Touching Light

[Beetlestripe (fiah!)]

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[atrb=background,http://i52.tinypic.com/10ndp4x.jpg] between the black and white, where everything goes gray and everything's unsaid, undone, and the negative bleeds away to reveal the memory that we've waited so long for the image shifts and the acid drips down the paper to the floor

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Snow was just starting to fall as Pumpkinpoet followed the other warriors out of the ravine, their pelts barely visible in front of him as the moon was shrouded by a thick blanket of clouds. The tom strained all of his senses to drink in his surroundings. Severedclaw unevenly loped along ahead of him, his long dark tail accidentally tickling Pumpkinpoet's nose. The thickset tom tried to hold back a sneeze, but he only succeeded partially and a forceful, high-pitched whistle came out of his nose. The small white she-cat next to him giggled and gave him an apologizing look.

Ever since the sickness had fallen upon the Clans, patrols had been doubled despite the small amount of warriors to run them. Fear and tension was running high among the Clans, and it had been thought that other warriors would be willing to trespass to scrounge for the remainder of what little prey or herbs there was. At night they were the most brutal; with three patrols going out at dusk, moonhigh, and a good hour before daybreak, coupled with the bitter temperatures that started dropping below ten degrees, warriors started to get more ill. In theory, the increase in patrols was a good tactic--there had been quite a handful of instances where there had been trespassing cats that they had to run off--but they had put such a strain on their numbers that the illness claimed even more.

Pumpkinpoet offered to go on the moonhigh patrol for the remainder of leaf-bare. His thick coat kept him from feeling the cold at all as he went on the patrols, and he enjoyed the quiet company of his denmates as they walked about. Sometimes they would hunt, hoping to catch a stirring mouse huddled safely within the warm confines of its den, or stop by the river to drink and dig out voles. This had never been a problem with the Clans before, and now it horrified Pumpkinpoet to think that they now had to hunt all day and all night to feed the Clan. Most nights the elder and younger cats were fed first, and half of the warriors would go to their nests with protesting stomachs. It was just a fortnight ago that they failed to catch anything, and they all had to go hungry for the day. An entire litter of kittens and an elder were lost that day, leaving the Clan to mourn and worry about their safety.

Something was horribly wrong. Everything was dying. To the tom, it seemed that a poison had seeped into the land. It wasn't even a tangible poison that could be flushed out, but a poison that touched the very soul of every living thing.

A paw prodded him in the shoulder and Pumpkinpoet discarded his thoughts, turning his attention to Severedclaw. The seal-point tom's eyes reflected a solid circle of white in the moonlight as he jerked his head towards the branches above them. The smell hit Pumpkinpoet's nose before he could make out the shapes in the darkness; a large disheveled nest rested above them, with the smell of a family of squirrels radiating out from it. Following his cue, he followed Severedclaw and a couple other warriors to the base of the tree, stationing themselves around its thick trunk to give each other enough room to climb. Despite knowing that his old mentor could do it, Pumpkinpoet still eyed Severedclaw carefully as they clambered up the bark. The gray and white tom's shoulders bunched and strained as he ascended, but his thick back legs rippled with power as he pushed himself up, determination etched across his aging face.

They all positioned themselves in different branches, both above and below in case the squirrels got by their defenses. Many pairs of eyes glowed eerily in the darkness as they waited, the hunger and hope charging the air. Severedclaw, who was the leader of the patrol, glanced at the branch the nest was perched on and nodded to Pumpkinpoet, letting him know the branch was thick enough and strong enough to support his weight. The dusty orange tom walked carefully upon it, not gripping on the wood with his claws in case the prey heard them scraping the wood. His toes, which had thick fur packed between them, made not a single sound as he approached the nest.

Just when he saw the sleeping rodents in the darkness, he sprung forward like a coil that had been wound too tightly. The squirrels--two large adults and four medium-sized adolescents--screamed in terror when his large mass collided into him. The nest broke out from underneath them as Pumpkinpoet shifted his weight to crush the spine of one of the babies with his giant paw and snap his teeth into the neck of one of the parents. He could hear his Clanmates gasp as he careened over the branch and plummet down to the ground.

He hit the ground faster than he thought he would and the wind was knocked clear out of his lungs. The tom blinked rapidly as bright flashes of light obscured his vision, unconsciousness threatening to overtake him. But he squirmed on the ground quickly, testing to see if he had broken anything. His side hurt when he tried to take a deep breath, and he realized with a pang of disappointment that one, if not a couple, of his ribs were broken.

The patrol rushed out of the tree as fast as they could and ran over to Pumpkinpoet, their mews of worry filling the air. Severedclaw padded forward, his expression stern and concerned at the same time. "Are you okay, Pumpkinpoet?"

He flexed the rest of his body to see if he had sustained any other breaks, and decided to withhold the information about his broken rib. "Nothing that's gonna kill me," he wheezed, unable to keep the pain out of his voice.

