I saw him before I got to meet him.
Seeing him weighed me down.
But it also made me feel a whole lot lighter.
…
"Go 'way, bee!" Lark huffed, waving his tail around to chase the insect away. "Stop buzzing me!"
"Just you be careful, dear!" Ivy called. "Bees have work to do and it might think you're getting in its way."
"Fine." Lark said, annoyed, before moving to a different flower bed and calling back to the bee, "You stay over there, you buzztard!"
"Lark!" Ivy gasped, fighting not to laugh.
As soon as the long and tiresome monsoon rains had finally stopped, Ivy had brought Lark to the meadow to enjoy the ennui of green-leaf while it lasted; she had no means to have him miss out on the roseate buds of apple blossom pluming, the trees donning their best verdant hues, and the scattered rainbow that the flowers were. Although milk grey clouds still wreathed the sun and the air was still wet, it was only the weather that hadn't risen up for the occasion. Ivy considered herself lucky; she always wanted to show Lark the best, and although this was far from it, Lark seemed to be enjoying what he had to the fullest.
"Muuum?"
"Yes, dear?"
"What do bees do for work?"
"They carry pollen on their feet from one flower to another, making honey. Sometimes, the pollen sticks to hairs on the bee's bodies as they eat it." Ivy leaned down to gently stroke the shafts of fur on the tip of Lurk's ears. "Just like you getting milk all over your fur at mealtime."
"If I were a bee, would I be able to make things sweet?" Lark asked.
Ivy pulled Lark into an embrace and purred.
"Believe me, love, you don't need sweetening."
Lark giggled and shimmied deeper into her fur.
In the distance, Ivy could make out Prim and Spur clambering over a rise and heading towards them. Lark wriggled out from the embrace and opened his mouth big for a shout hello, but the presence of pollen in the air made him sneeze in its stead – "A-achoo!"
"Bless me." He automatically said, sniffling his nose.
"Bless you." Spur said, approaching Lurk and giving him a little nuzzle.
"Thank you."
Prim clucked her tongue. "Whoopi. I'd sure like a nuzzle like that, babe."
"I could give you something better."
Prim's face took on a look of surprise as Ivy whisked her and the kits off their feet and together, they tumbled across the field – somersaulting past a patch of roses, backflipping above throngs of marigold, trundling hoops over carpets of violet. They landed in a heap of laughter, happiness simultaneously thickening and spreading across their chests, feeling improbably on the top of the world. Oblivious to the immutable fact that one of them would be hankering for that very moment far in the future, knowing that he could never gain it twice.
Because the gorge was a broken vein when they came back. Familiar faces were stacked and piled, like driftwood floating ruefully in bloodwater. A martyred air and the moans of the wounded cradled the gorge. Yet cats kept on fighting. And ThunderClan – yes, ThunderClan – was winning.
When the dust cleared and the blood dried up, Lark couldn't smell roseate buds of apple blossom, or the irritant called pollen that had rousted him so. Ivy was lying next to him, staring at the sky. "Don't go." Lark wanted to say, but he couldn't find his voice. So he laid his head on Ivy's chest. It felt wrong already, cold and hard.
They were everywhere, heads and legs and stiff bellies, rotten limbs and bloody faces, all stapled to the ground with no way up, no way anywhere.
"I'm alive," he shouted, as loud as he could. He heard a sound, coming from a few bodies across from him.
Lark pulled Spur out from under the corpses.
…
They were five moons old, still missing their mothers and frightened of traveling from the only home they'd known. Lark pressed tight against Spur's pelt as they walked along the waterway that stunk of fish and bilge water, then down the river to see all the nefarious rogue gangs. Some loners took pity and gave them their food, which they would stuff themselves sick with. But some loners that they'd encountered were scary. Lark could still remember the broad smile on the tom's face as he stared hungrily at the napes of their necks; one mouse for one night, he'd said. After that, they decided they shouldn't venture too far away from the marshes. Strange land meant strange cats, and both were equally dangerous.
"Seriously? A mouse?" Spur had scoffed, but Lark could hear the shake in her mew. "What kind of idiot thinks that a mouse is enough to feed two bellies? No conscience!"
