- Jul 16, 2022
- 16
- 4
- 3
The winter has descended upon SkyClan, bringing its biting cold with it and driving away prey. The clan is struggling already, and the fight with ThunderClan only further proves how difficult the winter will be. If tensions are rising even between SkyClan and ThunderClan, two of the most similar clans, then what will become of the rest of the clans? What will happen to Blazestar and Little Wolf, after the fight? How can the clans fix what’s been broken? Should he just give up on this nonsense, go back to his warm home where he doesn’t have to worry about such things as clan tensions and survival?
No. He shakes his head, as though he can physically toss the thought from his mind. He’s not going back to living as a kittypet—a half-alive sort of life, if it was one at all. He’s free now, even if the leather collar tucked beneath his nest occasionally tugs him back toward warm meals and fluffy blankets. His days as a house cat are firmly over.
Surely a house cat would never willingly brave the chill of winter, just to sit outdoors and chat with other cats. The orange tabby tom lounges near the meager pile of prey, chewing at a small mouse. He dips his head to every clanmate who passes by, occasionally sparking conversations with those willing to stop for a few moments. He likes SkyClan, cares for his clanmates. They’re his family in a way that his people could never have been.
He wonders if they miss him, his people. They’d cared for him before, but did they worry when he left? Do they still worry for him, calling his name after dark and hoping that someday he’ll return to them?
He won’t. And it’s too easy, really, the way that he’s managed to slip away from his people and never worry about seeing them again. They won’t come after him; they wouldn’t even know where to start. To them, surely, Stephen King is gone, dead, vanished. And he doesn’t regret it, no matter how much work he has to put in as a warrior.
To the cat settled beside him, he asks, "Have you ever thought about how easy it would be to disappear?" He doesn’t seem to realize how dark it may sound to anyone who isn’t himself, but his voice is rough from the cold. Harsh, jagged breaths while hunting and climbing have done a number on his chest, too—his lungs feel scraped raw, as though icicles have grown there too.
No. He shakes his head, as though he can physically toss the thought from his mind. He’s not going back to living as a kittypet—a half-alive sort of life, if it was one at all. He’s free now, even if the leather collar tucked beneath his nest occasionally tugs him back toward warm meals and fluffy blankets. His days as a house cat are firmly over.
Surely a house cat would never willingly brave the chill of winter, just to sit outdoors and chat with other cats. The orange tabby tom lounges near the meager pile of prey, chewing at a small mouse. He dips his head to every clanmate who passes by, occasionally sparking conversations with those willing to stop for a few moments. He likes SkyClan, cares for his clanmates. They’re his family in a way that his people could never have been.
He wonders if they miss him, his people. They’d cared for him before, but did they worry when he left? Do they still worry for him, calling his name after dark and hoping that someday he’ll return to them?
He won’t. And it’s too easy, really, the way that he’s managed to slip away from his people and never worry about seeing them again. They won’t come after him; they wouldn’t even know where to start. To them, surely, Stephen King is gone, dead, vanished. And he doesn’t regret it, no matter how much work he has to put in as a warrior.
To the cat settled beside him, he asks, "Have you ever thought about how easy it would be to disappear?" He doesn’t seem to realize how dark it may sound to anyone who isn’t himself, but his voice is rough from the cold. Harsh, jagged breaths while hunting and climbing have done a number on his chest, too—his lungs feel scraped raw, as though icicles have grown there too.
[ HE SMILES A LOT. ]
