Post by Fawn on Aug 24, 2016 11:01:43 GMT -5
TOM RAINCLAN 14 MOONS
Timberstar was ill. It was no longer a whisper, a rumor, it was a fact. As Coldpaw watched the poorly-aged she-cat climb painstakingly onto the smooth river stone from which all Clan leaders (presumably, he had lived only through the end of Razorstar’s reign and the beginning of what was shaping up to be Timberstar’s very short one) addressed the Clan.
He knew what was coming. Gullswoop’s final patrol made sense. Coldpaw, perhaps out of habit of seeing the behavior of other apprentices about to become warriors, threw a meaningless glance around the camp for a sight of white fur and red eyes. Redsplash was gone. Whiteshade could not attend. Would you be proud, father? No, likely not. He had not made any great achievement; all cats, he supposed, became warriors, and he had finished his training two moons later than what was the usual.
No, Whiteshade would not be proud. And Redsplash would not care. If she cared, then she would still be in RainClan.
Coldpaw had slowly begun to let go of Redsplash the moment she’d disappeared, the moment she had abandoned him and Frozenpaw. Her absence at his warrior ceremony was like an ice-shard pressing against his skin—but ice melted. And that pain went away.
“Let all cats old enough to catch their own fish gather beneath the river stone!”
Timberstar sounded as if she had one foot in StarClan already. The old she-cat’s voice had always creaked with age, as far as he could remember, but now she sounded worse. There was a liquid rattle in her chest that was harsh against his sensitive ears, which threatened to pin back in displeasure; but he stepped forward, sitting neatly while a quiver of excitement traveled unseen through the length of his body.
A pale fawn coat appeared in his leftmost peripheral vision, and he registered Minnowpaw’s presence with a glance, but no more. As of late, she seemed to be sitting next to him more and more… What did that mean? Friendship? No… Well, perhaps. He never was very good at reading others. Realizing he was going to be rather off-putting if he didn’t emote at least somewhat, Coldpaw was figuring out just how to do this when Frozenpaw ran over to meet him, purring loudly because she could not hear the sound and lower it to a reasonable volume. Her ear was quickly pressed to his thin chest, and he found himself purring very softly in return.
It was not so difficult to show emotion when she was around. He would never be the Clan’s most expressive cat, but he was not so icy inside that he could not help but… warm a little to his only kin’s behavior.
He tapped her softly on the shoulder with the tip of his tail, and she sat on his other side. The scent of Gullswoop reached him and he knew the silver tabby warrior was sitting somewhere behind him—he always sat near the back so as not to obscure anyone’s view.
“The time has come for another warrior to join our ranks.” Said Timberstar, Bluewave sitting near the base of the river stone, both as a show of support and to keep a steady eye on the Clan leader.
Coldpaw could not imagine himself in Bluewave’s position. He would be loathe to act as caretaker for their aging leader and dealing with the Clan on a day-to-day basis; that took a certain kind of strength Coldpaw did not want.
The white tom leaned in, catching Timberstar’s eyes. She gave him the smallest of nods, her pelt looking dull under the cloudy, hazy sunlight.
“Gullswoop, you have done well. Coldpaw, come forward.”
He broke away from Minnowpaw and Frozenpaw to stand at the foot of the river stone, close enough to make it clear to anyone watching that he was about to become a warrior, yet not so close he had to crane his neck at an impossible angle just to see her.
"I, Timberstar, leader of RainClan, call upon our warrior ancestors to look down on this apprentice. He has trained hard to understand the ways of your noble code, and I commend him to you as a warrior in his turn.”
Coldpaw did not have much of an imagination. Yet even he could not help wondering with anticipation at what his warrior name would be. Was it vanity to hope it was not something so bland as Coldpelt or Coldfang? Any creature could be Coldfang. His father was Whiteshade, a distinctive warrior’s name, and his mother had carried the name Redsplash before she had left. Also distinctive. ‘Coldpelt’ would be a piss-poor name to be given after knowing the names of his progenitors.
Timberstar continued.
“Coldpaw, do you promise to uphold the warrior code and to protect and defend your Clan, even at the cost of your life?"
Perhaps. To outright say ‘no’ was a folly that would earn him nothing but the scorn of his Clanmates; never mind clarifying that he had no intention of dying, they likely would give him no chance to defend himself.
Instead, he answered with a very certain ”Yes.”
“Then by the powers of StarClan, I give you your warrior name. Coldpaw, from this moment you will be known as Coldrush. StarClan honors your sharpness and your diligence, and we welcome you as a full warrior of RainClan.”
Coldrush. A flicker of gratitude appeared in the white tom’s eyes, clear approval of the name Timberstar had given him. Coldrush stepped up to complete the ceremony, placing his paws on the river stone so she would not have to climb back down to reach him. She looked as though the ceremony had cost her.
The smell of sickness was strong when he stepped closer to the aged leader, and the gratitude vanished in the face of such abhorrent illness. Timberstar was not just sick, she was dying. Coldrush held his breath as she rested her muzzle on the top of his head, and he gave her shoulder the smallest, briefest of licks.
“Well done, young one. Your mother would be proud.” She rasped in his ear, and he resisted the urge to let his expression fall utterly flat. How would she know that?
Perhaps she was just being polite.
He let that comment go and turned to face the Clan; Bluewave announced that he would be sitting vigil through the night once the repeating roar of his new name began to diminish in volume. He could see Frozenpaw looking a little confused at first, but she was meowing loudly, forming no words, just a sound to express her contentment.
Coldrush smiled at her, the gesture tiny and not necessarily meant to be witnessed.
With a small amount of smugness, Coldrush hoped Swanfeather’s so-called ‘Loyalists’ could hear the chanting of his new name all the way in the Wooded Cove.
DON'T CRY MERCY, THERE'S TOO MUCH PAIN TO COME