#coniferstar pov

[sedge-and-sanctuary]

Moon Nine - Highdark

Sedgeclan has no deputy!

Snowstreak challenges Harebolt to a sparring match! Coniferstar can't help but laugh at Snowstreak's jokes.

Cats mentioned: Coniferstar - 29 moons - Leader Harebolt- 107 moons - Medicine Cat Snowstreak - 108 moons - Warrior Rookpaw - ?? moons - ???

A thin, scrubby snow lies over Sedgeclan territory, heralding the start of High Dark. Even early in the season, the days are noticeably short. Coniferstar returns from afternoon patrol to find the light already turning gold; the sun a low, dull eye on the horizon. There is a sound of scuffling in camp; Coniferstar frowns, and creeps around a boulder, his claws unsheathed– only to see Harebolt and Snowstreak sparring– laughing, as they swipe pack and forth across the camp. Harebolt aims a paw at Snowstreak’s head, claws sheathed, and Snowstreak drops to her belly to roll away, quick as a rabbit– even on her injured leg. Harebolt laughs, surprised, and drops down onto Snowstreak’s back, pinning her easily– the two go rolling, stirring up a cloud of snow. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” Coniferstar says, amused. “It seems like I’ve walked in on quite the battle.”

The two mollies scramble to their paws, at his voice, with matching expressions of embarrassment. Coniferstar laughs. “You’re not in trouble. I wouldn’t mind a bit of sparring practise myself. I suspect I’ve grown a little out of form.” “Oh!” Snowstreak brightens. “Would– you like to join in, then? I don’t mind! If you want to.” Coniferstar feels himself brighten; how pleasant, just to be among clanmates. Among these cats; loyal, and healthy, as few as they still are. If only he can keep them this way. If only– “Coniferstar?” Snowstreak is looking at him, worry fluffing up her pelt. “I’m sorry. You don’t have to.” “No.” Coniferstar shakes himself; purrs, appreciatively. “I would be happy to. If you’re sure I’m not interrupting.” “Of course you aren’t,” Snowstreak’s tail waves, loose and friendly. “–No,” Harebolt  agrees, after a moment. Coniferstar looks at her, ear twitching. Sees himself reflected, briefly, in her pupils; wide in the dimming light. He can’t quite read her expression. “My pleasure, then,” he says, anyway, and drops low, rocking on his haunches in an exaggerated lunge. Snowstreak mrows with pleasure, and leaps away before he can pounce, Harebolt right on her heels; Coniferstar wonders if he hadn’t been imagining her hesitation, after all.

Harebolt leaves them, later, to their sparring, excusing herself to gather herbs. Winter is on them, now, in full; its sharp, white teeth close over Sedgeclan with the bite of frost, and ice, and wind. Harebolt hunches her shoulders, walking with her head ducked low. Every breath stings the inside of her nose; it really is a foul day. In camp, Snowstreak says something, unintelligible, and Coniferstar laughs. Harebolt should be with them, in truth. But disquiet has been gnawing at her, dug beneath her pelt like fleas. She needs… Her paws carry her south, walking sideways, braced against the howling wind. Dry, sandy snow swirls up in drifts, and blows across the tundra without pause, pelting Harebolt in the eyes, and nose. But still, she walks. The moon rises. A wolf cries, far away; a lonely, mournful noise, unanswered. She is almost right against the treeline, before she sees it, eyes squinted nearly shut. The tall pines loom up, dark, out of the blowing snow, and Harebolt backpedals, catching now the faint and fading scent of border-marks. The gravel road winds past, just southeast, twisting from between the trees. Harebolt pauses, and glances back over her shoulder. The tundra is a wide and cold expanse, behind her; empty. Harebolt might be the only cat left in the world. She turns, and pads along the road, hearing Coniferstar’s warning all the time. But no cars come hissing past; no headlamps split the swirling snow. Whatever danger lurks there, to the south, where Coniferstar had come from– it’s hiding away from the wind, the same as Harebolt should be. She pauses, as the road twists up towards the twoleg place, sniffing along the shoulder; in the dry, sterile air, scents are strangely dulled– hard to detect. She lifts her head, to look around– and then, all at once, the wind cuts off; dead still. Harebolt’s ears ring, in the sudden silence. She glances back, uneasy. The world is still, and dark, and quiet. Blown snow drifts back down to earth, gently now, and settles, soft, over the land. The smooth surface is interrupted by a clawhook bend in the road; a strange lump. Harebolt looks at it, for a quiet moment, and then pads forward; her head still bowed, though there’s no wind now, to push against. Yes– she’s found what she came looking for. She brushes snow, gently, from the small cat’s skull. There is still patchy fur, clinging to the bones; scraps of black pelt, stark in the silver, winter day. Harebolt’s breath steams, as she works, carefully unearthing the body; not sure why she’s doing it. Her mind is strangely still, and calm– even her uneasiness is gone. Perhaps the cold has numbed that, too. She sits back, when she’s done, and looks down on the body of a large black cat, mummified by frost. The resemblance isn't exact; but Harebolt feels the rightness of it. Knows him, the way a rabbit knows to run, or a wolf to hunt. She sniffs him over, gentle as she would be with a kit. But warped by moons of death, it’s impossible to tell what happened to him; the body half-decayed, and gnawed on, here and there. Harebolt’s not sure what she had been expecting; what she had hoped- or feared- to find. “Well, Rookpaw." Her voice is very quiet, in the face of that wide and silent night. “I’m listening. What was the message?” The territory is utterly still, around her. The thin, bright claw of the moon turns all the snow to silver. Stars glitter, like cats’ eyes watching in the dark. Harebolt shivers, and- without quite knowing why- touches her front paw, gently, to the dead cat’s shoulder. But still; there is no answer.

[sedge-and-sanctuary]

Interlude - 17 Moons Ago

Coniferfrost - 12 moons - Medicine Cat Water murmurs over the stones, echoing and overlapping ‘til it sounds like voices, speaking just outside of hearing range.

Coniferfrost pauses, at the edge of the Moonfalls, and takes a breath.

The grotto is warm– muggy, in the height of Greenleaf, and thick with kit-soft mosses. The pool within flashes, now and then, with the bodies of silver fish, and the reflections of moonlight.

Coniferfrost picks his way down, carefully, across slick stones, following the path of a spring, where it bubbles down to feed the covered pool. The water mutters gentle welcome, frothing down in brief and lovely falls, which spit up spray into the Greenleaf air. 

Two other springs trickle in, from other openings; one stream for every clan, all feeding the same, deep pool. Featherclan’s falls- the highest- bubble from the south. Finclan's foam in from the west, raising a cool spray above the water; silvery with moonlight, so the air takes on a misty, glowing quality.

And from the north- Furclan’s river pours into the cave, breaking into smaller streams before rejoining to go fizzing down the rocks. Back along that stream, the trees bristle with needles, more than leaves. The ground goes silvery with frost.

Perhaps, Coniferfrost thinks, he will go in that direction. Sickness always seems to fester, in warm air; maybe the cooler climes of Furclan- of the territories beyond- will keep it back.

His next breath has the memory of rot on it; bodies growing worms, in the greenleaf heat. The stench of  fever-sickness on hot breath, in panting mouths–

He shakes himself.  Yes. Definitely north.

He pads up to the edge of the pool, and sees his own reflection in its surface. His face distorts, as one of the grotto’s eyeless fish flashes past, and Coniferfrost hooks it deftly from the water.

He pins it, flailing, beneath one paw, and closes his eyes in reverence. “Starclan, I offer you this bounty. May we share prey, and tongues, beneath the moon.”

The words are rote, familiar. Coniferfrost bites into the fish, and as he swallows the star-touched flesh- he drifts away.

Starclan forms around him, silver and misty as the grotto. Cats pad out of the fog; silent figures, watchful. Familiar.

The fish lies at his paws.

The eyes of the dead fix upon it.

So many, lost in recent moons; Coniferfrost swallows. It is said the dead feel no pain, in Starclan– no hunger, or thirst, no sickness or exhaustion. But the living cats who visit must be exempt from this rule– because Coniferfrost’s chest aches. 

Little Gullkit and Starlingkit are the worst, huddled behind the paws of older clanmates. Their parents still linger in the living world– though Coniferfrost thinks their mother will not be long behind them. He can still hear Quailquil’s breathing, thick and laboured. Can still see the bloody mucus dripping down her chin, and caking in the fur of her chest.

