- Jun 7, 2022
- 14
- 0
- 1
Hatchingstorm isn't old. At least, he's not elderly, not left to spend his days camp-bound and free of duty - save for sharing tales with ShadowClan's kits.
Hatchingstorm isn't old, but he feels like it, some days.
The gray smoke has been on his own since he was six moons old - hardly older than ShadowClan's youngest apprentices, left to learn the world's ways without a mentor to guide him. Had he been born into the marsh clan instead of finding his paws growing into a rogue's, perhaps things would've been different. Perhaps hunger wouldn't have been such a staple of his life. Perhaps he'd have a few less scars - his ears still intact, hardly a shred to them. Less war-torn, though the marshes have had their fair share.
Hatchingstorm had been too old to be born into ShadowClan, but he hadn't been too young to see its formation. An arrival to the marshes, a mission to change his life; to find a new adventure. An opportunity found in promise to a Shadow-furred molly - to protect, to fight and feed. Hatchingstorm had been on his own for many seasons by then, had fed and fought for himself. How hard could it be to care for others?
Admittedly, more difficult than the tom might have ever known, had he chosen to continue down a rogue's path.
A battle between Marsh and Pine.
Blood-spill in an arena that now holds Shadow and Sky - as well as Wind, Thunder, and River - when the moon is at its fullest. When the night's light is bright enough to wash away memory of such war, as those who gather beneath it grow younger and younger, until those who gather can no longer mourn StarClan's founders - faces they will likely not meet until their own paws walk the night sky. Yet Hatchingstorm knows. Hatchingstorm remembers the fallen. Mothers and fathers. Children and siblings. Merely kits, some of them - never to age, never to mean a name in clans they should've grown alongside. Clans they should've been able to defend in their own time.
An empty prey pile, day after day.
Leaf-bare chills the clan, sends food to slumber. A resortment to Carrionplace hunting and rat attacks, to stealing prey from Thunder.
Hunger and thievery, of course, are hardships he hadn't lived without. Hatchingstorm knew how to survive the former, and would rather not relive the latter. Still, ShadowClan's youngest shouldn't have had to deal with it, and the gray tom made sure to keep his meals rationed, in hopes of another not going hungry. The cold season was one he found himself still building strength from, though he's positive he's not the only one who feels leaf-bare lingering - who feels the next cycle of shortened prey coming.
Despite moments of struggle, ShadowClan thrived. And Hatchingstorm counts himself luck to have watched it grow. The Marsh Group's youngest are strong warriors, and ShadowClan's eldest born are the same. Some have even begun their own families, have had litters of their own - strong-willed and bright.
Hatchingstorm thinks he'd like to settle down one day with someone. Thinks he'd like to be a father too. One day - when sickness doesn't send their warriors on a journey, doesn't send strangers to wander their territory. Some day, when warrior life isn't as busy as it has been this past few moons - when they aren't short of clanmates able to provide and he doesn't find himself on multiple hunting patrols a day.
Someday.
When he feels less under the weather, when his body doesn't ache with the weight against it.
It starts with a scratchy throat. He notices it while on a dawn hunting patrol, while trying to catch a scent trail.
Though the symptom is alarming, Hatchingstorm thinks it's merely allergies. He's fine - besides the sore throat - and allergies aren't too uncommon for him at this time of the year anyway. Hatchingstorm doesn't think to speak with Starlingheart about it - not just yet at least. The young medicine cat is busy as is with actual yellowcough patients to be burdened with an allergy case.
Besides, it'll cut into his hunting - or, lack thereof - and ShadowClan needs cats hunting right now.
It doesn't let up the second day, or the third. But he continues on his way - it's just allergies, it must be. There's no need to cause a fuss, no need to use herbs those sicker than him need more.
But, when he returns to his nest on the third night, it feels like it might be something more. His chest hurts, his fur hot against him. Hatchingstorm's long fur always keeps him quite warm, but it's leaf-fall, and Hatchingstorm feels like he'd been standing under greenleaf's sun. His lungs are heavy, like a weight is held against his chest. He fears the worst, but it's late - he shouldn't bother Starlingheart at this time of night, should he?
