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Moon 3, Part 1

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“Stop breathing on me.”

“I’m not anywhere near you, Fogpaw.”

“You are, because you’re close enough to be breathing on me.”

StarClan help her.

“What’s your problem?” Moonpaw asks, unable to keep claws of exasperation from sharpening her voice. She’s not anywhere near him. They’ve been walking side by side for ages, up this horrible, hot mountain to the highest edge of their territory, under the horrible, blazing sun, and only now he’s going to fuss that she’s been beside him this entire time?

“What’s your problem?” He mocks in a poor imitation of Moonpaw’s meow, sticking his tongue out at the end of his sentence. 

Moonpaw scoffs. The fur along her back is so warm it feels as though it’s been set aflame under the full force of the greenleaf sun, and her paws ache with the near-vertical climb up harsh ground. Short on patience, she lifts a paw and bats Fogpaw with it. He should consider himself lucky she kept her claws sheathed.

Fogpaw whirls on her, astonished and angry, and whaps her with a paw of his own. Her ears flatten and her fur bristles as she rears back, tail fluffed up to twice its size.

“Seriously, what is wrong with you?”

“You hit me first!”

“Because you’re being an idiot!”

“Well, if you would stop stepping all over me–”

“FINE!” Moonpaw screeches. A few songbirds lift from the sparse trees that cling to the cliffside, startled. “If I’m just so in your way, I’ll get out of your fur!”

“GOOD!” Fogpaw yowls back. “I’m going hunting by myself!”

Fogpaw stomps off and Moonpaw hisses at his retreating back, her own arched and angry. What is he being such a mouse-brain for? She whips around, intending to get her emotions out by sinking her claws into something, but her head is too cloudy with anger to focus on the scents surrounding her. It doesn’t help any that somebody had her training cut short because her mentor got buried under a pile of boulders.

Angry tears gathering in the corners of her eyes, she crouches down in defeat. She can’t do this. She can’t do this – pretending that everything is fine, walking in some random direction and hoping for a miracle. She’s walked every inch of this territory since her earliest apprentice days. The best place for a camp was drowned in rocks and rubble. They’re not going to find another one.

Despair sinks quick claws into her chest, overwhelms her with the thought, I wish StarClan had buried me, too.

A sharp blur of color speeds past her. Pupils dilating, her despair fades to the back of her mind as she hones in on a rabbit that’s sped by and settled several fox-lengths away, sniffing and nibbling at some grass that’s struggling to grow through the cracks in the rock.

She flexes her claws against the rough ground. Catching a juicy piece of fresh-kill is the best kind of therapy. 

Dropping into a hunter’s crouch, she drags her belly slowly over the mountain as she creeps up on the rabbit, closing the distance between them to a few tail-lengths. The wind is in her favor, and the rabbit hasn’t spotted her yet.

An ear-splitting yowl cuts through the air. The rabbit’s ears go up, eyes round and frightened, and it bounds away. Alarmed, Moonpaw’s ears also fly up, head swiveling in the direction of the noise.

Fogpaw.

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