Lost in thoughts of Featherclan’s overburdened medicine den, Coniferfrost doesn’t notice, at first, when one cat breaks from the crowd, and snaps up Conifrrfrost’s offering. A lean, long-backed brown tabby, white markings spreading in splotches from his belly. The fish crunches between his teeth, its red blood strangely vivid in this silver place.

Coniferfrost snaps out of his daze, at the sight of it. “Cooperstar. You made it to Starclan.”

“I did.” The lean tom dips his head. “I am sorry to have left the clan in such a state. It is a heavy burden I have left you with.”

It is, rather. Cooperstar’s deputy had died of the mysterious plague, too– just before Cooperstar had. The leader, in the throes of fever-sleep, had not been lucid enough to name a replacement. No leader, and no deputy. For medicine cats, only Coniferfrost- only just out of apprenticeship- and little Lizardpaw, who had been called to the medicine den in desperation, when the more experienced Sparrowfur had died. Warriors failing, kits sick, elders dropping like flies. A heavy burden, indeed.

But Coniferfrost only says, “I know you would have stayed, if you’d been able. If– Sparrowfur had been alive, when you fell sick…” “Sparrowfur could not have done more for me than you did.” Cooperstar’s voice is warm; sincere. “She taught you very well– and speaks highly of you even now, watching from beyond.”

“I suppose.” Coniferfrost hunches his shoulders. That was kind– but where is Sparrowfur, then, if Cooperstar is telling the truth? Why hadn’t she come to see him? 

“Come now,” Cooperstar nudges Coniferfrost’s shoulder; a cool contact. Impossible to ignore that he’s no longer among the living. “Coniferfrost. Look where your loyalty- your determination- has brought you. You’ve come to speak with us on behalf of Featherclan, have you not? You have done- you are doing- all you can, for them.”

Coniferfrost swallows, hard; an almost painful gesture, like eating fishbones whole. He almost loses his nerve–.

But only almost. The kits bolster him. The little blue-eyed kits, with stars in their pelts, and chubby paws they will never grow into. Gullkit and Starlingkit, dead, and their clan racing to follow, as if in some great game of chase. “I would like to do more,” Coniferfrost says, the words rehearsed. “To heal them all– to save them. But if the sickness comes to me… I fear for Featherclan’s future. I’ve taught Lizardpaw all I can, but he’s so young– he can’t bear it alone.”

“No.” Cooperstar’s eyes cloud with sadness. “I know he can’t. But Starclan’s power is not limitless– I cannot shield you from the plague, much as I wish to. I cannot send you a cure.”

Coniferstar’s heart is a frantic thing, beating in his ears. This is it. Surely it will work. It has to. “I know.” He fights to keep his voice level. “But you can send me time. More time, to help them. To train Lizardpaw. More lives.”

Cooperstar’s eyes widen, just a fraction. “You want me to make you leader.”

Unreal, to hear it said out loud. What’s been, ‘til now, only a fantasy inside his head. Something brewing, growing, rooting, since Cooperstar had died.

Coniferfrost ducks his head. Takes a breath. And then– “yes.”

There– it is in the open. He’s said it.

There is a silence. 

“Persuade me,” says Cooperstar.

Coniferfrost sags with relief– that’s good. That isn’t a no. “The clan has sent me, to ask for Starclan’s guidance on our leader; I’d like to come back with it resolved. They’re so frightened. So uncertain. They look to me already for suggestions with the sickness. They follow me. But–.” He makes an effort, and meets Cooperstar’s eyes. “If I fall sick, and die, there is no one left to lead Featherclan in matters of the plague. No one even to consult with Starclan. If I fall ill- fatally ill- the lives will allow me to outlast it. Not forever. But I hope long enough…”

“Yes,” Cooperstar says. “I see.”

There is a pause. Coniferfrost’s breath is hard in his chest; It is all he can do to keep from trembling. “Then–”

Cooperstar sighs. “Then– Coniferfrost. To die is no easy thing; even with nine lives. To die nine times of the same sickness… It is a torment I wouldn’t wish on any cat. And you’re so young…”

That won’t be a problem, Coniferfrost thinks. But of course– he doesn’t say it. Only fights to hold eye contact, to keep his voice from shaking. Almost. Almost. “Younger cats already have been killed by this.” He looks past Cooperstar, to little Gullkit watching him with wide, blue eyes. “I know you would keep any cat from suffering, if you could. You were a good leader, Cooperstar. A great one. But–”

“But even the best leader can’t prevent a plague.” Cooperstar sighs; he seems old, suddenly, though he had still been in his prime, when he had died. “And I fear I wasn’t that. So many things I could have done differently…”

He trails off. Starclan is silent around them, except for a murmuring of voices; very like the noise of water at the Moonfalls.  Coniferfrost waits, his heart hammering. The only thing still living, here– and soon to join them in the afterlife, if he doesn’t succeed. 

At last, Cooperstar lifts his head. “Very well. Name your deputy as soon as you return to camp. And their successor, too. Bring our clan back from the brink.”

Coniferfrost blinks. He almost says– just like that? It had worked– it had worked. “I will,” he says, from very far away, his mind racing to catch up. “I swear it.”

“Then step forward, Coniferfrost, and receive your first life. I give you one for courage. May it never fail you.”

[divider]

Coniferfrost- Coniferstar, now- is still shaky, as he crosses the border into Furclan.

His legs don’t quite want to hold him– or. That’s not quite right. His pelt doesn’t quite want to hold him; there’s so much energy, so much life, buzzing beneath his skin, it feels like it might split at any second, and go spilling all of him out into the balmy air.

Some cousin to adrenaline, magnified a thousand times.

He can barely make himself stand still long enough to scent the air. There is no trace of Furclan– thank the stars. Coniferstar might shake apart, if he had to hide and wait for them to pass.

Was it like this for Cooperstar, after his ceremony? Or–

A thought, at last, stills Coniferstar, in full. That boundless, burning energy sputters, cold. Dies out.

Or does Starclan know, somehow? What he plans to do? They must see he’s heading away from Featherclan territory. Are the lives he’s gained rebelling, at his plan? 

Coniferstar closes his eyes. His new clan can never be allowed to speak to Starclan. They can never be allowed to come near the Three Clans’ territories.

No. It will be a fresh start– healthy cats. Good air, untainted by the smell of rot. Coniferstar will not die, choking on his phlegm, not die shivering and feverish, not cough until his lungs give out. Perhaps he won’t have to be a medicine cat, at all– won’t ever watch another clanmate waste away.

A cool wind blows. Coniferstar lifts his nose, to it. Fresh, sharp air; bright with the smell of salt. Yes– North. Past Furclan, and beyond. Through the rocky hills, afroth with wildflowers. To find some cleaner place.

Coniferstar shakes himself, and waits a moment, until the pelt settles smooth across his back. The manic energy has faded, but his legs are sure, and strong, and feel like they might carry him for hours, yet.

He sets off, into the wind–

–And in the medicine den, in Sedgeclan, Harebolt wakes up, with a jolt.

[sedge-and-sanctuary]

Moon Seven - Frostcreep

Harebolt gathers raspberries on patrol. Coniferstar is seen talking seriously with a kittypet. Harebolt quickly apologizes after bumping into Snowstreak. They have a small laugh about it.

Cats mentioned: Coniferstar - 27 moons - Leader Hubert - 92 moons - Kittypet Harebolt - 105 moons - Medicine Cat Snowstreak - 106 moons - Warrior

The air is fragrant with the scent of pine. Coniferstar inhales, deeply, opening his mouth to let the spicy, fusty smells of the forest wash over his tongue. Pine-litter and sweet bark, the earth rich, the land all teeming with life. The very southern border of their territory. He looks up; the trees loom over him. Dark, straight pines, dripping the melt of an early snowfall back to earth in fat, loud, spattering drops. The woods begin, here, all in a sudden line; the kind of clean, unnatural break that only comes where Twolegs go. All the better– it makes a very neat boundary, between where his cats can and cannot go. Beyond here, danger. Coniferstar huffs. Rubs his cheek against a bleeding, sappy stump; Sedgeclan was here. With so few warriors, their border-marks fade as quick as the clan can lay them. His heart twinges, a little, at the thought; at the smell of pine-sap fresh and bright on his fur, as he pulls back away. A homesickness; a grief. No matter– they will be a proper clan, here, some day.

