|  | Rowansong |
Rowansong. Rowansong. Rowansong.
The name echoed restlessly through his mind, a repetition of awe.
Rowansong. It felt so… different. He’d been Rowan
paw for so long that it just seemed to stick, in a way. Of course it had– it was the only thing he’d been referred to as for seasons. And he’d been comfortable, in the sound of his name.
Rowanpaw. Something about the sound of it, the easy way it rolled off his tongue; it just seemed right.
Rowanpaw was gone though, and Rowansong sat quietly in his place.
And that name seemed right, too. He couldn’t explain why, just as he couldn’t over his apprentice name beyond the familiarity of it. But it did– the sounds fit together snugly in his mouth when he’d practiced saying it aloud before his vigil began, new but not uncomfortable. It was a good feeling, even if he was weighing the vowels silently now, and the lingering glow of the ceremony kept him warm against the chill midnight air. It was a good feeling, yes. Then why was there sourness rising in the back of his throat?
Rowansong scowled, tail thumping against the sand. He hated this, brooding. He was meant to be celebrating! Silent and careful, ensuring his Clanmates were safe throughout the night, but celebrating nonetheless. Why did the shift press so somberly into his thoughts then?
A part of him longed to be Rowanpaw again, a younger version of him. Racing eagerly to take the entire forest between his jaws, bold and independent, with something to prove and nothing to lose. It wasn’t that he did not want to be Rowan
song. But with taking up the name, the mantle of being a warrior, he had stepped into a world entirely different than the one Rowanpaw had known. The leader meant to name him missing and dead on last sighting, the persistent yet quiet fear shared between the Clans that the twolegs would return again with renewed force. Large and frightening things to greet this great change.
And that nonsensical anxiety, burgeoning even before his capture, now suddenly worsened to the point it would sometimes shock his whole body entirely stiff. Feeling every emotion in an uncontrollable swell was nothing new to him either, but that had worsened on returning to RiverClan as well. More often, the negative things struck him so off-guard he would forget himself, frowning and blinking dumbly at the source of his upset while he struggled to process.
Rowanpaw, newly-named himself and interested only in pleasing his mother and infuriating his mentor, did not have these struggles. It felt idiotic, to envy his younger self, though it was hard to discern what the senseless part was: that it was himself, or that he was jealous of a cat that no longer existed and that he could not return to being.
That was it! That was it, he’d found the thing chaining him to these dreary thought loops. There was some part of Rowansong that still hoped he would blink awake one morning and there would have been no twolegs; no disappearance of his siblings, deaths of Clanmates and adopted family, no illness for Poppyshine or fox bearing down on him and Stormdance. Swore that if he really wished for it, he would wake again to a world with a bit more color in it.
And yet, that was not something that could come to pass. All these scattered concepts slid easily into place together. He was only holding himself back. Any obstacle barring him from further progress had been wholly imagined; and with a deep breath pulled from his stomach, he pushed the fanciful thoughts out of his mind.
For a few moments, it worked. Shifting in place, Rowansong sat a little straighter, tilted his chin up and narrowed his eyes to refresh his focus. There was no point fretting so much over the past, whether distant or within weeks. It had gone, and it was not a time he would ever seen again. No cat could go backwards, so he had no choice but to look forward.
Even as he told himself that, Rowansong grew increasingly fidgety. Scratchy, noisy, stressful things were clawing their way back to mind, no matter how doggedly he tried to put them out. No, he could not wallow in what had once been– but what else was he meant to do with it? If only he could put it down, pull every frightening experience and the memories attached from his chest and toss it all to the river, carried away by brisk current and never to be seen by him again. If only, if only. He would have done so in an instant.
He could not strip himself permanently of such things, nor could he clear them from his mind (though he’d given up trying after a few minutes of wrestling with himself). Were there no other options? There
was one, and one he was quite good at, though not to the extent he asked of himself now: simply quieting them. Hushing the endless snarl and turning his back to it. Rowansong knew it would one day turn into an exercise of futility– it nearly had already. But…
He could not continue to dwell. He was a warrior now, all he had ever wanted to be. He had wanted it with such fervor strictly for the privilege it would grant him, but as he sat quietly under the darkened sky the weight of what being a warrior meant pressed his shoulders into a slump.
Rowansong hadn’t expected it to be much different from being an apprentice. The daily affairs of hunting, refreshing and guarding borders, keeping a careful eye for unwanted threats across the territory, busying oneself with caring for the Clan. But he’d known when he was younger, and understood now, that the responsibility with those tasks was greater. He was a meaningful representative of his Clan now, even if the rank was new to him. And one day he would be entrusted with the care of an apprentice– a thought that prompted a quick and private vow to do well by every one he trained –and he may be tasked with something sensitive reserved for only the more respected warriors, and, and… So much of the world had suddenly become open to him.
More than anything else, Rowansong hoped he would be good.
He would be. He
had been. There would be no tears of joy and small gifts and easy company on his return, no repeated notes of pride and further tears and resounding cheers at his ceremony if he hadn’t been. And yet…
His throat itched, and Rowansong found himself sniffling. There were no tears, not yet at least, though it seemed they were close. As much as he wanted to deny them, he’d become swiftly fixated with this line of thinking.
