A tall, thin cat with blurred flame points and a narrow face.

-

Hawthorntail takes remarkably after their parent, Yennifer, though at first glance you wouldn't know it. Without Yennifer's elegantly distributed fur, lush and long, Hawthorntail's height makes them look gangly, even awkward at times. Their own fur is short and thin, made up of an off-white color mottled with ginger, bright enough to make them a poor hunter during the greener seasons, but muddled enough to make leaf-bare not much better, especially in MistClan's dark forests. They're more limb than torso, with a long, snake-like tail often curled around their paws to protect it from being stepped on.

Though Hawthorntail's fur is light enough to pass for white, closer examination reveals a faint ginger dusting over most of their body, like the flame-points on their face and paws never quite came to a stop, and formed a gradient instead. Their color points, of course, are the most saturated, though even then the ginger remains fairly light, with only the vague implication of tabby marking over their face. The darkest part of their body is either the tip of their tail - like a bright orange flame trailing behind them - or their vibrant blue eyes, nearly the color of the sky just after sunset.

Your first conscious thought is on the border of one life and another, staring up with wide eyes at the cat who birthed you as she delivers you to a cat you only know from the shared blood that runs through your veins. You remember thinking, I don't want to be here, and Where's Hail? But those thoughts aren't new to you. You often don't want to be anywhere besides warm at your parent's side, and Hail has been missing for days now.

The stranger in the woods takes you from your parent. You remember watching them hovering across the border, fur white and ghostly, a pale image seared into your mind. You wanted to ask the stranger escorting you into the misty forest why Dad wasn't coming with you, but you didn't have those words yet. Instead, you whimper, and press close to Downy and Cedar, names you barely know, and follow the tom who smelled of damp earth and heavy fog deep between the trees.

-

The names you hardly got to know are taken from you, replaced instead by names of the forest. You decide you like the names. You like how they sound mingled amongst the other names of the strange cats in the woods. They instill you with a sense of belonging, something you've previously only known at your parent's side. 

Childhood is hard. The world is often feverish and gray, muted and too vibrant all at once. You're sick more than you're well. You sleep more than you play. Your siblings seem healthy but you? They say you're lucky to have survived. As the moons go on and you age into yourself, you think, perhaps, your kithood brush with death is why you see Hail trailing behind you everywhere you go.

You don't realize when your father and his mate end their relationship. You hardly even realize Cloudtongue stops coming to visit. You do notice Burntstep, if only because she walks as if ghosts exists in her periphery, too. She's kind to you. Patient. Most cats are - the nursery is full of queens and other denparents, cats who offer their warmth and company. But Burntstep is different. Burntstep is family.

Often, you see Burnstep speaking with the medicine cat, and you wish you could do the same, to tell the healer when you feel worse, or what body part hurts, or when your skin stings from the light of the sun. Time and time again you are frustrated with how you fail to find the words. Your siblings make it look easy - you watch their lips move, you watch sentences form, you feel the vibration of their voices in your chest and paws. It's not your voice you have trouble finding. It's everyone else's voice that's lost to you. You could form the words, but what does it matter, if you can't hear the response? And so you curl up beside Burnstep, still sick, still tired, still stuck in a muted world.

-

Cloverfrost is young for an elder, retired only because the previous leaf-bare gave her a cough that wouldn't leave. She greets you with a stiff smile, which you return, before you hide back in Burnstep's shadow and let the two she-cat speak. Eyes closed, it's only the slight tremble in the air, and the faintest impression of voices that tells you they're still here.

You lift your head when Cloverfrost taps you on the shoulder. She makes a gesture, then speaks. She does it again. And again. And before you know it, you can hear her better - or, if not hear, you can understand. The gesture means stand up, you eventually learn, so you do, and she smiles, much less stiff than before.

Life changes from there - for the better, far for the better. Cloverfrost teaches you and your siblings how to sign, and suddenly you know them so much better. Their voices, once almost lost to you, are suddenly loud and clear, and you start to play like any other kit. Burntstep, too, learns to sign, as do other queens in the den - even a few warriors, who come in to practice with you. Cloverfrost introduces you to her brother, Marigoldclaw, who's also deaf, and still a warrior, and on the day your name becomes Hawthornpaw, Marigoldclaw is assigned your mentor.

-

"Where did Burntstep go?" You ask Marigoldclaw on your first patrol as mentor and apprentice. Your sign is slow compared to his, but he doesn't seem to mind.