And he has other business, today. The young tom shakes himself, trotting on along the treeline. The shadows of the pines fall over him, in patches, like the stripes of some great, dark tabby. Over a thunderpath, now; gravel, and not the hard, stinking stone of his old territory. The rocks bite into Coniferstar’s paws– he pays them no mind. At the end of the road, a strange structure crouches; some cross between a monster and a twoleg den. Small, and clad in shining metal; it throws back the sun like packed-down snow. Coniferstar squints, and ducks his head against the glare. He slows to a walk, sidling around the backside of the den, until its shadow falls across him. He calls out only when he can raise his head, again. “Hubert! Are you here?” There is a silence, which lasts a very long time. A hawk cries, far away, and Coniferstar glances up to see its outline stamped, dark, against the cloud-grey of the sky. “Coniferfrost?” Coniferstar looks down, again, blinking spots out of his eyes. “Coniferstar,” he says.

Hubert cocks her head. A kittypet– a tortoiseshell, with a pelt all-grey except the strange, stark orange of one paw; like she’d dipped it in a puddle of mud. “That’s a promotion, isn’t it?” She blinks at him. “Hang on, then. Is Cooperstar…” “Yes.” Coniferstar ducks his head. There is another pause. The silence goes unbroken, this time, the sky above a grey unmarked by far-off wings. “I’m sorry,” Hubert says. And then, inadequately, “he was nice.” “He was.” Coniferstar sighs. “You didn’t know, then? I’d hoped you’d have… heard. If there was news, from Featherclan.” Hubert shakes her head. “You’re the first one I’ve seen in ages. I’d kinda thought you all’d forgotten me.” Coniferstar laughs; though his heart isn’t in it. He forces a purr, and leans in to nudge Hubert’s shoulder. “No, old friend– how could we?” From the shadows, rabbit-leaps away; a pair of green-blue eyes watches– and then turns aside.

Lost in thought, Harebolt drags a bundle of raspberries back into camp. The bristly stalks prick at her mouth– like chewing on a cat’s tongue. She huffs at the strange mental picture– and knocks, hard, into another cat, her vision obscured by the bundle of herbs. Snowstreak makes a startled, wounded noise; there is a dull thump. “Oh!” Harebolt’s words are muffled through the leaves; she spits them out, and bends to sniff at Snowstreak where she’s laid out, sprawling, in the dirt. “Sorry– Snowstreak. Are you alright?” ‘I– think I am.” Snowstreak blinks, her eyes crossing a little to meet Harebolt’s as she bends in close. “Though I’m not sure when you became so… fussy.” Snowstreak pushes herself upright, just enough to touch noses with her mate; and then shoves at her, a little more insistently, to give her room to get up. Harebolt sits back with a laugh. “Around the time you got your leg bit off by a rogue.” She watches Snowstreak struggle to her paws, warmth flooding her pelt. “It– bitten off is a little strong. It’s mostly attached.” Snowstreak sticks her back leg out, for them both to see. Harebolt thinks to a moon or two back, when it would have been too stiff to move like that. A purr rumbles up out of her chest. “All the way off,” she says, to diffuse the bubbling, too-warm feeling rising up in her, too strong to contain. “I’m a ‘medicine cat’ now. I’d know.” Snowstreak laughs; a little wheezy and breathless-sounding still, but leaps better than she’d been. She leans her head into Harebolt’s shoulder, purring deep in her chest. “Strange,” she says, softly. “Isn’t it? This– all of it. ‘Medicine cats,” and–” “Yeah.” Harebolt licks the top of Snowstreak’s head; she’s barely feverish, to the touch. She opens her mouth, and then– there is a pause. Snowstreak pulls back, to look at her. “Harebolt?” Harebolt meets her mate’s green, familiar eyes. “Snowstreak. Once you’re better. Do you want to stay?” Snowstreak blinks in surprise. “Of course! Why– I mean. Do you…” Harebolt looks at her paws. The raspberry leaves, scattered all around her, bristle, their edges scalloped with some precursor to thorns. “Of course not. He saved your life. Coniferstar did.” It is strangely hard to say, through the knot tying up her throat. Snowstreak purrs. “Oh– good,” she says, her voice a rush. “Me– I mean. I’m glad. I know it’s odd, but–” And she is so steady, on her paws; on her own four paws, again. Her injured leg doesn’t even shake, when she shifts her weight as Harebolt looks at her. What else is there to say, in the face of that. “But he saved us,” Harebolt murmurs, and presses her cheek against Snowstreak's, their pelts warm, together, even with High Dark looming.

[sedge-and-sanctuary]

Moon Eight - Frostcreep

Sedgeclan has no Deputy!

Coniferstar and Snowstreak find a dead cat by the thunderpath while on patrol. Harebolt has an encounter with a Starclan cat. Clan Rule Established: No cat of Sedgeclan is permitted to cross the southern border.

Cats Mentioned: Coniferstar - 28 moons - Leader Harebolt- 106 moons - Medicine Cat Snowstreak - 107 moons - Warrior Rookpaw - ?? moons - ???

“He’s lying to you,” A voice says, from over Harebolt’s shoulder. Harebolt turns, bristling. Did every strange cat she came across have to sneak up behind her to start a conversation? “You could start with ‘hello'.”

The cat who’d spoken laughs; a stranger to her, though Harebolt knows most of the rogues and loners of the tundra, at least in passing. A thick-furred black tom, with bright, glittering green eyes. Young– but big, for a loner, and well-muscled. In the early, Frostcreep night, his fur looks almost silver; brushed paler by the waxing moon. He blinks a greeting to her. “Hello, then. I’m sorry. But there isn’t very much time.” Harebolt frowns. “Why not? Why does every tom I meet lately speak in riddles?” He dips his head, apologetic. “I don’t mean to. I’m only passing on a message.” “From who?” Harebolt’s fur bristles. “You’re not with Boss? I’m not alone, you know. I have a clan to back me.” And that is a nice thing, about their strange new lives. That she can say, I’ve got backup, and can mean it.

But the stranger shakes his head. “No– no. Harebolt. My name is Rookpaw. I came to find your leader. But I–” Harebolt shivers. “How do you know–” An owl stoops, suddenly, some hare-leaps away, a shadow dropping from the sky. A rabbit shrieks, as its talons strike home. Harebolt swings around to look; her claws unsheathing. An embarrassing, instinctual display. A cloud, drifting over the moon, plunges the tundra back into darkness, and hides the owl from her sight. Harebolt can still hear the wet, messy sounds of it eating, smell blood drifting in on the wind. She shakes herself, irritated, and turns back to face the stranger- Rookpaw. But he’s nowhere to be seen. Harebolt blinks. The wide, Frostcreep tundra sprawls around her, its reds and golds all washed to silver, in the night. Harebolt’s spine prickles; she glances up, uneasy, some dread in her like a hunted thing. She hears, again, the sound of the rabbit, dying; a high, red scream, in the dark. A black cat could hide, easily, in the undergrowth, with the moon covered as it is. But… She scents the air. Salt, blowing in from distant waters. The fragrant, last-ditch blooms of sedgegrass, and of shrub. No cat-scent except her own. Shivering hard, in the chill of a sudden wind, Harebolt turns tail, and flees for home.

