...or, in this case, Next to the Menorah on the Windowsill. :-) There, it isn't lonely anymore; it has this oneshot to keep it company. Here's your Secret Santa, Sara Darkotter! Hope you enjoy, and sorry for the considerable length. xD
Thanks to AmberyAmber for help with names, and to LawlClan, of course, for hosting this. Happy holidays to all readers, and best wishes for the new year!
Prompts:
1) It was a mountain, a long struggle upward to that high peak they waved before us so tantalizingly. But one look at her limping beside me, and I knew she wouldn't make it.
2) Sparrows
TO DREAM OF SPARROWS
It was a mountain, a long struggle upward to that high peak that wavered before them so tantalizingly. But he took one look at her limping beside him, and he knew she couldn't make it. The soft crunching of her pawsteps against the fallen snow had been a steady, sure tempo when they first set out on their impromtu journey was now a wavering, almost nervous sound. She simply wasn't strong enough to keep going on like this. He knew, though, that if he tried to persuade her of this, he would fail miserably. Although her sides contracted and expanded with heaving, unsteady breaths, although her paws led her on a madly topsy-turvy path, she held her head high, ears pricked and swiveled resolutely forward, eyes shining with determination. She'd make this trip if it killed her. By the looks of it, he reflected morbidly, it would.
The thought slashed fear into his heart like thorn-sharp claws, and he already wished that it had not entered his mind, but it was too late to not think it, and impossible to expunge it from his memory, and so Birchtail fixed his gaze on his own silvery-gray paws and took a few more steps, sinking up past his wrists into feathery-soft snow. It was probably useless to try to talk her out of progressing, but he could try one last time.
"Featherstorm?" he began experimentally, still staring at his methodically moving paws. Already, even though he was taking slower steps than she, his head was nearly level with hers.
"No, Birchtail." Out of the corner of his eye he spotted her moodily lashing tail. "I'm not stopping until I get home, and if you want to stay with me, neither are you." Although her voice was firm, it had a teasing tone to it - that joking-insult manner that suited Featherstorm so well among her closest friends.
"It's not me I'm worried about," Birchtail said quietly, already fearing the repercussions for this but needing to say it.
Chancing a glance directly to the side, he saw that Featherstorm's faintly spotted gray-brown neck fur was already fluffing up. "I'm fine," she growled, the warning in her voice allowing for no argument. "We're not far now. We'll be there by sundown."
Birchtail blinked, shifting his gaze up to the ambiguously gray sky, made fluffy as a sheep's wool with snow-heavy clouds. The ground had been powdered with a thick layer of white the night before, and all throughout their journey today the snow had fallen as well, frosty flakes ghosting down on a gentle breeze to meld indistinguishably with their fellows on the ground. Around sunhigh - not too long ago, really - the wind had picked up considerably, though, and if anything its gusts had only grown stronger since. The snow fell a little more thickly, and it almost stung when the freezing stuff blew against Birchtail's nose. These weren't opportune traveling conditions, in his opinion. But on the other hand, Featherstorm too had grown up in the mountains...
"Why do you want to get back?" he queried, trying to divert the flow of conversation to a less argumentative topic.
Featherstorm still seemed moody, he observed, glancing over at her again. This time his murky green eyes met her dark amber ones, and she held his gaze unwaveringly as she mewed, "I've already ranted about that to you enough, I think. Not that it hasn't been fairly obvious for a while now." Her paw slipped as she took a step, and she barely managed to catch herself, bouncing off of Birchtail's shoulder as she did so.
"True," conceded Birchtail darkly, pausing to let the little spotted tabby regain her feet before moving on. "I'm going to injure him when I get hold of him."
"I'll deal with him, Birchtail," Featherstorm corrected the large silvery-white tom coolly. "In any case, injuring, as you so eloquently called it, may be a bit too far to go."
Birchtail made no further comment, and the two cats moved on, Featherstorm lagging just a little ways behind her companion.
