ROWANSTAR
When he stood up from his nest, coughs racking his body as he half-choked on his own phlegm, he left wiry clumps of reddish-brown fur behind. It was well past moonhigh, a chill draft swirling through the mouth and crown of the Hollow Ash, with no other sound in the forest but his own labored breathing, it seemed. A black, pitiless night. Soon enough, it would be the new moon.
Sleep. Sleep was useless like this. How could it be, he was always tired, but could never sleep? He stirred and managed a quivering stretch, pain lancing up every nock in his spine as he glanced up at the snatch of night sky above, the stars of Silverpelt masked by clouds.
He thirsted for their wisdom now, or at least their frank advice. Had he led his Clan wrong? Was this his punishment? Leaf-fall rains had churned the forest floor to mud, swelling the streams and rivers, and he watched himself waste away in every fresh puddle. His muzzle had been shocked with flecks of ash, and when he turned to groom himself, he could make out the faint outline of his own ribs through his thinning coat.
Movement stirred from the mouth of the Ash. Elmpaw, the half-awake medicine cat apprentice, urgently blinking sleep from her eyes. As leader, he wouldn't deign to stay in Murkpool's den, under the rowan tree whose roots had drank his predecessor's blood. But still, the old medicine cat had seen it fit to keep his apprentice near at paw, even in the dead of night.
"R-Rowanstar? You're well?" the young apprentice asked, voice thin as a whisper and squeaky with fatigue. She had a plain bark-brown pelt, her eyes two golden orbs in the dark, like the glare of an owl. "Would you like fresh water?"
The leader shook his head. "Ryebreeze and Swiftstorm keep the night watch. Go and bring them to me. Rouse Owlswoop as well."
His daughter, Ryebreeze, expecting kits of her own. He could scarcely believe it. And still, she insisted on performing what duties she could, in their troubled time. With them both confined to camp so often now, she had become a steady pillar of support and counsel, just like her brother Sorreltail.
If only that could be said for all the cats of his litter.
Elmpaw left with a respectful dip of her head, leaving him alone in the gloom of the Ash. He peered out into the surrounding darkness, heart dripping with bitter envy. How many of his clanmates were now asleep? Sleep, gentle sleep, what had he done to frighten it off?
The respite of nothingness, even for just a few hours of the night, to weigh his eyelids down and steep himself in forgetfulness. Sleep, the sanctuary away from LeafClan, from ancient prophecies and the weight he had to carry.
Instead of his den, the Hollow Ash where so many generations of LeafClan leaders had rested their heads, sleep chose hard earth and Twolegplace alleys. It blessed starving rogues and flea-bitten loners and collared kittypets in their Twoleg nests, queens and kits and elders and ever-so-restless apprentices, but it scorned him.
Would StarClan grant sleep to even the vilest wretch, prey and creatures of the forest, but deny it to him?
Then, lie down, Rowanstar thought with a long exhale. No cat in this nest rests easy.
Ryebreeze appeared at the mouth of the den first, followed by Swiftstorm, and then Owlswoop. Swiftstorm was young herself, scarcely a warrior for one season, but she had increasingly proven herself a trusty acorn off the old oak. Her father, Owlswoop, had long been a reliable voice among the senior warriors, and now his daughter shadowed him in every Clan meeting, a moss sponge quietly absorbing their every meeting.
Young, younger than even his own kits, but they would be senior warriors in the flutter of a moth's wing. When leaf-bare came, it wouldn't spare the old, the sick, or the weak. A new generation of warriors would need to step up where their mothers and fathers fell. So it had always been.
"Many good morrows to you, Rowanstar," Swiftstorm mewed in greeting, breaking the night's fragile silence.
Rowanstar said, "Is it good morrow?"
"The mourning doves will soon be stirring," Owlswoop said.
"Why then, good morrow to you all," Rowanstar granted with another weary breath. "You've made our preparations for this MireClan attack, then?"
Owlswoop gave a grave nod. "Almost everything is in place. This sunup, Goosebelly brings us his rogues. Then we set out."
"If Dovefeather doesn't lie, then we'll catch them before they strike," Swiftstorm echoed.
Rowanstar flicked his tail. If all went as desired, they'd have no need of rogues to win LeafClan battles. But things rarely went as desired for LeafClan in these uncivil times. He had entrusted this mission to his son.
