we are the last generation || cres

He dreamed of her—but then, that’s what he always seemed to do. Dream of Honeyleaf. Wish, the instant that he opened his eyes, with an ache that far outweighed any pain that had settled into his bones that he could just breathe in her scent in the waking world just one more time. Ugh—the sentimentality of it left a bitter taste on his tongue. He’d woken long ago, but he was lying with his nose tucked under his tail and his heart feeling terribly empty. For a moment that’s where he stayed, curled up and half-wishing that he would suffocate under the scent of his own fur. Any moment now—deep breath, let go.

Silence, no death, just daylight and an ache in his gut that suggested hunger. He could feel Willowstep stirring next to him, and he wanted to curl tighter into a ball. When he tried he winced—nearly at the same moment that the other elder complained out loud about her joints. Misery stabbed at the old tom, he’d never expected this. He’d expected to die like his father—claws drawn, teeth bared. Here he was, slowly wasting away and feeling more and more helpless with each passing breath. He loathed it.

Retirement, peh. Mothfang exhaled loudly under his tail, scrunched his amber eyes shut tight. A few more moments of rest, maybe he’d catch her scent in his dreams and be able to take it with him when he woke up. Pfft, great StarClan he really was a dottering old fool if he believed that.

“She’ll give you leaves to eat,” Mothfang grumbled, giving up on any hope of chasing the vestiges of sleep and Honeyleaf’s scent elsewhere. He lifted his head, jaws parting in an enormous yawn. He thought that his jaw also ached—as did his bones. He wrinkled his nose at the thought of drawing Blueberry’s time from any of the younger cats for his sake. The instant he couldn’t hobble to the Freshkill Pile he’d complain to her, and no sooner.

Okay, that was a lie. He’d probably just try and drag himself to the pile.

“Leaves and they’ll taste foul too,” Mothfang couldn’t help but add. He was not a cat for much conversation—his only true friend had been Honeyleaf. Now she was gone. He felt awkwardly alone in the elder’s den, even with other cats pressed close to his side at all time. He thought himself a reject but not them, for some reason he couldn’t think of his Clan-mates as wastes of space—even if they were in the same situation as him. He tried to stretch, groaning with effort when his back seized, “Great—agh forget it. I’ll throw my back out and then I’ll really hear it from Blueberry.”

Mothfang settled, instead, for twisting to try and lick his own flank. His pelt looked dirtier than he liked it to be. He groaned again, ears flattening against his skull as he tried to hide his pain. Ignoring the way his back screamed for him to straighten, the old tom began to rasp his tongue against his dusky-gray pelt rapidly. Amber eyes flicked to the opening of the elder’s den—he’d hardly left for a ray of sunshine since Honeyleaf had died a few moons ago. The idea was no less unappealing to him now.

“Life just keeps moving on without us,” Mothfang angled his ears toward the gap—he may have been old but his hearing hadn’t started failing, yet. He could hear his Clan-mates moving about their day, and he felt a sudden fierce longing to be working hard at their side. He twisted his head around to peer at Willowstep, “Keeps moving and moving and I’m gettin’ left behind. Foxdung, don’t like it. Want to run with the young ones and stir up trouble again.”

A wistfulness had entered his meow—he was so lonely. He wanted to talk to Honeyleaf, but his jaws clamped shut as though he were fighting himself to speak even one more word.

“Need it?” Mothfang repeated in words barely above a low grumble. “So long as young cats aren’t getting aches and pains.”

That was unlikely—the day that happened would be the day that Mothfang refused every leaf set in front of him seriously. Most of the time he struggled with Blueberry to get even a morsel in him, he loathed the taste of herbs more than almost anything at all. Even so, he could be persuade—so long as he felt he wasn’t taking it from some cat who deserved it more. He snorted quietly to himself as though he thought Willowstep’s words were ridiculous. He glared outside and felt inside of him a familiar stirring to go anywhere else. To walk as far as his paws could carry him.

What, as far as the fresh kill pile? Thought the old cat with a curl of his lip. His tail had begun to twitch irritably, he turned his amber gaze back to Willowstep and grunted unhappily at her. He’d relied on Honeyleaf to wash his back, and now she was gone. She couldn’t do it anymore. His claws flexed out of his pads and he snorted, “Suppose you’re right. I’ll have to get one of the apprentices to lick me.”

As though sharing-tongues with him would have to be a chore.

Mothfang glanced over at Willowstep, feeling a contradiction of amusement and annoyance flicker in his chest. His tail thumped the ground noisily behind them, he twitched his ears. The old tom snorted with something like laughter, or it might have been a restrained growl. For a moment it was hard to tell—even for him—whether he was simply irritated or thought the other cat funny. He twitched his paws and, with effort, pushed himself to his paws.

“Must be harda hearin’ after all, coulda sworn you called me a drama queen,” Mothfang gruffly growled. He snorted again, and then sneezed to cover up a laugh. The old cat shook his pelt out and avoided Willowstep’s eyes, “Must be dusty in here. Needs new moss.”

Suddenly he longed to be an apprentice again, carrying moss back to his Clan with his head and tail held high. He could almost feel the old energy of youth flooding through his limbs, but then he realized that there was an itch at the base of his tail and had to twist to get it. His back creaked, he grimaced—maybe Willowstep was right. He’d break his back right in half.

“They think they’ve got more knowledge than StarClan these days,” Mothfang rasped, rolling his eyes and turning his narrow face toward the entrance. The thought of sun on his pelt made his heart twinge with longing. He glanced back at Willowstep, “Show them how it’s done eh? You an’ me? Guess that couldn’t hurt any, these young cats could use all the wisdom they can get. Should be drinking it up like it’s the last drop of water in a drought.”

A rusty—unused, unpracticed—purr rose out of the tom’s throat. He sneezed again, this time because the vibrations truly tickled his nose. “Well, c’mon then ya old bat. Let’s show the little twerps what for, I haven’t stretched my legs yet today anyhow.”

Before he could change his mind he pushed his way out of the den and stood blinking blearily in dazzling sunlight. The air felt crisp and clear and new in his lungs. He breathed in deeply, and briefly wished he could be like a forest—born anew every few seasons.