#coniferstar

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.

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.

“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. 

The fight is already breaking up, as Coniferstar crests a small hill, and spies the cats facing off below. Nearest him, a cat in marbled grey and gold stands, bristling and spitting, guard over another. The cat beneath her, cowering, is smaller; ginger, with blood matted a shocking, vibrant red into her fur.