Being a hollow-guard requires incredible skill and strength. One must trust their instincts, even on the smallest of hunches. They must also be fierce and unyielding, willing to lay their life down for the Tribe of Soaring Oaks.
As of late, many ha...
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Not long after dawn, Flight slipped out of Drift's den, careful not to wake him, unaware that he was already awake. He watched her go with his eyes nearly shut, sighed as the tip of her tail vanished around the bend. It was not perfect, the choice they'd made and the circumstances they'd made it under. Drift had hardly forgotten the danger, and Flight didn't even know the full extent of it to begin with. But at least their choice was true, even if it was flawed. It was a breath of fresh air in the stifling circumstances, and as Drift waited for the sun to rise full and proper, he breathed easily, just for a while.
But there could not be ease forever, and as the sounds of the waking camp floated into the den, Drift finally lifted himself from his nest and padded outside. On his way, Poolteller was nowhere to be seen, and not a berry or herb was out of place in the den. Apparently she had abandoned her pointless reorganization, and since she wasn't beside the pool, searching for visions, Drift had to assume she'd escaped the den's chilly air, if only for a while.
It wasn't much warmer outside. Another late autumn snowfall frosted the earth overnight, and pawprints marred its soft surface in front of the dens, fresh-kill pile, and camp entrance. The snow seemed to swallow all sound, and Drift fluffed himself up against it as he went to find something to eat. For once, he enjoyed the chill and the isolation it brought. The patrols were out, the guard shift was posted, and everyone else was probably curled up in their nests, noses tucked into their tails. No one stared at him with fear in their eyes or shot him sideways glances when they thought he couldn't see.
He was invisible to his tribe, and he enjoyed it.
The meager thrush he chose was quick to vanish once he settled beneath a fern to eat. It was tough and stringy at best, but tasted better than anything he'd had since the lie began. Somehow, the freedom from being watched brought him enough peace to really, truly enjoy a meal. It didn't turn to ash on his tongue, and he didn't feel his insides curdle when looking someone else in the eye as he deceived them. He was free.
But the bliss could only last so long, and not long after he had taken the bones just outside of camp to bury them, cats began to return from their patrols. The first couple prey-hunters to return had full jaws, but the ones that followed carried nothing save for a heady scent of fear, undercut by iron. Drift froze as they hurtled by, one after the other, so close it was a wonder they didn't tangle and fall. "Poolteller!" cried the lead. It was Splash of Leaping Frog, and his shining white paws were drenched red.
All the air rushed from Drift's lungs at once, and his throat closed up. For a heartbeat, he couldn't breathe, and he flailed to remember who had just passed him by. Splash, yes, but Thorn of Tangled Briar and Song of Pale Lark with prey, and maybe Lily Floating on Still Pond among those wreathed in fear-scent. Flight, though. Where was Flight?
He imagined claws squeezing around his heart, dragging it out of his mouth and shoving it back into place in his chest. "Poolteller was gone when I woke," he said.
