[attr="class","sinnert"]Cold. Unadulterated cold. Not even the conifers with their veritable trunks and bristling needles, not even the press of undergrowth with their brittle branches and scraping leaves, could abate the cold, nor the winds that filled the air with their persistent keening. Ratwhisker listened to the gales fitful howls, the otherworldly wails accompanied by the grievous rasp of winter-afflicted verdure—a dry and rasping sound so very much unlike the lush and pleasant rustling he associated with more prosperous seasons. But such was leaf-bare. It ravaged all that it touched, but then… even so, it was as necessary as any other affliction—as necessary as sickness, infection, and other such troubles. It may be a scourge on the forest in its coming, but once fled, the island rose anew, the burdens of sustaining life lifted to be shouldered again. Such was leaf-bare—even so, that made it no less formidable and filled with hardship.

Some find beauty in suffering. Stars save me, I cannot find beauty in this. The first snows had been beautiful, bountiful, and rousing. Apprentices had frolicked in it, thrown up drifts in waves of play and exuberant outbursts. But the second snows had been fiercer, more abundant, and the chill that accompanied it more persistent and vexing. Soon even the snow’s beauty was spent, the erroneous assumption of whimsy lost to the resentment of empty bellies and illness. Even Ratwhisker, who spent more time holed within his den, tending to the sickly, could hardly find the energy to see the splendor in the flurries. A snowflake was beautiful. However, a flock of them became a perturbance, and when the plants had begun to suffer and wither and his stores to diminish and wane, they became more than just that—they became an affront to himself and the wellbeing of his clan. Try as he might, he could not stomach the snows for all their untouched beauty. Snow kills. It withers, it sickens. There is no beauty in snow.

His ears twitched, giving rise the subtlest modicum of movement as a branch steeped to unload a weighty upheaval of snow in his path. He paused, feeling the thin furs along his spine fluff as he took a tentative step back, feeling the brush of another body—one he had almost forgotten to be present in his reverie. He flashed the blue-grey tom a circumspect glance before goading his limbs back into motion. They heeded them, though the flutterings of his heart bore down heavily on his shoulders, giving rise to newfound fatigue he knew not to even harbor.

Rest. How long has it been since last I rested? He could not recall, and with the half-moon fast-approaching, he had even less cause to sleep. He still had many questions, answers he yearned for, cures, salves, poultices. The half-moon was more than just a commune with his ancestors—with the snows falling so heavy, it was the difference between life or death, that which he asked of Yarrowfrost beneath the luminance of that sacred assembly. And with his stores so low… no, I haven’t the time for it. Even now, weary as he was, his stores plagued him with their wants. For marigold and tansy, for herbs that could soothe the adversity of an inflamed throat and seeds of poppy that could ease one’s suffering behind a veil of formidable and congenial lethargy. All such things he needed and all such things he could not find idle in his slumbers. He must stay awake, or at least for as long as it took to re-fill his larders.

Slowing his pace, Ratwhisker yielded at the brink of the conifers. Out beyond, an empty plain of white stretched out, untouched. Barren land, untouched even by prey, it yielded little to ThistleClan, but when the forest yields grew especially niggardly, sometimes the fields were generous. But there was little shelter there for plants to grow, and he did not often brave the presence of those abandoned pelts held up by their odd, cool sticks. Abandoned though it was, the remanence of up-walkers had always unnerved him. Still, what other choice do I have? Swallowing, he held Slatestep with a fixed stare. “W-w-w-we h-had best be q-quick. I… I…” I’m afraid. “… I’ll f-follow your l-lead.”

A supine nod and their meager party started out, leaving the conifers to their backs as they made the long, nerve-wracking trek, pausing only as long as it took to taste the air before lowering their heads and pressing on. So long in silence did they walk, with naught but the crunch of snow to combat the silence, Ratwhisker felt himself beginning to drowse even as he walked—a scent on the breeze, however, was quick in allaying him… as well as the snap of something beneath his paws.

Ears perked to either side of his angular face, round eyes seemed to swell and grow larger as his head jerked to the side. Someone’s here. Someone… A choked swallow assaulted his throat, painful in the coming down as he flashed Slatestep a worrisome look. “C-c-can you smell that?” he whispered softly. But in the time between, as the tom opened his mouth to give rise to words of his own, another voice answered in cautious rejoinder.

“W-w-who’s there? I said—who’s there? Show yourself.” A fear-tinged demand, even Ratwhisker was privy to the stench of agitated terror. It was an acrid taste, an assault on his nostrils that set his tongue to swiping, an incessant and dogged relief.

And then he saw her—the owner of such words. Naught but bones, the jut of them rose jagged and offensive beneath a lusterless coat of dilute calico fur. Green eyes stared from a gaunt face, and beneath them, pressing about her neck, was a band of something, though he knew not what. Is it strangling her? At first, he thought so, but her words were unfettered aside from the wariness that plagued them. Whatever it was, it bore her no discomfort, and she wore it willingly enough. Still, it made it no easier a sight to grow accustomed to, and he found his eyes lingering on it, even as he pushed ahead, stirred into unbidden motion by curiosity and compassion alike.

“I-i-it’s ok, there’s only us two. W-we won’t hurt you,” a bleating mew rose from him as his paws drew closer still, each step slow, tentative, purposeful so as not to send her running. She doesn’t look dangerous, only scared. “M-my… my name is R-ratwhisker. I’m a m-medicine cat, I w-won’t hurt you—neither w-will Slatestep.” He flashed the tom a quick glance. “We’re o-only here for herbs. F-for healing. You… y-you aren’t hurt, are you? Are y-you l-l-lost?”

[attr="class","sinnerlyric"]