Whitestorm suddenly found himself at Fourtrees. I must be dreaming, he thought to himself. He knew he was dreaming when a familiar-looking white queen appeared, though he didn't remember who she was.
"Whitestorm," purred the queen, "do you know who I am?"
Whitestorm thought for a second. "Mom?" he asked. He had been only a tiny kit when she died.
Snowfur purred. "I'm so proud of you, son," she whispered. "You have served your Clan well."
"Have served it well?" repeated Whitestorm. "But… that doesn't mean… I'm not dying, am I?"
His mother shook her head. "Not yet," she meowed. "Your time will be tomorrow, during the battle with BloodClan."
"Who else will die?" whispered Whitestorm.
"No one else from your Clan," replied Snowfur, to her son's relief.
There was still something worrying Whitestorm. "Firestar is depending on me," he insisted. "Who will be the deputy when I'm gone?"
Snowfur gave him a stern look. "Who do you think Firestar will appoint?"
"Graystripe," said Whitestorm automatically, "but is it what StarClan wishes?"
Snowfur nodded. "You have lived a long and purposeful life," she mewed. "Your Clan honors you. They were proud to consider you their deputy—and their friend." She eyed him with concern. "Are you ready?"
Whitestorm shook his head. "To leave my Clan? No," he meowed. "There is still so much I could have done. But I am ready to walk with you, mother. I know that I will be able to watch my kits grow into fine warriors from up here with my ancestors, and that the Clan is safe with Firestar and Graystripe." He bowed his head. "I will be ready."