Still, it's too warm here, in the warrior den. Perhaps the cool air will do him some good - silvered paws lift him from his nest, a staggered trudge that guides him outside. The journey is short, but leaves him out of breath, leaves him aching for slumber.
Rest - rest will do him some good. Hatchingstorm can sleep while he cools off out here, just behind the warrior den, in the coolness of shadows and open air. Rest will make him feel better, will allow him to hunt for the clan in the morning - after he... after he speaks to Starlingheart. It's allergies, it has to be - just a real bad bout of it, this time.
Slowly, he falls into a slumber, shuddered breaths leaving his form quicker than sleep arrives. Slowly, he finds rest. Slowly, he settles.
He feels better already.
Hazel eyes open again, expecting to view the marshes he'd rested in, rather than the star-laced dreamscape in front of him. Despite the confusion that fills him at the sight, Hatchingstorm knows what is happening before blue eyes can find him - knows that he cannot hide his denial in allergy-forged excuses any longer.
A kit on the battlefield stands before him. Starlit brown, an expectant demeanor in the way he sits. Hatchingstorm had only seen his darker reflection earlier in the day - a warrior now, unlike the child before him. The smoke furred tom had watched on twin die, the other survive.
“I know you,” the fallen warrior says. It's hardly a greeting, but the StarClanner smiles, and nods his head.
“I know,” he says in return. The child turns, motioning for the older cat to follow. Hatchingstorm hesitates - he isn't ready, is he? ShadowClan needs all the warriors they can right now. "You've done all you can for them." Hatchingstorm doesn't want to accept this, but knows it is the truth. A flick of the tail tells him so, impatience beginning to build in the younger form. A child, ready to move on to the next thing - even in the stars, the boy ceases to age.
A nod of the head is given. Hatchingstorm had fought for them, had fed them, had watched them grow. It's time, he knows. Silver-starred paws follow after the marsh child, an ache of sickness no longer in his form. A new adventure awaits him here.
Hatchingstorm isn't old, but he feels like it, some days.
The gray smoke has been on his own since he was six moons old - hardly older than ShadowClan's youngest apprentices, left to learn the world's ways without a mentor to guide him. Had he been born into the marsh clan instead of finding his paws growing into a rogue's, perhaps things would've been different. Perhaps hunger wouldn't have been such a staple of his life. Perhaps he'd have a few less scars - his ears still intact, hardly a shred to them. Less war-torn, though the marshes have had their fair share.
Hatchingstorm had been too old to be born into ShadowClan, but he hadn't been too young to see its formation. An arrival to the marshes, a mission to change his life; to find a new adventure. An opportunity found in promise to a Shadow-furred molly - to protect, to fight and feed. Hatchingstorm had been on his own for many seasons by then, had fed and fought for himself. How hard could it be to care for others?
Admittedly, more difficult than the tom might have ever known, had he chosen to continue down a rogue's path.
A battle between Marsh and Pine.
Blood-spill in an arena that now holds Shadow and Sky - as well as Wind, Thunder, and River - when the moon is at its fullest. When the night's light is bright enough to wash away memory of such war, as those who gather beneath it grow younger and younger, until those who gather can no longer mourn StarClan's founders - faces they will likely not meet until their own paws walk the night sky. Yet Hatchingstorm knows. Hatchingstorm remembers the fallen. Mothers and fathers. Children and siblings. Merely kits, some of them - never to age, never to mean a name in clans they should've grown alongside. Clans they should've been able to defend in their own time.
An empty prey pile, day after day.
Leaf-bare chills the clan, sends food to slumber. A resortment to Carrionplace hunting and rat attacks, to stealing prey from Thunder.
