A rush of fur and claws came at him. He fell back on his back, Birch scratched his muzzle.
"You will listen to me!" Birch clawed at his face again. She stopped for a moment. "Now go get me some prey." She snarled. Birch stepped off of him after he nodded his head. He quickly got up and scampered off into the woods. What did I do wrong? Thistle thought. Nutmeg was immediately at his side.
"Are you okay?" Her voice was shocked, with scared being mixed in.
"Yeah, I think so." His face stung like fire, blood soaked through his fur. "I didn't do anything wrong, did I?" He asked Nutmeg, his tone low.
"Not that I know of." Nutmeg was quieter than her normal self.
"Don't be down for something that I did." Thistle told her softly.

"What do you mean?" Curiosity pricked her voice.
"Your not like yourself, and it's because of me."
"It's not your fault, and I'm glad your okay." Nutmeg reached over and licked his check. Thistle sat down and helped her clean his wounds. They stung with every lick, but he stayed quite, no matter how much it hurt.

"Thanks, you can head back to your den if you want." Thistle told Nutmeg.
"I'll stay with you." She told him, a bit more cheerfully.
"No, she told me to get her something, not you." Thistle's wounds had stopped bleeding after a few long moments of cleaning them.
"No, it's okay-."
"Nutmeg, please go back, I just want some time alone." Thistle cut her off, his tone a bit fiercer than he had hoped.
"I understand." Nutmeg held her head low as she turned around and headed to her den. With a sigh, Thistle padded deeper into the pine trees.

Thistle crept up to the brown critter. It was a skinny little mouse, but if he couldn't find anything else to hunt, Birch would shred him twice bad. If this was all that he could bring back, Birch shouldn't get after him too bad. He stepped on a dried leaf, a crunch sent the mouse scamper off. Thistle hared after it. Jumping over a withering fern. The mouse had tucked it into a hole in a fallen birch tree. Thistle stuck his paw into the hole. Unsheathing his claws he managed to drag the mouse out, which made it squall in terror. He quickly broke it's neck.

Figuring that the smell of death and blood would keep any other prey away, he buried the brown mouse under the log. He dug just deep enough where another cat or a fox couldn't sniff it out. He padded closer to the twoleg place. Thistle saw his breath billow in front of him in a faint cloud of white. It didn't seem that cold out, but he hasn't stopped moving for more than a few moments. He padded deeper into the forest, turning from pine and cedar trees to shorter, rounder trees. A tall white barrier, which Bailey taught him that it was called a fence, had told him he had went to far. He stayed in the trees, but followed the fence. He opened his mouth, just as Nutmeg had taught him.

Scents of dog, twolegs and their den's as well as monsters touched his tongue. He was glad he didn't live with twolegs anymore, but he wished that he wasn't in the rouge's camp. I won't leave Nutmeg. He told himself. The scent of crow made him swerve away from the fence. He quietly pushed around a dead tree, the large crow was picking a worm or grub from underneath a small rock that it had turned over. Thistle ducked back after deciding to come in from behind. He quickly, yet silently brushed through the undergrowth, only peeking back into the clearing when he was behind the crow. The crow was still struggling to grab the worm, still giving Thistle a chance to pounce. He carefully brought his  shoulders out of the plants surrounding them. He gave his haunches the slightest wiggle, before lunching himself at the pure black crow. He snapped it's neck as he landed on it. Killing it without a sound, other than the crack of it's neck.

Thistle walked into the dusty clearing. The crow and mouse hung out of his jaws. For once, he didn't see Birch hissing at some cat in the clearing. She was probably talking about me. Thistle reminded himself as he pictured one of the many times he'd walked into camp, seeing Birch hissing at a cat before stopping once she realized he was there. He left the at her den's entrance, hopping not to talk to the bitter she-cat. Nutmeg was sunning herself in the dying sunlight. She wasn't aware the Thistle was back already. For the sheer fun of it, Thistle flipped the mouse onto her mostly white belly, causing her to jump up in alarm. She lashed her head around, her shocked expression turned to excitement. Thistle couldn't help but to let a small smile drift across his face as the fluffy she-cat rolled to her paws.

"Who brought me a crow!" Birch interrupted Nutmeg right before she said anything. "You." She snarled at Thistle. For once, her voice was more tighten by what seemed to be grief than anger or joy.
"I didn't know you didn't like crows." Without even wanting to, Thistle slid back on his haunches, and crouched under Birch like a kit being scolded.
"But you should've known. You know what? I'll make a deal with you." She still had an oddly happy tone to her voice. Thistle forced his legs to make him stand strait-ish, but his tail couldn't hang behind him, but curled slightly under him.
"What kind of deal?" Thistle strained to steady his voice. Quit being so scared! You stupid idiot! Thistle snarled at himself.

"Once your a bit older, you'll help me take over BirchClan or whatever they call themselves." Birch's voice trailed off as she explained to Thistle.
"What's BirchClan?" He had never heard of the place.
"Its a bunch of cats that call themself a 'clan.' So they think that they can tell us not to go onto their 'territory.' But they can't tell us what to to!" Birch yelled the last bit, an invisible force made him flinch. Birch looked down at him, a wide tooth grin on her face.
"What's in it for him?" Nutmeg had joined in.
"I'll forgive him for what he's done to me." Birch lowered her head to look at Thistle, her voice turning to a growl.

"What did I do?" He hadn't done anything wrong, had he?
"What do you mean what did I'd do? " Birch raises her lip's in a snarl, her fur bristling in anger. Without any warning, Birch lunged at him, pinning him to the ground. "You killed my kit!" Grief choked the cat. Thistle was thankful that she was only holding him down instead of ripping his fur out. Birch gave a few heavy pants, looking Thistle dead in the eye with grief stricken hazel eyes. She took a slight glance away from him before jumping off of him. She grabbed the mouse and rushed into her den. Thistle found his way to his paws, only then did Thistle realize that he was shaking. He took a deep breath, feeling the cold air rush into his lungs.

"What was that all about?" Nutmeg asked him, Thistle shook his head in return.
"I guess we should share that crow. There's no use in letting it go to waste."
"True," Thistle hated how down Nutmeg sounded. "Another cat would steal it before we wake up." He laid down next to Nutmeg after getting the crow from in front of Birch's den. He ripped a few mouthfuls of feathers before biting into the large bird. He watched a small reddish brown kit, that was just a few moons younger than him, play in the clearing. His pelt looking redder than it should be thanks to to setting sun. He looked just like a tiny fox padding around camp, well lumbering into his parent's den once they called him in.