#rookpaw

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.