When she arrives, Snowstreak and Coniferstar are already back from patrol, their heads bent close together. They both startle, as she bursts into camp, whipping around to face her. Snowstreak’s pelt is bristling, just like Harebolt’s; her shoulders, too, have an uneasy set. Harebolt pauses, collecting herself. Studies the other cats. “Is everything– alright?” Snowstreak doesn’t answer, right away, but moves to press her forehead into Harebolt’s chest, trembling a little. Harebolt breathes out a sigh, and licks Snowstreak’s ear, forcing out a comforting purr. She always felt bigger– stronger, when Snowstreak leaned on her like this. The strangeness of her earlier encounter fades away. “It’s okay,” she says, gently. “You’re fine.” “Your mate and I just had a bit of a scare, out on patrol.” Coniferstar’s expression is warm, watching them. “I find myself a little shaken, too.” Harebolt blinks at him, gratefully- nothing wrong with Snowstreak, then. Snowstreak speaks up, finally, though she stays tucked up against Harebolt’s shoulder. “I wasn’t hurt, or anything. But– there was a cat. By the road, I mean. When we were out.” “The thunderpath,” Coniferstar says– a gentle correction. Another of those strange, clan-cat words. “He had been struck. We weren’t swift enough to help him.” Harebolt looks up to meet his eyes; he looks… troubled. But when he catches her looking, his expression flattens out; wiped clean, like sand smoothed as a wave recedes. “It’s silly,” Snowstreak says, sniffling. Harebolt blinks, and turns back to her mate, pressing in closer. “I know– I didn’t even know him. I just–” “No,” Harehold says, soothingly; though her pelt prickles, with some instinctual unease. “It isn’t. I’m sorry that happened.” “Me too,” Coniferstar says, quietly. “The land that way is dangerous– my friends. I think it best if no one ventures to that thunderpath again.” Harebolt’s ears twitch back. “The southern one? By that human’s place, the–” “Twoleg,” Snowstreak says. “That’s– what they’re called, isn’t it?” “Twoleg,” Harebolt echoes, after a moment, a strange weight settling in her stomach. “I gather raspberries by there. The… twoleg grows them. In his garden.” Coniferstar’s eyes sharpen, just for a moment. Harebolt blinks; had their leader spotted her? That day, a few moons back, when she’d seen him out by the trailer? But he only ducks his head, after a beat, contrite. “I know it won’t be easy. But I believe this is a sign; Starclan sent this cat to us– to me. As a message.” I’ve come to find your leader, that strange cat had said. A cold wind slithers in, between the boundary rocks, and goes right through Harebolt’s fur. I’m passing on a message. “The only thing that comes that way is danger.” Coniferstar sighs. “I’m afraid the risk is just– too great. From this day on; no Sedgeclan cat will be permitted to venture that far south. I regret that this... stranger had to die, in order to pass on the warning. But– from all frosts, a thaw.” "Yeah," Snowstreak says, her voice still a little shaky, “I’m just glad it wasn’t one of you.” She pulls away from Harebolt, and bumps her forehead, gently, against Coniferstar’s shoulder. Their leader purrs, and leans into her touch. And Harebolt’s pelt feels cold, in her sudden absence.

[sedge-and-sanctuary]

Moon Four - Highsun

Sedgeclan has no deputy! Sedgeclan has no healthy medicine cats Coniferstar meets a pair of loners named Streak and Bolt. Streak has been badly wounded by another cat. Coniferstar offers them shelter, on the condition they take on clan names. Mated pair Harebolt and Snowstreak join the clan.

Harebolt- Female - 102 moons Former Loner Confident Lore Keeper & Great Teacher

Snowstreak - Female - 103 moons Former Loner Nervous Eloquent Speaker

The year has been unusually harsh; a hard, cold wind races down the open plain, kicking up drifts of dry, icy snow. Bolt peeks her head from their hollow, eyes squinted almost shut. The blowing snow cuts through her pelt like needles; slices the inside of her nose, as she tries to scent the sterile, freezing air. But the den at her back is over-warm; even half-outside, Bolt can feel the feverish heat of Streak's pelt. Even in the wind, she can smell the other molly’s sickness; a carrion-scent. Vulture-food.

Bolt glances back at her mate, huddled in a ball around her injured leg. Her mouth is open, panting, her green eyes clouded. “You need water,” Bolt says; a useless fact, if true. “I’ll be alright.” Streak’s voice is an awful rasp; almost swallowed up by the tearing, howling wind. “It’s– it’s foul out, Bolt, you can’t. I’ll be fine until the wind lets up.” “And how long ‘til then?” The wind gusts; Bolt shivers, pelt fluffed against the cold. From outside the burrow, someone says: “Well. It could be days, at this rate.” Bolt’s head snaps around, at the strange voice; a dark, marbled tom sits just a hare-leap away, watching her with cool, blue eyes. She bristles, automatically, baring her teeth– but the stranger seems unperturbed. “Peace,” he says, voice strangely high, and touched with an accent Bolt can’t place. “I believe we can help one another.” “We can help ourselves.” Bolt unsheathes her claws, heart pounding. She’s aware of every shift, in the den behind her; Streak slow and stiff with her injury. Helpless even to stand.  “Leave us alone. Or–” But the stranger only dips his head. “I’ll go,” he says, soothingly, “if that’s truly what you want. It’s only–” he scents the air, mouth opening to show sharp, even teeth. “I thought I smelled infection.” A shiver goes through Bolt’s fur, that has nothing at all to do with the cold– though the wind howls, still, all around them, as if set to tear her paws from the earth. “It’s just carrion. Our dinner. And we’re not sharing.” “Is that so.” The stranger studies her, for only a moment more; and then shrugs, seeming to buy her story. Relief buzzes up through Bolt’s stomach, like she’s eaten honeybees. “Well then. I suppose I should go.” And the stranger turns, as if to leave, stretching his hind legs, languidly. His claws flex sharp as thorns, just for a moment. “A shame,” he says, offhand. “I must have been wrong, about the signs.” Bolt frowns, but says nothing to encourage him; he doesn’t seem to need it, carrying on: “if you do see a cat named Bolt, struggling with her mate’s infection in this storm– tell them Coniferstar is searching for them. I believe they’re meant to join my clan– and I’ve been sent the knowledge to heal them.” Bolt freezes, The fur prickling along her spine. “How–” she says, softly. But the stranger is already leaving. His long, black-tipped tail swishes behind him, as he walks away, pace leisurely– unbothered, despite the terrible wind. Bolt swallows, her mouth dry as scoured stone. Behind her, Streak shivers– her teeth chatter, audibly, despite the feverish heat of her pelt. “Wait!" The stranger- Coniferstar?- pauses, and glances back over his shoulder. “You–” Bolt squares her shoulders. “What does that mean. Who sent you?” The strange tom purrs, and turns around. “Curious after all,” he says. “Well. I’m very glad you asked.”

[sedge-and-sanctuary]

Moon Five: Highsun

Sedgeclan has no deputy! Harebolt agrees to be the clan's first medicine cat, learning the uses of herbs from Coniferstar.

Cats mentioned: Harebolt - 103 moons - Medicine Cat. Coniferstar - 25 moons - Leader. Snowstreak - 104 moons - Warrior.

Streak- no, Snowstreak- Harebolt has to keep reminding herself of their new names- is curled in the hollow, her breathing more even than it had been a moon ago. The camp is dug out beneath a series of tumbled boulders, tucked up against the side of a bare, clean rockface; the side of a hill split open like preybones, exposing the stripey stone below. Harebolt imagines what could have possibly broken open the earth like that. The sound it must have made, when the ground split- when all that stone came crashing down and breaking apart below. She shivers, her pelt fluffing. But the fallen rocks are all furred with lichen, now, and the sharp edges worn soft by scouring tundra wind; the disaster must have happened a long time ago. And the fallen boulders make for good windbreaks. The burrows dug beneath them are unlovely, but dry, and they warm up quickly with bodyheat. Sedgegrass grows, struggling in the summer- the Highsun, she reminds herself- taller than a cat’s shoulder, obscuring them from prying eyes. Harebolt watches Snowstreak sleep, in the rocky hollow that makes up the medicine den. Leans forward to press her nose to her mate’s pawpad; still warm to the touch. “Good,” Coniferstar says, creeping up behind her in his strange, silent way. Harebolt manages not to startle. “Is she still feverish?” “Only a little.” “She’s a strong cat.” Coniferstar looks down at Snowstreak, his striking, blue eyes thoughtful.  “And you’ve done what you can for her; you’re learning very quickly.” Harebolt blinks, grateful. Snowstreak’s bite-wound did look better than it had, the wound carefully cleaned and dressed, the awful carrion smell now only a memory. She shrugs. “I’ve got a good teacher.” Coniferstar laughs, softly. Pads forward to look Snowstreak over himself. “Not so, Harebolt. I only pass on what is passed to me.” Harebolt can’t disguise her sceptical expression; Coniferstar catches it. “I know you don’t believe, yet; that’s perfectly alright. Your paws walk the path, regardless. But Starclan put us here, for a reason; you, and your mate, and I. I hope you will see that, someday.” Harebolt huffs. “It wasn’t your spirits that saved Snowstreak. It was a living cat.” She nudges Coniferstar’s shoulder. “He’s the one I believe in.” Confierstar purrs, and nudges her back, his pelt thick and soft. “And he believes in you, Harebolt.” He pauses, and then his eyes seem to kindle with an inner light, as if hitting on some clever point– or struck by a joyful memory. “After this suffering– this frost, a great thaw will come– this is what Starlclan has shown to me. This is- it will be- the way of our clan; hold on to that.” Harebolt huffs. “I’m sure I will.” But her voice has no real bite, in it. Whatever else there was to say about Coniferstar; he had saved Snowstreak’s life. Surely Harebolt can stand a little strangeness, in exchange for that.