Not his other son, his son he had made deputy, the son that should be sharing his counsel and leading his patrols. Some nights, dreaming of the signs he'd seen, he wondered if he'd been touched by madness. Or influenced by something else altogether, disguised as StarClan's will.
"But you see how weakly our Clan is positioned, even if our ploy succeeds," Rowanstar said. Diseased from within, and danger poised over the heart. Enemies on every flank. Lionpelt's old words reverberated in his skull, making him grimace like the memory of a bitter taste.
You will give your life among flowers, and then LeafClan shall see sunup.
"We are still strong, just recovering," Owlswoop reasoned. "In time, LeafClan will return to full strength. Nightbird is a fever that will soon cool."
If only he could stare into the seeds of time and see which grains would grow and which would not. In time, yes. Time leveled mountains, melted them into the sun-drown-place, and conquered all cats. In time. But would they have time enough? Would he?
Leaf-bare is coming.
His thoughts were steeped in the past as much as the future. "It's not two newleafs gone when Rosestar and Nightbird shared tongues and hunted together, great friends. And before the start of the next leaf-fall, they were at each other's throats." Rowanstar glanced around at the gathered warriors. "That greenleaf, Nightbird was the dearest ally to my heart, and toiled like a brother for me, and laid his life and rank on the line for mine. For my sake, he gave defiance even in the eyes of Rosestar.
"But which of you was by…" The leader looked to Owlswoop now. "You, Owlswoop, as I might remember… when Rosestar, eyes full of tears, spoke these words? 'Nightbird, you stepping stone…'" He had never intended it, but the name Rowanstar had landed on him, and he had embraced it. "'You bloom now, but it won't be long until you wilt,' so he said, saying our love would turn to hate."
And now the dead leader's had proven themselves prophetic. Too late for him to realize it.
Owlswoop averted his gaze. "We all dig into our own experiences and project that on the world," he said at last. "Rosestar made a perfect guess, because he was thinking about himself. He knew Nightbird was a traitor to him, and figured he'd be a traitor after him, too."
Was it all necessary then? Then let them meet them like necessities. That same word cried out to them even now. "Shrikewing and Nightbird will have all of MireClan behind them, and perhaps HillClan again as well."
"It can't be," Swiftstorm mewed. "Duskstar and Burdockstar were bickering like ex-mates at the Gathering."
"Don't stress yourself and get some rest," Ryebreeze said with a yawn, and he could see the exhaustion in their faces now. And how selfishly he kept them from peaceful dreams, that paradise he couldn't reach. "It will do you good."
"I swear on my warrior name that your war party will win the day without a single loss," Owlswoop vowed, standing up straight. "And if it's any comfort, the rumors are that Duskstar is not well. HillClan is not well. We are seeing less and less of them every quarter moon, and the border hills are barren of prey… If that means anything for the rest of the uplands, who can say. But they are looking at a harsh leaf-bare."
"Close-eye says they're fading away," Swiftstorm added with a note of hopeful earnestness. "That the prey is gone and they'll vanish, and in a hundred greenleafs a forest will grow there and the prey will return. Then it'll be all ours."
Rowanstar twitched his whiskers. A pleasant, kit-like dream.
Ever since the raid, driving them from their old camp, HillClan had seemed to melt into the heath. But that was not to say that they were gone. They had spent the greenleaf haunting his patrols, ambushing them from the tall grass or the border streams and disappearing back over the open plains. They were too fast to chase; every time a LeafClan cat tried, it left them breathless and with burning lungs, far from the rest of their patrol, and probably encircled by a second ambush.
Even journeys to Standing Stones were not safe. If he didn't think he might collapse and be easy prey for a HillClan patrol, he might have returned there for a second grasp at wisdom.
They fought like magpies, not warriors. But if they were fading, and if Duskstar was suffering half as much as he was, he would not shed a tear for their loss.
Ryebreeze cut in again. "You have been badly ill this half-moon, and staying up will only make you ill for a half-moon more."
Rowanstar relented with a dip of his head. "I will take your advice," he said in surrender. Elmpaw could get him dandelion heads and poppy seeds, and that might blank out his restlessness, even for just a short time. Victory, recovery, and then when it was all resolved…
The sunup.
To beds of flowers, where StarClan prophesied he must give his life, so that his Clan might bloom. On to the meadows, where there was still one more enemy with the power to destroy LeafClan.