"Fidgetpaw…" He whispered. Again. "Fidgetpaw." A third time, slower. "Fid-get-paw."
It was strange to string together such an awkward set of syllables, ones that seemed to stumble over one another and sputter out of him. Each attempt forced his black lips to pucker and curve, twist and turn, to produce a word still foreign on his tongue. With each recitation, the apprentice prayed that Fidgetpaw would leave his lips as effortlessly as Finley had. He craved the moment that this name would feel a part of him, as if, with enough tries, it would finally seep through his skin and settle deep in his bones.
But perhaps this was the cost of becoming someone new.
He glanced up, half-expecting to see someone watching from the shadows of the apprentice's den, but it was empty. Okay. A soft breath of relief escaped his lips. I got this. With a few quick swipes of his tongue, he smoothed down the stubborn cowlicks in his dark, smoky fur. His paw brushed the red collar snug at his throat, and he paused, adjusting it with a silent, practiced tilt of his head. Then, steadying his breath, he rose.
Four long, gangly limbs carried Fidgetpaw into the mid-morning light. The cool leaf-fall air kissed his whiskers, and a shiver ran down his spine. Back at the Twolegplace, he could always count on a warm, fluffy bed and four concrete walls to shelter him from the bitter weather. He'd never woken to the rustle of pine needles or the feeling of damp moss clinging to his fur until SkyClan welcomed him into their ranks. There were firsts for everything, and lately, there seemed to be an endless amount of them.
Fidgetpaw spotted a figure nearby, calm and steady amid the morning bustle, and shuffled over to them.
"Um, hi," he squirmed, his voice soft, "I'm sure you've seen me around. I'm Fin—Fidgetpaw, if you, uh—I don't know—forgot." His eyes darted to the ground. Suddenly, that blade of grass looked fascinating. "So, I've been trying to remember all the parts of the code—because, y'know, that's important. And I could use some help."