[sedge-and-sanctuary]

Moon Twelve - Highdark

Sedgeclan has no Deputy!

Murekit, Pinekit, Saltkit, and Timberkit are made apprentices. Coniferstar tells the story of the clan's founding.

Murekit takes a deep breath, holding carefully still as Wormturn rasps her tongue- again- between his ears.

His littermates- already groomed- are fidgeting a hare-leap away, their pelts sleeker and neater than Murekit’s ever seen them.

Pinekit looks sideways at Timberkit and- slowly- reaches out one paw to swat the back of her head. Wormturn doesn’t even stop grooming Murekit. “Pinekit, if you muss your sister’s pelt–”

He stops, guiltily. Saltkit and Timberkit dissolve into giggling.

The ‘day’, deepest in the heart of winter, is pitch-dark. The sun has not risen for days and days now, and will not rise again for quite some time.

Silhouetted- dark, against the darker sky- is Coniferstar. He stands on the Splitstone, waiting. The jagged, flat-topped boulder is kissed by moonlight, where it spills into the centre of their camp.

He opens his mouth, at last, and calls out, voice high and clear: “Cats of Sedgeclan! Any who have paws to carry them, and ears to listen– gather ‘round!”

Wormturn pulls away from Murekit, at last. He pauses, to smooth the last tuft of unruly fur flat, with his own paw.

He can’t afford to make a bad impression, at the ceremony.

Quickly, Sedgeclan gathers. There aren’t many of them, and everyone’s been expecting it. Harebolt and Snowstreak pad up to sit by Wormturn, chatting with her in low voices.

Murekitturn sits neatly by his siblings, tucking his tail around his paws.

He’s trying not to meet Coniferstar’s eyes directly, worried the older tom will be able to read his desperation in his thoughts. Notice me, pick me, look at me, look at me, won’t you look at me?

He glances over at his siblings instead; big, pale Timberkit. Speckled, nervous-looking Saltkit. 

And Pinekit– his only brother. Ginger, like Murekit is, but darker, and more sturdily built; the second biggest, after Timberkit. Everytime Murekit looks at him now, he tries to drink in every detail. One day, he’ll be exiled. And Murekit will never see him again; the faint tabby striping on his tail, and legs. The mischievous twitching of his whiskers, when he’s going to pounce on one of their sisters. The warmth of his pelt, when they all curl up together in the sun, and drift off into sleep.

Unless–

Murekit looks back up to Coniferstar. Look at me. Look at me.

And he does. Just– briefly, Coniferstar glances down. Murekit freezes, the leader’s eyes boring into him; pale, and flat, and calm. His expression is unreadable.

And then he looks  up to sweep the clan. The chattering between the adults falls silent. “Today is a day that we should mark. The very first young, of our clan, receiving their apprentice names.”

Murekit lifts his chin, hoping the fur hasn’t sprung back out of place, where a messy tuft tends to stick out beside his shoulder. Pinekit jostles him, nudging his side with a grin.

Coniferstar says; “It feels only right that this should come at a holy time– during the darkest days, when the warmth of sun cannot tempt us to indolence, and the prey is hard– and mouths hungrier than ours stalk the tundra.”

The wind whistles around the camp. Saltkit huddles closer to her siblings, eyes huge and worried.

“But why is this a holy time? These days when we all wish we were curled up inside our dens, sheltering against the cold?” Coniferstar looks across his clan; studies each of them, in turn. “I will tell you, now. The story of our clan. And usher in, with this tale of the path, a new beginning– carried in these brave, young paws.”

He nods down at the group of kits. Murekit meets his eyes, unwilling to seem nervous. Is that a flicker of approval, in his leader’s face?

“In the clan of my birth,” Coniferstar says, “the land was easy. We didn’t have to fight for prey, or warmth; more cats grew old than didn’t, and warriors whiled away their idle days in play, and relaxation.”

It doesn’t sound so bad to Murekit. He glances at his littermates, remembering the hungry days before the clan. Seeing Pinekit and Saltkit withering away, little by little, as starvation gnawed at them. Hearing the desperation in Wormturn’s voice, as she promised them they’d be alright, even as her milk dried up, and her fur fell out, in patches. He tries not to let any longing show on his face, at the description of Coniferstar’s rich territory, the easy hunting.

Coniferstar carries on, meeting every cat’s eyes in turn, so it feels like he’s talking directly to each of them. “But the clan turned away from our ancestors; what use did cats have for Starclan, when the earthly world provided such bounty? They grew selfish, and lazy– without respect for starclan, they abandoned the warrior code, and lived like low, base animals. Even in that plenty, kits and elders starved. A warrior might catch a mouse for sport, and leave it rotting in the sun, while a queen, in the nursery, cried out for the meanest morsel.”

There is a noise, behind Murekit; a little breath. Wormturn– he’s not sure how he knows, only he would recognise his mother, no matter what. Is she remembering the hungry moons, as well? Thinking of a queen starving, with no one there to help?

“And so– as Featherclan had turned their backs on Starclan, Starclan turned their backs on it. They visited me, in my dreams, and delivered me a prophecy. I was newly-named, then, and hoped for a way to save my clan… but it was beyond saving. Instead– I would leave my clan, and go on to build something new.”

He closes his eyes, and then intones, solemnly:

“A cat of tender years will go / Beyond the place that trees can grow / To find a land that’s hard and cold / And gather up brave cats, and bold /  To those that linger in the dark / The Stars will grant their brightest spark / And life will spring, for worthy ones /  Untainted by the clans of sun.”

There is a silence, in the wake of this strange poem. Cats glance at one another. 

Forced to sit still too long, Pinekit fidgests, and Murekit wants to clobber him. Don’t you know how important it is that Coniferstar thinks well of you? You of all cats?

Their leader opens his eyes. They glow white-silver, in the moonlight, something nearly unnatural. 

Murekit finds that he believes it, after all. About Starclan, and the rest. That something…. else really has touched their leader.

“And what do you think that means– Harebolt?”

Murekit turns, surprised. Coniferstar doesn’t spare much attention for Harebolt, usually– not since Wormturn really started learning her herbs.

Harebolt looks as surprised as Murekit is; her ears lie back, briefly, then relax. “It’s about you, obviously.” Her tail twitches; is she irritated? “And it’s telling you to come find us.”

Coniferstar nods, one ear flicking in amusement. “Quite right. Starclan guided me to all of you. To new cats, who can build a new clan– if we are willing to endure this harsh tundra. Do you understand?”

He’s still looking at Harebolt; but there’s no warmth at all, in his eyes. Murekit’s pelt prickles– glad, for once, that the leader isn’t paying attention to him instead. 

Harebolt nods. “To those that linger in the dark. I get it.” Her tone is flat, echoing the prophetic words.

Snowstreak’s voice, when she cuts in, is not. “That’s why this time is special.” She looks up at Coniferstar, eyes glowing. “Right? Because– um.”

Coniferstar blinks, warmly, as Snowstreak falters. “Right you are. Because this time- this harsh time- is so little like the clans of the south. If we endure this– we prove we are more worthy cats, than they were. You have heard me say, from every frost, a thaw. This is what I mean. If we endure this hardship long enough– I believe that Starclan will grant us a great bounty. We must only prove we are capable of receiving it, without running astray.”

He glances up at the dark sky. “And that begins with these young cats.” When he turns down again, his manner is warm, familiar. “You have all waited very patiently. Now–”

He studies the kits, for a moment. Murekit’s skin burns, beneath his pelt. He resists the urge to squirm, and fidget, like Pinekit had been doing– though even Murekit’s troublesome brother is still, under their leader’s eye.

“Pinekit,” Coniferstar says. Murekit’s throat is dry. “And Saltkit. You have both reached the age of six moons. Clan law dictates it is time for you to take on the duties of an apprentice. From this day, until you have earned your warrior names, you will be known as Pinepaw, and Saltpaw. Your paws now walk the path of Sedgeclan cats, in full. I trust you will place them carefully.”

