Prompt: Newleaf was beginning, a time for rebirth, new life, and bright skies. The harsh leafbare was over.
In blood and tears and snow, the young kit was born. His mother's cries as she spasmed. It was the first thing he heard*, and it made him whimper, for even as a young kit, he understood pain. Everybody did. Pain was a natural instinct in a way. It ran in your blood, and the only time you saw blood, there was pain.
He grew older, but not old enough, by the Clan's standard, to leave the camp. He didn't want to. For even though he had been a young kit, he still remembered his mother's agonized yowls as she died, growing cold next to him. Because of him. So he didn't defy laws, because when you defied something, it brought pain in some way, shape, or form.
When he became an apprentice, it did nothing to heal or bring joy to his young heart, for the scarcity of the cats in the Clan landed him on his own father, who died saving him from the lake as he tumbled down rocks, causing the apprentice to grow physical bruises and psychological cuts. The Clan stood vigil in silence, as was custom, but to him, it seemed that they were silent of him. They had lost another warrior. Because of him. They turned away, and perhaps it was because they didn't know what to say. Didn't know how to ease the young cat's grief, but, he supposed, they should have had enough experience.
And so he was left an orphan, in a certain way, and this brought thoughts that no cat should have considered. Strange thoughts that didn't fit in a Clan. Things like maybe he didn't deserve it. Didn't deserve to live. It brought a frown on his new mentor's face when he told him. Why he told, he himself didn't know.
One day he walked into the Clan camp, and counted ten cats, not counting him, for he still whole heartedly believed he didn't belong in the Clan. He drew in a shuddering breath, sighed, and passed by the none existent fresh-kill pile. He heard the quiet laugh of a she-cat from the apprentice den, but when he entered through the dead, frost covered fronds, he found nobody but the single apprentice left, other than him. She looked up at him as dropped on stone floor, and stood up. He expected her to leave. She always did before. Instead, she lay down next to him, pressed against him, and the ground didn't feel so cold anymore.
He became friends with the she-cat, and found she was quiet. But that was alright with him. He liked quiet. Quiet was such a wonderful, peaceful thing. Nothing like pain. Pain was red with streaks of orange, yet quiet was the pine needles that were strewn on the forest floor. He loved the forest. So quiet. He took her there one day, to the place that he saw, not the other version, and saw her tiny smile as he spoke of quiet. She asked why he liked quiet so much, and he replied that it was the opposite of pain. She didn't speak for the rest of the time.
There was a battle, a moon after, at midnight, and it was quite a curious thing, in his complex mind. Why they should pick fights, when they were dying on their own. They didn't need help, in the area of pain. He shoved his precious she-cat under a bush the first moment he got. She was angry with him, but when she spoke her good-byes to the Clan deputy, the guilty thank you in her eyes as she turned to him was enough.
She became a warrior beside him, and he was secretly astonished that she had survived, or that he had survived. It was a great feat, in his eyes, and he purred as he brushed his whiskers against her cheek. She smiled at him. And it was fine with them that the voices that called out their new names didn't sound the most enthusiastic, for he understood that most of them were sick, and the other's had probably had their kit die, and that they were few, and that their mute cat could just mouth the names.
It was a quiet morning, when their only elder died. When he was discovered, lying stone-cold on stone floor, there were no shrieks, no gasps, just lingering gazes on the body. And the tom was struck by quietness. Maybe, came the thought, pain is quiet.
When he hunted that morning-or at least tried to-pine needles pricked his paws, drawing blood. He walked back to camp, leaving red drops in his wake.
That same afternoon, he walked into camp, and as he had done as an apprentice, he counted the number of cats. This time, there seemed to be more. Fifteen cats, including him. Because his she-cat had brought him back. Told him he was part of the clan. She saved him. Perhaps the Clan would survive after all. Maybe they wouldn't die off like WindClan had. He walked into the warriors den and curled up to think. Quietly.
She padded in and stretched out next to him, and they sat in comfortable silence. Until he glanced at her and told her he didn't need silence anymore. She nodded, and began to wonder out loud. He was shocked by her words. They were words of betrayal. Of running. Of leaving. Of food. He shushed her, and she closed her eyes simply to a peaceful sleep, leaving him pondering her words.
A quarter of a moon later, he slunk into the Twoleg Place and swiped some food. It was quiet when he walked into camp. And then it wasn't. There were no words of thank you, but he didn't need them. He understood how often they were quiet. So many nights over a dead cat, it did not bring joy.
He watched her as she crept to the rotting "food" he had gathered from the silver colored cans. And he watched as she ate with the rest of them. And he watched as they survived in this warrior code breaking way.
The two remaining Clans did not speak when the saw the slightly unstarved Clan slink into the clearing. They did not plea for food from them. They turned away and were... Quiet.
He cried when she cried. And trembled when she did. And wept* into her fur when she quieted and became silent. And he wept maybe even more when his only kit blinked* up at him with terrified golden eyes. He nudged the she-kit with his nose, and she let out a tiny cry, crawling closer to him. He bent down to her, and made up his mind in about five seconds. He stumbled his way into the leader's den, and pleaded to send his kit to a Clan that had a queen with running milk. The leader was quiet, and the tom felt pain thud against his chest. The leader's eyes were sad as he replied with a yes, and several were chosen to take the kit to RiverClan, where there was fact of a queen.
His kit watched him with intelligent eyes, and he was struck by how simialer she looked like to his mate and her mother. She was taken by the medicine cat, the leader and the two warriors.
He did not go, but he stood at the entrance, and watched the grass grow, for it was newleaf now. And his kit had survived.
This is the 2012 April writing challenge for this completly and totally awsome forum called WillowClan. I suggest you check it out. ;D
* I realize newborn kits can neither hear, nor see, and cats do not have tear glands to cry, but let's pretend for the sake of the story, 'kay?