Rated M for blood and gore and stuff.

"The first loss is always the hardest."

That was the first lesson ever given to Otterpaw. He knew it. He'd known it for moons, since he saw his mother coughing out her life with greencough and, later, his eldest brother flat on the ground with badger-stink all over him. Both were corpses within a day and both had fueled his motivation to save the lives of others. But they still stung. And now, three moons later, he wrinkled his nose at the memories and tried to brush it off with a snappy comeback.

"Yeah, so?" he asked irritably. "I know that already- no need to remind me."

"I'm not talking about family," Tigersky said patiently. "I mean patients."

"I can cure them. I mean, I'm pretty resourceful." He frowned. "And besides, I'm not really close to my clan. You know that."

Tigersky twitched her whiskers thoughtfully. "Yes, it's true that you're terribly unpopular with the other apprentices," she remarked, making Otterpaw's fur bristle up. "Certainly it couldn't have anything to do with your charming personality, could it?"

"Oh, shut up. You know I never wanted to be a medicine cat." Otterpaw sat down and massaged his bad leg, stiffly setting it aside. "It's not my fault this stupid job pushed me away from the rest of them."

"Actually, considering that you were the one who decided to sneak out of camp as a kit, it is."

"Go away, Tigersky. Nobody likes you."

"As I'm well aware." The orange tabby settled down next to Otterpaw. "But in all seriousness, you have to accept that one day, there's going to be a cat that you can't save. And you have to prepared yourself for that."

"I'm always prepared," was the response, and Tigersky sighed and looked away.

"StarClan help you, StarClan help me," Ottertail feverishly muttered under his breath as he rummaged through his stock of herbs. He was pitifully low on catmint and marigold, and the cobwebs he did have would barely be enough to patch up the wounded warriors for one day, if that; his paws stiffened and he pressed his face against the dirt as he let out a silent scream. Of course, he doubted that anybody would have heard it, over the lovely cacophony of the injured warriors. StarClan, they were moaning so much that the rogues who attacked the patrol could most certainly hear them.

"Ottertail! Stoneclaw has got a fever!"

Infection, most likely, and Ottertail cursed under his breath as he gathered up all his herbs in one go and hobbled over to the gray tom. His leg caught against a dip in the ground and he tripped, scattering the marigold everywhere and he had to pick it up, pick it up one agonizing piece at a time, leg throbbing, cats screaming, head pounding-

"Ottertail!"

Sure enough, Stoneclaw was burning up. Ottertail shoved some feverfew into his mouth and spread a poultice on his injured flank. Maybe horsetail would help, but all of a sudden he couldn't remember any of his lessons from Tigersky. Dear StarClan. He wasn't skilled enough for this. He wasn't prepared. Tigersky had left for StarClan just a moon after he received his medicine cat name, stricken down with a sudden and deadly infection. This scenario was too similar to that for him to feel even remotely comfortable around the infected tom.

"Sweetriver, get him some water," he instructed. She was a warrior through and through, but still interested in healing and herbs. She was a tremendous help, except- oh StarClan, she was injured too. Laying on the ground, bleeding out of her throat and stomach, eye closed and sticky with blood. And now Ottertail looked around, frantic, trying to asses the damage- Blueshade with clawed ears and bleeding legs, Perchpaw limping in circles, and Stormeye, heaving on the ground as she pressed a paw against her chest. Blood everywhere. And still more injured cats.

Curse those rogues.

Ottertail thrust a pile of chewed of marigold, a layer of cobwebs- was that catmint? Was he mixing up his herbs already? Alright, gotta peel it off, stick it in his stash, save it for another day, because there was always going to be somebody who needed catmint. And he pushed poppy seeds into Stoneclaw's mouth and dashed off as fast as a crippled cat possibly could.

Sweetriver- oh, Sweetriver! Her poor, clawed eye was a goner, so he gently covered it in cobwebs and dock. He pushed cobwebs onto her throat, did his best to fix up the gaping hole in her stomach, but time was running out for her. But maybe he could stop it if he really tried ("Live, you piece of fox-dung!") and he spread a marigold poultice over her injuries. Maybe goldenrod would help, yes! But he didn't have any left, right? He had meant to go get some; but maybe he should check, just in case. But he couldn't leave Sweetriver there. He screamed into the dirt again, limping to his den.

No goldenrod.

But there was moss and a small puddle of water, for it had rained earlier in the day and it was still dripping from the tree branches through a crack in his den. He sopped up the water with the moss and ran back, panting, squishing and squeezing the moss into Sweetriver's mouth. And she drank, which was a good sign. So he scooped some thyme into her and pressed the sodden moss against her throat. StarClan help them all.

But Blueshade was easier, thank the stars. A bit of cobweb here, some marigold there, maybe some comfrey. Dock for her ears. Poppy seeds, because she was clearly distressed, heaving and crying into Ottertail's paw. He awkwardly moved away, but his confidence and clarity was restored somewhat. Maybe he could take control after all.

Perchpaw was okay, for the most part. Clearly the rogues who targeted their patrol didn't see a scrawny, eight-moon-old she-cat as a threat- although Ottertail had watched her train, and knew that she was one of the best apprentices in the clan. But her legs were still scraped and fur was still torn off in some places. He stopped the bleeding and offered her thyme but she refused. She was still "in the moment," apparently. A true fighter. And he felt better yet.

But Stormeye had the most serious injuries. A rogue had apparently tried to rip her heart out, but Stormeye was fast. Although not fast enough, it seemed. She had a large gash in her chest, and the flesh was hanging. Blood was spilling onto her light gray fur and she was coughing and wheezing. And each time she coughed more blood spurted out of her wound and out of her mouth.

Ottertail wiped off of some that sprayed onto his nose.

A handful of infection-preventing herbs, cobwebs, thyme, and poppy seeds. How could he possibly amend this horrific wound with that? Ottertail looked at the she-cat and instinctively sensed that she was going to die. There was too much blood. How could one lithe, petite cat hold this much of anything inside her? It was forming a puddle larger than her body, staining the dirt floor red, mixing with crushed marigold and sticky cobwebs to form a brown mush. He stepped back, nauseous.

Stormeye was too, apparently. She retched up blood and, with it, pushed out yet more liquid from her wound. It was sticky and drying quickly in the midday sun, turning smooth fur into clumps and getting lodged in claws, in teeth.

There was nothing he could do. Ottertail stepped back as Stormeye started to convulse, blood dripping, spraying, eyes twitching and glazed over, a low moan sounding from her throat. He pressed his nose into her fur.

She stopped moving.

And for the first time, Ottertail understood what Tigersky had been trying to tell him about his first loss all those moons ago, because suddenly it was like Stormeye's death was being amplified over and over in his brain. Suddenly all he could think of was it's my fault, I killed her, I killed her and now she's dead because I didn't try hard enough and it's my fault.

It echoed in his head, bouncing around, over and over. It's my fault.

And he sat down in the middle of camp, the sun beating down on him, Stormeye's blood seeping into his own fur, and cried.