"We're still looking for her," he signs. "I promise."

-

"Do you think Hail would be Hailpaw?" You ask your siblings one day, but they only look at you strangely. They don't remember your lost brother.

How could you forget? You want to ask them, but that isn't the right question. Instead you think you should ask, Don't you see him? Because you do. You see him. You see him now, lingering at the edge of vision where no one thinks to look.

-

Marigoldclaw becomes the father Cloudtongue never was, and your birth parent never got to be. He's gruff, but lovingly so, and puts up with your oddities with little complaint. He doesn't even bat an eye when you mention your dead brother, always floating in the corner of your vision. "That's StarClan, kid," he tells you. "Our ancestors are always with us. You're just better at seeing them." And then, after some thought, he says, "But don't speak to them. The ancestors. Let them speak first."

And so you never speak to Hail's ghost, like Marigoldclaw instructs. You merely register when he's there - on the edge of your vision, ethereal in the fog.

-

Like other apprentices, you learn to hunt and fight. To track. To patrol MistClan's forests. You learn more things, too, like that the sound you can hear is only a sliver of the noise the world really makes. You learn that birds sing, though you'll never hear it. You learn that brooks babble and trees creak and wind whistles through leaves. You learn that not all cats will bother to learn how to speak to you. You learn it hurts, to be seen as a burden. 

You learn to read lips, to make up for this, but you're never sure about the words as they're formed. Sometimes, you think it hurts more, to be forced to rely on your own interpretation to know what others are saying. How are you supposed to know someone, if all you hear from them is what you think they're saying? You express this to Marigoldclaw and he laughs. "Hearing cats deal with that, too," he says. "It's a little different, I guess. It's harder for us. But everyone interprets, even if their ears work."

It takes you many more moons to understand what he means. Sometimes, you still think you're learning to understand.

-

Like all MistClan apprentices, you learn skills unique to MistClan - how to weave, of course, but more interestingly, you learn about history. You're drawn to the Stonemark and the work of the historian, Nightheart, because it's another way to communicate. Another language to learn. Reading the Stonemark, you find words passed down from generation to generation, ancestor to living warrior, and you realize how much easier it is to hear the dead.

It's here, in the distant reaches of MistClan's territory near the Stonemark, that you see Hail's ghost more often. He looks taller. Stronger. You think it's fair that your lost brother gets to grown up with you, despite dying long ago. It pleases you to know the afterlife is kind. You never speak to the ghost, never acknowledge him, like Marigoldclaw told you all the moons ago. But sometimes, you creep a little closer, in hopes your brother knows you love him.

Nightheart approaches you one of these days, catching you after you followed Hail's ghost for a short while before giving up. They tell you they'd like to train you more. To officially bring you under their wing, as a historian apprentice. Their signing is better than most cats, and so you smile and accept the offer, happy to be around someone who make space for you.

At 12 moons old, you're named Hawthorntail, a name that brightens your eyes and puffs out your chest. The name is granted for balance, the leader says, in a way that makes you want to bounce around in joy. Balance, Marigoldclaw warned you when you first started training, would be a hard skill for a deaf cat to learn. And you were named for it. For balance of the body, the leader says, and of the mind. It's a wonderful name.

You purr as your sister is named - Cicadaspot, for her beautiful fur, and suddenly you realize you aren't as close as you once were. You think you'll make it up to her. And to Mudpaw, especially once he's named in a few moons. You'll be a better sibling.

-

Two moons later, RidgeClan attacks.

You're coming back from the Stonemark with Nightheart and another historian apprentice, Ravenwhisker, just as the battle begins. Nightheart barks orders - you barely understand them. Ravenwhisker dives into the fight and Nightheart, with more patience than before turns to you and signs, "Take notes. Don't fight. Preserve history."

You're grateful for the permission to be a coward. Fighting was never a skill you cared for. And watching the bloodshed in the camp below, you know you'd fail as a warrior if you were made to join.

When the fighting is done, you're first relieved - Cicadaspot is alright, you find her right away. Then, the tragedy rolls in. Mudpaw is injured. Nightheart can't walk. Cloudtongue is dead. (You're not sure that's a tragedy, but you pretend it is, if only so no one calls you heartless.) The clan is in shambles, and you don't know how to help. You volunteer for everything and anything but nothing changes the devastation Wolfstar wrought.

