A/N:

I AM SO SORRY! Words cannot convey how terribly sad I am right now. I have had no time to write. How long has it been? I don't even know. This chapter was very difficult, but I love it. Hope you enjoy it too.

SPECIAL THANKS TO ACORNLEAP FOR BEING AN AMAZING MUNCHKIN (Yes, that's a compliment) AND ACTUALLY REVIEWING! You are an awesome friend!

Disclaimer:

I. Do not. Own. Anything. Please, Erins, don't sue me.

Featherpaw knew that something bad was going to happen.

The crushing sense of foreboding didn't leave her as she opened her eyes and rolled onto her back, praying that she didn't have to deal with whatever problem was heading FlightClan's way.

Beside her, Slatepaw murmured in his sleep, squirming around in the moss. She envied his slumber, but she was far too tired to fall asleep. The previous day had been a series of fighting moves and rushed conversations that left her sore and exhausted.

"Cut it out!" she hissed at his sleeping form, rolling her eyes. Slatepaw was annoying.

His sharp, barbed tongue had turned on her more than once. She was sick of comforting everyone else, shielding her Denmates from his insults. Not that anyone appreciated her efforts.

Featherpaw rose, placing her paws carefully on the cold, stony ground, cautious not to disturb her slumbering Denmates. The night was cool on her face as she padded outside, the stars overhead smothered in thick swathes of cloud. Around her, the Clan slept, silence echoing around her.

She had been an apprentice for two moons. She'd learnt so much. Featherpaw was the best out of all the other apprentices at almost everything. But she didn't have friends. No-cat sat with her while she lazed around camp after training, sharing tongues with her, cracking jokes and laughing along side her.

But the female apprentices loved Slatepaw. Slatepaw, who insulted everyone. Slatepaw, who sat brooding through most of their lessons.

The night was dark and shadowed and the clouds smudging the moon and stars only made it worse. This was the kind of night that she'd sit through, content in the silence, fiercely ignoring the loneliness that called to her.

The silver she-cat stretched on a flat stone that lay away from the rest of the towering pile that dwelled near the leader's den. She eyes wandered across the desolate clearing, too tired from the hard day's work to care about the numbing cold.

From the reeds on the far edge of the camp, a black she-cat emerged. Her fur was long, and poked out in several directions. There was no-cat in FlightClan that looked like that.

"Who are you?" she whispered, meeting the cat's leaf-green eyes with her own brown ones.

The cat looked at her, a considering light in her eyes. She shook her head, and turned away, her paws deathly quiet against the mud and stones.

"Hey! Wait!" Featherpaw called, racing after her. "What are you doing here?"

Silence met her words. The she-cat had simply disappeared. How?

Featherpaw shoved the thought from her mind, and headed back towards the camp.

It took her several long minutes to acknowledge she was lost.

The darkness had grown thicker around her, and the reeds stopped swaying. But the heavy cloud cover loomed over head, like the ominous presence of the sickness that plagued them. All anyone ever talked about was the sickness, nowadays. Not how well the prey was running, or how fast the kits were growing. No. It was easy to ignore at first. It was just a few apprentices that had eaten a bad piece of prey, written off as a minor illness.

And then there were more cases. Not in FlightClan, but in FeatherClan. An Elder, too ancient to walk, and a kit, too sickly to breathe. It was all written off as inevitable. They were all going to die, it wasn't something strange. Then, Warriors in their prime came up with coughs and tiredness and bruises, fit enough to fight, yet unable to move. But no-cat... No-cat had ever gone into a coma. No-cat had been as badly influenced as Mossstar.

As she walked, Featherpaw felt a tight ball of anxiety grow in her stomach. What if no-cat found her out here? Or, worse, what if she was attacked by WingClan - it wasn't beneath them.

WingClan, she thought poisonously. Lying, cheating, scum.

Her dad - Backfoot - had told them all about WingClan. About how they were murderers and traitors. The lot of them. Featherkit agreed. Backfoot's family had died at their paws, Comfreylight, Slatekit and herself was the only family he had left. Featherpaw could have had more kin. Better kin.

Featherpaw shook the thought away. The frost was starting to bite into her veins, infecting her with its icy poison. She shivered. The apprentice needed to go home. She would catch her death if she stayed out any longer.

Everything was going fuzzy around her, stars swimming in her eyes. She stopped, hearing her heartbeat loud in her ears. It was slow and rhythmic, harsh on her soft ears. Featherpaw stared at nothing, her eyes slipping between focused and blurry. She felt like she was dreaming.

Sleep, her brain suggested through the strange delirium. That would be nice.

The stars slipped and fell as she thudded against the ground, too weak to realise she had walked across WingClan territory and into FeatherClan.

...

The tortoise-shell tom supposed that it was just his luck - running out of thyme the same day as an apprentice fell out of a tree. Just his luck. The poppy seed had helped, but it was still hard for Leafpaw to get to sleep. Poor fuzz-ball. That sprained paw wouldn't be properly healed for another moon.

The night was storm riddled and cold, but he didn't mind it. It called him, to be away from the pressure for just a second. But being a Medicine Cat Apprentice wasn't easy.

Ahead, an silver ball of fur lay stiff and frozen in the trees, her pelt almost shinning in the moonlight. The tom froze, shocked. He should have recognised the cat, but he didn't. Given by the mud on her pads and the water clinging to her fur, she was from FlightClan.

He picked her up, terrified by how cold her skin was. Was she dead?

He had to move her.

If she was dead, he would take her back to FlightClan. But if she was alive...

The tortoise-shell checked for a rise and fall of her chest, but couldn't find one. Spurred by panic, he pressed his ear up to her ribs. Beneath them, her heart thudded far too slow and far too quiet. She was going to die.

He picked her up by the nape of her neck and sprinted away as fast as he could, leaping over logs and dodging branches. His mind was focused on the Medicine Cat Den, where Thymefeather would be sleeping.

She was going to die.

But not on his watch.