#snowstreak pov

[sedge-and-sanctuary]

Moon Ten - Highdark

Sedgeclan has no deputy!

Snowstreak talks to a loner named Worm Harebolt can't stand to be around Coniferstar

Cats mentioned: Snowstreak - 108 moons - Warrior Worm - 39 - Loner Pine - 4 - Loner Salt - 4 - Loner Timber - 4 - Loner Mure - 4 - Loner

Snowstreak trots cheerfully along the eastern border, following the path of the bounding river. Ice is crusted, sharp and silvery, along each bank; but thin enough the water still runs clear, in its deepest parts.

The day is bitterly cold, but Snowstreak hardly feels the chill–  it is such a pleasure just to run, and feel her muscles moving smoothly underneath her pelt.

She pauses, where the river bends around a jutting rock, and rubs her cheeks against the stone, huffing with pleasure at the renewed Sedgeclan-Scent she leaves behind. Ours, she thinks, and her purr comes out a steam, in that awful cold.

But– it isn’t just Sedgeclan she’s smelling.

Snowstreak’s pelt prickles, uneasy. Cats, for certain. And no one that she’s met before. Her leg twinges; shaky, suddenly, and weak, though the injury has long since healed.

She could run, now- she should run- but if there really are rogues, trespassing on the territory…

Snowstreak takes a breath, cold air catching in her throat. “Is someone there?”

Her voice hangs there, a solitary thing in the wide, white spread of the tundra.

And then– a mewling, high and plaintive; and the very distinctive sound of one cat hushing another.

“If someone is there, I don’t want to fight!” Snowstreak starts forward again, heart still racing . “But I can! I’m a Sedgeclan warrior- I mean, a warrior of Sedgeclan- and–” she trails off, not certain how to finish the sentence. She wouldn’t have known what that meant- a warrior- before Coniferstar.

Anyway, whoever it is doesn’t answer; even the mewling has gone quiet. But the smell of strange cats is stronger, now, and Snowstreak follows it, her tail quivering. A warrior of Sedgeclan– and that means she has to defend it.

“Please,” comes the answer, soft, and stops Snowstreak mid-stride. “I don’t want a fight, either. Just– don’t come any closer.”

The days are short, and very dim, this time of year; the sun, never very high, sends long, dragging shadows out across the tundra, like the marks left by some massive claw. Snowstreak squints into one of these, her eyes straining against the snow-blue shade.

“Oh,” she says. A scrap of ginger fur– and ten bright eyes, shining back at her from the dark. “There are kits with you.”

The strange she-cat does not respond.

Snowstreak sits, and wraps her tail around her paws. Coniferstar had said something, about this. Some Warrior thing, once.

“I guess,” she says, “you don’t have any reason to believe me? But– if those are kits with you, then– I really promise I won’t fight you. It’s my– uh, duty, to protect them.”

“Your duty?” The stranger says; a molly, with a young, uncertain voice.

Snowstreak nods. She can see, now, as her eyes adjust, a young, ginger molly, and four kits tucked behind her; big enough to be eating whole prey, their eyes fixed on her wide and curious.

“I’m a warrior,” she says, again. “We’re supposed to protect all kits. And– elders, too, I think. But there aren’t any here.”

“Oh.” The stranger studies her, a moment. “Well– we can protect ourselves. I can protect them.”

“But you must be hungry? Hang on–” Snowstreak half-turns, and then looks back. “I mean, wait there. I’ll be right back.”

She dashes off, and returns a moment later with some prey she’d caught, and stashed, earlier that day; a little ground-squirrel, still  fat despite the season.

The molly, to her relief, is still there, when she returns.

The kits start to squabble, again, at the smell of blood; even the molly’s eyes gleam, as Snowstreak jogs back into view.

“Here.” She drops the squirrel on the ground between them, and paces back a step, to give them space. “It must be hard, hunting for that many kits. You can have this.”

There is a pause; the molly watches her, fear warring with a naked, open want.

“Oh,” one of her kittens says, his voice high and piping. “Can’t we, mama? Can’t we please?”

Snowstreak nods encouragement; takes another step away, not wanting to crowd them.

After a moment, the molly shuts her eyes. “Alright,” she says, “of course. Thank you– go eat.”

The four kittens scramble up, at once, and dash towards the squirrel. They must be a few moons old, already, lanky with their growthspurts– but thin, where their fluffy, kittish pelts are starting to give way to adult fur. She can see their hips, and shoulderblades, bones too-stark as they bend to share their meal.

“There’s more prey back at our camp,” Snowstreak says, looking at their mother. “We don’t always have enough– but everyone always gets a share. And– they’d eat first. Every day. That’s the rule.”

“The rule,” the stranger echoes. Her muscles are bunched up, visibly, beneath her pelt; ready to spring to her kittens' side, at a moment’s notice. But she hasn’t yet. Surely that was an alright sign? “You said you were… a warrior? I don’t understand.”

“I didn’t either,” Snowstreak says. “At first. Coniferstar- he leads us- he explained it all. It’s… cats living together. By a code. We look after one another. We–”

She doesn’t want to mention starclan, yet; the spirits of the dead, the prophecy that had led their leader to this place. To her. To save her life. She knows how it'll sound.

But there is want, shining in the stranger’s eyes. She swallows, and looks down at her kittens eating– with none of the usual kittish squabbling. Only a silent, ravenous focus– Snowstreak wonders when they’d eaten last.

She says, “I know it sounds strange. It did to us, too. But– Coniferstar says, the… it sounds better when he talks about it. But that– hardship. Um, the tundra. Because it’s hard– it makes us strong. He says– after every frost, a thaw. And– that’s what… we are. I think. The thaw.”

“The thaw,” the stranger says, and looks up to meet Snowstreak’s eyes. “And you believe that?”

Snowstreak holds the molly’s gaze. “I do. He saved my life– my mate and I. Just– let us show you. You can go, if you don’t like it. But I really think it’s– I think it’s something special.”

The kits have taken the squirrel mostly to pieces; quick as owls, at their meal, barely even chewing. One of them- a bright, white-spotted ginger- drops a last, red scrap at his mother’s paws. “You should eat too, mama,” he says, and Snowstreak sees the hunger in the molly’s eyes, as well; sees the rippling of her spine, as she bends her head to snap up the piece of prey.

“Thank you, Mure.” She eats more slowly than her kits; as if trying to stretch the meagre mouthful out. To make it last. When she’s finished, she licks the blood fastidiously from around her mouth; not leaving a single drop.

And then she looks up, to meet Snowstreak’s eyes.

And says, at last, “alright.”

Loner Wormturn joins the clan with her kits.

Wormturn- Female - 39 moons Former Loner Loyal Keen Eye

Timberkit - Female - 4 moons Former Loner Quiet Constantly Climbing

Saltkit - Female - 4 moons Former Loner Charming Confident With Words

Pinekit - Male - 4 moons Former Loner Daydreamer Quick To Make Peace

Murekit - Male - 4 moons Former Loner Nervous Quick To Help

[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.

[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]

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 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.