LAST BREATH [open/pup]

Fickleheart stood with his face to the wind—thick fur was plastered back and he squinted honey colored eyes in pleasure. He could taste rain on the tip of his tongue, but for now the clouds were mere smudges on the horizon. For a moment the warrior simply swayed, more than pleased to have the wind rock him gently from side to side. His heart was pounding hard in his chest, and he scrunched his face up. Something in him seemed to fill up with a light tinkling sound like bird song, and he inhaled as deeply as he could. The tortoiseshell warrior relished, for a moment, the simple feel of his whiskers plastered against his face.

I love it here.

An understatement. He turned his back to the wind with a brisk shake of his pelt. The small tom picked his way deliberately around Outlook Rock with practiced ease. Shadedjay had made certain that he knew it by heart during his training. She’d been strangely worried about him falling—or maybe not strangely all things considered. No, he wouldn’t go there today. Not now. The sky had smudges of gray at the edges but it was so wide and open and blue.

Fickleheart was a cat who cherished the peace he could grasp in snatches. It wasn’t that he didn’t love his Clan-mates—life would be far too quiet and lonely without any of their familiar faces—but he liked to retreat into himself. Outlook Rock was the perfect place. He liked to sit on top of it and remind himself that he was home, and that all that tumbled away from his paws was as much a part of him as it was any other cat in WindClan. It was a comfort to belong somewhere and he loved every breath and moment of it. It was sentimental, perhaps, but it felt strong and special in his chest. He liked the way it filled him with a feeling like heavy warmth, and he liked the reminder that he was part of a larger whole.

The quiet’s not a bad change either.

A chuckle worked out of his throat despite himself. A rasping, grating chuckle. The tom cleared his throat even though he was the only cat around to hear it—or so he was thinking—and settled himself to sitting on one of the taller rocks. He was a cat that found it hard to get close to others right away—one to keep his Clan-mates, much as he loved them, at a respectful distance where he could admire them for who they were.

A dark thought threatened to crowd through his pleasant haze but he pushed it aside and settled with his fluffy tail wrapped around his small paws. He was always small for a warrior. Sometimes he wondered if he never quite grew right because—no. No, he said he wouldn’t. Think of the wind, the smell of the air and the way it felt as though he could tumble straight into the sky and fly.

A ghost of a smile etched over his features. He liked the idea of that, of the world tilting up and dropping him into endless blue. He thought that he’d like to fly if cats were allowed to. He’d give it a try at least once. When he was much younger he had pretended he could, he and Owlkit would race and squeal that their paws had lifted off the ground—foxdung.

For a moment he stiffened. Ears flattening against his head before he stood up with a hasty and ragged sigh. Do something. He had to distract himself. He’d left camp for a few moments of peace and quiet and look at where it had gotten him. Honestly, he was such a fool sometimes. He should have known better at this point.

Afraid of your own thoughts, you coward.

Come on now. Don’t do this. He shook his pelt and started to groom himself carefully. It was the only thing he could think to do. Honey hued eyes narrowed in intense thought and he rasped his tongue over the pad of his paw. Rasp, rasp, rasp—don’t think about how foolish he was. Don’t think about how memories crept up when he was alone. Don’t think about it. Look at all the dirt between his toes! Okay, there wasn’t any. He was going to pretend there was a ton of dirt between his toes. He started to chew at the pad, ignoring the fact that it sent prickling and shooting pain through his paw.