The two young cats step forward. Saltkit- no, Saltpaw- is shivering with nerves, and big Pinepaw presses his side to hers, offering wordless support. Murekit’s heart squeezes with affection for his brother. He could be an idiot– but no one would ever accuse him of being a bad brother.

Coniferstar blinks warmly at them– and then looks to the grown cats, behind them. “Snowstreak. You are ready to take on an apprentice. You have endured great hardship, and shown yourself to be a loyal and courageous cat. I believe you understand what it truly means, to be a warrior of Sedgeclan. You will be mentor to Pinepaw and Saltpaw– I expect you to pass on your wisdom.”

Snowstreak steps forward, too, her white-and-ginger fur fluffed up with pleasure. “I will!”

“Then touch noses with your apprentices, and let us all greet them by their new names.”

Snowstreak bends to touch her nose first to Pinepaw’s, and then- with a murmured word that Murekit doesn’t quite make out- to Saltpaw’s, too.

“Saltpaw!” Coniferstar calls. “Pinepaw!”

The clan, after an awkward few repetitions, joins in, and a ragged cheer goes up. Coniferstar’s tail twitches- just the once- as they struggle to arrange themselves into a proper chant. Murekit wonders if he’s remembering his old clan– the ceremonies must have been a lot smoother, with cats who knew their roles by heart.

Even though it’s kind of embarrassing, Murekit keeps chanting until everyone else has stopped, so his fading “Saltpaw! Pine…paw…” is the last to echo in the camp. Coniferstar– is that a look of approval, on the dark tabby’s face? It’s hard to tell, quite, in the dark.

Whatever it is, it vanishes as he begins to speak again. “Now. Murekit. Timberkit. I haven’t forgotten about you. It is time for you, as well, to be made apprentices. From this day forth, until you have earned your warrior names, you will be known as Murepaw, and Timberpaw. And I myself will mentor you.”

Murepaw- the name sends a thrill through him- finds his head spinning as Coniferstar springs from the splitstone to touch noses with him. He can pick out his clanmates’ voices as they chant his name.

“Murepaw! Timberpaw! Murepaw! Timberpaw!”

Their voices are a little less hesitant, this time.

In the middle of the racket, Murepaw meets Coniferstar’s eyes. “I’ll do my best,” he says, solemnly. “I’ll be a true warrior of Sedgeclan.”

Coniferstar purrs. “I know you will.”

He has to. If he doesn’t make a good impression– who else will convince Coniferstar that Pinepaw’s worth keeping around?

They part, after that, and Wormturn rushes over to congratulate her kits, and thank Coniferstar and Snowstreak for taking them on. The litter reunites, bumping their heads together and chattering excitedly– 

Only Harebolt lingers, on the outskirts. Watching them– alone.

[sedge-and-sanctuary]

Moon Eleven - Highdark

Sedgeclan has no deputy!

Snowstreak has a disagreement with Harebolt over kits. Pinekit goes missing for a few days, but returns.

Cats mentioned: Snowstreak - 108 moons - Warrior Worm - 39 - Medicine Cat Pinekit - 5 - Kit Coniferstar - 31 - Leader Harebolt - 109 - Medicine Cat

Harebolt wakes in slow degrees.

Cats talk, low, in the camp outside her den. Their voices rise and fall, half-audible under the sounds of wind, and distant waves; the nighttime calling of the owls.

Wormturn is saying, “Boss took him, I know he did–” And Harebolt comes all-the-way awake with a jolt.

She pushes her way out of the medicine den. All of the other cats of Sedgeclan- even the kittens- are already awake.

“If it was,” Coniferstar says, “then we can find him. We’re not so few, now. We’ll–”

“Find who?” Snowstreak, Coniferstar, and Wormturn all turn to face her. Harebolt resists the inexplicable urge to blanch. “Not– Boss?”

“Pinekit,” Wormturn says, distraught.

“Pine–” Harebolt’s eyes snap to the kittens.

Oh. Not– everyone in the clan is here without her. Three of Wormturn’s kits– speckled Saltkit, ginger Murekit, and pale, broad-shouldered Timberkit- are huddled, blinking, just outside the nursery.

But the darkest ginger kitten– the little tom, with bright, rich amber eyes…

Harebolt’s hackles bristle. “What would Boss want with a kitten?”

“A kit,” Snowstreak corrects, softly, and Wormturn says,

“They’re his,” her voice a low and wretched thing.

Harebolt stares at her. “You’re—”

“What’s important,” Coniferstar says, his voice cutting and clear, “is finding our missing kit. Wormturn can explain the situation after he’s home. Safe.”

Harebolt dips her head. Of course— he’s right.

“We’ll have one warrior with each group— Snowstreak, you take Wormturn. Go south.” Coniferstar looks at Harebolt. “You and I will head north. Our groups will sweep towards each other to the east. I can't imagine he’s gone up the cliffs.”

Snowstreak straightens, importantly. “Yes, Coniferstar.” She glances to Wormturn. 

Wormturn, after a moment, nods. She fixes her gaze on her kittens. “Saltkit. Timberkit, Murekit. Babies— stay in camp. Promise you'll stay here until we’re back.”

“I want to help.” Murekit’s voice is still a high, kittenish treble, though he’s starting to look like a real cat; lanky with recent growth. “Ma—”

“No.” Coniferstar shakes his head, firm. “This is one of the rules that comes with being a clan cat. You will stay in camp- safe- and let the Warriors handle their duties.” His tone brooks no argument.

Murekit ducks his head, with a quick, “yes, Coniferstar,” and herds his littermates back towards the nursery.

Coniferstar nods. “Quickly, now,” he says. 

And all the cats of Sedgeclan scatter out, into the dark, to search for their missing kit.

Snowstreak hops lightly down the rocky slope. Her paws are tougher, these days, with daily patrolling; Wormturn minces her steps, a little, following, though doesn’t make any noise of complaint.

“We’ll find him,” Snowstreak says, encouragingly. “I know it’s all still… new, for you, but–”

“No–” Wormturn lifts her head, sniffing at the wind. “I know. I just hope we don’t find Boss with him.”

Snowstreak eyes her, as the molly picks up her feet again, trotting purposefully for the border. The wind ruffles up her ginger fur, a fiery mane bristling, for just a moment, up around her face. 

“He’s… their father?” Snowstreak ventures. ���I knew him. I mean– we did. Me and Harebolt. I never…”

“You wouldn’t have seen me. I wasn't in his… group. Just— he. Ah, visited me. On the side” There is a brief, unpleasant pause. “But I knew about you two. Streak, right? He was– angry. When you left.”

That bare statement hangs, heavy, between them. He was angry.

Yes. He would have been angry. He was an angry cat; it's why she and Harebolt had left, all those moons ago.

Snowstreak looks at Wormturn. Her breath mists in the cold, drawing up a fog between them.

“I… know how he was,” she says, after a moment. “When he was angry. My leg— that was him.”

Wormturn looks, as if by reflex, at the nasty scar just-visible through Snowstreak’s Highdark coat. “I thought so. I’d— heard he killed you. It’s why I wasn’t sure.” She looks away again, scanning the dark, empty land. “That’s when I left— when you… well, not died. But. I didn't want to raise the little ones around someone like that.”

Snowstreak nods, a warmth kindling in her chest, despite the bitter cold. “You won't have to.” She veers sideways, bumping Wormturn’s shoulder with her own. “We’ll find Pinekit. This— I think this is what being in a clan is all about.”

Wormturn swallows, but her shoulders square. “Right,” she says, and picks up the pace.

Harebolt pauses by a desiccated, woody trunk; the spine of some old shrub, flayed bare by the season. She sniffs around the base, carefully, but detects no kitten-scent over the sterile, frigid winter air.

She looks up at Coniferstar; shakes her head.

He huffs, and leads them wordlessly further north, his easy lope eating up the distance.

In the bleak, colourless expanse of the winter tundra, his black coat shines with undertones of blues, rich-dark like raven’s wings.

Harebolt looks away, straining her eyes out into the night, instead. “Boss's cats come out this way, sometimes,” she says, recognizing the place. “But they mostly went south in— uh, Highdark. Like birds.”

