hope for the night [closed]

Hard as it was to believe, Ravenpaw had really, truly meant to go hunting. Since the last of WindClan had returned to the mountains, wandering the moor had lost some of its appeal. In its place, he’d put his energy toward helping (at last) by way of bringing what little prey he could catch back to the camp, never staying long. For one, the actual restoration was duller than watching clouds move. For another, being on the go from sunup to sundown gave him the surest chance at sleep—and no one could fault him for being useful, right? But Ravenpaw was far from WindClan’s most reliable apprentice, and mostly-good intentions didn’t amount to much when his paws led him astray.

The sky was faintly orange, marking the beginning of a soon-to-be-brilliant sunset, and Ravenpaw was not hunting at all, but lying atop Outlook Rock with his muzzle on his paws and his tail dangling off the edge. The rock itself was unremarkable, a shapeless lump of stone that served to make the highest point in WindClan higher still. It was the view that enraptured him. Water and marsh and, at the furthest point, a sea of trees. He guessed the trees belonged to either SkyClan or ThunderClan based on what Mosspaw had told him, but trying to name the other territories was a near-hopeless venture. As he gazed out over them, he wondered which ones he'd passed through, if the other Clans had come home to ruins.

From here, the forest almost looked whole. He closed his eyes and saw it awash with newleaf blossoms. With every minute he spent here, the thought of hunting drifted further and further away. He still had to find that rabbit he'd been swearing he'd catch since the start of his apprenticeship, but...did it really matter how long he stayed here? As long as no one came to drag him back, he didn't care. He'd catch something in the end. Shifting against the cool stone, keeping his eyes tightly shut, Ravenpaw stretched and curled his tail close. Finally, he was comfortable.

Brookclover had told Finchstar many things during the nights since the last of WindClan's return. The leader spent most dusks curled up with his mate in their nest, breathing in her scent, watching her green eyes flicker. She would whisper to him the many trials they shared. She told the tom about the big lake, the dog attack, and finally, returning home. One thing that had clung to Finchstar's mind was the little black tom that seemed to be a reoccurring character in Brookclover's tales. She had found him as a kit first, and then apprenticed him on her own. The thought of this made the leader purr. And now he finally had the chance to meet this character, this black shadow that Brookclover seemed fond of. Ravenpaw. She spoke to him during the night of his missing parents, and how they most likely perished in the waves. Finchstar wondered if the black-furred tom knew. In fact, he wished to learn a lot of things about this kitten - turned - warrior. The trials he faced would certainly give him claim to the title.

The rosy sky reflected off of stray puddles, and turned Finchstar's orange patched fur into a flame. He padded through the wheatgrass, weaving around gorse bushes and uprooted stalks of heather. Outlook rock seemed to be a popular spot for all WindClan cats alike. It was the first place Finchstar ever took Aspenpaw; his first and only apprentice. Perhaps there was something whimsical about seeing the entirety of the world. On the rock, it was easy to drown in the sights and smells, and forget your own turmoil. It seemed a prime place for a mourning tom to go. The apprentice was curled up at its peak, seemingly sleeping, from what Finchstar could see.

"You're braver then some." The leader breathed to the black tom, finding his way up to the top of the rock. "Sometimes I worry that if I ever fall asleep on Outlook Rock, I'll roll off the edge." Finchstar flashed the apprentice a grin, wrapping his striped tail around his paws. He sat for a minute in silence, watching the massive stretch of earth unfurl beneath him. Trees were growing greenery, and the royal sunset seemed to reflect off of the stubborn flood water that still sat in the forest. Finchstar wanted to throw Ravenpaw's turmoil into the abyss, he was sad for the struggles that plagued this good cat. Perhaps it was a lack of words, or maybe just that the silence was too soothing to break. Finchstar waited to speak what was known. He wondered if the black tom would reminisce on his parents first, or if he truly wanted to drown out the sorrow with the vastness of life.

