, where they will battle until life is born again. Turn a Blind Eye to a shadow that passes by. Feed yourself on the bones of memories to nurse a Broken Heart. Scream, tear, drag the world down around you as you plummet as a Falling Bird. And watch as the world around you burns as if you are the Center Of It All."

SHUT UP.

Firestar looked up. The cat was gone. His mind was still. The hallucination was over. He would have to speak to Cinderpelt about what she had given him. Firestar raised his eyes further. What had seemed to be only a few moments seemed to be much, much longer. The sun was already peeking over the trees. His vigil was over.

Firestar stood and, though his body was stiff and uncomfortable, did not stretch. There would be many things to do today. Tally the dead, send out hunting patrols, send out elders and the three kits to search for herbs that Cinderpelt will need. Tomorrow they would remark the scents and establish their territory again. The day after that perhaps he will lead a patrol of his own. The time for grieving is over, he knew, that hallucination had shown him that. It was time to move on, time to put the past behind him. Perhaps he could find another mate, raise kits and forget-

Shadow caught something in the corner of his eyes and froze, then turned and began walking away as fast as he could. He did not see the pawprints in the ground above Sandstorm's grave, he told himself, and he did not smell burnt fur, or notice that there were no tracks leading too or away from the grave besides his own. It was impossible.

Is it?

A lilting voice on a wind, carried by sour, burnt fur:

"Perhaps not."