Severedclaw narrowed his eyes. His tail lashed and the stump where his one leg should have been twitched furiously; he was obviously very upset. "We'll have the medicine cat look at you when we return to camp. I'll arrange--"

"Great StarClan, look! He got the whole nest!" one of the warriors exclaimed as they noticed the furry gray bodies scattered by Pumpkinpoet's feet. The rest of the patrol murmured their excitement and pleasure; this was such a great catch so early in the night, and it was sure to feed the patrol when they returned to camp.

"What a great catch, Pumpkinpoet!"

"You had us worried that we'd lose you and the prey when that nest broke!"

Their praise and attention made the tom's face grow warm and a strong wave of shyness wash over him. He pushed his muzzle into his paws and mumbled thanks. Severedclaw still seemed displeased, though, and ordered the rest of the patrol to continue on their way; he would help Pumpkinpoet carry their prey back to camp.

"He deserves a rest." The other warriors mewed their agreement and went to mark the borders at the river. Severedclaw turned to Pumpkinpoet as he tried to get up, biting the inside of his cheek to hold back a mewl of pain. "Is your head full of air? What in StarClan's name were you thinking? I've told you many times before that you only go after the prey unless you know for sure that you will catch it without it knowing that you're there." He clawed at the ground in frustration. "Curse it, Pumpkinpoet! We can't afford to lose anymore warriors."

Though he knew that Severedclaw was very worried about what could have happened, Pumpkinpoet still felt unfamiliar anger boil under his fur. There was no need for the senior warrior to chastise him like he was still an apprentice. "The Clan has to be fed," he meowed evenly.

"That is true. But the Clan will not survive if we don't have warriors to protect it. We may be able to try everything in our power, but we can't always protect them from the elements. We can only do what we can for them." He sighed heavily. "I can't help but wonder sometimes if your affections for Blackfall have muddled your logic."

Feverish shame made Pumpkinpoet's fur grow hot, his skin itching and crawling beneath it. The tom's thick claws dug into the ground, leaving deep gouges. "S-She has nothing to do with this!" he spluttered. But he knew Severedclaw was right. Every time he went out on a patrol or caught prey, his mind was always on protecting or feeding the beautiful she-cat. But what was so wrong about that? He had something to give him purpose, to give him drive during these dark times. It was like he was touching light whenever he thought of her or saw her, chasing away the evil things that lurked in the shadows.

It was as if his old mentor had read his thoughts. "You can't put too much of your life into her, Pumpkinpoet," he mewed gravely, his eyes darkening. "The things that make you love life the most can be taken away and make you hate life. What if she's the next to fall prey to this sickness, or hunger? What if you were to mate and she had kits; do you really think she or your offspring would survive during these times?"

Pumpkinpoet tried to swallow past the hard lump that formed in his throat. "That won't happen." Was all he could say.

Severedclaw sighed, his breath billowing in a thick cloud around his muzzle. It was surprising to see that white hairs had started to appear on the tom's maw within the past few moons. "Nothing is definite, Pumpkinpoet. You are a great warrior, but we both know that you wouldn't be able to contribute to this Clan anymore if something were to happen to her; you would be overcome by grief. I'm telling you all of this for not just your own good, but for Blackfall and the sake of the Clan. We need to have every warrior be in their right mind, with their head screwed securely on their shoulders. Have I made myself clear?"

The large tom felt so lost and defenseless when he realized the truth behind Severedclaw's words. He desperately wanted him to be wrong, but he knew what he was really trying to say: Don't get your hopes up because she doesn't love you. He was right, though. The Clan needed the support of all of their warriors. Everything else came second in comparison to the importance of their society.

He could feel Severedclaw's eyes boring into him, but he refused to make eye contact. The snow had made a thin sheet on the ground, clinging to Pumpkinpoet's thick fur and weighing it down until he was half his usual size. His old mentor silently got up and started walking back to camp without a word, Pumpkinpoet following him with his head hung and his tail trailing in the snow. The silence was stifling, and the tom's head was filled with thoughts that ran about in a chaotic storm.

status: finished
tag: blackie
muse: wow, it's actually really good
lyrics: hands like houses - developments
listening to: nothing

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[Blackie]

She slid over the white expanse, moving with deliberate precision. The careful movements were entirely unnatural for her, and she struggled inwardly as she traveled. She had learned by experience that the contrast of her coat made her easily spotted in the leafbare snow, but she had found that it was also an advantage. Her black fur was an excellent shadow if she stayed still enough. Moving carefully, she could hunt this way, tricking prey into believing that she was a dark cast of the sun, or grime-coated rocks and shrubs if searching eyes were far away enough that they could not pick out her features. Yet, staying still was so very hard for her. Hunting itself was a daunting task, as it took so much concentration on her part to be able to find any prey. The cold only made it more difficult, so she had to be even quieter than she was accustomed to. She breathed in the air, trying to taste the scents on her tongue. The smell of cold was over-bearing, but a light smell shifted across the air. Excited, she flicked her whiskers, her pink tongue darting up across her nose. A blast of cold, and her breath freezing the new moisture, made her sneeze, suddenly. There was a rustling ahead, a bracken bush quivered, then mousey brown-grey flashed just out of reach and disappeared.