“Yes,” Coniferstar says. “This is the place where they attacked Snowstreak, is it not? If they have taken Pinekit—”

“Snowstreak told you that?”

“No,” Coniferstar says, and then— hesitates, just briefly. “That is— I saw it.”

Harebolt stops, dead, turning to stare at him.

Conifer stops, too, after a pace, seeming to realise she’s not following. 

“You saw us? Fighting? And you didn't—”

And Snowstreak had so nearly died. Could have been saved so much pain. Harebolt smells, strong as if it’s there before her, the rotting stink of the infected wound. “You—”

“No!” Is Coniferstar’s tail slightly bushed? “Harebolt— of course not. Starclan showed me. That— it's how I knew to find you. I've told you this.”

“–Right.”

Coniferstar makes to start walking again– Harebolt doesn’t.

“Coniferstar,” she says.

He looks at her– really looks. His eyes, that glacial blue, cut into hers.

“Starclan. What– when they talk to you. What’s it like.” She sees, in some hazy space between memory and life, a big, black tomcat, looking on them sadly, in the dark.

Coniferstar tilts his head. “I don’t think now is really the time.”

“Please,” Harebolt says– and hears, a voice from moons ago, Rookpaw say, he’s lying to you. 

There is a pause; the winter night is still, and dark, around them, silver-wide.

“Have you seen something?” Coniferstar’s voice is very soft. His pupils are huge and black, ringed by hair-thin iris; so bright it’s nearly white, in the light of the full moon. 

Harebolt tries to read the expression on his face. “I don’t know.”

There is another little silence. 

Coniferstar says, “Then… Starclan cats. They look just as they did in life. Sometimes with stars, caught in their pelts. But– Harebolt–”

“He was after you,” Harebolt blurts. “I did see him. I– Rookpaw. He said–”

“But,” Coniferstars voice rises, drowning hers. “Not all the cats we see are good. There– Starclan is not the only territory, after life.”

On the point of interrupting him, Harebolt’s mouth snaps shut again. “What?”

“You…” Coniferstar sighs. “Perhaps I should have told you earlier. I hadn’t realised… that the Dark Forest may be trying to reach you.” “The Dark Forest,” Harebolt echoes. “How– what? How do you know–”

“You don’t.” Coniferstar shakes his head. “You can never know, for certain.” The energy comes back into his eyes; as if he’s hit upon a good idea. The fur on his tail smooths down, again; his shoulders relax. “But if you have another vision– come to me. We can make sense of it, together. Puzzle out what’s true, and… what isn’t.”

“–of course,” Harebolt says, unease turning in her stomach.

“Good.” Coniferstar sighs, as if with relief, and bumps his head against hers. “I’m very glad you told me about this. I would hate– oh, Harebolt, above all things I would hate if the Dark Forest twisted your mind, because I failed to warn you of them.”

“Me too,” Harebolt says, glad he’s too close to read her face. “If– I was getting lied to. I wouldn't like that, either.”

Coniferstar pulls back, at last, eyes glowing. “I’m glad,” he says, again, and shakes himself. “Let’s find Pinekit. I’m sure that together, we won’t have any trouble.”

“Pinekit!”

Snowstreak swivels, at Wormturn’s voice— loud, in the still dawn.

Their search has stretched on very long, the sky shading into hazy, muddy greys; a fog rising as the earth begins to warm.

It’s hard to make out much, in the mist; the uncertain light.

Except the trees, beyond their southern border; dark outlines, looming.

And a small, flame-bright shape, growing larger as it weaves between the trunks.

“Mama!” The shape calls, voice high.

“Pinekit!” Wormturn takes a step towards him— Snowstreak stops her, bodily.

“We don't go south,” she says. Where they touch, she can feel Wormturn trembling. “It’s— forbidden, Wormturn. It’s not allowed.”

And anyway, Pinekit is still moving towards them, faster the closer he gets, as if the sight of his mother is lending him new strength.

Wormturn doesn’t try to move, again, but strains towards him, leaning forward on her paws. Her eyes are hungry, watching him.

His shape resolves out of the mist just moments before he barrels into Wormturn’s chest, gangly with adolescence— but his pelt, fluffed up in alarm, looking soft as a kit’s.

“Mama,” he says, again.

Snowstreak steps back, giving the two space.

Wormturn licks the top of her kit’s head, her eyes squeezing shut with joy. A purr rumbles in her chest. “Pinekit,” she says, achingly soft. “Are you okay, baby? Is your papa around? He didn’t hurt you?”

Pinekit shakes his head; his amber eyes shine huge; confused. “Why would papa be here?”

Wormturn looks down at him. “Pinekit– why else would you leave camp? He didn’t come to get you?”

“No, mama. I just…” he looks back, towards the dark woods, looming through the fog. “I couldn't sleep, was all, and the others are always sleeping, all the time, and I thought—”

“Kits aren't allowed to leave the camp,” Snowstreak says. She follows Pinekit’s gaze, back south towards the forest.

Trees make black cutouts in the fog; the startling line where they begin, like fur bristling up beside a nasty scar. Forbidden territory. 

The others say something; Snowstreak doesn’t quite hear them, somehow.

She shuts her eyes. In the dark space inside her head, she sees a young, black tom; hardly older than Pinekit, now. He’s splayed out, in her memory, beside the thunderpath. A snowflake, drifting, melts on his glassy, open eye; he does not blink to clear it.

Dead. 

Young, and dead, when she and Coniferstar find him, on his aborted crossing from the south. Frost glitters on his pooling blood. His body lies mangled– twisted, like a piece of prey toyed with by a kittypet. His mouth is open, red– his teeth are bared. He–

“Snowstreak?” Wormturn says.

Snowstreak shakes herself, the memory falling away; an unease lingering, prickly, in her pawpads. “Yes. I’m sorry. We’ll–” She looks up, at the trees again. “Coniferstar will want to know, though. Where he was.”

And so he does.

When they return to camp, the story spilling out from Pinepaw’s mouth, unwary, Coniferstar ducks his head.

“The southern territories,” he says, softly.

His small clan is gathered all around him; the kits are drooping, with exhaustion, but perk up to listen to him speak.

Coniferstar hesitates, and then leaps up onto a tumbled, flat-topped boulder in the centre of their camp. As he jumps, the wind catches him, ruffling his fur where it howls above the stone walls all around them.

“Cats of Sedgeclan.” His voice is grave. “Gather near. Today, we have faced a trial, and through the perseverance of our clanmates- and the will of Starclan- we have come through unscathed. Snowstreak, Wormturn– I commend you, for returning Pinekit to our camp.”

Snowstreak straightens, a warmth kindling in her chest; like she’s swallowed down a hot, fresh piece of prey. 

“But,” her leader carries on, “Our good news, this morning, comes with ill. Pinekit– is it true you ventured past the southern boundary?”

Pinekit steps forward; a red and shining little scrap, in the bleak grey morning. He looks up at their leader. Nods, mutely.

Coniferstar sighs. “And you know-” he lifts his head, to survey his gathered clan. “You all know- that the southern territory is forbidden.”

“Coniferstar–” Wormturn steps forward, brushing Snowstreak’s shoulder as she passes. “He’s young. And new to this. He didn’t–”

Coniferstar raises his tail; Wormturn falls silent. 

There is a pause; the whole camp seems to hold its breath.

“I understand.” He dips his head; sadness in his bright, winter eyes. “But the south… the dangers there. They are of greater weight than any one cat. Even a brave, young kit of Sedgeclan.”

He blinks at Pinekit, warm. The young cat straightens, chin lifting.

Coniferstar goes on; “I have learned, today, of something very grave. Harebolt told me of a vision. Harebolt?”

Snowstreak turns, surprised. She didn’t mention it to me. But of course– of course she would go to Coniferstar first. Of course; that’s right, and good. 

But Harebolt looks stricken; her pelt, that dappled grey and gold, lifts, slowly, as if blown by some private wind. “–Yes,” she says, “But…”

“It’s alright.” Coniferstar looks at her, steadily; straight on. Snowstreak’s pelt prickles– a tight, sour sort of feeling in her stomach, like she’s watching her mother fuss over another kit. Strange. “Tell us, Harebolt. You aren’t in any trouble.”

Harebolt looks around; meets Snowstreak’s eyes, for a moment, through the crowd of other cats, all staring at her. Snowstreak nods, encouraging.

