steady is the hand [solo]

Amberdawn wasn’t coming back.

It had taken Lightfang some time to realize that. In fact, it hadn’t truly hit him until he’d nosed his way into the medicine den with a possibly-injured paw only to find the scarred, inscrutable face of Mintwhisker. On its own, it might not have mattered. During his Moonstone journey, which was to this day the most honest he had been about his fears to anyone who outranked him, Amberdawn had learned more about him than he had about her; however safe she’d made him feel that day, he couldn’t claim to know her. But there were so many other things on his mind that the addition of this tiny, tiny weight was enough to send him out of camp entirely. It never took much, these days.

Feeling betrayed was a kittish reaction. If he gave it the opportunity, its claws poked at him every so often. Greater than that was something he dared not to name: something like understanding. Worry and Lightfang had always been close. Now, it was as if they shared a pelt. He stood above his leader and quite a few of his denmates, yet he felt like one of the mice rotting at the bottom of the fresh-kill pile. One day, someone would notice—maybe he’d come back a bit too late from a patrol, maybe he’d make another misstep during a border skirmish, maybe he’d spend one too many nights curled at Burningsun’s side the way he’d always been—and they would throw him out. If not him, then his brothers. His mother. Burningsun. And if not exile, then…

…His paw still ached. He’d jarred it against a rock some hours ago. Raising it enough to see that it wasn’t visibly damaged, Lightfang decided it wasn’t worth it.

He padded through the thin forest under a dark, ugly sky, his three uninjured paws skating across the ground like greenleaf bugs over Moonlit Creek, the fourth lagging behind. The air was humid enough to curl his fur. Out here, he still felt hunted, but the feeling was less. He was on patrol. An ordinary, honorable warrior. As long as he brought back prey, defended his borders, made himself useful, treason and suspicion couldn’t touch him.

Stars, he wished he could believe that. But the truth was not so easily subdued. He hadn’t felt entirely safe since his claws had buried themselves in calico fur and StarClan had struck him in return. His life in the forest was splintering at the edges. Twice he’d stood against SkyClan in some way; he guessed his actions regarding Delta could be seen in a much different light now. Whether it was on his own terms or just by association, he was guilty.

At the base of a tree several fox-lengths ahead, a fat sparrow picked at the earth. Lightfang crouched, moving slowly so as not to draw attention to his pale fur, but it was utterly engrossed in whatever bugs it had found milling about the roots and rocks. He watched it for some time, still as the trees.

Earning SkyClan’s trust (if he had, in fact, lost it; he would never be brave enough to ask) would take moons upon moons, assuming it was possible. He would have to be perfect. He had never been perfect, not even as Lightpaw, when he’d put so much effort into his training as if a good enough pounce might convince Mistyrain and Tinystar to overlook his reluctance to climb and make him a warrior. And one little slip-up could shatter it all again. He was too old not to understand the consequences of siding with Burningsun against the cats who had raised him—

The sparrow lifted its head. Electricity rattled Lightfang to the end of his tail. His ears, one tattered, one whole, stood on end. If he didn’t leap now, it would spot him. Force of habit sent him bounding forward. Though the sparrow spread its wings and fluttered almost out of reach, he managed to wedge his uninjured paw between it and the sky; it fell as if struck by lightning, his claws tangled in its wings. When he snapped its neck, he barely felt the texture of feathers on his tongue, though a grimace flashed across his face unnoticed.

He was tired of worrying. He was tired of avoiding the eyes of his denmates. Was it worth trying to force things back to normal when they all knew it was so far out of reach? Was there a point in working for their respect when the most notable things he’d done in his life, the only things he'd had any opinions on, did nothing but break it down? Among the cats in this half of the forest, who could he follow with his head held high and his steps free of fear? Who could he trust? Who was this for?

Lightfang attempted to catch Bird, using 3 stamina. The attempt was successful!

Lightfang
45/45 HP
157/160 SP (-3)

The member 'rhindon' has done the following action : Dices roll

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'Hunting Dice' : 5

The sparrow fell from his mouth. Perhaps that was what prompted his answer; perhaps it had been set in stone long before, at the trial, at his Moonstone, as early as his first moons in the forest. Even to him, it wasn’t surprising. Burningsun. Outspoken, determined, unshakeable, a brilliant warrior and just about family to him and his brothers after growing up alongside them. She had never hurt him. Even on that day during their apprenticeship, the first and only time he’d stood with no part of him touching solid ground, she had waited beneath him in case he fell. Just as important: She hadn’t laughed. Nor had she told anyone; that Lightfang had his warrior name, rather than being resigned to apprenticeship until he conquered his fear or it conquered him, was proof of her silence on the matter.

When they’d wanted justice, the stars had gone to her.

Of course, Lightfang had loved her well before that, but nothing would come of that particular issue. Though he was as handsome as his brothers at a glance, he lacked Sandblaze’s witty courage and Swallowflight’s charisma. A bolder cat might have asked them for advice back when SkyClan was safe and days were good; Lightfang had not, would never. Burningsun loved the trees so dearly… He couldn’t ask her to tie herself to someone who couldn’t climb them without her. She deserved a cat who was proud and clever and utterly certain of where their paws would lead them.

Besides, whatever he felt was irrelevant. A flawed ally was better than having to stand alone, and Burningsun almost certainly wanted someone on her side. So he would be there, firmly grounded for her as she had been for him. In that alone, he had no reservations. Where SkyClan was muddled, Burningsun shone clear and bright, not perfect, but safe. The least he could do was follow, both as a warrior and a friend. Just like her, like his brothers, like Delta, he was a mountain cat. Soft-spoken, a worrywart, unremarkable beside the rest of them—but he was as sturdy as the stone walls of his kithood. He hadn’t broken yet.

At long last, Lightfang reached the creek. He placed the sparrow down as gentle as a queen handling a kit. Using his rippling reflection as a guide, he straightened every stray hair in his pelt, groomed out the last of the dirt, winced as his tongue pulled on almost-healed wounds. His head was clearer than it had been in ages. Mumblefoot’s words had been true. Not in the way Lightfang had hoped, not in a way that would have saved Delta, but the way they echoed in his ears now meant more than enough to make up for how he'd thought they'd failed him during the first trial. He had a purpose once again, certain and solid as earth. Something to trust, fight for, hunt for. Something to protect even at the cost of his life. If SkyClan and family diverged again (however he hoped they wouldn't, he had to prepare for every possibility), he would stand with the only cats he'd ever been able to rely on.

Far above, the clouds gave way. Rain carved thin, flat trails through his fur, bringing the late greenleaf chill to meet skin. As he grabbed the sparrow and tucked in his chin as if to shelter it from the weather, Lightfang couldn't help but linger by the edge of the creek. He could have sworn that, for a moment, he’d looked like himself again.