THE FINAL STAGE {open}

[mysteryfaith]

Foxflower's jaws ached - this annoyed her a little, seeing as her jaws had never ached from carrying a tiny mouse before. Every joint seemed to pain her now, making her feel older than ever before. She hated feeling old, and every inch of her body screamed at her, told her to get back to camp and act grumpy just like she always was. At the camp, there would be warriors to pick her up if she fell and kits to comfort her if ever she needed cheering; out here, by the gnarled tree that had seen her grow and age, she was alone.

I should've gone out with a patrol, she lied inwardly; she knew that she would hold any patrol up with her slow limping and constant complaining, even though nobody else would admit it. She couldn't even admit that she was a labour to all who attempted to help her - she always ended up complicating situations or making them worse somehow. It was a painful trait that she had carried through life with her, though it had clung to her subtly until old age set in. Now, it made a daily appearance in every conversation that she could manage to keep up with.

"Come on, Foxflower!" she urged herself half-heartedly, her encouragement floating out into the chilly Newleaf air and helping nobody. She wanted so very desperately to reach the ancient tree that she had loved ever since her days as a kitten - with her mother's permission, of course, she would climb the thick branches and scratch lazily at the bark. She couldn't go very high, as fear eventually set in and she wailed to be rescued, but she could climb a lot higher than her brothers and couldn't help reminding them of that every time they tried to pick on her.

She missed those days of simplicity, when sibling rivalry was all a kitten had to worry about. Now, the scent of war was floating down the wind from a near territory, and Foxflower was convinced that she could occasionally hear the howling of a warrior recently injured. She wouldn't put it past her aged brain to fabricate such sounds, however - it did drag back sounds and images from the past sometimes, just to trick her into believing she was young again. She owned a cruel brain.

Now stumbling to the base of the tree, Foxflower smiled to herself and allowed her paws a slight rest. Just ten moons ago, she might have been able to reach the base of the tree without stopping once, hobbling straight from camp to the tree. Those days of relative athleticism were beyond her now - it had taken her some time just to reach the gnarled roots of the tree, and she had collapsed considerably heavily when she got there. It was as she lay on her side, staring up at the young leaves of the old tree, that a radical thought came into her head and refused to leave.

What if this was the end?

528.

[sil]

l a r k s o n g

Larksong had left the camp only for a little while to stretch her legs. Her kits were old enough to not need her constant supervision, but with the recent incidents in which one of her children had nearly drowned and the other had lost much of her beautiful tail to a snake, Larksong had been extra, almost overbearingly, vigilant of her kits. The job was wearing down on her now; she was ready to return to life as a warrior and defend her Clan with tooth and claw, while being a good role-model for her kits. She had finally been convinced to go take a walk (“Your kits will be apprenticed soon, after all,” they told her. “They can’t rely on you forever.”) with the promise that her kits, especially that rascal Otterkit, would be looked after.

She wasn’t hungry enough to hunt—as a queen, she was always well-fed—and she had missed the border patrol. So here she was, aimlessly roaming the WestClan territory. Her paws carried her to the Ancient Tree, as static and unchanging as it was from the day she was born. A lump of unmoving ginger fur at the gnarled base of the tree caught her attention. Her heart leapt into her throat in shock, and the patch tabby queen raced over. Larksong was already assuming the worst.

By scent, she was able to recognize the cat as the elder Foxflower. And with much relief, Larksong saw that the WestClan cat was indeed still alive. “Oh, Foxflower,” she mewed, trying to invigorate the elder with a few encouraging licks and nudges. “What are you doing all the way out here? Surely you’re not so old that bees have gone to your brain.” Larksong glanced around, trying to find help. “Foxflower?” Larksong couldn’t help but notice the irony of the place they were in. “Foxflower, I’m going to go get the medicine cat, alright?”

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