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The gusts began to gain force at the worst possible time, hurling tiny bits of snow and ice that smarted like claws whenever they connected with Birchtail's face - and by now they were connecting with his face quite frequently. The companions were traveling across an unprotected, treeless ridge of snow at the moment, and Birchtail sank his claws halfway into the stuff just to remind himself that he was okay, he wouldn't blow away. He cast an anxious glance back at Featherstorm, still struggling through the deep snow towards him, seemingly incapable of the fine coordination it took to pad across the the thin, icy crust that topped the earlier snowfalls. A pang of pity and of fear twisted Birchtail's heart, and the pale silver tom looked up towards where the peak was...or rather, where it should have been.
It was veiled in dark gray clouds.
"Oh, StarClan. This isn't good," muttered Birchtail, and half-turned back towards Featherstorm, not sure what he was thinking about doing - yowling at her to hurry up, or perhaps even going to help her along? She'd never let him do the latter, he was certain, for she'd been stubborn in that regard since kithood, as he well remembered. He never got the chance to decide, though, for even as he turned his face away from the biting wind to gaze at the nondescript little she-cat, she fell.
For a moment before her legs crumpled beneath her and she slid into a covering of snow, she stood there almost frozen, dull tabby fur rippling in the harsh gusts that threatened to overwhelm both cats, battered by sleet and tiny white flakes, and she swayed as if in a trance, lifted a forepaw halfway, slowly, so slowly, moving as in a dream - and then she shuddered all over, legs and heaving sides and nose and flattened ears and slender tail, and fell to the ground, almost totally concealed by the deep drifts.
Throwing caution to the winds, Birchtail spun around - breaking through the snow's delicate crust as he did so, but that didn't matter now - and reached Featherstorm's side in three bounds, skidding and almost losing his nearly nonexistent foothold himself as he dug his claws into the deep-frozen earth and pulled to a spinning stop beside the fallen she-cat. "Featherstorm!" the silver tom gasped, crouching beside her, and then he saw that her eyes were still open and that she still struggled to get up, and even as he placed a massive gray paw on her back in an attempt to calm her, he whispered a silent prayer of thanks to StarClan, for she still fought for her life. She fought, as she always had.
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"We're only stopping for a little while," Featherstorm mewed hoarsely.
Birchtail's fur quivered with unease, but he dipped his head and agreed, only to humor her. "Of course."
Although she kept silent, the small she-cat cast him a shrewd look out of the corners of narrowed eyes that glowed amber like dying embers in the little snowy hollow where they crouched together, surrounded on all sides. A great rock overhang kept snow from caving in on them, and their backs were set firmly against a steep hillside, but nothing prevented great frozen white barriers from accumulating on all sides. Birchtail was trying to keep a little air-hole clear so that they wouldn't be in danger of taking their own breath; any kit who grew up in their mountain Clan learned the fine details of storm shelter early on in its apprenticeship, and Birchtail was no exception. Still, he'd never been trapped with a cat in such a potentially dangerous state of body.
The great silver tom tucked his tail more securely around himself, pretending that it kept out the numbing cold, as he thought through their predicament. He believed that they might have passed the border in the storm without noticing, but even if that was true, they'd still be on the far outskirts of the territory. There was no chance of somehow managing to make it to the cave on their own; that would only happen if some cat from the Clan came out looking for them, and that in itself was hardly likely. He and Featherstorm hadn't traveled with a group - they'd been the last two cats of the leaffall shift out, and had known that leafbare storms were following hard on their heels. When the last travellers besides the two of them had departed, the elected patrol leader of the seven had asked Birchtail if he and Featherstorm intended to come home before the snowy season at all. The cat had worriedly reminded Birchtail that if he didn't beat the blizzards, he and the little tabby wouldn't be able to return until mid-newleaf at the very earliest. Birchtail had been vague as to whether or not he and Featherstorm would be following...
