The year has been unusually harsh; a hard, cold wind races down the open plain, kicking up drifts of dry, icy snow.
Bolt peeks her head from their hollow, eyes squinted almost shut. The blowing snow cuts through her pelt like needles; slices the inside of her nose, as she tries to scent the sterile, freezing air.
But the den at her back is over-warm; even half-outside, Bolt can feel the feverish heat of Streak's pelt. Even in the wind, she can smell the other molly’s sickness; a carrion-scent. Vulture-food.
Bolt glances back at her mate, huddled in a ball around her injured leg. Her mouth is open, panting, her green eyes clouded.
“You need water,” Bolt says; a useless fact, if true.
“I’ll be alright.” Streak’s voice is an awful rasp; almost swallowed up by the tearing, howling wind. “It’s– it’s foul out, Bolt, you can’t. I’ll be fine until the wind lets up.”
“And how long ‘til then?” The wind gusts; Bolt shivers, pelt fluffed against the cold.
From outside the burrow, someone says: “Well. It could be days, at this rate.”
Bolt’s head snaps around, at the strange voice; a dark, marbled tom sits just a hare-leap away, watching her with cool, blue eyes.
She bristles, automatically, baring her teeth– but the stranger seems unperturbed.
“Peace,” he says, voice strangely high, and touched with an accent Bolt can’t place. “I believe we can help one another.”
“We can help ourselves.” Bolt unsheathes her claws, heart pounding. She’s aware of every shift, in the den behind her; Streak slow and stiff with her injury. Helpless even to stand. “Leave us alone. Or–”
But the stranger only dips his head. “I’ll go,” he says, soothingly, “if that’s truly what you want. It’s only–” he scents the air, mouth
opening to show sharp, even teeth. “I thought I smelled infection.”
A shiver goes through Bolt’s fur, that has nothing at all to do with the cold– though the wind howls, still, all around them, as if set to tear her paws from the earth. “It’s just carrion. Our dinner. And we’re not sharing.”
“Is that so.” The stranger studies her, for only a moment more; and then shrugs, seeming to buy her story. Relief buzzes up through Bolt’s stomach, like she’s eaten honeybees. “Well then. I suppose I should go.”
And the stranger turns, as if to leave, stretching his hind legs, languidly. His claws flex sharp as thorns, just for a moment. “A shame,” he says, offhand. “I must have been wrong, about the signs.”
Bolt frowns, but says nothing to encourage him; he doesn’t seem to need it, carrying on: “if you do see a cat named Bolt, struggling with her mate’s infection in this storm– tell them Coniferstar is searching for them. I believe they’re meant to join my clan– and I’ve been sent the knowledge to heal them.”
Bolt freezes, The fur prickling along her spine. “How–” she says, softly.
But the stranger is already leaving. His long, black-tipped tail swishes behind him, as he walks away, pace leisurely– unbothered, despite the terrible wind.
Bolt swallows, her mouth dry as scoured stone. Behind her, Streak shivers– her teeth chatter, audibly, despite the feverish heat of her pelt.
“Wait!"
The stranger- Coniferstar?- pauses, and glances back over his shoulder.
“You–” Bolt squares her shoulders. “What does that mean. Who sent you?”
The strange tom purrs, and turns around. “Curious after all,” he says. “Well. I’m very glad you asked.”
