#heatherbrook

     It was the middle of leafbare, and all the prey were too damn stubborn to show up. He hadn’t eaten more than a couple of shrews in a week. He had set out from his cozy and warm little dirt-filled cave in search of something, anything, to soothe his aching hunger, only a few hours after the sun had risen, and now the sun had just slipped below the horizon and he still hadn’t caught so much as a hint of a scent of something to eat. Fern had even strayed far from his own territory in his desperation.      These thoughts and others ran through his head as his shout tapered off into silence. Fern continued to stare upward, his head lost in clouds much like the ones he gazed at. He thought he vaguely recalled those stars once holding all the hope he had had. The faith that he now unburied from deep underground. But that didn’t matter now. Neither earth nor sky seemed to hold any food. He heaved a sigh. He had to find his way home. He’d spend the night hungry, sure, but at least at home he’d be dry and warm. But he was in unfamiliar territory now, and in his hunger had failed to pay attention to where he was going. It would be a long night. He stood, then froze.

     In the fresh silence, he noticed the sound of several other cats breathing. As cathartic as a good scream could be, he realized in hindsight that maybe he should’ve waited until he was home and safe before announcing his presence at the top of his lungs. Oh well. Too late for that now. “Show yourselves. I don’t feel like fighting anyway,” he shouted as he took a defensive stance. Two cats, one amber and yellow in front of him, one grayish brown from off to his right, stepped into view. He heard a third, off to the other side and a bit behind, he thought, but when he turned to look there was nothing. Wait, no, there was a third cat, shades of white and blending in with the snow. All female, judging by their scents. All angry, judging their faces. The yellow one looked angriest of all.      “What do you think you’re doing on our territory?” The yellow cat asked, her voice as rough as her mood. “And which clan are you from?” Meowed the white one, whose voice sounded much more inviting. But her eyes, Fern noticed, felt colder than the snow they all stood in. Fern hesitated, suddenly very aware of the danger he was in. “W-well, uh,” he stuttered, uncertain where to begin, “Y’see... I was, um... hunting, apologies about that. I uh... I would’ve stayed off your turf, if I had bothered to... to notice... that I was trespassing. I-I didn’t actually... catch anything, so uh... hopefully not as big a deal it could’ve been?” He added. The amber cat scoffed, “Not a big deal,” she put on a mocking voice, “‘Oh don’t worry I was just trying to steal your prey—IN THE MIDDLE OF LEAFBARE MIND YOU—but it’s ok ‘cause I didn’t actually manage to do it’. How stupid do you think we are!?” Fern wanted to laugh at that. He didn’t, ‘cause she had her claws out and he wanted to keep his fur thank you very much. “Do you think I’m stupid enough to underestimate a new enemy? Nah... I prefer to be honest about stuff... even if that honesty might get me in more trouble... Although.. I don’t know what lie could get me out of trouble here, so... why even bother with it?” He trailed off, turning his gaze away from the glares of the brighter two cats. His eyes rested on the grayish cat, instead. He was taken aback by the look in her eyes; the anger was gone, replaced by an emotion he wasn’t sure he could place. “Wistful or longing” was his best guess.      “Who are you?” The question came in the form of a soft mew. Before Fern could respond, the amber cat cut in, “Yes, who exactly are you and which clan are you from?” He hummed, unsure of how to answer, but the gray cat spoke up and made it easy for him. “I don’t think he’s from another clan, Amberthorn. No cats in any clan have fur like that,” she said. “Like what?” Amberthorn replied sharply. “A couple of facial stripes? What’s so special about that?”      The white cat started to speak, but Fern cut in. “‘Scuse me, my turn to interrupt,” he said with a smile. Fern didn’t give her the opportunity to speak. Quickly he turned in place, aiming his left flank at the yellow cat. Suddenly feeling relaxed and confident, as if in his own territory, he continued. “I’m the only cat I’ve ever met with spirals like mine. I’m quite proud of my appearance, I must admit. And I know I’ll know my family if I ever meet them, because they’ll have spirals just like me,” he mused.      “No they don’t,” the gray cat stated. Fern hmmed at her, his head tilted. “Ya sure ‘bout that? Didja happen to meet them, ‘cause I’d love to,” he purred. “Fern- ... Fernbranch, it’s me, it’s Heatherbrook—Heatherpaw when you knew me—your sister. Don’t you remember?”      No, in fact, Fern did not remember. Or did he? Hard to say, really. He sifted through his memories, they were so jumbled. Memories never really mattered when there was no one but the dragons lurking in his dreams to speak to, and those were more interested in sharing their own memories than in looking into his. He ummed and hmmed and huhhed, ‘til suddenly he came across a memory from his early days.

     In the elders’ den, Fernkit laid near the entrace, looking over his shoulder for his sister. A cranky old white and brown cat, Snowpatch, had complained about being hungry, and Heatherkit had run off to find him freshkill, leaving Fernkit alone with the elders. It had been long enough she should be back by now. “Where’d my sister go?” he asked. Snowpatch snorted at him. “I don’t know about any sister of yours,” Fernkit winced, but the old tom meowed on, “but Heatherkit probably went off to find a warrior. There wasn’t any freshkill when we woke, or else I wouldn’t be hungry now.”      Another elder, this one an pale gray, scolded Snowpatch, “What do you mean, ‘any sister of his’? Heatherkit is his sister, Snow, whether you like it or not.” He groaned, “Not this argument again. Look Ash, I think just because her mother took the boy in doesn’t make them siblings, and you know you won’t change my mind about it.” Fernkit buried his head in his paws. “Don’t go starting with that nonsense again, Snow,” Ashtail got to her paws, furious. “I don’t know why you feel the need to insist that this kitten is an outsider or that his mother is a liar. And right in front of him no less! You realize you’re bullying an innocent kitten for something, if it’s true, is completely beyond his control.” She glowered at Snowpatch, daring him to respond. He stared at her for a moment. “Find me another clan cat with swirls like his, and I’ll believe he’s a clan cat himself. Even then I won’t believe he’s Puddlepelt’s kit. Just smell ‘im. Nothing like her or Heatherkit. Now, I think it’s best we change the subject already, or else we’ll end up clawing each other,” he said with a huff, and turned away. In a moment, the sourness in his face melted away. “Looks like Heatherkit’s back,” he purred. As she entered, Fernkit jumped up and ran away. He wanted to cry, to hide. He thought he heard someone shout after him, but he didn’t bother to listen.