Despite the cloudless blue sky and the soft, warm sunshine currently bathing Shadowclan's marsh territory in light, Rowantalon couldn't shake the odd, heavy feeling that had settled in his chest recently. The small spotted elder had lazed about the camp for most of the day, basking in the pleasant weather and observing his prospering clan with half-closed hazel eyes. Halfway through the day, the elder had regaled a group of starry-eyed apprentices with one of his favorite tales; the story of Rowantalon's largest scar, which stretched from the tip of the stocky tomcat's shoulder to the edge of his thigh. He had gotten the scar fighting several dogs that had managed to travel from Twolegplace all the way to the heart of Shadowclan's camp. The story had taken place long ago, before the death of Leopardstar and the strange disappearance of Magpiestar, when Rowantalon himself had yet to grow into both his new title of apprentice and his large paws. At the time the tale had filled Rowantalon with a pleasant feeling of nostalgia, but now that the sun had reached the other side of the sky and the air felt heavy and sticky, the spotted tom felt nothing but a confusing emptiness, as if the words he had spoken had left a heavy emptiness in their place.
The old tomcat rolled onto his back and stared past the sky, lost in the blue and his thoughts. He was old; so, so old. His once-red fur was tinged with gray, his proud figure bent and weak. Rowantalon sighed, feeling the air rush through his body and fill his lungs. Rolling onto his side once more, he shut his clear hazel eyes and allowed himself to sink back into his memories.
Rowanpaw looked around, his eyes narrowed, his narrow chest heaving. All he could see around him was blood and fur. The screeches of his clanmates and the cries of the kits were deafening, matched only in volume by the baying of the monstrous dogs. The young apprentice shut his eyes for a moment, trying his best to block out the horror that had erupted around him so suddenly. He felt the ground begin to sway beneath his large paws- he almost welcomed the darkness he was sinking into. No... The large tom gave his head a shake. He wouldn't- couldn't -let this happen. This was his home. He had been nurtured by the whole of his clan, deprived of his parents but blessed with a larger family. He had been nursed by the queens, grown on the strength of many she-cats. He had grown up listening to Thrushstripe's stories and Honeydrop's wisdom.
He couldn't just let it go.
Rowantalon's eyes snapped open once more. After a pause, he rolled onto his stomach and heaved himself to his feet, groaning as his old bones carried his weight. "Scorchfang," He called to a passing warrior, a large, fluffy tom with brilliant amber eyes. "Why don't you go find your brother- it's a lovely day for a quick walk, and the prey is sure to be enjoying the weather." He may be old, but he still loved to get out of camp every once in a while. Perhaps Scorchfang and Crowfur would be able to catch some prey while they were out.
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