Whether or not he would be a good warrior… he doubted it. Claws flexed and scraped through the sand at the notion. He did not work so hard to perfect every skill he’d known to doubt himself over such silly things. But how could he be, when he’d–?
Rowansong’s claws eased out of the sand, retracting quickly and softening his paws. Apprentices meant to be good warriors didn’t attempt to maul a fellow Clan cat over a petty dispute. He supposed it was not as gruesome as a fight could have been. Neither of them had dealt fatal blows, at least. But
still: the principle they were meant to live by, and the quickness with which they’d stained it with each other’s blood. It was the first and only time he had fought another cat. He would throw himself at any predator to defend another or himself, but… drawing cat blood again made him feel sickened.
And that there, how could he hope to be a good warrior when the thought of battle made his stomach turn?! The tears he was expecting arose unasked, suddenly filling his eyes and trailing down his cheeks. He made sure to maintain his silence through it, jaw set tight to only permit few huffs for air. Now that it had started, it was not stopping. Stray tears he could easily choke down and carry on, but this… his shoulders shook with it, and he was tempted to curl up on the sand, though he stayed dutifully straight.
Why was he so concerned?
You are being ridiculous. It would have been a vow-breaking hiss, if he wasn’t focused on biting his tongue. His place within the Clan was
well earned. That had been repeated to him, leaving no room for doubt, but it stubbornly slipped in regardless.
I am no rogue! Look at me now! I am a warrior, a source of pride!Rowansong wasn’t sure if he was convincing himself or a cat that wasn’t there.
A sharp gasp made it past the hold he had on his tongue, then just like that, a few stuttered breaths were slowing the wave of tears. Still welling in his eyes, few escaping to wet his cheeks further, but slowed considerably. He still shook, though with focus, he knew he could ease himself out of that soon.
He was
fine. It had just been a fit. There was more to look forward to than there was to sob uselessly about.
Has Crookedpaw earned his warrior name? The thought was unwelcome, and nearly brought him again to heavier tears, but he shut his eyes against them fast before he could be overwhelmed a second time. What did he care? It was no concern of his. Still, Rowansong had the fleeting hope he had.
Stupid. Ducking his head to wipe the wetness from his eyes against his shoulder, enough to clear his vision at least, Rowansong glanced quickly around camp to make sure no one was around to see him leave his post. The sky was steadily lightening, he noticed as he turned; not quite dawn, though it would be soon. Grateful that no one had risen early today, he let out a shuddering breath and rose shakily to his paws, slipping silently out of camp.
There wasn’t far to go. Before the river could even greet him, he was drawing to a halt again and dropping heavily back onto his haunches. The sand and snow was soft underpaw, pressed smooth by routine pawsteps, but there was a patch of the earth that had not been flattened into shape yet. Hours later, it still appeared freshly tilled, shifted only by the passing wind.
Under the disturbed earth, that strap of leather and its inane bell that he had known since leaf-fall. He’d been euphoric when it was stripped of him, but with time for the moment to settle, it made him shift uneasily. Rowansong did not want for the collar again; it was an annoyance on the best days, reason to send him into an hours-long fit on the worst. But he had become accustomed to it. It showed on him too, the fur where it previously pressed being a little thinner and laying a little flatter.
There he was again, longing for only what was familiar. When would he learn that that was a kit’s ideal?
When would he stop wondering if he had named the wrong apprentice a kittypet?
No. That, that thought, he would not allow to fully voice itself. He was not a kittypet. He never had been, not properly, and he never would be. Especially not now. The impulsive side of Rowansong had been tempted to dig the thing up, though he hadn’t decided whether it would be to pitch it into the river or just to look at it for a moment. With that intrusive ideal though, he let paw meant to unearth it only rest atop the earth. After a beat of contemplation, he pressed down, easing it back into smoothness. And there he sat for a while, gently flattening the sand until it seemed it had never been disturbed at all.
And now there, his collar would remain buried. It was gone now; he was free of it, free of what it had brought and what it had meant. A hopeful sighed billowed in front of his maw, and Rowansong hoped the fading wisps would carry his worries away. Similar exercises had not worked, not tonight and not on many nights, though it never stopped him from trying. He was an optimist, in spite of himself. His attention lingered on the earth for a moment longer before he stood again, turning to slip back into camp. Gold and amber and even a hazy purple were filling the sky, chasing away the heavy blanket of night. The sun was not in sight yet, but already the air felt warmer. There was something pleasant in this new dawn; heavy, but expectant.
He had made it. A warrior now, with a name of his own. For now, as Rowansong slid back into camp, lingering by the entrance for only a few moments before others started to rise and he was informally dismissed, he would focus on settling into his new nest, put together before dusk set in. The warrior’s den was full of familiar faces, not so isolating as the apprentice’s den, and as he looked between each of them, a weary smile bloomed on his expression. All he had to do for now was go to sleep.
In the afternoon he would awaken, and with his vigil complete, be a warrior entirely. There would be things to worry about, then: namely, Perchstar’s disappearance. Achingly fresh still and with nothing to go off of, but he could throw himself into each and every patrol he was allowed if it was helping anything. That would be a start.
But that was for the afternoon. Tail draping over his nose, Rowansong shifted a little more comfortably into his nest, pulled his shell from the reed-bed to drag it close to his chest, and closed his eyes.
