* HOWLING FOR YOU || ASPEN

words: 528 tagged: minnowleap notes: xxx

Willowbreeze had always had a unique love for thunderstorms. She had been a quiet soul. But when the clouds crashed and the trees shook, something within her became vibrant. It gave her a youthful energy. In some ways, she became more alive than she had ever been. He remembered those nights, her anxious energy as she turned and shifted in their shared nest. On these rare nights all semblance of patience fled her body. It was torture simply waiting for the kits to go to sleep, for the camp to calm down and fall into shadows. When all the warriors were snug in their nests, she would tug him out into the rain – often by one ear. He had to lean his head down so she could reach. Of course her grip was gentle, her laugh muffled by his thick fur. They would slip silently from camp, often more than one senior warrior watching with mock disapproval. And in the rain, with lightning and thunder sounding above them, they would frolic. Those singular nights, they shook moons from their bones. They became children once more, splashing and chasing each other about in the rain. His eyes fluttered closed as he lost himself in the memories.

Sometimes the light of dawn would be filtering over the hills before they returned to camp, their pelts slick against their skin and their chests heaving with exertion. They would trudge back to collapse in their nest, curled around each other, feeling young once more. He still remembered their last storm. Willowbreeze had been days from giving birth to their last litter, days, barely weeks away from her own death. Even swollen and waddling with her awkward bulk she had stuck her nose into his den, smiling hopefully at him. And they had frolicked, that final time. His eyes fluttered open, Willowbreeze’s memory vanished. He sat at the very edge of his den, looking out at the sheets of rain. For the first time, he was alone amid the crack of thunder. He stood, pushing his way out. He vanished through the camp entrance. The rain poured, soaking him quickly. But he took no care. He moved automatically, wandering the length of his territory. He couldn’t return to his nest, not tonight, not until the sky was silent once more. He came upon the two-leg structure, pausing only in his venture when he noticed a familiar shape curled upon the porch.

At last, a soft smile lit his tired lips. He climbed up the steps, standing over his grown daughter with a bittersweet fondness. He shook his head, water still dripping from every inch of him. When he spoke, his voice was a low affectionate rumble. “You seem to have inherited your mother’s love of storms.” He moved slightly away, shaking out his thick fur. He stepped back once more, dipping his head to give his daughter’s ear the lightest of licks. Curled as she was, despite the patched pattern she had inherited from him, he could almost see his beloved mate reflected in her. He wanted to believe it was her, that she’d never gone. But such an idea was ridiculous.

words: 528 tagged: minnowleap notes: xxx

In many ways, she was far more akin to him than she had ever or would ever be to Willowbreeze. But that was the way of children. They took after one parent, or at times both. They leaned one way, or another, or went their own way entirely (like Dusthawk). In Minnowleap's case, she had inherited much of his solemnity, his serious nature, his critical mind. But at times, these rare beautiful times, a little bit of her mother shone through. He would never accuse his daughter of being gentle or patient as her mother had been. But her vibrance, her passion, her life - it shone through in her eldest child. It was these times, these rare times, when the ache in his chest softened in the slightest. He wouldn't deny that he missed Willowbreeze. He mourned her loss every second of every day, with every rise and set of the sun. So many had fallen silent, loathe to even whisper her name for fear of crushing their elderly leader. For indeed, though he was reluctant to admit to such a thing, Magpiestar was passing into the final stages of his life. In a strange way, what his clan feared to do was what he needed most. He needed to hear her name, to know that she hadn't been forgotten. He feared otherwise that when he died, all traces of her memory would die with him.

He was suddenly aware of the way he towered awkwardly over his daughter. Despite the tender moment (perhaps only one-sided) seconds before, a tension had filtered over the porch, laying a thick blanket over them both. With a slight creak to his old bones, Magpiestar lowered himself onto his belly, tucking his paws beneath him. There was a respectful distance between himself and his daughter. He was painfully aware that if it had been Mousetooth at his side, his younger daughter would have wrapped herself in his embrace. But she had always been a fragile creature, one in constant need of affection. She was nothing like Minnowleap, not as strong, not as fierce, not as beautiful. He swallowed back a sigh, shaking his head in only the slightest of ways. "She used to stream through the reeds, leaping up with cries of joy at every clap of thunder." This secret little past-time, this guilty pleasure, they had never shared with their children. It had been private, a thing between lovers, old friends, confidants, soul-mates. But Magpiestar sensed that perhaps Willowbreeze, gone these past moons, was the only thing that could connect him and his eldest child.

