drifting leaves [solo]

[this solo is a personal writing experiment, mostly flashbacks with a present-day framing device.]

Zinnia found that even when the flowers lost their brighter colors, those which began to fade as the weather cooled at last and the new ones sought to take their place, they were still beautiful. A wonderful sight to behold in any time of year.

There were few, if any, leaves drifting on the breeze; but the changing of the seasons was felt in other ways. The wind was cool as it breezed past, many of the flowers less vibrant, and the colors of the landscape shifted once again. It was familiar, in that she had first discovered her new home in this season - and since that day she had seen each as it was known to the forest cats, but still the memories echoed in her thoughts and her dreams.

Whether she had a favorite, it was hard to say - whether it would be this, or another, and why; whether living on the moor had changed the order of preference in any truly meaningful way. It was all too hard to say.

The blazing sun had faded, and in its wake were the drifting leaves, though there were few leaves to be seen on the passing breeze. Still, she honored her traditions wherever she saw them; chasing after them with laughter and singing to the winds. A wanderer’s message, an unheard answer to an unheard song.

In the Garden, they’d be chasing the leaves and singing for the drifters; and though she couldn’t hear their song with her ears she thought that maybe if she only listened long enough she might hear it with her heart. That was something her father had taught her; to listen and speak with her heart as much as her ears and her voice.

(He had been the most like her; a whimsical dreamer, helpful and kind but often distracted. He understood, in a way that few others did, what it was to dream with eyes wide open; and he had passed his knowledge down to her in hushed whispers, as if each word were a hidden treasure.)

The tree she rested by, like her in that it was somewhere few would have expected it to be, held memories old and new in its roots and branches and leaves, each one precious in its own way - but those were not the ones that surfaced as she drifted into a nap. Distant memories came to her in ever-shifting dreams, her mother and father and sisters and the seasons that had changed.

They had been born, she and her sisters, just before the Sleeping Snows; when the world was blanketed by white and the flowers had already frosted over. A world without them, they had thought at the time, when they had never seen them as they were meant to be.

(Sleeping Snows was a time of reflection for many, for there was more time for such things when there were few flowers to tend; but they were only kits and as such had very little on which to reflect. For now they learned about the ancestors, and the flowers, and how to simply live their lives.)

“No,” Dianella had patiently explained, a hint of amusement in her voice. “The flowers are there, under the snow and the frost. They’re sleeping, my loves, and you’ll see them when they wake.”

Their father, Chrysanthemum, chimed in with a purr. “For now, you must be the flowers. Bright and beautiful, perfect as you already are.”

She and her sisters grew swiftly, as kits often do, and when the snows began to fade they would sing with the rest as the seasons changed again. The flowers woke, with time and effort and the constant song, from beneath the frost and snow. They rose above the ground again, buds and leaves and hints of petals.

“The season of Waking Flowers is a symbol of new beginnings,” Dianella spoke with all the wisdom of a mother, holding her kits’ reverent attention. She spoke of the seasons, their changing and their passing, and what each represented. “Sometimes the flowers that wake are not the same ones that fell to sleep, my loves.”

“Is that… Good?” Primrose asked hesitantly.

“It is neither good nor bad, Primrose. It simply is, and so I suppose you could say it is whatever you choose to make of it. The world is far simpler than many cats realize, at least in that way.”

Zinnia looked to her father, wondering what wisdom he had to share with them now.

“We all grow and change, like the flowers you see here,” he whispered to her. “Like your mother says, it’s not good or bad. It’s up to you to decide what it is.”

She nodded then, as if she understood. Seasons later, when she stood face-to-face with the predator-cats and bloodied her paws; when she stared down the stars and carried the title of warrior with pride, she would.

With the season of Waking Flowers upon the garden, their parents began to teach them more practical things. How to carefully tend to the flowers as best they could, to avoid disturbing them, and - as they finally began to bloom - which ones they’d been named for; but also things like hunting and self-defense, climbing trees and swimming in the streams.

She loved her father’s lessons best, though they weren’t anything special on their own. Her mother taught them to hunt and the basics of fighting, and she liked that well enough (though she was slower to pick it up than her sisters, often failing to pay enough attention to the task at paw), but her father taught them more about the flowers; his lessons laced with stories and singing.

Too quickly, though, Waking Flowers bled into Blazing Sun; and the flowers were in full bloom. A time for celebration and prosperity, when prey was easiest to come by and the flowers were at the height of their beauty; every cat stayed awake for a day and a night to compete in games of luck and skill.