Harebolt holds her gaze, as she speaks; as if talking only to Snowstreak. “Yeah,” she says. “Alright. It was just. A cat. He said he was looking for Coniferstar.” A beat; Harebolt’s lovely, familiar blue eyes bore into Snowstreak’s. “He– said he was lying. Coniferstar, I think. The kits weren’t here yet, so. I don’t know what other he it could have been.”

“Well, of course he isn’t lying!” Snowstreak looks up to Coniferstar. “Of course you aren’t.”

He nods to her, blinking gratitude. “No. But there are forces which would like you to believe I am.” His eyes lift from Snowstreak’s- a cold loss, which she tries not to feel- to rake the entire clan. “Forces from the south. If I’m right– the cat we found, on the southern border, is the same who visited Harebolt. Dark forces– from the Dark Forest.”

Snowstreak, uncertain, looks around– the other cats look as lost as she does. 

Except for Harebolt. She seems to shrink, inside her pelt, watching Coniferstar speak.

Coniferstar shuts his eyes, as if saying something difficult. “I am sorry. Wormturn– Pinekit. You are brave clanmates– good cats. But the safety of the clan must come before any one cat. If there’s any chance young Pinekit has been… touched, by the Dark Forest…”

“Coniferstar!” Harebolt’s pelt is bristling, now; on all four paws, she glares up at their leader. “He’s a kit! What are you going to do? For this? He wasn’t–”

Coniferstar doesn’t reply right away. He looks–

He looks at Snowstreak. There is a light of expectation, in his eye.

She swallows, understanding. Turns, to meet Harebolt’s eyes. She has to handle this. “I think– Coniferstar is right. Our– the clan has to come first.”

Harebolt’s eyes widen; a flash of hurt, in them, that Snowstreak thinks only she could notice. But it clears, swiftly. Her tail lashes. “Wouldn’t Boss say that? The gang comes first. We could’ve been safe with them, but–”

“Coniferstar is not like Boss!” Snowstreak shoots to her paws, outraged. “How could you say that? He would never– Wormturn! You know!”

The ginger molly startles, being called on. She looks at Snowstreak, and then up at Coniferstar. Swallows, once or twice. “I– Boss wouldn’t have taken the kits in. Or Snowstreak. When you were hurt.” She nods at Snowstreak, blinking. “But–”

“But he’s your kit,” Harebolt interjects. “And he didn’t know. What– what’s even the risk, here, that he’s… possessed? And then what are you gonna do? Coniferstar?” She turns her blazing eyes up at him. “Kill him? Exile him? A kit? In winter like this?”

“Highdark,” Snowstreak corrects, automatically.

Harebolt turns to look at her; hurt and shock and disgust all twisting up her face. “Right now?” Her voice is a whisper– but in the dead, icy silence of the camp, it falls, like a stone from a very great height, and seems almost to echo.

There is a long, long pause.

Snowstreak and Harebolt look at one another, across the camp. Harebolt’s pelt settles flat, by slow degrees. Her eyes are wide, and almost glow, as the sun at last breaks over the horizon. Snowstreak hears herself breathing, in the quiet. The distance, across their small camp clearing, feels suddenly very great.

Finally- finally- Coniferstar speaks. “Possession is precisely what I’m concerned about. Corruption. Infiltration. The dark influences that dwell in the south- and the Dark Forest- can creep into any cat. And it only takes one, to bring the whole clan down around our ears.”

Wormturn makes a small and wounded noise. Presses close to Pinekit- wide-eyed and silent, in the midst of all this tumult.

“But,” Coniferstar nods to Harebolt. “I am not so monstrous as that. And after all– your kits, Wormturn, were born in Highsun, were they not? Who can be surprised, that the corruption of the warmth, and sun, touches more easily their minds? We cannot blame any cat, for the circumstances of their birth.”

There is a little pause; and then Wormturn starts, seeming to realise Coniferstar is waiting on an answer. “Yes,” she says. “In the longest days. I wouldn’t have run, if– it not. But I thought we could survive. It was warm. And there was prey.”

“Prudent of you.” Coniferstar nods. “I am glad, to have a cat so thoughtful in our clan. And not unsensible– it would be hard indeed, for a kit to survive with the days as dark as this. We are closest to Starclan, in this time of long nights– but that doesn’t put prey in young mouths.”

Wormturn nods. Relaxes, a little, where she sits still pressed into her kit’s shoulder. “He won’t leave again, Coniferstar– you won’t, Pinekit.”

He shakes his head, mutely.

Coniferstar sighs. “He might. No matter what he says. I am sorry to say it– the risk of corruption still threatens Sedgeclan. I propose– an exile deferred. Let Pinekit train with us, until he earns his warrior name. Until he knows to hunt, and fight, as well as any clan cat might. Only then will he be asked to leave.”

Wormturn takes a sharp breath in; Snowstreak looks at her.

The rest of the clan does, too. After a beat– she dips her head, her eyes screwed tight with pain. “Thank you, Coniferstar.”

And maybe only Snowstreak hears it; a low noise. A note of disbelief. 

Harebolt, sitting all alone across the clearing. Saying, softly, “Thank you?”

[sedge-and-sanctuary]

Moon Six - Highsun

Sedgeclan has no deputy! Snowstreak has recovered from bloodloss, though her wound is still infected. Harebolt gathers herbs. Coniferstar marks the borders.

Cats mentioned: Snowstreak - 105 moons - Warrior Coniferstar - 26 moons - Leader

Snowstreak pads out of the medicine den for the first time since they’d arrived, pushing her nose into the wind. It trickles into their camp between the rocks, bringing the green-smells of the tundra’s short but vibrant growing-season. Her leg feels better than it has in moons; though her pelt still prickles with fever, and her paws tremble as she limps out into the open. Coniferstar turns to greet her with a blink of pleasure, and pads over to touch his nose to her forehead. “Snowstreak. It’s good to see you awake– how do you feel?” Snowstreak swallows, her mouth still dry, her throat sore. “Ah- tired. But. Better– I don’t. Harebolt’s explained some things to me. I should say thank you.”

Coniferstar purrs. “No need. I’m only glad to see you so alert again.” He tips his head, studying her for a moment. “Has Harebolt told you what brought us here?” “I– your healing?” Coniferstar laughs; a soft sound, like water over rocks. And he’s such a young tom; younger by far than Snowstreak and Harebolt. But his manner is so strange- steady, and calm. “No– I don’t suppose she’d mention it. It was a higher power by far than that.” He meets her eyes. “Your mate doesn’t believe it yet. But I think you might.” “I might?” “Yes.” Coniferstar turns, to look up at the sky; clear, bright blue, almost painful to look at. “I come from a place far south of here. A warm, and lovely place, where the cats have grown as soft and easy as their land." He shakes his head. "The spirits of our ancestors frowned upon them. Upon us.” Snowstreak blinks; her head, still thick with fever, spins. “Spirits?” “Yes.” His voice is distant. “I know it must sound strange to you– but our dead, in Starclan, talk to me.  They led me here– to you, and to your mate. We can start anew, the three of us. With cats like you…” He turns back to look at Snowstreak, and something in his eyes makes her puff up her chest, lift her chin, despite the stiffness of her long confinement. “You, who survive in this hard place... where there is no room for softness. You will be the key, to building something better.” Coniferstar blinks at her; eyes wide, suddenly, a little insecure. Looking, for once, like the young cat he is. “You believe me, don’t you?” Snowstreak’s chest squeezes; what else can she say? “Of course.” She nudges Coniferstar’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, if Harebolt’s said anything. She’s a good cat, truly, just…”

“I know. I won't ask you to speak ill of your mate.” Coniferstar’s tail whisks the air, thoughtful. “Properly– a medicine cat should be among the clan’s most faithful. But– if we are to change things, let us change them. I suppose there’s no reason a warrior can’t be, instead.” “And that’s… me?” Snowstreak turns the word over, silently. A warrior. It has a strange sound to it; heavy, like all the new clan words. “Yes. You’ll be my very first warrior.” Coniferstar purrs, and looks over Snowstreak with a gleam of obvious pride. “Once you’re fully healed. And we’ll do great things, together.” Something in Snowstreak’s chest kindles; a feeling like swallowing sun-baked stones. Heavy, but… warm. She squares her shoulders, and does her best, level, to meet his eyes.