To be honest, it had been Featherstorm's fault, though Birchtail hated to think that of the vivacious she-cat. One day she was of a mind to march up to the cave and shred Duskflame to pieces with tongue and claws, and the next she was a withering, shivering little thing, despairing over what would possibly happen to her now that this calamity had fallen upon her. The day after that, often as not, she'd be blissful and calm, aware of and content with the past events of her life, confident that her future was secure. She was as unpredictable as a flighty breeze, leaping from one mood to another, and Birchtail didn't know what to make of it.
At long last they'd set out, Birchtail half making up Featherstorm's mind for her, only days before it was deemed too dangerous to depart. The night before they left, there had been a brief skirmish that escalated to a more serious conflict as warriors of the enemy pierced nearly to the camp itself. Birchtail had had to pin Featherstorm to the ground to prevent her from racing out and joining the battle, and at dawn they had started through the churned-up snow and clawed earth in mutually foul moods.
It had taken only a few days to get to this point, both of them crouched under an ancient, creviced ledge, slowly becoming colder and colder as a blizzard howled around them. Birchtail prayed silently that he'd be able to save Featherstorm, who still crouched defiantly, eyes open, harsh breaths sending out puffs of pale mist into the dark snow-hole. He knew how to build a shelter, but he was no medicine cat, and neither was she. He knew, even, how to prevent a cat from growing cold in weather such as this, but what to do when a cat was already chilled to the bone, and exhausted, and, as if that weren't enough, in the certain delicate condition that Featherstorm happened to be in - not that you'd have guessed that last from her perpetually lean figure. The long-furred tom could only try his best, and so he and Featherstorm had curled up together under the snow -
"Birchtail?" Her drowsy voice broke into his worried thoughts.
Birchtail moved a little closer to her, feeling acutely aware of the freezing cold air all around them, and the fact that her thin though wiry pelt was hardly warmer. "Yes?" he murmured.
"I'm very tired." She sounded perfectly resigned to this, not defiant at all anymore, just accepting. "I feel half as if I'm dreaming."
True, he was no medicine cat, but he recognized these warning signs. "No, Featherstorm, you mustn't grow tired," he exclaimed in alarm, casting his gaze around the tiny hollow. The air-hole wasn't yet plugged up, and the little cave was far too small to walk around in...they could only talk. "Featherstorm, we can't have you falling asleep. That would be - " He smothered a yawn himself and felt a jolt of fear quiver through his spine. "That wouldn't be good, no. Not good at all."
"I'll try not to," the tabby mumbled quietly, but she shifted into a more comfortable position and allowed her head to drop onto her paws.
"No!" Birchtail exclaimed - then, as the suddenly roused Featherstorm blinked up at him in alarm, he repeated it more quietly. "No, Featherstorm, don't do that. Try to stay awake, really try."
"Right..." Featherstorm mewed, sounding almost resolute, but the strength was diluted by the sheer drowsiness in her voice.
For a while there was silence, broken only by the sound of breathing - Birchtail's slow, deep, methodical breaths, and Featherstorm's ragged, uneven wheezing, which deeply unsettled her companion. Once he reached out his dark forepaw and cleared snow from the air-hole, letting in a burst of cold but fresh air, along with a scattering of snow. There was hardly any light to be seen, although the white sides of the hollow he'd dug out with numbing paws were quite clearly visible. Birchtail shivered.
"I remember, you know." Quite suddenly, Featherstorm broke the silence, and the tone of her voice frightened Birchtail more than anything had yet. It was a sing-songy, dreamy rhythm in her speech, a disconnected rambling, and yet it proved that she was awake, that she was not yet gone, and so he let her talk, without drawing breath to interrupt. "I remember all the fighting...and why we all needed to go, to win back our territory from those who had conquered us, long, so long ago...when Mother was just a kit...but you see, though they tried to hold us down, we won back the mountain, and now we have been taking it back, all our territory, but we must go in shifts, a shift of fighting cats a season."