Primrose was the best of the young cats at climbing trees, her small size allowing her to reach the highest branches, and Zinnia was the second-best hunter that day - second only to her mother, who nuzzled her affectionately and told her she was proud.

(Lunaria had chosen instead to watch as older cats wove flowers into garlands that many cats wore around their necks, and to learn from them the tricks of the trade. Later, when the festivities were winding down, she would teach her sisters what she had learned.)

There were other lessons, as they had learned their basic survival skills: the art of diplomacy (fighting should only ever be a last resort), how to find their way home should they ever be lost (follow the stars, they’ll guide your steps), but still her favorites were her father’s. Now that Lunaria spent most of her time learning with the healers and Primrose sought their mother’s guidance more often than not, it was usually just the two of them.

Between whispered wisdom and firefly stories, Chrysanthemum taught her the value of kindness, to never turn away from a cat in need; whether they simply needed help to find a lost thing or something far more dire. But as much as she loved her lessons, loved her family, she felt that something was missing; something that she couldn’t find with her friends and her kin, something that she couldn’t find here.

And before any time had really passed at all, the leaves were changing and the flowers losing some of their brightest colors. Drifting Leaves had set upon the Garden; the season of travel and change. The season where curious cats would venture off, some who would return and some who would not - drifters, those who wandered where the breezes led them.

Her family was gathered near the stream that ran near their nests, sharing prey and sharing tongues, when she spoke at last. “I… I don’t want to disappoint you,” she murmured, her gaze settled on her mother. “I think… I was always meant to be a drifter.”

Dianella looked at her curiously. “We’ll miss you if you choose to leave, dear, but you could never disappoint us. You could never disappoint me.”

“I thought you might want to wander,” her father mused.

“You’re really going to leave?” Primrose asked. “Why?”

“I must admit… Primrose raises an excellent question. Why would you want to leave?” Lunaria added.

“I don’t know… What I’m looking for, just yet. Maybe I’ll find it out there. I don’t know yet. But… I do know that I haven’t found it here.”

Days passed, and she tried her best to ready herself. The ceremony came to pass too quickly and yet not fast enough, but before too long she stood before all her friends and family.

“Today, one of our own is called by the winds,” Dianella spoke. “She will be a drifter, following the stars and the breeze, until the day they no longer call her name. Zinnia, my daughter... I hope you find the things you seek beyond our boundaries. Perhaps, one day, we shall meet again.” At this she touched Zinnia’s nose and licked her forehead, as if she were still only a kit. “Never forget where you came from, and never forget who you are.”

Her father was next. “Promise me that you’ll remember everything you’ve learned,” he murmured. “But most importantly… Remember us, okay? Should you choose to return home, we’ll be waiting for you.”

“I promise,” she whispered back.

Primrose. “It’s hard to believe that you’re really leaving… But good luck out there, okay?”

Lunaria. “Take care, sister… There may well be danger on your path. We will pray for your safety.”

One by one, the rest of the Garden cats bid her farewell, until Dianella spoke again: “Should you choose to return, you will always be welcome here. Until that day comes, we will sing for you when the drifting winds call, and we shall listen for your voice on the breeze. We wish you safe travels and clear skies as we send you on your way with the ancestors’ blessing.”

“Safe travels and clear skies,” echoed throughout the flower fields, and the low, soft tones of a parting song echoed as she began to leave, her own voice part of the chorus until she wandered too far for them to hear. The sound echoed in her thoughts long after their voices began to fade.

Beneath a tree full of memories in WindClan’s territory, Zinnia awoke with the notes of a parting song humming in her thoughts. She was no longer in the Garden, and hadn’t been for seasons now, but every detail of her dream was so familiar still - she could close her eyes and hear the stream, the familiar sound of her sisters bickering, her mother’s amusement as her father offered his latest shining treasure.

This was her home, this place and these cats… But to find it she’d had to leave the only other one she’d known. Oh, countless adventures had followed her from the Garden to the Twolegplace to the clans, but none of those places had resonated with her as the flower fields of her birthplace or the moor of her current residence.

(Was she more moor-runner or garden cat, now? Were her sisters well? Her mother, her father? If only she could see them again, but she had fought hard to prove her loyalty; and while her own reputation mattered little to her there was her mate to consider. The journey wasn't short, and though she would return, she didn't want to leave her love alone.)

She’d been away from camp a while now, though, and with no prey to show for it. Slowly, she began to make her way back - maybe she could catch something on the way.