Chapter 1

Re-vamped

The Clans that formed him don't want him, and the world that he lives in couldn't be any blinder to his plight.

Eventual mxm

A humid haze had descended upon the forest when the noontide sun had claimed its' posistion in the sky, the bright rays being blamed for the discomfort of most of the Clans that lived below. They were all prey to it's mercy, though there was an even greater fight going on. One that had been brewing for five or so summers. One that no one believed would ever have a victor.

Only one spectator was present, and even he was hidden. Perched high in a tree, far from the clash of metal upon metal, far from the pained cries of the fighters as sharpened steel tore open flesh. Yet, he was not free from the fight. This fight would become his own one of these days, that he knew. For the five summers that he had been alive, this fight was all he knew. The two danced skillfully with the blades they preffered, and he always watched -- hidden, for he was too small to fight this battle on his own. He did not watch in ignorance, though. Each dance of skill taught him more than his father was willing to, which strikes would temporarilly disable an opponent, which strikes would kill.

Each dance was different. The steps changed with the dancers, the slashes and bruises made, even if from the same weapon, were always different. No two dancers were alike. A flurry of bright orange hair, beads, feathers and blue whirled around the forest floor. The newest dancer, the enemy, stepped gracefully to the side every time his blue-haired father went to strike a blow. Each time the enemy parried, the many painted beads he was adorned with would clink together, as if to cry out their owner's victory to those who would not see the fight.

His father had been victorious in all the fights so far. A whirwind of steel and skill, skittering about the forest floor. He had seemed to know the others' moves even before the other could make them. He would step into place, counter, and strike with his second blade. It was a deadly dance, and one that he wasn't sure his father would win this time. His father, Taureg, had gained many cuts and bruises from the others' sword. This was no longer merely a battle of skill, it was a battle to death. Despite his hopings that it would be otherwise, he could see that his father's strength was waning. The openent could see it too, even from his seat in the trees, he could see the thin lips turn upwards in a victorious sneer, at the same moment his scimitar was plunged straight through his father's unarmoured stomach.

"No!" He shouted, jumping from the tree. Teal hair fell into his golden eyes, the same colour of the man who's life was rapidly draining away. Hoping to stem the bleeding, he placed two excruciatingly small hands on the large gash, the quickly cooling liquid gushing through his fingers. It would not stop, his father would not be saved.

"A-Ar...ion...," The voice that repeated his name was fragile, pained , and no matter how Arion wished to deny it, it definitley belonged to his father. How he wished he didn't fully understand what was going on here... How he wished he could feign confused innocence, and get the sneering man to protect him. That would never happen, though. Arion knew it wouldn't, he didn't even have to see the orange-haired enemy wiping his father's blood off his scimitar, as though it were a poison that would dull the blade.

"What?" He asked, his own voice a hoarse whisper. Gold eyes met the same gold eyes he had known for all his five summers. The same gold eyes he had never thought would be looking at him in despair, not like this. His father was already giving up, and the real fight hadn't even started yet. How could he leave him here? In this world that didn't want him... How? Why?

A trembling hand was placed on his shoulder, cold. Already death was making its presence known, as if to mock the living. Just as he was about to place his own, small, warm hand on his father's, his father's hand slid away, falling to the earth with a quiet 'thud'. One that Arion was convinced could be heard echoeing through the forest for many ages on.

Arion had no time for grieving though, as the orange-haired swordsman pulled him up by the collar of his tunic and shoved him roughly against a tree. The pointed edge of the scimitar was painfully close to his throat, causing Arion to look up, locking gold eyes with the wine-red ones of his opponent. This man was his opponent now. He had always been. His father had faught because Arion could not. Now, his father was not there to defend him. This man was his opponent now.

He held the man's gaze defiantly, not wilting away from the sight of garnet set in polished-pine-coloured skin. If this man was going to kill him, as surely was his intention, Arion would not give him the satisfaction of being able to brag that he had begged for his life. He would not beg. "You're so like my Marron..." The man with the orange hair said wistfully, a sad smile on his almost feminine face.

Arion blinked in surprise at hearing his deceased mother's name. He didn't know what he had been expecting -- for that scimitar to plunge as mercilessly through his own throat as it had his father's stomach? But whatever it was, he never would have known that she would have been brought into this. The woman he had killed, simply by being born. Marron, of FireClan. Or, more simply; his mother.

The man smirked, cold, cruel and unforgiving. "I see you've heard of her." How could he not? She was his mother. And a woman of the enemy Clan of his father. The man pulled his arm back, as though he were preparing to thrust the weapon through his fragile throat with all his might, stopping mere inches from his target. "Mongrel child that you are," He spat, as though even acknowledging Arion's existance was enough for damnation. "I cannot bring myself to kill you. Today, that is. If your path crosses with that of Mitsundrei of FireClan's ever again, I would not consider myself so lucky." With that said, Mitsundrei lowered his weapon, calmly stalking away from the site of the battle. Calling gruffly over his shoulder, he added, "Clean this up. Then dissapear."

†††

This rewrite is due to the amazing critique I was given by FoxyGrampa.

Without whom, I would have procrastinated on this rewrite for at least a year.