Her jaws stretched in an enormous yawn, and she took her time returning to her drifting conversation with herself, but still Birchfall listened, now entranced himself by the story he'd heard countless times before as it fell in soft misty breaths from her mouth. "You and I are in the leaffall shift, and Duskflame, well, he's greenleaf, but he stayed awhile into leaffall, because he had nobody to go home to...he said his brothers and father had been killed, they were in the leafbare and newleaf shifts, you know...I can't imagine what it must be like..." She shuddered and pushed herself closer to Birchtail, huddling up against him like a frightened kit.
"Shh. It's going to be okay," he soothed her, not sure what else to do. He'd always felt awkward around the much smaller she-cat, even when they were kits. Whatever sort of friendship they were expected to have, they did not have. Their bonds were no stronger than those of any two Clanmates, and yet he knew that deeper inside the both of them it might be true that an equally deep kind of love that would not perish with time lay hidden. Perhaps...or perhaps not... "It's going to be fine, Featherstorm," Birchtail murmured again.
"I know," she whispered brokenly. "I know." For a brief heartbeat there was silence, and then: "Lightfur's waiting for you, you know."
"Yes," he said quietly, memories of images and scents and a voice that rang clear and joyful like a hawk's cry flooding his mind. "Yes, she is. I hope she's not worried about me - or you." For a moment Birchtail stopped talking, then continued, words falling over each other awkwardly, rushing almost unbidden out of his mouth. "She, erm, she likes you quite a lot, you know. She told me so before."
"Really, I'd have never guessed it," Featherstorm mumbled dazedly, and without pause drifted on through her narrative. "I suppose she dreams of you, quite a lot, and you of her. Some cats would expect me to dream about you, maybe, or of Duskflame, or Mother...but you see, Birchtail, I don't. You mustn't be - " a yawn punctuated her speech " - mustn't be offended. You must understand, you see, that I think about other things. I don't think about fighting, like you most likely expect me to...don't think about kits either, not even this past moon, I'm not that sort of she-cat... Birchtail, I love home, more than anything else.
"A lot of warriors that I've talked to, Birchtail, they say that they fight for their families, or their loved ones, or even the Clan...but Birchtail, I don't fight for that. I'm brave for our home, Birchtail. The old legends say, you know, that the Shining Ones built the cave for us, and that their voices echo in the sparrows' songs - the medicine cat says she can hear them speaking, and sometimes I think I almost can as well, but not quite, because I'm not a medicine cat, of course. Still, I think of the sparrows...you know, Birchtail, how they live in the cave in back..." Her voice fell back into nostalgic tones, ebbing and flowing like the waves of the great lake on the flat territories. "We spent so much time there...I'm not sure if you'd remember...it was back, far back, so long ago, in the days before we were assigned shifts, and we were only apprentices, and we'd run to the back of the great cave where the roof nearly touched the floor, and we'd push through the narrowest spot, and there we were, in the inner cavern, and they'd all loop and wheel around us, myriads of sparrows... I was so happy.
"They aren't all the same, you know - I mean the sparrows. They banter and gossip just like elders, sometimes, but they sing the sweetest songs, and I'm so glad that it's forbidden to kill them... See, you know I'm the greatest hunter in the Clan, everyone says so, but did you notice, Birchtail, I never bring back songbirds? No? I don't, though, and there's something you don't know about me, that I don't kill songbirds, because of the cave sparrows...yes, they're such tiny little things, bright eyes like little stars at night, and they grew used to us and they'd even perch on my shoulders and head and back and would peck at my nose in play and chirrup in my ear, and I would stand there and stare up at the great curved red ceiling and the sunlight - or even moonlight - slanting in, and I'd close my eyes and I'd know I was at home.
"I dream of sparrows every night, flocks and flocks of them, and their feathers flutter down around me like a storm as they take flight - just like my name, Featherstorm, you see. The first nights, Birchtail, that we were in the flat lands, I hardly saw them - they fled and cried out and darted just beyond me, and I chased them, and when I saw them in my sleep I remembered home, and I fought for our cave, and for our sparrows. But later, Birchtail, later - " Featherstorm shivered against him again, teeth chattering, and buried her tiny face in his long silver fur, and he did not move away, and he did not speak, letting her words run where they would.
