The cold-eyed tom shivered violently as an icy breeze invaded the makeshift den, tiny tremors wracking his skeletal frame. Each gasping breath condensed in clouds of translucent mist, and another wave of weak hacking reached his ears. With a heavy sigh that momentarily obscured his face's gaunt features in wispy fog, he turned away from the entrance of the badger den and padded over to the nests tucked in the back of the burrow.
It was Jaci this time, quivering from nose to tailtip as she coughed. He could trace every bone under her ginger pelt with his eyes, could count every single one if he desired. The sound of one of the others caught his attention, a deeper cough this time, throatier. He turned his head, expression darkening as he saw the dark stain of blood on Shackle's nest.
Each step was an accomplishment on its own these days, when every thought was muddled by starvation and dulled with pain. Even having successfully evaded the illness that had stricken his companions, Maelstrom knew he couldn't avoid leafbare's cruel talons forever. Walking over to the other side of the den, each step slow and deliberate as to keep from collapsing under his exhaustion, he approached the narrow crack in the earthen wall.
The scent of herbs flooded his senses, one of the few reminders that life had truly existed before leafbare, before the famine and the storms. He inhaled deeply, savoring the clean, uniquely alive smell, before reaching inside the crevice with a steady paw.
The earth inside the crevasse was cool, something that probably kept the herbs preserved. Claws extended to catch any straggling leaves stuck inside the rift, he carefully extracted the herbs he had scavenged for before the storms had arrived. He wrapped his tail around the flood of seeds, leaves, and stalks that fell and moved them into a neat pile. Borage, chervil, coltsfoot—give some of that to Jenner later, he was having trouble breathing again last night—poppy seeds, tansy... His eyes brightened as he saw the familiar clustered flowers: catmint. He leaned down and gingerly plucked the leafy stalk from the pile.
The sound of dead leaves rustling filled the air of the quiet den as he lifted it. He dropped it, worried and more than a little fearful of what he would find as he examined the herb more closely. The woody stem was dry, the leaves brittle and the flowers faded to a dull brown. If there had been anything in his stomach, Maelstrom would have retched.
The catmint was their lifeline, their only chance at survival, and now it was lost to leafbare's deadly claws like everything else. Greencough was a slow, painful killer and frequently took even those who had been treated with the life-saving herb. Without it, Shackle and the others hardly stood a chance against it.
He could hear the shrieking wind, see the ice-covered world outside the badger set. It was nearly impossible for herbs to survive in this weather, especially fragile plants like catmint. But if there was a chance, he had no other choice.
StarClan, guide my pawsteps and protect my path. Show me what is right. Give me the strength to do what I must, the courage to do what I can, and the wisdom to know the things beyond my power.
The tansy was bitter on his tongue as he carried it over to the occupied nests. It would suffice, but not for long. His eyes landed on Shackle, his oldest companion and the most trusted of the entire group, and he watched as the tom struggled for breath between onslaughts of coughing. No, it wouldn't suffice for long at all.
He placed the yellow-flowered bushels in front of them, and they ate without complaint. Maelstrom wondered idly if they ate so willingly because they trusted him or simply because they were too hungry to care; he suspected the latter. "I have to go gather more herbs," he meowed. "We're almost out of catmint. We still have some left, but it won't last long." No, we're entirely out of catmint, he thought, but it's better if you all don't know that.
Clouded amber eyes moved up to meet his, and Maelstrom resisted the urge to shift uncomfortably and avert his gaze. He had expected this.
"Alone?" Shackle asked. "The storms are only getting worse, Master." The hulking rogue attempted to rise to his paws, as if he was strong enough to accompany the younger tom.
However, the gray-flecked tom shook his head almost immediately. "No, you're sick enough as it is. The stars only know what being out in the open would do to you. We're in between storms at the moment. I know where the closest Twoleg den is, and I'll make it back here faster if I'm alone. Besides, I need someone to protect the rest of you." When Shackle remained silent, Maelstrom turned and padded towards the exit.
"I'll go."
Maelstrom turned to see Mackerel shakily rise to her paws and pad towards him. "I'm barely even sick, and no one should go out into this weather alone," she meowed, and the tom found he couldn't argue with her. Even though she was spindly from days without food and fatigued, the she-cat had only began showing signs of mild whitecough a few dawns before.
"Come along, then," Maelstrom finally said, knowing a lost battle when he saw one. There was no use in arguing with her, and the less time they wasted, the better. Offering a parting nod to Shackle, he walked out of the den and into the open.
Fresh snow crunched underneath him with every footstep he took, and the frigid air was enough to take his breath away, for however briefly. He beckoned Mackerel forward with a flick of his tail as her pawsteps in the snow sounded closer.
"You know what catmint looks like, I assume?" he asked the small tabby as she caught up with him. Even though the endless tempest had retreated to give them a brief reprieve, snow showered down over their heads.
Mackerel nodded. "It's what you've been giving us. The plant with the white flowers."
