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Squirrelflight rasps her tongue over the top of Hollykit's head, the back of her ears.
Hollykit squirms. "Mom. Stop. I don't like it."
Her mother just chuckles. "Kits," she mews, in a tone that is exasperated and condescending, yet joyful and fond, in that balance that only parents can strike. "Just let me groom you, before you grow up and do it all on your own."
Hollykit can't wait for the day.
She sleeps apart from her mother and brothers. Sometimes, one of Daisy's kits moves in their sleep, and she wakes, immediately leaping to her feet, fluffing her fur out. She can't explain the searing sensation on her skin; all she knows is she feels it.
Jaykit and Lionkit learn to lie next to her, with the barest of spaces between her flanks and theirs. They are her shields, her protection from unwanted contact.
Hollykit doesn't need to explain anything. They will never question that her aversion exists, that it is real. They offer the comfort that they can.
Brambleclaw comes by the nursery to bring fresh-kill and play with the kits. He also, without fail, spends time with Squirrelflight. Hollykit watches as they nuzzle each other, or touch noses, or groom one another's fur in a way that's clearly less about cleanliness than it is about sensation.
He notices the way her ears flatten slightly, the way her nose wrinkles in distaste. He purrs. "It seems gross now, I know. But you'll think of it very differently, once you're older. You'll see."
(She won't.)
"And because of that," Longtail declares, with a final flourish, "Mothflight established the rule that medicine cats must not take mates or have kits."
"But surely they can still fall in love?" Lionkit asks. "What happens then?"
"Then they have to choose between that love and their vows," he responds somberly.
"That sounds hard," Jaykit comments.
Gears in Hollykit's head spin. What sounds to her brothers like a restriction sounds to her like freedom.
Medicine cats are called to their professions by StarClan. Perhaps she is like this because it was destined, because she was chosen. She hopes this is a reason—a purpose—for her strangeness.
She is so young, and so susceptible to the lessons that are never spoken but always taught. But she is old enough to know that this is a way to shed the burdens of expectation.
She could be untouchable.
"Do you really think Jaypaw can do it? Be a warrior, I mean?" asks Honeypaw.
"Of course he can!" Hollypaw bristles. "Don't you think you ought to be supporting your clanmate, instead of doubting him?"
Being a medicine cat was not her fate, after all, but battle training comes easily to her. Practice swipes, with sheathed claws, still leave awful tingling traces in their wake.
She's been on the lookout for accidental bumps and carelessly-swinging tails all her life. She's gotten very good at dodging.
"Do you know why Hollypaw's like that?" Berrypaw asks, with more than a hint of disdain in his tone. "It's weird, isn't it? She'll want to find a mate and be a mother—"
"Shut your mouth." Jaypaw snaps. "Different is one thing. Weird is another. And telling someone what they 'want', instead of asking them about it, is the most mouse-brained thing I've ever heard."
Her new nest is tucked away in the corner of the apprentice's den, and she takes comfort in pressing herself against the wall.
While other apprentices share tongues, she grooms herself. Cinderpaw is kind enough to realize that she's not being antisocial; Hollypaw actually enjoys everything about sharing tongues except what is literally specified by the name. So Cinderpaw brings a piece of fresh-kill to split, and the two of them chat about the new kits, swap tips on training, speculate on warrior names, and tell bad jokes.
Even though clanmates should be able to help each other without needing thanks as payment, Hollypaw realizes that she should be better about expressing her gratitude.
"Thank you," she meows, "For being such a good friend. I really enjoy your company. I'm glad you make allowances for me; you respect my space, and it's a small thing, but it means a lot."
Cinderpaw tilts her head. "I always thought it was funny, how 'sharing tongues' is generally understood to also mean spending time together as friends, when the two aren't related."
"Not everyone gets it," Hollypaw purrs, "So, again, thank you."
She notices the way Cinderpaw's eyes track Lionpaw from across camp, the slight dilation of her pupils, the hitch in her breathing.
Cinderpaw notices her noticing. "He's handsome, is all," she remarks.
"He looks the same to me," comments Hollypaw, and her tone is not judging, or joking—she's just perplexed.
Cinderpaw laughs. "I suppose that's true."
"So you have feelings for him?" Hollypaw persists. "How do you know? What is it like?"
"You'll know it when you feel it. Remember the love stories the elders told us when we were kits?"