"They left me, Birchtail," she whispered chokingly, voice muffled by smoky strands of his pelt, her voice taking on a tone of despair that didn't sound like Featherstorm at all. "They only came back with Duskflame, and when he was with me...we'd fall asleep together, and I would see him when I dreamed, and the sparrows would land on our heads and shoulders just as they did in the cave...they loved me, but they loved him just as much, and he loved them, and I loved them, and I suppose we just completed the little sequence by falling in love with each other...
"But then, after he left, the sparrows stayed...and it wasn't the same. They'd fall around me, they'd cry out for my help, and I wanted to go to them, Birchtail, but I couldn't move, I couldn't, and Birchtail..." There was silence for a moment, and then she shuddered again, and barely audibly breathed, "Birchtail, I'm so scared."
Birchtail's head was in a whirl, and his own eyelids were beginning to feel heavy, his limbs sluggish, but he stretched out his neck and tucked his chin gently into the fur on Featherstorm's far shoulder. He himself was scared by these uncharacteristic revelations of hers, but he had somewhat ostracized himself from her for most of his life, and perhaps now - whether they died here in this cave or not - perhaps it was the time to begin paying attention to her. Their shared blood had never drawn them close, instead pushing them apart, for though Birchtail's mother was forgiving and loving, Featherstorm's was shrewish and jealous and cruel, and that was how it had always been - in his eyes, at least. He'd justified his semi-avoidance of her by reminding himself that her existence was an accident, just as his mother had explained it to him; she wasn't supposed to be his sister, so why act as if she was any more than another Clanmate? The fact that Featherstorm's mother had died a scant three moons after giving birth to a tiny tabby she-kit with wide, bright eyes was no reason to draw nearer to her, nor was the exile of their father for plotting with the enemy against them, and by the time Frostberry - Birchtail's own mother - slipped on a stray patch of ice and broke her neck in the fatal fall off of the mountain's steepest cliff, Birchtail simply avoided his half-sister by habit, trying to ignore his brotherly feelings of protectiveness towards her. And now he wondered: had that been the right thing to do?
Something deep within him answered No.
"Don't be, Featherstorm," Birchtail whispered. "We're going to...to make it home. We're going to get there yet, Featherstorm...you're going to see your sparrows..." The air was cold and harsh as it hit his lungs, but he struggled to stay awake. "Featherstorm, are you with me?" he muttered when she did not respond, and drew back in alarm at the further lack of an answer, prodding her with a paw, and then a half-unsheathed claw. The tiny tabby she-cat shifted slightly, but her eyes remained tightly shut, her shallow breaths did not change in their panting rhythm, her muscles did not tense in reaction to Birchtail's claw, her fur not even prickling.
In some part of Birchtail's mind, he raged at the world: the blizzard, the Shining Ones, his Clan, Featherstorm, himself, and especially Duskflame. It was all Duskflame's fault to begin with - staying behind, not leaving with his accursed fighting shift, getting Featherstorm all starry-eyed while she was on duty - and yet Birchtail could not rouse himself, not even enough to dig his claws angrily into the frozen soil under his paws, and he asked himself why, why couldn't he get up off of his stupid paws and do something?
Because of the ice, the frost, the storm, the snow, the freezing winds, he thought dimly. The weather was a cruel foe that could never be defeated...that was what his mentor always said...and it was true, wasn't it? The snow had blown across their breathing-hole by now, clogging it, stealing their air, but Birchtail was too tired to clear it, too tired...if he did clear it, though, perhaps his mind would clear as well. Maybe...
The sound of Featherstorm's soft breaths was barely discernible now, and the rise and fall of her flanks much less pronounced than it had been. Her black-rimmed eyes were still closed, the lids not even trembling. Birchtail knew that she had not succumbed to stale air - no, his limited memory of the old medicine cat's lectures in his apprenticeship told him, she was freezing. Featherstorm's short pelt was not the cause of her being afflicted by this before Birchtail; several other mountain cats shared this trait with her, their lack of a long outer coat of fur being made up for by a thick, soft inner pelt. Though he was no medicine cat, Birchtail was sure that Featherstorm's earlier collapse was due to her pregnancy. "Kits take a lot out of you," she'd remarked jokingly only a few days ago as he reached the crest of a particularly steep foothill several pawsteps ahead of her.
