Warriors: the Moon Prophecy: Fall of the Moon

Prologue

Steady.  The Clan can't afford to lose anything else.

Freezing wind whirled into the tom's face, stinging his eyes and making his whiskers stiff. His brown fur was matted with cold, wet snow.  He blinked the droplets out of his eyes, trying to focus on the blurry shape digging into the white powder.

The tom crept forward, paw over paw, as lightly as he could.  The closer he got to the mouse, the more he could smell the warm scent.  He was starving; he hadn't eaten in a sunrise and this mouse seemed to be the plumpest prey in the forest.  He swiped his tongue over his jaws in anticipation.

The large tom put all of his weight on his haunches, forgetting that he was on thin ice until he heard an ominous crack!  He didn't have time to run or leap away before he was plunged into the icy torrent beneath him.

He was immediately shoved underwater, frigid wetness soaking into his skin, chilling him to the bone.  An instinct surged through him and he splayed out his paws, kicking madly until his head broke the cold surface.

He barely had time to take a breath or cry for help, or even grab onto the ice before he was dunked under again.  Icy water filled his nose, and he coughed out a long stream of bubbles.

The tom felt himself running out of air and he kicked viciously again, hoping to make it to the surface to get another breath, but the cold river seemed to suck him down like quicksand.  Its icy claws dug into his flesh and his eyes, stinging more dangerously than rat bites.  He couldn't muster up enough energy to make his freezing limbs work.

He sank to the bottom of the river, unable to keep swimming.  He forced the last scrap of energy he could provide to powering up to the surface, but his muscles were as frozen as ice and his lungs burned like fire.

A million fading thoughts rushed through his freezing mind.  Will I die down here?  Will anyone notice my death?  Will anyone stand vigil for me?  Will anyone miss me?

The brown tom's vision started to go black and his heartbeats grew slower and slower.  He knew this was how he was going to die; this was how he was going to leave his Clan . . . Wait for your saver, Hawkflight, for this is not how you will die.

And, right as the StarClan cat spoke, he felt teeth grab his scruff, pulling him out to the surface.

*          *          *

Hawkflight's vision slowly cleared, letting him see just enough of the snowy land around him.  He had nearly no memory of what he'd went through, but the cold pain rippling through his fur told him enough.

He struggled to his paws, joints aching and pads cracking, blood oozing from them in a steady stream.  He winced, stumbling forward, before a silver-blue, wet nose pushed him back down. He looked up, expecting to see Windfur or Wetnose, but the cat threw long strips of leaves over his eyes before he could get a good enough glimpse.

"You mustn't move so fast,"  his saver meowed kindly; her voice was friendly and warm, not at all as hostile as he had wrongly assumed.  "These leaves should help keep your eyes from stinging, and I'll find some poppy seeds to help you sleep."

"Thank you, but - "  He paused, perking his ears. Soft, kit-like mewling came from near his side, and he could feel a small cat wriggle into his cold flank.  Curiosity shot through him and he peeled back one of the herbs, wide enough to see two little kits resting on a warm nest of mouse pelts.  "Are those your kits?"

"Yes,"  the cat told him, in a feminine-like voice.  "Their names are Spike and Lucy."

Hawkflight paused, hesitating.  "I should go,"  he mewed quickly, attempting to stand.  "You already have lots to deal with; you don't need to add me too.  I don't want to take up much of your time since kits are such a pawful.  You should be surrounding these kits with love and compassion and - and warm fresh-kill - not me."