At the faint sound of approaching pawsteps, Ravenpaw’s ears twitched. Busted. It was bound to happen sooner or later; against golden grasses and bright flowers, a dark pelt stood out, especially when said pelt’s owner had a track record of being elsewhere when he was needed. The last thing he was expecting was WindClan’s leader. He tensed, drawing into himself slightly, but Finchstar did not scold him; instead, the ginger-and-white tom settled on the rock beside him. The wariness in Ravenpaw’s gaze receded, and he uncurled, turning toward the forest below once more. A closer look revealed both the scars left by the flood and signs that the forest was healing. ”You could sleep here? When there's so much to look at?" Though he'd been quite relaxed previously, his face was alert, his voice clear.

Ravenpaw knew two things about Finchstar. First, that he had stepped forward when it became clear Brindlestar was lost to the flood, despite being stranded in the mountains with only half a Clan to lead. There was something admirable about that—about picking oneself up for the sake of others—even to Ravenpaw, who had been reluctant to play leader as early as his nursery days. Now, he found himself envying that strength. The second thing he knew was that Finchstar was important to Brookclover. For all the ways he and his mentor didn’t see eye to eye, Ravenpaw found her judgment sound when it came to Clanmates. She was all he had now; he wasn’t about to make enemies of those she cared about. Besides, he’d always been quicker to show mercy than claws.

For a moment, he was quiet. ”...I don’t know if brave's the word for it.” Throwing himself at the dogs hadn’t been bravery. Looking back, he realized it had been sheer impulse and the knowledge that his new friends and Brookclover would be watching. He hadn’t truly understood the danger until his shore-mates were already falling, until he returned to a half-empty camp, until— Ravenpaw pushed himself up, away from that particular line of thought, until he was sitting, but Finchstar was still taller. "So. Mountains, right? What was it like up there?" His yellow eyes found the leader's, hesitant behind the small smile he'd pulled on. Mountains. Not his finest redirection, but it was safe, and he was curious.

Mountains... Finchstar let the smallest grin grace his features. In the game of wits, he had never been one to lose. But Ravenpaw spoke well, his words were fine and directed. Finchstar decided he would enjoy this conversation. "It's an interesting thing, really..." The leader sighed, settling down beside Ravenpaw. The view that stretched beneath him was not enough to quell his thirst for adventure. He could watch it all day, but he would never truly live it, not yet. "I've always wanted to explore beyond the forest, ever since I was a kit. But my presence in the mountains was involuntary. It certainly does take some of the fun out of it." Despite his words, Finchstar carried his smile, glancing at Ravenpaw. "I meant cats from a different landscape than us. Ones who's pads had been hardened by the stone. It makes me wonder, how many felines live lives like ours? Hunt and fight for themselves?"

A gusty breeze passed over Outlook Rock, and the tom closed his eyes gently, relishing the feeling of the wind once more. "It makes one feel small. Knowing that we are just two toms, compared to the thousands that walk this place." Finchstar had come to this conclusion long ago, satisfied with his humble state. He had come to love the other small things that surrounded him. WindClan, the moor, his apprentice, as well as his mate. But the love that tied them all together was not small, nor insignificant. Without it, surely the forest would fall to flames. "The mountains were vast, wide, terrifying. But at no discredit to your experience at the lake. Brookclover speaks highly of you, you're a good cat." Finchstar blinked slowly, turning his yellow gaze back to the massive horizon. "Your parents perished in the flood, I'm sure you know by now." Sometimes a blunt approach was the only way around the obstacle of a changed subject. Finchstar wanted into Ravenpaw's head, he wanted to provide solace if needed, but feared maybe he was ripping open an old scar. "If you're lonely, come hunt with me some time. We could share a rabbit, or watch a sunset." The leader caught the apprentice's yellow eyes, and meant them with his own. "You have my respect, Ravenpaw. We may be specks of dust compared to the wide, wide forest. But even the smallest of things have desires. Without them, we might as well be leaves, drifting in the wind."