So, then, letting fresh air in would not help Featherstorm, but Birchtail knew that their only chance of keeping themselves alive depended upon whether he could somehow get them both back to the great cavern or not. If he could do so, he knew that Featherstorm could be saved - what made the great cave habitable in the first place were the strange warm-air vents in the back of the Clan's cavern. It was said that the Shining Ones had placed the yawning dark cracks in the earth there to make the area habitable for their Clan, and not only did the heat keep the Clan - and the sparrows - comfortable and alive on the mountaintop, it was invaluable to the medicine cats for use in cases just like this one.
Forcing himself into action, Birchtail tensed his muscles, stretched out his claws to dig into the frozen earth, and pulled himself into a standing position. He could tell that his ears must be brushing the craggy boulder that formed the roof of their impromptu resting place, but he could hardly feel the ears themselves. Reaching up a paw to touch them and make sure that they were still there and had not fallen off from the cold, Birchtail was alarmed to discover that he could hardly feel anything in his paw-pads either, and the brief jolt of fear provided the final push that carried his fumbling, dark silver paws the few tiny steps to the solid barrier of snow and pushed his pale gray head up through the cold white stuff, up, up, up and into the raging blizzard.
It was all the same as it had been when he and Featherstorm had taken shelter in the tiny hollow under the rock, besides the fact that it was much darker. The wind seemed to have died down a bit, but Birchtail couldn't be certain. The snow fell in clumps and huge flakes, effectively obscuring Birchtail's farther vision beyond a few rows of skeletal dark pines. But at least he could see - that was a relief.
The cold, fresh air didn't bring feeling back to his paws or ears or tail or nose; however, as Birchtail had fervently hoped, it cleared his fuzzy thoughts somewhat and chased away the throbbing pain behind his eyes. He ducked back down into the shadowy cavern with renewed hope, but as he tugged his head out from the snow-tunnel, one of his hind paws skidded on a stray patch of ice. Not able to regain control, Birchtail fell backwards, tripping over the unconscious tabby she-cat. There was a sudden flash of pain and his vision clouded red for a moment, and then Birchtail stood awkwardly, wondering what had happened. A second fiery burst of agony made him aware of the fact that his head had connected with the pockmarked, curving boulder overhead. Already Birchtail could half-feel a warm trickle of blood making its way down his neck. Still, the pain was already ebbing, becoming a dull ache - obviously the wound was superficial, and Birchtail let out a shuddering breath and began to crouch down, ready to grip Featherstorm's scruff in his teeth and begin the torturous trek up the slope, choosing a direction at random - one was as likely as another to lead to their cavern, and at the same time just as likely to lead to their deaths - Birchtail could not find the paths or the markers, not in this fierce storm -
Chirrup.
Birchtail froze.
Chirrupchirrup.
The noise was so familiar to him, a cat of the Clan, that he'd identified it subconsciously the moment he heard it - and yet, where was it coming from?
Chirrupchirrupchirrup.
It was a scolding sound, and it was louder now. Slowly, almost afraid to look lest his worst fears be realized and the chirp be revealed as just another dream, Birchtail turned around - and in the dim blue shadows cast by the snowy walls, found himself staring directly into the unmistakable sparkling black eyes of a brown-streaked sparrow.
"Oh," he said stupidly, staring at the rumpled bird that had just emerged from one of the deeper, darker indentations in the rock. "Oh, hello there, I - " And then, in the middle of the greeting, he remembered that he was talking to a sparrow, and shut his mouth very quickly.