Maelstrom nodded. "Good, you'll need to know that if you're going to help me. There's an abandoned Twoleg nest here on the edge of the forest, and with luck, there will still be some alive there."
Any hope for stocking up on other herbs was long gone. Leafbare had sunk its claws deep into the forest, annihilating everything in its path and leaving only ice and snow in the wake of the destruction. Beneath the slippery snow, there was only long-dead pine needles and frozen earth. Hopefully, being so close to the Twoleg nest had given the catmint some protections against the elements.
"—weren't you?" Maelstrom looked over at the tabby she-cat, only catching the last few words of her question over the howling wind and his own thoughts. "What?" he asked, feeling the tips of his ears burn. Perhaps he was getting sick as well.
"You were lying earlier, weren't you?" Mackerel repeated, her amber eyes slightly narrowed as she studied his scarred face. "About there still being more catmint. There's really none left, isn't there?"
Maelstrom hesitated, irritation prickling over his pelt. What business of hers was it if he had lied? They would find the catmint, and it wouldn't matter anymore. However, the roiling in his stomach as he considered lying to her again was deterring enough, however odd. "Yes, I did lie."
Mackerel nodded. "I thought so." Her voice was feather-light, barely audible over the sound of the wind. Perhaps that was why it caught him off-guard when she spoke again. "I won't tell them, if that's what you're wondering. We'll find the catmint, and it won't matter anymore then. There would be no sense in telling anyone except to start an argument, and I don't want that."
Maelstrom glanced over at her in surprise, and felt his pelt heat up once again. Yes, it was definitely a fever. "Thank you," he said curtly. "Now, let's hurry before the weather starts to worsen again. I can already feel it on the way." There was a heaviness in the cold night air, a tension that threatened to swallow them up at any moment. The snow was still steadily falling, and things would only grow worse. Maelstrom occasionally wondered if he would go to Vetis' hell if only to escape this cold one.
Two moons. The thought gnawed at the back of his mind, followed him with every footstep. He had two moons left to live for a cat who could die at any moment. Shackle would be suspicious soon, wondering why Vetis had not come to take his soul yet, and Maelstrom had no idea what he would say when that day came.
They padded together in silence, the quiet of the night only broken by the howling of the gale that raged around them. Ice cut into his paws with every step, and the falling snow chilled him to the bone. Once, when there had still been food, the snow hadn't bothered him. Now, when they were little more than fur over skeletons, every blast of cold was an icy stab to his entire being.
"The Twoleg nest isn't far from here," he shouted hoarsely over the screaming wind. "We'll have to hurry and find the catmint before the storm gets any worse. Any more snow will kill the catmint for sure." If it hasn't already, Maelstrom mentally tacked on, but he shook away the grim thoughts. They couldn't afford to think like that, not now.
"StarClan," he whispered between each shuddering breath, "guide my pawsteps and protect my path. Show me what is right."
Frigid blasts of wind bore down on them mercilessly, each chill sharper than any claw.
"Give me the strength to do what I must—"
The snow was falling harder than ever, white nearly obscuring the dark sky.
"—the courage to do what I can—"
Screaming filled his ears, but he could no longer tell if it was the wind or himself.
"—and the wisdom to know the things—"
A crack like lightning, but the sky remained black as pitch. The clouds had completely covered the stars. How fitting.
"—beyond my power."
"MAELSTROM!" a voice screeched, and he was thrown out of the falling tree's path. Hell had come, and it was cold.
He fell hard on his side, too disoriented by his own surprise and the tempest raging around them to right himself in time. The snow concealed the rocky earth, and Maelstrom's breath hitched in his throat as the jagged stones, cleverly concealed by the white powder, raked across his stomach. There was a flash of excruciating pain, and the blue-eyed rogue felt a sudden warmth bloom in his midsection as hot blood began to gush from the gashes.
White. White surrounded him, falling from above and cutting his paws from below. This snow wasn't the fine white powder from storms past. No, the white that slashed mercilessly at exposed skin was ice, tiny shards like leafbare's wicked talons.
"Maelstrom," the voice repeated again; it was softer this time, more urgent. "Maelstrom, we have to move. We have to get out of the open. It's not safe here."
Mackerel's words snapped the pale tom out of his daze, and he rose to his paws with a hiss of pain. Maelstrom heard her sharp intake of breath at the sight of his wound, but he ignored it. The cold would hopefully slow the bleeding, and he could patch it up later. They needed to get moving, to get out of the icestorm.
"Come on," he barked, imperious even in his exhausted pain. Each step sent a fresh wave of pain crashing through his body, but he only gritted his teeth and raced onward through the impenetrable white. The soft sound of pawsteps behind him, almost inaudible over the wind's piercing screams, assured him that Mackerel was following.
Running headlong through the tempest was Hell in and of itself, falling ice slashing at his chest, his face, his narrowed eyes. He remembered a rabbit's burrow close to the Twoleg den, their only chance at protection from the elements. "Come on!" he tried to shout, but the words escaped his throat as a painful, raspy whisper. It wasn't far from here, it couldn't be. If it was too far, it was only a matter of whether the agonizing cold or the falling trees killed them first.