Hunger and thievery, of course, are hardships he hadn't lived without. Hatchingstorm knew how to survive the former, and would rather not relive the latter. Still, ShadowClan's youngest shouldn't have had to deal with it, and the gray tom made sure to keep his meals rationed, in hopes of another not going hungry. The cold season was one he found himself still building strength from, though he's positive he's not the only one who feels leaf-bare lingering - who feels the next cycle of shortened prey coming.
Despite moments of struggle, ShadowClan thrived. And Hatchingstorm counts himself luck to have watched it grow. The Marsh Group's youngest are strong warriors, and ShadowClan's eldest born are the same. Some have even begun their own families, have had litters of their own - strong-willed and bright.
Hatchingstorm thinks he'd like to settle down one day with someone. Thinks he'd like to be a father too. One day - when sickness doesn't send their warriors on a journey, doesn't send strangers to wander their territory. Some day, when warrior life isn't as busy as it has been this past few moons - when they aren't short of clanmates able to provide and he doesn't find himself on multiple hunting patrols a day.
Someday.
When he feels less under the weather, when his body doesn't ache with the weight against it.
It starts with a scratchy throat. He notices it while on a dawn hunting patrol, while trying to catch a scent trail.
Though the symptom is alarming, Hatchingstorm thinks it's merely allergies. He's fine - besides the sore throat - and allergies aren't too uncommon for him at this time of the year anyway. Hatchingstorm doesn't think to speak with Starlingheart about it - not just yet at least. The young medicine cat is busy as is with actual yellowcough patients to be burdened with an allergy case.
Besides, it'll cut into his hunting - or, lack thereof - and ShadowClan needs cats hunting right now.
It doesn't let up the second day, or the third. But he continues on his way - it's just allergies, it must be. There's no need to cause a fuss, no need to use herbs those sicker than him need more.
But, when he returns to his nest on the third night, it feels like it might be something more. His chest hurts, his fur hot against him. Hatchingstorm's long fur always keeps him quite warm, but it's leaf-fall, and Hatchingstorm feels like he'd been standing under greenleaf's sun. His lungs are heavy, like a weight is held against his chest. He fears the worst, but it's late - he shouldn't bother Starlingheart at this time of night, should he?
Still, it's too warm here, in the warrior den. Perhaps the cool air will do him some good - silvered paws lift him from his nest, a staggered trudge that guides him outside. The journey is short, but leaves him out of breath, leaves him aching for slumber.
Rest - rest will do him some good. Hatchingstorm can sleep while he cools off out here, just behind the warrior den, in the coolness of shadows and open air. Rest will make him feel better, will allow him to hunt for the clan in the morning - after he... after he speaks to Starlingheart. It's allergies, it has to be - just a real bad bout of it, this time.
Slowly, he falls into a slumber, shuddered breaths leaving his form quicker than sleep arrives. Slowly, he finds rest. Slowly, he settles.
He feels better already.
★
Hazel eyes open again, expecting to view the marshes he'd rested in, rather than the star-laced dreamscape in front of him. Despite the confusion that fills him at the sight, Hatchingstorm knows what is happening before blue eyes can find him - knows that he cannot hide his denial in allergy-forged excuses any longer.
A kit on the battlefield stands before him. Starlit brown, an expectant demeanor in the way he sits. Hatchingstorm had only seen his darker reflection earlier in the day - a warrior now, unlike the child before him. The smoke furred tom had watched on twin die, the other survive.
“I know you,” the fallen warrior says. It's hardly a greeting, but the StarClanner smiles, and nods his head.
“I know,” he says in return. The child turns, motioning for the older cat to follow. Hatchingstorm hesitates - he isn't ready, is he? ShadowClan needs all the warriors they can right now. "You've done all you can for them." Hatchingstorm doesn't want to accept this, but knows it is the truth. A flick of the tail tells him so, impatience beginning to build in the younger form. A child, ready to move on to the next thing - even in the stars, the boy ceases to age.
A nod of the head is given. Hatchingstorm had fought for them, had fed them, had watched them grow. It's time, he knows. Silver-starred paws follow after the marsh child, an ache of sickness no longer in his form. A new adventure awaits him here.