Blackfall lashed her tail, glaring sourly at the place where the creature had run. There was no point chasing it; she'd never catch up and her stumbling would only alert it to her presence before she could find where it had gone. She was too clumsy for this sort of hunting. She sighed then, a feeling of disappointment and low esteem burdening her thoughts. Though she was terribly ill-suited to hunting (and all the Clan knew it), she must find prey. So many were starving now. Self-consciously, she licked her chest fur, then down the length of her leg. She had become quite bony, the contours of her frame clearly outlined in her black fur. She felt small. Granted, she was under-sized, but this kind of small made her feel weak, helpless. She detested being helpless.

When the cold had seeped into her, she stood up again and continued her journey. The warriors had been pushed out further and further from their usual hunting grounds in search for food, the forest life had become so scarce. And every scrap brought home was pathetically small. Some cats fancied the other Clans ate better, but Blackfall knew that, in truth, all the lands were suffering greatly. The sickness had attacked so viciously when leafbare began and still drew the life from so many. Blackfall had been blessed to pass it by with little more than a cold, but that did not save her from feeling the harsh bite of hunger.

A rustle in the air caused her to pause, her owlish eyes darting up to scan the sky. Through the bare trees, a wild spread of wings was beating frantically for balance. Blackfall shrank back, trying to hide herself. The dove's feathers were creamy-gray, flashing white under the brightest sun-rays. It made a throaty cry of distress as it beat past a branch, before making a clumsy landing in the snow. It ruffled its plumage with distaste, flicking its head and rapidly blinked its orange eyes. The warrior stiffened, her body partially hidden by a snow-burdened bush. For a long moment, she thought for sure the dove had noticed her and would soon take off before she could make a grab at it. Instead, the bird cooed gently to itself and began to strut the forest floor, bobbing its head in search for food. Blackfall's heart lifted in excitement, but she forced herself to remain still. Dove's were stupid creatures, but she was barely in leaping distance of it. If she tried to attack it, she would alert it too soon and it would fly away.

After what felt to be ages of waiting, the bird had finlly moved within a few lengths of the cat and was settling itself down. It fluffed its feathers and seemed to be enjoying itself. Mouse-brain. Blackfall laughed to herself, bunching her hindquarters and rolling her shoulders in eager anticipation. She waited a few moments more, insuring that the dove felt safe and would be slow to react. And then she pushed off, propelling her fore-body upward, paws outstretched. Her claws glinted in the sunlight before the rest of her sleek frame. Startled, the dove spread its wings, attempting a frantic retreat. The wild flapping of its wings made a whistling noise through the air accompanied by terrified calling. Blackfall's talons snagged in the bird's tail feathers. With mighty force, she flung her prey down nto the snow, landng on the struggling body. She was too light to crush it under her weight, but skilled bites from battle-training snuffed the life from the bird within a matter of seconds.


Blackfall's return walk to camp was lifted with high spirits, but made slow by the burden of the dove. She carried it by the neck, it's limp body swinging into her chest and obscuring her steps. She was soaked through by snow and shivering violently, but she trudged on with fierce pride. She was excited to show off to Severedclaw. Only a few moons had passed since her apprenticeship to the aging warrior had ended, and confusion and pain still pulsed raw in her heart. Stupid decisions on her part had been made, and much loss. She still felt the pang of regret whenever sher pictured Farsight walking away, tail twining with Hummingbirdpaw. Was she still Hummingbirdpaw? Blackfall guessed she must have been given a warrior's name by now, but she had seen neither of her friend's in moons. And then Orangepaw, who must have fallen prey to sickness somewhere in the forest. Her body had not been recovered and Blackfall had grieved so bitterly for her. Thankfully, she still had Severedclaw, who continued to mentor her from afar, and bumbling Pumpkinpoet. Shw purred a bit, amusing herslef with memories of her denmate tripping over himself trying to keep up with her.

By the time camp was within view, the sun had dipped over the horizon and angry cold had settled in. Gingerly, Blackfall picked her way through the entrance tunnel into camp, dragging the now frozen bird along at an akward angle. A few cats still stirred, mewing in hushed tones. Somewhere in the nursery, a kit was wailing fiercly. The warrior's ears flattened at the heart-wrenching cry and stumbled to the freshkill pile. Proudly, she laid her catch on the bare patch of earth beside the remains of a mouse which had been saved for rations. Earlier in the day, some of the kits had dug out beetles from a dead stump and contributed them to the pile as well. Many of the cats had been tempted to eat them, but the insects were dried husks. No one had the heart to swipe them away.

Blackfall sighed, swishing her tail across the frost-laden ground. Newleaf will come, she lifted her muzzle to a star speckled sky. Her round eyes flashed with the half-light as she purred a prayer to StarClan. Newleaf will come, and the sickness will die. We will finally fill our bellies and the kits will grow and understand a better world than the one they were born to. And then the dead fronds in the bracken tunnel crackled under pawsteps, welcoming the familiar scents of Clanmates. Eager to show off, Blackfall bounded to the tunnel, shoving herself past the tired patrol and into her mentor's taut body.