"She always waited until the camp was dark, until her youngest children were asleep in their nests. She said the storms gave life." He smiled softly at the memory, his mate's passionate words. He could hear her voice echoing with each clap of thunder. This is life, Magpie. Not the streams, not the mice that scamper through the undergrowth. It's this! Don't ever miss it. The silence stretched between them until Magpie cleared his throat, shaking his head. "But you didn't come out here to listen to me reminisce."

words: 842 tagged: minnowleap notes: xxx

Seven million, seven hundred seventy six thousand seconds. One hundred twenty nine thousand, six hundred minutes. Two thousand, one hundred and sixty hours. Ninety days. Three moons. There were a hundred ways to say it, to think it, to count it up and down. Magpiestar knew this for a fact. He had counted it each and every way. None made any difference to him. In a way, they were all meaningless numbers. He could have babbled on and on, counted until not another breath whisped from his cracked lips. Others had reached the brink of insanity over less. He'd seen them, those rare fragile souls. Their minds had been destroyed, become obsessively focused on something insignificant, so insignificant as to render them almost completely unable to function. Of course he'd seen other forms of infirmity too. He'd watched his father slowly lose his grasp of time, lose it until he no longer knew his son as his leader, and wandered the camp searching for a long-dead mate. Such searching, dwelling on things that couldn't be changed, it was destructive. It sucked the life from one's eyes, the strength from their bones, occasionally even the will to live.

Magpiestar knew this, intimately. Despite the meaningless of those numbers, he was acutely aware of them. Even if he hadn't counted every moment, he'd felt each second of her absence. It ached and throbbed in him with each beat of his heart. Seven million, seven hundred sevent six thousand, and one. The seasons had turned, and life without her had gone on. And yet simultaneously it had stopped, for him at least. He knew, though of course he wouldn't dwell on such things, that below the soft spring dirt, his beloved mate's body would be nothing but bones. She would be the grinning skull from his nightmares, not the soft beauty he had loved into old age. Even in death, time would take its toll. Time was the great equalizer. It brought them all down, one by one. There was no difference between any of them - loner or clan, leader or apprentice, prey or predator. One day, perhaps in the not so distant future, Magpiestar too would be reduced to bones. And then even those would fade away, would crumble to dust. All memory of him, all record, would be gone. He knew such a thought might have disturbed others. His peers had an entirely reasonable desire to leave some mark, to be remembered. But he, for his part, was resigned to fall out of memory, to be forgotten. It was the way of the world, and the fate of them all.

His lips pursed, folding into a thin line. Now, sitting awkwardly at his daughter's side, he wasn't sure why he had bothered to approach at all. She was like a stranger to him, and seemed no happier for his company. And his words, his foolish spilling words. It had become a nasty habbit, a way of coping. He'd never been the type to be "conversational". He was social enough, enjoyed company, but he gave very few words. He tended to consider every one of them, choose them carefully. This resulted in long stretches of, as he saw it, comfortable silence. In days past, Willowbreeze had filled those silences with quiet chatter, or occasionally mindless humming as she went about some task or another. He had filled that silence, the space left by her death, with his own words. But it wasn't the same. They were inadequate, had a certain air of disquiet to them. Too often, they left him alone with his own thoughts, and his overwhelming regrets.

His gaze lingered on the lake in front of them, rather than flicking to his daughter at her soft words. He didn't blame her, really. He imagined the mere thought was strange, foreign in her mind's eye. He'd never been a playful creature. And many of his children had taken after him in this manner. Perhaps she thought it all a lie and was simply too polite to inquire further. Or, more likely, she simply didn't care. She would say whatever was necessary to scoot him along his way. It was heart-breaking, but at least it was honest. How long could they play at this, a father-daughter game? It seemed their relationship had been reduced to nothing more. But then she spoke again, a few soft words, that stole his breath away. His face twisted in pain, his breath catching. Normally he might have been more controlled. Quite simply, he'd been caught off his guard. No one had ever bothered to ask him such a thing. They turned a blind eye, in an almost don't ask don't tell sort of mantra. But leave it to this daughter, this reluctant daughter, to speak aloud. His features relaxed. He parted his jaws, but not a word came. Eventually he shook his head, allowing his chin to dip slightly towards the ground. His voice was hushed, his words few, but finally brokenly honest.

"I don't have a clue."