Not paying him any mind, the sparrow clambered the rest of the way out of the hole, tiny pinkish claws clinging to the rough surface of the stone as tightly as burrs clung to Birchtail's own pelt. Once it had freed itself from the confines of the crevice, it tilted its head to one side and gave Birchtail a disdainful look out of the corners of its beady eyes, then hopped briskly to the cold earth with a flutter and rustle of little russet wings. For a moment it regarded Featherstorm with a funnily solemn look upon its tiny sparrow face, and Birchtail wondered if it was going to approach her, but a heartbeat later the bird hopped briskly over the small tabby cat, and made its way briskly over to Birchtail's snow tunnel.
Quite suddenly, the silver tom realized that the bird had to be from the Clan's cavern, what with its calm reaction to the two feline intruders. It had probably been caught in the fiercer winds of the coming blizzard, and had sheltered in this hollow, only to wake - probably quite rudely - when Birchtail's head connected with its makeshift roosting-place. And now that it had awoken, it was apparently headed outside to test the winds...and if it found that the weather was suitable for flying...maybe...
Even as the sparrow finally gained a foothold in the slick snow and hopped up and away through the air-hole, Birchtail quickly crouched down and gripped his sister's scruff securely, then pursued the sparrow, crashing up through the soft, cold whiteness with abandon, head turned slightly to the side as he pulled Featherstorm up with him; she barely stirred, even when he broke through the thin, icy crust of snow and crouched, exposed to the wind.
The sparrow was perched a few tail-lengths away from them, feathers ruffled but still with an air of detached confidence about it. The little russet-and-white bird was busily picking at a few jet-black feathers around its chin with its beak, carefully grooming itself; then, without giving Birchtail and the heap of tabby fur beside him a second glance, it tilted its head upward, experimentally fluttered its wings, then took flight quite suddenly. It flew quite slowly for a sparrow, though, dodging snowflakes warily as it pressed against the wind, and Birchtail found that it was quite easy to follow, even with his added burden - Featherstorm was really very light, and though his legs and paws were numb, they were still controllable, still propelled him steadily forward through the snow, up, up, and ever up.
Once or twice the sparrow drew too far ahead for Birchtail to see, and yet for some reason, it continually circled back, darting up behind him, fluttering its streaked wings furiously as it shot past, regarding him with interest, its head cocked to one side, curiously examining its two followers. It was very obviously aware of the fact that it was being followed, and seemed very proud of itself. Birchtail half-wondered if it could be a bird that had ever perched on Featherstorm or Duskflame's shoulder - more likely than not it was, though it probably didn't recognize Featherstorm, if the sparrows could even tell one cat from another.
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The trek was long and arduous, and the storm only grew harsher as they ascended, snowflakes half-blinding Birchtail, slick black ice treacherously waiting to fling his paws off the steep slopes, and yet the sparrow did not falter in its flight, nor Birchtail in his slow, measured, steady steps. He disregarded the occasional brisk scratch of pine needles against his back, the snow and ice accumulating on his long pelt, even the now-dried blood of the wound on the back of his head and the persistent ache of the same wound.
I will,he repeated grimly in his mind, get both of us home.
And then, very suddenly, as he forced his way through the snow up a painfully steep slope, pulling Featherstorm like a deadweight - she might even be dead by now, he had no way of telling - suddenly the sparrow circled back again, and the ground was level beneath his feet, the deep snow not able to disguise that, and the sparrow let out a very tired but very triumphant chirrup as it vanished into the shadows, and then very suddenly no snow slashed Birchtail's face, and no ice clacked under his claws, and the snow under his paws disappeared, and the darkness was deep and impenetrable, but that was to be expected, with the clouds over the sky keeping the moonlight from shining in through the ventilation holes in the ceiling, and what was sight anyways? Who needed sight to find their way around their home?
"Er," Birchtail experimented, letting go of Featherstorm's scruff, and found that his voice was hoarse but usable. He continued speaking into the void, whose silence was still alive with a myriad of scents and quiet rustlings. "Hello? Is - is anyone - "
A voice spoke out of the dark, very near his ear, and it was an achingly familiar voice, clear and strong and beautiful as a hawk's cry, and it said: "Birchtail?"
