Warrior Cat Clans 2 (WCC2 aka Classic) is a roleplay site inspired by the Warrior series by Erin Hunter. Whether you are a fan of the books or new to the Warrior cats world, WCC2 offers a diverse environment with over a decade’s worth of lore for you - and your characters - to explore. Join us today and become a part of our ongoing story!
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Cloudweaver breathed a heavy sigh as he padded out of the WinterClan camp, keeping low to the ground out of pure habit more than anything else. He frowned in annoyance as he watched his breath fog up in a cloud in front of him - of course, because this was WinterClan, and there was no sun allowed no matter how improbable, apparently. Oh, the things he would do for just one day that actually resembled summer. Most of the other soldiers tolerated the weather, could even enjoy it. It was just another one of those things that kept Cloudweaver apart from the others, reassured him that his choice to shut himself off emotionally from his Clanmates was the right one. There were rare exceptions, he could admit, though they came once in a blue moon, and never seemed to stick around for that long.
The crackle of a twig from nearby made his head snap up, startling him out of his thoughts - which he almost appreciated, given how depressing and self-pitying most of his thoughts seemed to become these days. "Who's there, hmm?" he called out, plastering a lopsided grin on his face. "Not an enemy, I hope. I'd have to kill ya, y'know." You can never be too careful.
Even for WinterClan, it was a particularly cold spring day - low-hanging grey clouds, weak sunlight, and the odd patch of snow still clinging to the branches of the scraggly trees that marred the side of the mountain. The air was still and icy, no wind and no rain, but still Littlefawn shivered. Even in the frozen leafbare moons, his thin, prickly coat never thickened enough to keep the chill out, and he spent most days glowering from the entrance to the nursery with his jaw chattering and his nose bright red and aching. Now, because his useless body had thought it was safe enough to lose whatever pitiful amount of leafbare fluff it had managed to grow all by itself, he was stuck picking his way gingerly through the sparse frost-cracked woods, breath clouding around him and legs trembling with each step, looking for any stray feather or scrap of wool that had blown up the mountain from far below. His cheeks burned and stung, he was sure he was going to go blind from frostbite any minute, and, oh, had he mentioned he hated the cold? There were days he wished he'd been born into SummerClan, or DayClan, or even into a kittypet household like his father - just anywhere where there was actually sunshine during newleaf.
Really, though, it wasn't only the cold that made him grumpy and quiet. Everyone else had someone to curl up with when the temperatures plummeted; he had the kits. And, yes, it was always warm in the nursery - and, yes, he did have a soft spot for his job - and, yes, he knew they loved him, and that he was needed, and that his work was necessary. But, try as he might, he couldn't ignore the dull pain that ached in his chest whenever he saw cats sharing tongues, and warmth, and open affection - without any fear, without any disgust, without feeling dirty and wrong and tainted, without any... without any of it.
But he'd gotten used to the loneliness, and it was alright.
He caught Cloudweaver's scent before he spotted him and internally groaned - because the other tom was a challenge to cope with even when he didn't just want to be left alone to feel miserable and self-pitying; because he was all chatter and bravado and accidental cruelty; because Littlefawn had had a crush on him for literal moons, and it wasn't going away, and he hated it. "Oh, no," he replied, in a flat, tired drawl, as he trudged out of the trees and brushed straight past Cloudweaver, "please, don't kill me, I have so much to live for."
Cloudweaver's eyes widened slightly as the den father brushed past him, though he soon hid it with a practiced smirk. Thank "Littlefawn," he purred - usually an affectionate gesture from any other cat, but coupled with his narrowed eyes, Cloudweaver often found that it made him sound somewhat cruel. Still, he made very little effort to change that habit of his. He was a little cruel, wasn't he? He didn't exactly like that particular quality about himself, but he was old enough now to realise cat cats like him never changed, and would suffer for it if they even tried. Regardless, Littlefawn seemed like enough of a pushover that he'd let Cloudweaver lead the conversation, which comforted him somewhat.
"I'll be honest, I'm kinda surprised to see you outside," he remarked in a caustic tone. "Seems like you never leave the nursery, these days. Hey, maybe that's why you have nothing to live for," he grinned. He kind of regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth - he kinda liked teasing cats, but he didn't really enjoy criticising their entire livelihoods - but then again, it wasn't like he was Littlefawn's friend or anything. Why would the other tom care so much about what Cloudweaver thought, anyway?
When the other tom purred his name, Littlefawn suppressed a shiver and hesitated a moment, one paw hovering just above the frost-cold earth. Hey, maybe that's why you have nothing to live for. It was a jibe he wasn't unaccustomed to - what kind of young, healthy cat chooses to spend his time around kits? The entire rank is just a burden on the rest of us. He eats all the good food and what does he actually do all day? But it stung nonetheless, and his ears flattened for a moment before he forced them back up and continued along the winding path leading down the mountain. His chest felt particularly hollow these days; perhaps the cold air had finally started to leech inside. Useless. Sick. Weak. Unimportant. The words fluttered through his head like a flurry of snow. Everything felt heavy and... too much.
But he took the insult, like he took everything else, and he didn't care for the other tom any less for it, because his unnatural leanings were certainly deserving of cruelty and who better to hurt him than the cat he'd been half-in love with for moons? It was a terrible sort of irony and Littlefawn almost smiled at it. "Witty as ever, Cloudweaver," he replied without looking back, voice tired and quiet. "I'm kinda surprised you don't have anything better to do than follow denkeepers around, but here we are. A true pleasure. Did you want to actually help me while you're at it, or would it be beneath your dignity to stoop as low as doing something kind for kits?"
He asked the question in his usual soft voice, still not looking back at him as he padded on, but his heart gave a terrible squeeze as the words left his mouth. He really was quite pitiful, begging for scraps of Cloudweaver's time, even if it was only to be picked on. Half of him hoped the other tom would refuse and leave him alone on the mountain, hoped he wouldn't give him what he wanted and what he certainly didn't deserve; the other half, the half he fought so hard to quieten and repress, glowed with the possibility of him saying yes. Something to hate himself for later, certainly, but in that moment, it was as warm as he'd felt in moons.