Though he’d always been a firm believer that the only true difference between a leader and their Clan was the suffix they carried, Ravenpaw’s eyes widened as Finchstar spoke, confessing to a feeling Ravenpaw knew well. Even if he hadn’t made friends on the shore—friends that were now scattered across the forest, with many, many pawsteps and an ancient Code standing between them—he would have wanted to see as much of the world as he could reach. ”Me too,” he meowed, grinning, ”but I’ll stick to places that aren’t muddy. I think I’m done with mud. Maybe next time I could take the mountains and you take the lake?” The apprentice’s smile wasn’t as wide as usual, but there was something real at its center. ”I heard there were other cats up there. Kind of wish I could’ve met them.”

As he pondered Finchstar’s next statement, the wind ruffled his fur, and he sighed, short and quiet. On the shore, the trees had broken much of the wind; only when he’d taken to traveling the moor had he understood the advantage of having a pelt as thick as his. ”It does, sort of. But it’s never just us, right? I mean, there’s me and you, that’s not much—but then there’s all of WindClan, and Mosspaw, and Leafpaw, and everyone on the shores… We’re not really separate.” Though it sure felt like they were, with everyone back in their own Clans, part of him remembered the bridge, cats sharing in their reunions mere tail-lengths away from cats who normally lived on the other side of the forest, united in this one way. ”At the lake, with the dogs—we all worked together.” To Ravenpaw, that was the world that made sense. You could talk to one apprentice about the taste of rabbit, turn around, and find one who'd never eaten anything but fish; all identifying scents were so mixed and faded nobody could pick out which cat belonged where, nor had Ravenpaw felt a need to beyond knowing which list of territory-related questions to ask. With a laugh, he added, "Or maybe I'm just used to feeling small."

At the mention of Brookclover, the apprentice’s ears stood straighter. A good cat. Something soft and warm bloomed within him, momentarily banishing his quiet grief to the corners of his mind like a flame in the night. He and Brookclover disagreed in many ways—their opinions on other Clans, her determination and his lack of it—but she was (like family) his mentor, after all. The idea that she might be proud… Before he could ask for the details of what she’d said, Finchstar sent him crashing down. It was, in part, an answer. Ravenpaw idly traced a thin crack in the stone with a white-furred paw. The smile had dropped from his face faster than a rock tipping over the edge of the Gorge. ”I know. I…figured it out eventually. Is that…” The question caught in his throat. He knew it wasn’t important, he’d never been the type to suspect ulterior motives; it had taken up residence in the back of his mind for a different, equally stubborn reason. He huffed, paws tightening. ”Is that why Brookclover took me in? Did she know?” The two events had happened so close together he sometimes forgot he hadn’t washed ashore immediately into apprenticeship, but when he tried hard to remember, he knew the truth of it was that Brookclover had found him, made sure he was fed and warm, kept him safe before she’d become his mentor. What had she thought of him all that time?

He turned to look at Finchstar and found himself trapped by the leader’s piercing gaze—a mistake, given Finchstar’s next words. Respect. Maybe a leader was the same as any other cat, but they didn’t usually extend their respect to apprentices. Grousepaw, maybe; Grousepaw knew how to get things done. Grousepaw knew better than to burst into tears in front of the whole Clan. Everyone, even the cats who'd lost more than he had, had known better. The heat that overtook Ravenpaw this time was the prickly, uncomfortable kind, giving him the strength to break eye contact, though he didn’t, couldn’t, look away entirely. It should have felt nice, hearing that someone, especially someone older, respected him. Moons ago, it would have. ”Why?" Whether it was what Finchstar was saying, Finchstar himself, or the weight of circumstance finally bearing down on him, Ravenpaw couldn't seem to hold his tongue. Dimly, it occurred to him that there were things one didn't say to a leader; but if he'd been the type to worry about that, he would have crossed that line quite a while ago. "I didn’t do anything. I guess I fought a dog, but…” Tail settling over his paws, his voice went soft. "I'm not even a warrior."

