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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For three days, there was silence. It had three causes.
The first was the advancement of Song and Fox. They accepted their shifts despite their fear, but the queens and elders held small councils to rage against Poolteller and concoct a way to save the young cats. It was all conducted in quiet huddles that fell completely silent whenever Poolteller happened to go by. They refused to acknowledge her. Their disapproval was a venomous weapon.
The second cause was Peak. She clung to life for the first day with impressive resolve. Drift never heard her wake, but she still breathed all the same. It was a comfort to Flight, who came and sat beside Drift for some time. They pretended two pairs of eyes were better than one for spotting any change in Peak's condition, but the truth of it was that they only had eyes for each other, or for sleeping side by side, braced together against the chilly autumn air that filled the den.
But on the second day, while Flight was out on one of the new, restricted day patrols Poolteller had created, and Drift was eating a morning meal by himself in his nest, Peak passed. She never woke, and never had any goodbyes. In the span of a single breath, between Poolteller consulting the sacred waters and returning to monitor Peak's flagging pulse, she was gone.
Drift swore her last breath still echoed off the cavernous stone walls, even after he helped Poolteller carry her body out to the center of camp to be mourned. No one yowled, not like when Shrew died. His death had been sudden, a shock. Peak, though, had been hopeless since she was borne home with more of her blood across Flight and Sparrow's backs than in her own body. That she had lived so long after that was something of a miracle, or perhaps a kindness. Poolteller said she probably felt little pain as she died thanks to the poppy seeds in her system, and she had died in the camp, not lost in the woods, alone to the end.
It was impossible not to think of Sun, but Drift held his tongue and mourned his fellow hollow-guard. Since she died in the morning, he was even allowed to join Fish and Hawk as they carried her to the oak grove and buried her beside Shrew. They were done mid-afternoon, and together, they each said a few words over her grave. Hawk called her a prodigy, the brightest hollow-guard in generations. Fish promised she was a joy, delightful both to teach and learn from. And Drift told her she was the most dedicated cat he had ever known.
They all sobered at that. Peak was dedicated, it was true. She had been so dedicated to her brother's memory that she'd died and been buried at his side. It was not something they chose to discuss when they returned home to clean the dirt out from beneath their claws. In fact, they chose not to discuss anything at all.
But the third cause of the quiet came that night. Drift heard it even from deep in his nest, hidden far away from the hungry moon. The wolves were howling, baying back and forth through the frozen night air. Somehow, Drift knew they were howls of joy, and that some creature lying with its heart spilled on the forest floor was the source.
