- Dec 18, 2022
- 534
- 230
- 43
──ᨒ↟↟ᨒ↟ᨒ↟↟ᨒ── He opens his eye. Not to a clanmate's back, or the dirt-packed wall of a badger's den, but a starry lea. Clear skies and jeweled meadows fall away from memory, outstripped, outshone by undiluted and unrestrained starlight that banishes even the scarcest of shadows. He expects a visitor wearing a pelt of the same make, perhaps to usher him to StarClan, perhaps to impart another cryptic warning, but the longer he waits, the farther the astral fields seem to stretch, empty of all but a boundless constellation. Like the moors at greenleaf's peak, starry clusters sway, though in a wind that Wolfsong does not feel in the waves of his pelt. It appears gentle at first, swathes of glistening buds sleepily nodding their heads in a breeze, but with each blink of his eye, they become more frantic, caught in a building storm.
A petal of light breaks and streaks past his face. Then another, and another, each with more speed and force than the last. At first a brushing, now they sting his cheeks, his shoulders, his flanks, no longer a tranquil lea. Its starry flowers are weaponized by the gale that Wolfsong still cannot feel, and he crouches down low, protectively covering his remaining eye and flinching with each shard that strays too close.
And then as abruptly as it began, it simply stops. He waits, counting his heartbeats until he is reasonably certain the danger has passed. When he uncurls, unfolds, and opens his eye, the stars have disappeared completely. There is only one shuddering mass, wobbling like the sun at midday, but a mercilessly blinding shade of purest white, unsullied by earthen toils. He watches its looming mass uncertainly, and as he peers closer, he thinks that the other stars have not disappeared at all— they are simply bound together into one, pulsing mass.
It explodes. He cannot close his eye before the fragments find it and he howls, pawing at his burning face. It is a bright blindness, that agonizing white seared into his skull, and the more he fights to clear his vision, the deeper the spear burrows until it must surely break through the other side.
He is going to die. He is dying and he will see his son again, and he will meet the countless dead who watch from the night sky. Vulturemask, Bluepool, Tigerfrost, Juniperfrost, Rattleheart, Lilypaw— they will be there, and Wolfsong will become a wise specter to visit Cottonsprig and Celandinepaw in their dreams.
He does not want it. As soon as the thought cuts through his punctured mind, the pain twilights, fading, releasing him from its talons. His breaths shudder. Wolfsong pauses. Inhales again, deeply. It is a scent he remembers instinctively, and even though the face he finds when he opens his eye is blurred, unfocused, details forgotten to time— he knows her.
"My child," she says, but he cannot see her mouth, merely the vague outline of a strong jaw. "Where are your claws?"
"Here," he rasps, extending his paw, muscles contracting to unsheathe. "Always."
"Where?" She asks again. Puzzled, he looks down. Though he has flexed his paw, his claws are gone. No hint of a warrior's tools protrude from golden fur.
Wolfsong blinks, mouth ajar. "They were here. They were."
She hooks a paw beneath his, lifting, bending her head to inspect. "I do not see them. I do not hear your name ring in the mountains."
He tries to stand, but he cannot free his paw from atop hers, no matter how hard he pulls. "I keep our warriors strong, Moðir."
"Do they keep you strong?"
Wolfsong bristles. "I keep myself strong. I am still a warrior, I am still—"
"Would a warrior fight harder to be called so— or known so?"
His mouth closes. Shame burns deeper than the javelin of light had, and he looks away from her like a scorned child. And where his gaze lands is upon a heap of stones. He knows their purpose, and seeks comfort in the familiarity of measured balance, and imagines he might entice his mother to play— but each time they fall apart long before he's stacked even half of the rocks.
Wolfsong still cannot see her face, and even the color of her paws is uncertain as she skillfully arranges each stone. Jagged, misshapen, and unmatched as the pieces are, she finds where each fits, understanding their weight and how they best meet the others. "You've forgotten," she says, when the tower stands tall and unwavering. "But you can learn again."
The dream evaporates like sun-banished snow. And as he wakes, fever breaking, he finds Sunstar nearby, watching him. Their eyes meet. "We are not who we were," he whispers through tight lungs. "But this— it is not who we are, either." A regained clarity, crawling free from illness, guides his insight. A heavy understanding closes Sunstar's eyes, and neither of them need speak another word. Not yet, while this resignation holds their tongues.
A petal of light breaks and streaks past his face. Then another, and another, each with more speed and force than the last. At first a brushing, now they sting his cheeks, his shoulders, his flanks, no longer a tranquil lea. Its starry flowers are weaponized by the gale that Wolfsong still cannot feel, and he crouches down low, protectively covering his remaining eye and flinching with each shard that strays too close.