A gust of wind blew over Outlook Rock, and Finchstar winced with it. He strived hard to guess Ravenpaw's feelings, but perhaps he was pushing too hard. He watched the smile fall from the black tom's face so fast, he could have missed it. "Brookclover knew." Finchstar admitted, flexing his claws into the hard stone. He tried to imagine what his mate must have done. She was a very intelligent cat, probably having spotted the bodies of Ravenpaw's parents, washed up on the shore. Or maybe she assumed, and took him in anyway. The tom would have been a kit, and wouldn't have known the difference, but Finchstar knew the truth needed to be revealed. "She has good judgement, Brookclover. She did what was best for you, I apologize for not telling you sooner." Finchstar sighed, staring out into the forest. There was so much turmoil that ripped and tore at the grass. Cats all around faced similar situations, only due to some excess water flooding the territory.

The orange and white tabby smiled at the thought, but remembered he, too, was part of a situation. This one being an apprentice sitting atop Outlook Rock. A single word fell from Ravenpaw's maw as he inquired about the respect Finchstar gave to him. It was not a difficult thing to earn. Even the loner Starlord was capable of gaining the leader's respect. Perhaps it was because they were all battling through life, clinging to what they could. Those that did it best earned respect. And even those that failed, they were curious as well. "Not many in WindClan know, but Brookclover had given birth to two sons before the flood, my sons. They died as soon as they came into the world, but I respected them, too. Life had scorned them, and dealt them a bad destiny. But they took no revenge, and acted honorably." They are warriors in StarClan now... Finchstar wanted to speak of his leader ceremony, but knew the code forbade him from doing such a thing. "You are not much different, Ravenpaw. The forest has taken your parents away from you, and yet here you are, still living. Yes, you have tussled with beasts and journeyed home. But most importantly, you are here, now. Alive. That is what I respect. Not your rank, not your birth circumstances, but your desire and drive to leave a mark on this world." Finchstar meant Ravenpaw's yellow eyes with his own, feeling that the words he just spoke not only answered Ravenpaw's question, but his own as well. It felt good, to discover such things about oneself. It wasn't the most logical of ways to go about life, but Finchstar knew it was good. And good was good. He strived to bring more of it to the forest. "I think in a small way, you, Ravenpaw, are more important to Brookclover than she lets on. Instead of training her sons, she gets to train you. Never underestimate yourself, 'paw. We're only a few moons apart." Finchstar's eyes twinkled with amusement, despite the situation. He wanted to be friends with the black tom, and hopefully their rank in the clan wouldn't change that. Had he not been crowned leader, Finchstar would still be Finchbreeze, a heart-driven young warrior with a vendetta against the evil in the world. He wanted to drag Ravenpaw along with him.

Of course she’d known. Ravenpaw’s ears drooped at the confirmation of what he’d come to suspect—she must’ve thought I was completely mousebrained, holding onto hope when so many older, experienced cats had died. The flood had been indiscriminate in its destruction. It was unfair, but, then, it was unfair to everyone. ”You don’t have to be sorry. I’m not mad. I…” He hesitated. ”I don’t think I would’ve believed her if she’d told me.” It was the truth. Looking back, he could see that he’d wished for their survival, his mother’s especially, to the exclusion of all else. ”But I believe you, now.” Something in his voice gave way, but he forced his way through until it steadied; this time, he would be better. ”If she hadn’t found me, I’d probably still be at the lake or in a dog’s belly or, uh, worse. …She’s a good mentor, you know.” Well, Finchstar most likely did know. Maybe better than Ravenpaw himself.