"Those are stories," she fumbles, "They're not real." She feels as though the ground is crumbling, giving way beneath her feet. "Wait. Are you telling me... Great StarClan. When Honeypaw and Poppypaw were talking about crushes, I thought they were just making things up to sound like those fables."
Both of them laugh, but for different reasons.
A few days after she receives her warrior name, Mousewhisker asks to hunt together. It's a pleasantly cool evening, with lots of moonlight, and she hasn't yet gone hunting in a group this small. It seems like fun.
Hollyleaf takes joy in the way her world narrows to her prey, her steady breathing, her soft pawsteps. They miss a couple, but catch more than enough to make up for it. When he suggests they stop for the night, she is pleasantly tired and satisfied with her contributions.
"Sit with me?" He leaps up onto a log. "There's a nice view here." She follows him, tucking her paws underneath herself and looking out at the way the lake's glistening water ripples in the breeze.
They sit in silence for some heartbeats. "It's beautiful," she admits softly. The lake is always there, but she seldom stops to appreciate it; when she does, it heightens her awareness of everyday things: the sun, the land, the trees, the stars.
"Like you." His voice is as quiet as hers, but it's loud enough that his words are clear and unmistakable.
Oh. How could she have been so stupid? She should have seen this coming.
Her heart beats faster. She knows that an elevated pulse is normal in this situation. She wants to believe she's getting butterflies. She tells herself she's excited.
(She's not. This is panic.)
Surely she is overreacting? She is a young she-cat, barely a warrior. It's natural that she would be nervous in such a novel situation.
"Thank you," she manages (furiously quashing her fear), because she does appreciate the compliment (even if she frets about its implications).
Her mind whirs, but her thoughts do nothing but circle unproductively. "Sorry," she stammers, "I—I don't really know what to say." She sounds like a bashful, flustered ingenue.
Maybe that really is all. Maybe there's no reason to be so tense. Maybe this is what crushes feel like, and he'll touch her and she'll like it, it'll wake up the part of her that's been hiding within her for her whole life, yearning to be set free, starved of the physical connection that it needs, that everyone needs—
He shifts slightly, and Hollyleaf doesn't flinch (doesn't let herself flinch) when his pelt brushes her fur.
It's not terrible. She's uncomfortable, but this is something she could get used to. It helps that she was ready for it.
Then his tail twines around hers, and Hollyleaf runs.
She throws herself into a shallow river, crouching to get herself as wet as possible, ignoring the way silt digs into her pads. She wants the water to wash away how dirty she feels, to soothe the tingling on her skin.
It's long after moonhigh by the time she finally slinks back to camp.
"I'm sorry," she tells him. "It's not you. It's me. You know how I am. If—"
What is she about to say? That if she could change, she would? She's wished for it, in fleeting moments, but she's not sure she truly wants to be anyone other than herself.
He doesn't let her finish, anyway.
Mousefur is sunning herself in the center of camp when Hollyleaf returns from dawn patrol.
"Hollyleaf, would you help me for a moment? A bit of our wall needs fixing, and poor Longtail can't see well enough to be useful." She beckons with her tail.
Hollyleaf is too numb to think about why she's being singled out, and she obediently trails Mousefur into the elders' den.
"Sit down, dear." Mousefur orders her, with an attitude that brokers no argument. "It's clear that you rejected Mousewhisker, but you seem even more heartbroken than he does." Her whiskers twitch. "I should have pulled you aside moons ago and given you a talking-to."
"What?" An additional rush of shame hits Hollyleaf. "Because... I should have known? I should have learned to love him back? Because I am broken and should have been fixed?"
"Because you shouldn't be thinking such things about yourself. You're a good cat—a good daughter, a good sister, a good warrior. You are not broken."
Hollyleaf nearly spits. "Really, now? I've spent my whole life wondering why everyone else wants in a way that I should but I don't. There's something wrong with me."
"Of course not. All of ShadowClan wants to eat frogs. What other cats want has nothing to do with what you want. It's a shame that you think it does. I did, too, when I was your age."
An epiphany slots itself into place. "You never took a mate."
"I never wanted one." She purrs, and Hollyleaf hears self-assurance, contentment. "It's that simple. If you allow it to be. If you allow yourself to be."
Hollyleaf is stunned into silence. The elder's words have shaken her. Literally, in fact—she is trembling.
"Fox dung!" she exclaims, at last, "It was that easy all along!"
She has spent idle moments, over the course of her life, wondering about her name.