"No conscience at all," Lark had agreed. It was hard to sound agreeable on an empty stomach. "Where will we go now?"
"There's a loner who lives not two quarries away from the gorge. She told me that she used to know our bunch, and she'll take us in for a moment's worth."
The next moon were like a happy dream. Lark and Spur worked for Buttermilk, a blind she-cat who had needed someone to place orders for her and solicit Longpaws for food. It was strange for her to have them do that, because Buttermilk's larder was always well-stocked, strange cats bringing her food everyday. But the Longpaw food that they brought her never failed to disappear within a day, so they assumed that either Buttermilk had a big belly – or she had wanted the kits to feel as though they had earned her care.
They were allowed to change turns working, and when it was Lark's time to rest, Buttermilk pinched his cheeks and led him over to a small stretch of ground where leaves and twigs had been churned up, making fire. She would tut about something under the line of careless longpaws, while Lark would wrap his morsels in a shard of bark and place it close to the fire, thumping his tail in an irregular beat. Whenever he started scarfing on his food, Buttermilk would make sure he wouldn't stretch his stomach. "Small bites, lad. Small bites."
During free time, Lark and Spur sat next to each other on halfbridge, lights from the Longpaw camps playing over the water.
"Luck comes at once," Spur had said, paws dangling over the edge, smiling like a possum up a gum-tree.
Lark had looked down at their reflections on the bright surface of the lake and thought, Is this our lucky run?
At nights, Buttermilk would tell them anecdotes about her kits – "With that, Stem's mass exodus went to fail. But he sure did manage in cutting my eyes out!" Each night was a different name, many litters she must have had. But the only kits that were with her now were Lark and Spur, and they wondered if Buttermilk's kits had left her because of her blindness, her helplessness. Buttermilk was a big cat with tufty grey fur and a ruddy, friendly face. But sometimes, especially when she was talking about her kits, her voice became sad.
One day, Buttermilk called them over. She told them that she'd found a cat who wanted to take them in – permanently.
Lark and Spur stood there, shifting their paws and reading Buttermilk's countenance.
"Are you angry with me, too?" asked Buttermilk.
Of course not, they assured her.
"I understand why you'd be angry." said Buttermilk. "But opportunities like this don't come along often. Some cats in your position would trade their bodies to have a family, to ride the wave of love."
"We're not kits." Spur said. "We're not going to chase away luck when it comes our way."
Lark looked at Spur. That was when he realized how desperate she was. He wasn't sure what she was desperate for – love? family? Both? – but whatever she is desperate for, he thought, I am too. But it seemed as though the version of himself that had been loved was already lost.
Buttermilk hugged them. "Now, Spur," she said. "there is a small chance that this will go bad, but we must take the risk together. I am trusting you."
Spur beamed.
Next morning, Buttermilk groomed and licked their fur glossy clean – it had been a long time for both of them since anyone had done that. She allowed them each a whole mole to eat, and a special lick from the honey comb afterwards. Before they went, she scoured their bodies all over. Every nook and cranny.
After saying their goodbyes, Lark and Spur walked pelt against pelt to the halfbridge, the rendezvous point.
"What did I tell you?" Spur said. "We're finally getting the breaks we've never had!"
They waited at the halfbridge until the sun began to set. No one came or went. Lark sat in nervous silence, and Spur paced around, muttering ferociously under her breath. She no longer had the patience nor spirit to smile like a possum up in a gum-tree. Or perhaps she never had.
Finally, the cat that they'd waited for came with a familiar broad smile on his lips.
They ran.
…
They wandered aimlessly until morning. Spur insisted that they go back and look for Buttermilk – she did not want to give in to the bitter truth that Buttermilk was a cat who would snap up little kits and sell them. They sat for a long time looking at the lake, but when night came and the clan patrols began their rounds, Lark and Spur decided to swim to the island. They would be isolated, but they would also be safe – from the smiling loner, and maybe, just maybe, from Buttermilk.