Moons seemed to pass as he ran through the endless white, and the hope in his heart slowly died. He had gone too far, surely. They would have seen the burrow by now. The snow could has covered it up, concealing it like it had the jagged rocks. The realization tore at him, and he stopped so abruptly that Mackerel ran into him.
"What?" she asked, immediately on her feet as she bristled. Studying her face for a moment, Maelstrom could see the hundreds of tiny cuts the ice had left on her muzzle.
"We would've passed the burrow by now," he rasped, shaking ever so slightly as the fatigue began to wash over him. He felt numb, half-dead. "The snow must have covered it. There's nowhere to hide, Mackerel, and the Twoleg nest could still be ages away."
He watched as she seemed to shrink at the news, the fight leaving her on the next gust of wind that buffeted their rail-thin forms. When she spoke, however, her voice was stronger than he had imagined it would be. "We have to get out of this," she mewed, voice cracked and breaking on every other word. "Anything will be better than standing out in the open like this.
Another gust of wind threatened to knock them off their paws, quickly followed by the familiar crack of a nearby tree surrendering in its uphill battle against the storm. The idea formed in his mind unbidden. "Follow me," he said, and quickly padded in the direction of the fallen tree.
Finding it was not difficult; the tree had crashed to the ground with a tremendous sound, and the fallen sentinel of the forest measured up to the sound it had caused. It was enormous, the survivor of hundreds upon hundreds of seasons only to be brought down by a strong wind. Bare branches and gnarled roots stretched out on either side like pale, grasping fingers. The crater left in the hard earth when the tree was equally enormous, deep enough to provide protection from the snow and large enough for two cats. Staggering slightly as another wave of pain hit him, Maelstrom descended into the hole.
The earth under his paws was cold and bare, speckled with only a few flakes of snow. Mackerel leaped down after him, and the pair quickly made their way to the deepest part of the crater.
They nearly collapsed to the ground, curling up side by side as they tried to preserve the little heat between them. When the silver she-cat laid her head on his shoulder, Maelstrom felt the odd fever scorching under his pelt again, but he didn't protest. The gray-flecked tom only wrapped his tail around the thin she-cat and closed his eyes, listening to the tempest rage on.
Maelstrom wasn't sure how long they stayed there in the hole together, but he opened his eyes when the sound of calmed wind reached his ears, and the clear, star-speckled sky was the first thing he saw. "Mackerel," he whispered, hardly daring to believe it himself, "it's over."
The tabby she-cat was on her paws in moments, and together they crawled from the safety of the crater. Blinding white greeted their eyes, endless snow only broken by the dark outlines of other fallen trees. Maelstrom inhaled deeply, hoping that he would be able to smell the scent trail they had left, and the fresh, unmistakably live smell overwhelmed his senses. Pale eyes widened, and he turned.
There, perhaps ten fox-lengths from the fallen tree, was the abandoned Twoleg den. In the storm, he had barely been able to see past his whiskers, so it failed to surprise Maelstrom that it had been so close and still evaded them. Slowly, cautiously, he padded to the patch of dead herbs where the catmint had grown. He pawed through the snow-covered remains of the Twoleg's herb supplies, searching for the source of the fresh smell of catmint. At the bottom of the heap of dead vines and grass, he found it: the creamy white bunches of flowers that could only be catmint.
With painstaking care, he gently pulled the stalks from the earth and turned to Mackerel. Offering a small nod to her, he began to pad in the opposite direction, towards the others in the badger set. The fever flashed through him again, but in the bitter cold, he couldn't bring himself to really mind.
They were silent throughout the journey back to their home, and the wan sun had barely begun to peak over the horizon as they padded into the snow-covered den. The sound of soft—if slightly labored—breathing reached Maelstrom's ears, and he stifled a smile of relief.
The fresh catmint was stored in the narrow crevasse in the wall, and Maelstrom watched as Mackerel curled up in her nest, amber eyes drifting closed. Without warning, his thoughts flew to the moment of terror when the storm had struck. How he had frozen in his pain and confusion. How the tree had fallen. How Mackerel had shoved him out of the way, saving his life.
His stomach roiled at the thought, much like it had when he had considered lying to her. She could have died in his place, but she had risked her life to save him. I won't forget that.
He cast a longing glance at his nest, but first he extracted the proper herbs from the crack in the wall. Tansy, for the fever, and juniper, for the stomach ache. He ate them quickly, the taste sharp and bitter on his tongue as he swallowed. He couldn't risk getting any sicker with whatever illness was causing the odd symptoms, not when the others needed him.
The heather and moss in his nest crackled as he curled up between Shackle and Mackerel, and the last thing he saw before his eyes closed was the briefest flash of warm sunlight. Perhaps, he thought idly, things will begin to finally thaw soon. The fever passed through him again as he rested his tail over Mackerel's shoulders, but he was too far gone to notice.