Finchstar spoke of two kits, his own and Brookclover’s, who had come and gone before the flood. My age, Ravenpaw thought, sobering further. Maybe older. They hadn’t even gotten a chance to face the dangerous, wonderful adventures life had in store. They deserved better. Brookclover deserved better. Why a leader—why Finchstar was entrusting him with this knowledge, Ravenpaw didn’t yet realize, but he knew when a secret was meant to be secret. This, he would hold close. ”I’m sorry,” he said, and found that he meant it, however inadequate it was. But Finchstar’s story had a purpose beyond the simple telling of it. As Finchstar drew a parallel between his kits and Ravenpaw, Ravenpaw’s gaze returned to him willingly, searching for any hint of insincerity. Of course, he found none. Finchstar’s words were far from empty—sometimes, they were so full of meanings that Ravenpaw had to turn them around until they made sense to him. The apprentice thought he understood, if only a little. If Finchstar could respect a pair of kittens who had never been able to demonstrate bravery, cleverness, compassion, the things that made warriors good, he could give the same to Ravenpaw.

Him, important to Brookclover. Well, she’s my mentor, he wanted to say; but, once again, he stopped to consider the meaning. Brookclover was important to him, too. His knowledge of hunting and fighting came almost entirely from her. When he returned from a day of unapproved wandering across the lonely moor, no matter what he had seen or done or thought, Brookclover would be curled in her nest beside Finchstar, a constant fixture in WindClan’s camp and, for the last few moons, Ravenpaw’s life. At the end of the darkest day, she was no less stubbornly determined than she had been the day before. She couldn’t replace his parents—he couldn’t replace her sons—but there was no need to fill a once-occupied space when just beside it was room for an entirely new one.

That was…that was something he'd have to think about later. Not now, or else he would embarrass himself. Besides, some things, he figured, were best confronted head-on, rather than using Finchstar as a messenger. ”You know what I think?” The typical boldness had returned to the smaller tom's voice, the shining grin to his face, though vulnerability lingered beneath. This conversation would not be easily forgotten. Words stuck to Ravenpaw like nothing else, no matter who they came from. Giving Finchstar an almost playful nudge, he meowed, ”I think I’ll take you up on that hunt sometime. And the other things, too. Maybe you could tell me about the mountains someday, and I'll tell you about everyone at the shore. One explorer to another, yeah? Though I haven't explored much yet…” If Ravenpaw was going to rebuild himself, he would need to carve out a true home within WindClan rather than leaving pieces of it strewn throughout the world, and he wasn’t the type to refuse a friendly paw when one was offered. Sweeping his tail back to its rightful place behind him, he sat tall, felt taller than he had in moons despite the sheepishness in his voice. ”…Thanks. For, uh, listening.”

"Do you know what I think?" Ravenpaw questioned, and Finchstar meant his eyes once more, seeing a wonderful tom there. The black apprentice accepted Finchstar's promise for a hunt, and the leader felt a grin slide across his face. A friend, Ravenpaw. It would be good to speak with him over the moors, chasing a rabbit. Some time. Finchstar's curiosity was quenched for now. Ravenpaw was a puzzle, a mystical game of emotions and morals, just like all cats. It was Brookclover whom Finchstar had come to understand first, and fell in love as a result. And now here he was with her apprentice, putting the pieces together. The orange and white tabby would never get bored of it, he would befriend the world if fate allowed it. "I anticipate it." Finchstar crooned with a smile in response to Ravenpaw's comment. "If I can't see the whole world, hearing about it is the next best thing. I appreciate you going on that journey to the lake, involuntary or not. It makes for a good story." The leader gave Ravenpaw a friendly nudge, finding his paws once more.

One last look over Outlook Rock, a beauty it was. Vast. Vast was the forest they lived it, and strange were the emotions that plagued them. But perhaps the real adventure was the hearts they held, the lives they led. "You don't have to thank me." Finchstar mewed, waving his tail to the apprentice. "I enjoy the conversation." He turned to leave, feeling full once more. A new friend, a new prospect. Grass swirled over his flank, embracing him into its depths. Wind. Wind soared over the moor and grasped at Finchstar's fur, singing a thousand songs of hope. Fate had been kind. WindClan was home. Brookclover was safe. And her apprentice made for a good friend. All the adventure the forest held, and the leader was here, in WindClan. These were the minds he had the privilege to view. One life, one of many. He would love this one until his last breath, and then the next, and the next. Together he would walk beside his clan, not as a king, but a companion.