And then as abruptly as it began, it simply stops. He waits, counting his heartbeats until he is reasonably certain the danger has passed. When he uncurls, unfolds, and opens his eye, the stars have disappeared completely. There is only one shuddering mass, wobbling like the sun at midday, but a mercilessly blinding shade of purest white, unsullied by earthen toils. He watches its looming mass uncertainly, and as he peers closer, he thinks that the other stars have not disappeared at all— they are simply bound together into one, pulsing mass.
It explodes. He cannot close his eye before the fragments find it and he howls, pawing at his burning face. It is a bright blindness, that agonizing white seared into his skull, and the more he fights to clear his vision, the deeper the spear burrows until it must surely break through the other side.
He is going to die. He is dying and he will see his son again, and he will meet the countless dead who watch from the night sky. Vulturemask, Bluepool, Tigerfrost, Juniperfrost, Rattleheart, Lilypaw— they will be there, and Wolfsong will become a wise specter to visit Cottonsprig and Celandinepaw in their dreams.
He does not want it. As soon as the thought cuts through his punctured mind, the pain twilights, fading, releasing him from its talons. His breaths shudder. Wolfsong pauses. Inhales again, deeply. It is a scent he remembers instinctively, and even though the face he finds when he opens his eye is blurred, unfocused, details forgotten to time— he knows her.
"My child," she says, but he cannot see her mouth, merely the vague outline of a strong jaw. "Where are your claws?"
"Here," he rasps, extending his paw, muscles contracting to unsheathe. "Always."
"Where?" She asks again. Puzzled, he looks down. Though he has flexed his paw, his claws are gone. No hint of a warrior's tools protrude from golden fur.
Wolfsong blinks, mouth ajar. "They were here. They were."
She hooks a paw beneath his, lifting, bending her head to inspect. "I do not see them. I do not hear your name ring in the mountains."
He tries to stand, but he cannot free his paw from atop hers, no matter how hard he pulls. "I keep our warriors strong, Moðir."
"Do they keep you strong?"
Wolfsong bristles. "I keep myself strong. I am still a warrior, I am still—"
"Would a warrior fight harder to be called so— or known so?"
His mouth closes. Shame burns deeper than the javelin of light had, and he looks away from her like a scorned child. And where his gaze lands is upon a heap of stones. He knows their purpose, and seeks comfort in the familiarity of measured balance, and imagines he might entice his mother to play— but each time they fall apart long before he's stacked even half of the rocks.
Wolfsong still cannot see her face, and even the color of her paws is uncertain as she skillfully arranges each stone. Jagged, misshapen, and unmatched as the pieces are, she finds where each fits, understanding their weight and how they best meet the others. "You've forgotten," she says, when the tower stands tall and unwavering. "But you can learn again."
The dream evaporates like sun-banished snow. And as he wakes, fever breaking, he finds Sunstar nearby, watching him. Their eyes meet. "We are not who we were," he whispers through tight lungs. "But this— it is not who we are, either." A regained clarity, crawling free from illness, guides his insight. A heavy understanding closes Sunstar's eyes, and neither of them need speak another word. Not yet, while this resignation holds their tongues.
-
— ★★★☆☆ WOUNDS: You're (mostly) in safe paws. You'll know if he's less experienced if he asks for your permission to try a treatment. No wound can scare him away from knowledge.
— ★★★☆☆ INFECTION: He can prevent most infections. If you feel feverish, let him know; he'll hum thoughtfully over herbs and sniff your wound before saying, "With your blessing..." -
— ★☆☆☆☆ ACHES & PAINS: If you complain to him of pain, he'll ask where. If it's a headache, you'll likely feel a bit better. For anything else, "Try this, if you'd like, and tell me how you feel."
— ★☆☆☆☆ BROKEN BONES: At best. he can ask you to remain lying down in the den. He may try to distract you with conversation while he considers what herb to feed you. -
— ★★★★★ TRAVELING HERBS: Going somewhere? No worries; Wolfsong knows just what you need to stay hale and healthy during your journey. The rest is up to you.
— ★★★☆☆ KITTING: Thanks to Starlingheart and his own pregnancy, he's better prepared for the arrival of kits, but any complications will need a little faith and a lot of luck. -
— ★☆☆☆☆ POISONS: It's best if you avoid eating anything unfamiliar to you— it's probably just as unfamiliar to Wolfsong. The best he can do is offer you yarrow and sit with you.
— ★★★☆☆ ILLNESS: If it's white or greencough, you'll likely recover. Otherwise, prepare for odd concoctions and the usual request that you consent to a little trial-and-error.
