Namesake[C]

Company in the elder’s den was not uncommon. It certainly as much companionship and attention as Rowansong would have liked to have, but--he had made peace with that moons ago. At least, he’d told himself he had, and he wasn’t intent on changing his tune now. When someone brushed into the den, he raised his head from his paws and blinked toward them. His eyes traveled down toward the small shape and when he found it, Rowansong’s breath caught in his throat. A fringe-furred little wisp of white, blinking up at him with big eyes. Wide with an excitement that should have been a perennial concern on another cat’s face. For several moments, Rowansong could only stare down at the kit, caught between memories of training by the riverside, the sound of howling in his ears, and the sight of such a pristine pelt soaked through with red, red, red. His heart thudded. Familiar phantom pains thrummed through where Rowansong thought his legs lie.

Then he blinked. Milkkit. Not Egretkit, -paw, or -swoop. Rowansong blinked again and willed his heart to slow down. His eyes traveled down to the gift laid at his paws. ”Oh--oh! Thank you.” The words came out at first a little haltingly, but then he was purring. He swept the flower closer to him and said, ”That’s very kind. I will be sure to keep this close.” It would join the gift from Stormdance, and Minksplash’s pelt, in the things he kept in his nest. Why not keep it? He hardly knew Milkkit so well as he knew the aforementioned cats, but it was rare that he received gifts like this. And perhaps one day the little tom would become important to him. Even if he didn’t--well, Rowansong was a sentimental cat. He had few reminders of those he had lost. He supposed a memento was always nice.

Then the little tom was asking for a story. Rowansong built up his usual lop-sided smile before he spoke. ”It would seem you caught me at a good time,” he purred, ”for if you were a moment earlier or later, I may have found myself woefully busy with… idling by the riverside. Perhaps on the opposite end of camp than the usual today, just for flair.” Rowansong laughed, his whiskers quivering with it. The jest did put a small pang through his chest, but he dismissed it before letting it take root.

”If it is a story you’re looking for, then you certainly came to the right place. I hold many a tale to regale you with. You know, my stories have saved lives before.” That late-early morning spent with Murkyriver had never left his memory. And now… now, as a result of that, one of her kits stood before him, asking for something as simple as a story. Stars, it had been so long since Rowansong had had the chance to craft a story for someone. Murkyriver might have been the last. It felt right, then, that her progeny should be the next. ”Would you like to hear that story? It involves your mother. Or perhaps I could share with you of my time spent far, far away in Twolegplace. Or when I warred against a fox as an apprentice… I could even just share with you the beauty of our great lands. Though I will warn you, the words are only half so stunning as the sights themselves.” His smile softened and Rowansong lowered his head to his paws again, so he could be at eye level with Milkkit. ”All the same… it was those words that pulled one from darkness, so,” he laughed again, soft and stirring through Milkkit’s fur, ”they must be rather good ones. Or--” he hummed thoughtfully. ”Or perhaps it is not a story you seek at all. Perhaps you would be pleased with words of wisdom? That is an elder’s secondary great skill to storytelling.”