The bark of the holly plant is gray, not black. Perhaps she was simply a kit born in winter, named for any leaf that would match her eyes.
Whatever the reason for her name, it suits her. Holly leaves are prickly things. She doesn't have sharp edges the way Jayfeather does, but it is fitting that her namesake wishes to be left untouched.
Other plants drop their leaves and replace them with soft, inviting flowers. She grew up observing those around her, and believing that she was a "late bloomer"—that one day, nature would call for her to follow suit.
Her differences are not in spite of nature, but because of it. She has always been a holly plant. Mousefur helped her recognize herself for who she is, and she will deny herself no longer.
She stands proud, independent, evergreen.
She follows Ashfur in the aftermath of the fire. She wants to talk, to ask him to keep a secret. She isn't expecting what happens next.
"It sounds to me," he replies, "That you're asking for a favor. I'm happy to help, if you're willing to give something in return." There is a downright nasty twist in his voice. He has power over her, and he knows it.
"But what can I give?" Hollyleaf asks, desperately. She has no leverage over him, nothing to offer. It dawns on her, then, that she can provide something of value, and this is what he demands.
His eyes settle on her body. It is suggestive, demeaning, disquieting. The deep blue depths of his gaze have never been so chilling.
She shudders. "No."
"Hollyleaf, dear," he murmurs, with a purposeful step forward, "I feel sorry for you. Who else would want you? A freak, who can't stand even the most ordinary forms of touch—or are you that much of a prude?"
"And I pity you," she bites back. "You never loved Squirrelflight. If you had, you would have cared for her happiness, and respected her choice, instead of stewing in selfish jealousy. Now you proposition another she-cat; would you close your eyes, and pretend I was her?" A breath. "And you're small-minded to assume that I want to be wanted. I want no one. Especially not you."
"You just need someone to fix you," he continues, as though he hasn't registered her words at all, "To show you true pleasure." He gets even closer, and Hollyleaf is petrified, unable to will her paws to move. "I only want to help."
He steps alongside her—his flank rubs against hers, his tail curls around her forelegs. And the spell is broken: she is electrified, instead of being frozen.
In less than a heartbeat, she pounces, pins him, snarls. "I said NO."
Her teeth sink into his throat and come away with fur and flesh and blood.
She can't sleep.
She dreams, and she sees him. His spirit does not visit her, but the memories of him on that night, burned into her mind, haunt her all the same.
She wakes; the whole side of her body burns; she feels filthy, in the way that she usually does when someone touches her, and also because she has truly been stained, down to her soul.
Guilt seizes her heart. She went too far. Yes, he touched her, but he might have done nothing more. Even if he had, would that have justified murder?
His body has been found. She thinks of that moment, when he butted up against her, mingling their pelts. They will discover her fur amidst his, and they will know.
There is blood in her mouth, but it's hers, from biting her tongue.
"You killed him." Jayfeather states.
"What?" Lionblaze whispers.
"I did." Hollyleaf mews.
Silence.
"Please," Lionblaze begs, "tell me that it wasn't just to silence him. Tell me there was a reason. Lie to me if you have to."
"I asked him to stay quiet. But—" Her throat seizes. Moments tick by, but Hollyleaf scarcely notices. Her thoughts are occupied instead by Ashfur's blue eyes, and the cruelty she had seen within.
Lionblaze's voice breaks through to her. "Holly?" He sounds concerned. She notices, dimly, that she is trembling. She tenses, crouching defensively, pulling her tail in close.
"He said I needed to return the favor. He—" Her tongue fails her again.
There's a heartbeat of silence, in which her brothers realize that she cannot form the words, and will not finish her sentence. Though her eyes are screwed shut, she hears a sharp inhale and a low growl when they fill in what is left unsaid.
"He forced himself on you," Lionblaze chokes out.
"That fox turd," hisses Jayfeather, "I'm glad he's dead."
"I overreacted," she protests, "It wasn't really like that. He only—"
"Touched you?" Jayfeather interrupts. "There is nothing 'only' about that." It's true for anyone, but especially for her, and her brothers are indignant, fuming on her behalf.
If she were different, her siblings might have pressed a nose to her forehead, in sympathy and for solace, or put a tail or paw on her shoulder. Instead, they settle on either side of her, a hair's breadth away. It's like she's a kit again, and they're protecting her from the outside world.
She doesn't need to be touched to know she is loved.