You think, perhaps, the best thing to do would be to stop it from happening again.

The moons following the fight are spend recording the moons that led up to it. You interview the injured and dying RidgeClan warriors stuck in MistClan's territory. You learn what drove RidgeClan to this. You tell Nightheart, still stuck in the medicine cat den, and then you carve it into the Stonemark for every generation after you to know. Marigoldclaw joins you, supervising every scratch made against the Stonemark's surface. "Wolfstar was a good example," he signs. "Of a cat who spoke to the ancestors before they spoke to him."

You shiver, thinking of the path you might've walked, had you not heeded your mentor's warning.

-

Mudpaw is named Mudbranch after he recovers from the worst of his injuries. You sit next to him as he's named, purring proudly, and you stay with him throughout his vigil. Cicadaspot has told you what she thinks of Lakedapple, the cat who wants to be Mudbranch's mate, but you're not as quick to make judgement. Mudbranch likes Lakedapple, right? Doesn't that count for something?

And yet, after that vigil, you almost never see your brother. You see Hail's ghost more than Mudbranch, it feels like.

-

"I think Nightheart is going to retire," one of the other historian apprentices says. She's an older cat, a likely choice for Nightheart's successor. You think her words carry too much excitement, considering Nightheart's retirement will be rushed because of their injury.

"I agree," Ravenwhisker says. He's less ambitious sounding. He'd make a better historian, you think. "What do you think, Hawthorntail?"

"I think Nightheart can hear us," you sign, and your fellow apprentices laugh as Nightheart rounds the corner to join them.

-

The moons go on. You watch your clan rebuild, only to shatter again at more tragedy - missing kits, a broken mother. It hurts your heart to write their names into the Stonemark, but you wouldn't dare rob them of their right to join the names of every other MistClan cat. You pray one day you'll add their warrior names to the list.

Hail's ghost rarely comes around anymore. When he does, he's closer than ever before, close enough that you think he'd have a scent were he real. But all you smell is RidgeClan, the scent brought over the border, caught on some stray wind. Soon, you stop looking for him. Your attention is better spent elsewhere: like on Mudbranch, and the fall out of his relationship with Lakedapple. Freed from his mate's obsessive clutches, it becomes easier to spend time with your brother again. Easier to understand the relationship that Cicadaspot warned about from the beginning. You feel guilty that you didn't listen to her, but grateful Mudbranch loves you despite that.

It scares you, a little. How you couldn't see it. How it could happen to you, too. You've never been in love before. Maybe it's better that way.

-

The beginning of leaf-bare sees the end of a chapter. Nightheart passes away peacefully in their sleep, still plagued by the injury they never really healed from. With their final words, they named a new historian: you.

You. You. Hawthorntail, they said, whispering the name to you and Hailstar and all the other historian apprentices. You.

-

Nightheart is buried later that day. You stand vigil.

-

The next morning, you carve your name into the Stonemark.

Pre-Plotting: Hawthorntail best lines up with the Branches in MistClan's plot. They believe in a healthy balance between tradition and connection. Additionally, Hawthorntail is Yennifer's child from their wanted ad.

Family: The concept of family isn't a strong one to Hawthorntail. Their life is just example after example of parents abandoning them - first Yennifer, then Cloudtongue and Spotfang, then Burntstep. Even Nightheart dying, in a way, felt like being "abandoned." The only strong parental figure for them is their mentor, Marigoldclaw, but they know better than to view him as their father. That being said, Hawthorntail loves their two siblings deeply, and would do anything to keep them happy and safe going forward - especially Mudbranch, who they feel they abandoned.

Friends: Hawthorntail is particularly fond of cats who like their oddness. Their closest friends are ones who value their quirks, especially those also involved in historian work. They'd like to get better at making more friends, but growing up more isolated as a kit because of their deafness, they sometimes feel anxious about branching out and trying to get to know others.

Romance: Between their anxiety around making friends and the lessons they learned from Mudbranch's abusive relationship, Hawthorntail is pretty much terrified of trying out romance for themself. They've never felt romantic attraction and, at this point, fear the day they do. Worse, they fear they'd push away any cat who did like them, even if they liked that cat in return.

Rivals: They have a few academic rivals among the historians, but nothing serious. Other than that, Hawthorntail has navigated through the world too delicately to pick up any real rivals. If they have them, they don't know about it.