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The storm had passed some time in the middle of the night, and rays of silver light slid like water through the slanting openings in the vaulted cave's ceiling, moonlight pure and cold as the mountain air, and yet Birchtail was as warm as he'd ever been on a sunny greenleaf day, curled comfortably in a luxuriant nest of soft feathers and moss piled high, warm air seeping out of the crevice at his back, warming him. Lightfur was curled next to him, her creamy muzzle buried in the pale silver fur of his chest, her paws entwined around his neck, her dark ginger-striped tail curled lazily around his feathery silver one, and although it seemed that there could hardly be space between them, somewhere in that practically nonexistent area snored two kits, their pelts meshed together in a swirling mixture of dark silver tabby and creamy gold, and although the soothing sounds of the three she-cats' rhythmic breathing coupled with the tired twitterings of a few uneasily resting sparrows lulled Birchtail nearly to sleep, his head remained held upright, his ears pricked and alert, as he watched the scene unfolding only several tail-lengths beyond him.
In a nest of downy feathers, a silently jubilant tabby queen, her pregnancy only made evident by the slightest swelling of her abdomen, spoke quietly with a tall tom who bent over her, pale green eyes glowing with concern. The few shreds of soft light that found their way into the medicine cat's humble abode touched his fiery ginger pelt and turned it to a shining ice-white. Without a yowl or an excited leap, Duskflame had personally carried Featherstorm to the medicine cat, not leaving her side as Hawkwhisker rushed her to the warmest nest, applied poultices to her paws and ears, and checked on the status of the one kit, nearly ready to be born, that now curled in peaceful sleep within its mother. Featherstorm had regained consciousness as Hawkwhisker finished his diagnosis, her whiskers bristling while her nose took in the scents around her. Birchtail had watched as she turned to Duskflame, who was obviously steeling himself for just the explosion Birchtail was ready for - and yet Featherstorm had just looked at the ginger tom with a sort of quiet curiosity glowing in her eyes, a silent question passing between just the two of them, and Duskflame had suddenly reached forward and pressed his own cheek against Featherstorm's, and her eyes had drifted slowly closed.
Now, as Duskflame spoke softly but fervently to her - an apology well overdue, Birchtail guessed, from the few words that drifted accidentally into his ears - Featherstorm mirrored her mate's earlier gesture, stretching out and touching her face gently to his own with a quiet murmuring of forgiveness, and Duskflame slowly, almost nervously sank into the nest beside her. She shifted to the side to make room for him to lie down more comfortably, and just as he had not needed his eyes to be certain of his home soaring up around him, Birchtail didn't need to see his sister's face to know that her eyes were shining.
Featherstorm spoke not a word to him as she drifted into sleep at her mate's side, and Birchtail did not speak to her. And yet his last conscious thought before his own breaths fell into the gentle rhythm of Lightfur's and the two kits' was that maybe - maybe - he and Featherstorm were just starting to be a family again, and maybe - just maybe - it wasn't too late to start.
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Birchtail dreamed of a snowy meadow, frosty blades of grass touched to fire by an early dawn, snow unsullied by the pawprints of any cat. He turned his head and saw Lightfur standing upon one side of him, their two she-kits standing safe between her forepaws, and her face were tilted upwards towards the rising sun. The silver tom turned his head to the other side, and was not at all surprised at the sight of Featherstorm, with Duskflame at her side, also standing, swathed in pure golden light. A light snow was falling, dusting the cats' pelts with white. The silence - the strange feeling of near-loneliness - was absolute.
All of a sudden there was a melody in the trees surrounding them, the sound of countless voices uplifted in song that filled the morning air, and up from the branching arms of the snow-capped pines rose innumerable sparrows, black throats contrasting against the cloudless blue sky, white bellies flashing, reddish streaks blazing, and as they took flight their joyous chirps rose to the sky, singing a song of loyalty and love and family and closeness, a feeling that Birchtail knew he could name definitively if he only happened upon the right word, a sense of - a sense of...
Birchtail, I love home more than anything else.
And then he knew.