at last, the night comes

“All stories, if continued far enough, end in death, and he is no true-story teller who would keep that from you.”

The sun burned red and low on the horizon, bathing the forest crimson, turning wood to mahogany and leaves a rich auburn. Nightingales sung in the tree-tops, softly piping their echoing songs. Chattering and laughing as it always had, the babbling brook jumped over stones and eddied around snags in the riverbed, blurring a golden reflection.

Dawnfeather sat as she had often before, primly upright as her mother had taught her, and watched her ghosts dance in the river current.

There was something wondrous about the evening tonight, something melancholic and nostalgic that filled her heart until she thought it might burst. Familiar glimpses lingered in the edges of her vision, laughing and smiling as they rarely had in life, leading her paws ever-onwards, out of camp to the edges of SkyClan territory. The oak here, the old one, the one that stretched up to the heavens with wizened old limbs, seeking the sky in its old age even as it had as a sapling- this one was hers. She’d sat under its spreading limbs with Oliverain and Dandelionflight, star-gazed with Beetlepaw from its cozy hollow, watered its roots with scalding tears.

She missed them.

In silent vigil, Dawnfeather bowed her head, clear blue eyes misted, her chest aching as if someone had clawed apart her flesh to tear at her heart. Stars, how she missed them- every breath grated against her ribs, every heartbeat felt like an eagle’s vise-like beak. It hurt to live.

Curled up in a golden ball, she almost didn’t notice the once-familiar feeling of soft, soft fur against her flank, the once-familiar scent of lavender and pine, the always-familiar sweet calm purr that had soothed her nightmares since kithood.

Dawnfeather opened her eyes.

Prima. A soft-pelted, golden-furred molly with eyes that had never been this clear in life stood at Dawnfeather’s flank, gesturing her onwards with a flick of her tail.

Sparrowda. A long-furred tabby with fond brown eyes she hadn’t seen in seasons smiled at her, nudging her shoulder playfully, cuffing her around the ears like he had when she was a kit.

Stag- a molly that should’ve seen more seasons-

Holly, Slate, Wasp- triplet sisters that eddied around her, bright grins on their faces-

Blossomstep- a wise old silver tabby, compassion in her gaze-

Hawkuncle- swatting her tail playfully, that knowing mischievous twinkle in his eye, side by side with-

Smokema- lively and upbeat, keeping pace with her son, flicking an ear with a competitive grin-

Muddy- grinning brightly and nearly tripping over his paws, finishing the happy family she’d dreamed of-

Hollow, Fog, Beetle, Olive, Dandelion, Cicada- all the cats she’d loved in life and more surged around her, smiling and laughing, beckoning her onwards, up into the bright starry skies. It was almost too much, this wonderful ecstasy, like a daydream come to life-

Her heart might just give out from pure joy. How silly she was to worry, when everyone was right here, and Beechaunt would be soon enough, and little Smokeling and Mist and Wolfblossom and all the cats she loved. They were here, and that was all that mattered.

What reason was there now to linger?