There, a quick flash in his gut, Thriftpaw feels excitement at the prospect of being the one to tell Milkthorn about the rogues. He condemns himself for it, habit that does nothing to ease the brief feeling. When his eyes flick now, it is rapid—recollection rather than nervousness. The words come to Thriftpaw easier than he thought they would.
“It started after you—the patrol—had gone. Rogues came to our border and then they began trespassing. Stealing prey, getting into scuffles,” Thriftpaw’s mouth thins, “I, uh—I didn’t—I stayed away from the borders. I didn’t want a fight.”
When Thriftpaw pauses, it isn’t for dramatic effect. He doesn’t have the instinct of a storyteller, even though he understands on some level deeper than he thought possible that, in another life, storytelling could have sustained him as easily as a meal. Rather, he pauses to brace himself for the coming words or, more aptly, the coming memories.
“They came at night. It was like—it was like a beehive fell just outside of camp, and then all the bees were swarming us. There were too many to fight.” Thriftpaw doesn’t mention the way the acrid scent of fear mingled with that of blood without mixing, or about the fine tremors that ran over Thriftpaw’s legs, “We—WindClan—retreated. ThunderClan took us in. They made us sleep away from camp in some sort of, it was a little sandy basin in a break of trees.”
His lip curls, distaste for ThunderClan to hide the distrust. Beneath that: fear.
“But the rogues came for ThunderClan too. They came for all the clans but ShadowClan, and so all of us ended up—we were all hiding in the marsh. ShadowClan had us sleep around this burned down tree. And made us make our nests out of reeds.” Moss had been offered too but it had been spongey and damp beneath Thriftpaw’s shaking paw, “We all—all of the clans—made plans to take back our individual camps. Getting WindClan back…”
Thriftpaw thinks he was reminded of bees back then, too. The rogues were innumerable, and yet WindClan won. The smile on Thriftpaw’s face is a small thing—caught on a single detail. WindClan won. “Many rogues died. I fought as hard as I could—” Thriftpaw turns his head to show his earned, still puckered-pink scar, twin scratches on his shoulder, long and delicate, only visible through his fur when he held his head at the right angle, “—and then, at once, the rogues retreated.”
There is more he doesn’t mention: how he had held the rogue who gave him those scars down as Bluepaw killed her. How she had been a tortoiseshell, and older than them both, or how Thriftpaw remembers her eyes without remembering the color. His heart thump-thump-thumps in his ears; he lets the memories pass him by, unexamined.
Milkthorn saying he cares about Thriftpaw moves through him like a jolt. He tries to quiet his reaction only after it has happened. He runs his tongue over his chest in short rapid strokes and then returns his attention to Milkthorn, “That’s—that’s—” He forgets sometimes, that others notice him the same way he noticed them, “Thank you,” He settles on, not knowing entirely what he is thanking Milkthorn for.
The questions about his warriorhood are, in the very least, more familiar. They don’t make him feel anymore off-center, but it’s a good feeling, “Not yet but—but soon. Gravelsnap practically considers me a warrior already. For how I fought. As for the name… I haven’t actually—I like being an apprentice. I haven’t thought about names, I—uh, what about you? What were you expecting your name to be, if not Milkthorn?”