They slept up in an oak tree that night and were undisturbed, but the following night they were discovered by one of the clans, who had apparently come for a "Gathering." The bigger cats merely told them to leave the island, but the smaller ones gave Lark a thrashing and knocked Spur into the water.
Lark helped Spur back to shore. Never had he wished he could be a Longpaw more than then, so he could stir up a fire and bring her warmth. But he knew he was powerless to do anything than curl up beside her and hope that was enough. Neither of them had the strength to leave the island, so they hid in brambles to hitch another night.
Just before they went to sleep, Lark said, "I'm hungry."
"Well, I'm not." Spur said, and for some reason, they started to laugh. Spur wrapped her tail around Lark and said, "We're not losing, Lark. We're just waiting for the better days."
Lark felt the heat from Spur's body and realized why she wasn't hungry.
Spur had given him her blessings, but no one gave her theirs.
…
ThunderClan found Lark and Spur at their side of the shore. The former had caught greencough a day after the latter had died, and the fever was running full fire. No one could understand how the sick kit had swam all the way from the island to shore with his dead sister under tow, but to the medicine cats, that was far from important. Thanks to them, Lark gradually got better.
A few days later, seeing that Lark looked grumpy and uncomfortable being confined in the medicine den, one of the ThunderClan apprentices decided to take him out to see the lake.
"What're you going to do when you get back home?" Flamepaw asked on the way, hoping to find some sign of civilization.
"Eat. Sleep. Pray."
"Pray for who? The other thugs and killers?"
"Look who's speaking." Lark said coldly. "Your friends are the ones who killed my family."
Flamepaw didn't want to believe it, but he knew it was possible. Battles happened, innocent lives were snatched. Still, it didn't really seem right to apologize, so he decided to keep silent.
They walked on a while, then Flamepaw asked,
"What do rogues eat? Other than clan kits?"
Lark's nose went red. "Kits? Who are you to make hasty conclusions about our preference?"
"C'mon. Rat hide? Crowfood?"
"We eat just the same as you do. And yes, crow too, just…" Lark's mouth twisted, as if he were nauseous, or maybe, possibly, he was trying not to laugh. "without the rear word."
"How about honey?"
Lark's nose went redder. "Honey?"
"I'm very keen on honey. First, we raise our heads and open our mouths –"
"Like baby birds?"
"Like baby birds. Then the medicine cat tilts the honey comb and the golden strands slip into our mouth. Then the honey glues our lips together, and it's only after a while until we can open our mouths and say, 'Another!'"
"And then –"
"And then the medicine cat smacks us on the head with the comb and says, 'Here's your another!'"
"But why would you –"
"Because it's fun, you dummy. You know, 'fun.' I assume there's a word for it in rogue. I mean, just because you don't have it doesn't mean you don't know what it means." Flamepaw squinted. "Or am I wrong?"
"Oh, we have plenty of fun." Lark shot back, although he hadn't had fun in ages.
"Really?" Flamepaw said, overly intent. "What sort of fun?"
Lark looked at him.
"What? I just want to know if we have common ground."
"Why?"
Flamepaw wavered, then said, "So I wouldn't fear you."
And that was the way they went on, sniping at each other, until they breasted the ridge and the lake fanned out in front of them. They stood in marvel at the stillness and sereneness of it all, then Flamepaw said,
"If you think it might be of console, you can talk to me. Although I can't dream of how you're feeling, I would… I would like to know."
"Console?" Lark tasted the word on his mouth. "What makes you think that you'll be able to console me?"
Flamepaw shrugged. "I don't know. But who knows? All that you've lost just may come around in another form. When you go back home, you'll see them."
"See them where?"
"In all the familiar places."
"Flamepaw," Lark said. "What happens when you don't have a home to go back to?"
Flamepaw opened his mouth to answer, but his voice was caught off by a scream as his feet suddenly gave way under him, and he fell, his body slanting towards the lake. His paws flailed, reaching out to grab something, anything to stop his fall.
Lark enclosed his claws around Flamepaw's foreleg, who hung there, the grip of Lark's claws the only thing that kept him from plunging into the dark mouth of the lake, bloated by the monsoon rains and slapping loudly against the ridge. For a moment, looking into Lark's eyes, Flamepaw was certain that he was going to let go.
"Please." he whispered. "Please, help…"
Sunlight pooled in Lark's bitter grey eyes. Snagging the upper part of Flamepaw's body in an awkward hold, he dragged him up over the edge. They lay on their backs, panting.
"I thought… I thought you'd let me go."
There was a pause, then Lark said, "I considered it. Just for a heartbeat."
"That's okay." Flamepaw said, and hesitated before adding, "I… I would have considered it, too."
They looked at each other.
"You look what?" Flamepaw said, getting up.
"What?"
"If you're still undecided on affiliations, get a killer apprentice name. You could join us." He offered him a paw. "I'm Flamepaw."
"… I'm Hollowpaw." he said, taking it. "Glad to be of acquaintance."
…
Goldensplash volunteered to take him in as her son. She had looked after him in the medicine den, and there she was again, chipping in to help Hollowpaw. He was all the more grateful for her care. But he couldn't bring himself to be comfortable around her. No one knew why.
While others tried to pry out the whys, Hollowpaw tried to forget them. He tried to forget them like a bad dream. He would make up his own tales, his own wonderful family life, shape and decorate them, paste them over his past, quickly and deliberately. It had taken longer for those who had spoken with him, lived with him, and was in love with him, to forget, but he managed it. Ivy was the name of a bindweed. Prim stood for primula, a flowering plant. And Spur was merely that – lost in the spur of the moment. He'd managed to forget them all, and it felt alright.
One day, he'd came back from the training hollow and was making a beeline for the fresh-kill pile when he heard voices coming from the nursery.
"They keep telling me that it's a good deed, taking care of the pitiful. But sympathy isn't the only thing you need to raise a kit."
"You made a big decision, Goldensplash. I know it wouldn't have been easy."
"I didn't decide on anything, Lotusleaf. If I could do as I please, I would send him back."
Hollowheart felt something break and fall in his chest.
"It's a daunting challenge enough to take care of my own kit. It… it just kills me to take care of him, too."
"Goldensplash."
"He probably felt it, and maybe that's why he doesn't talk to me at all. He doesn't tell me about what he likes, what he dislikes, what he needs at the moment. When I ask him, he just shuts up like a clam. And when I try to urge him because I may as well burst if I don't, he'll look up at me with teary eyes and I can't say a goddamn word."
"Poor mite. He's walking on eggshells to live."
"Either that, or he's just uncomfortable of me. At any rate, it drives me crazy to see him act like that. Just a few days ago, I found him at the dirtplace spewing up the food I gave him. He'd forced himself on it because he hadn't the courage to say, "I can't eat this ma'am, I can't eat that ma'am." I couldn't sleep all night after that."
"Goodness, StarClan…"
"And they're right to tell me that I could be more affectionate towards him, because it's true, damn true. It's all my fault, him hiding in his shell… I gave him wounds…"
"I know it must be difficult for both you and the kit. But maybe things will get better over time."
"I don't know. The more we spend together, the less I feel confident. Sometimes, I tell myself that I should just bear it until he becomes a warrior. Other times, I tell myself that sending him elsewhere would be better for me, better for him. Because… I just don't have it in me to raise him with the love he needs."
Hollowpaw inched backwards, wiping at his eyes.
"But Goldensplash… surely you don't hate the kit himself?"
Hollowpaw stopped. He strained his ears for an answer he knew would never be in the positive, or worse, may never come at all.
Goldensplash did not speak.
"Just close your eyes and let him come to you." Lotusleaf said. "Who knows? He just might grow up into as handsome and reliable a son as Lostpaw is."
"Son?" Goldensplash laughed. "One son suffices."
"Hollowpaw, what are you doing over there? Training session hasn't finished yet!"
It was his mentor. Hollowpaw tried to move, but it was too late to do anything. He turned around and saw Goldensplash standing over him, face contorted.
"You… since when…"
"I-I'm sorry." Hollowpaw stammered, then hasted away, stumbling over his own feet. Goldensplash stared long and hard at his retreating form, then thumped her paws haplessly on the ground, clenching her teeth.