The thaw in Sandpaw is slow, and it does not come from Firepaw or Bluestar, or even the dutiful and spirited Dustpaw, always by her side. It comes from time. It comes from patience. And a little bit- it comes from love.
The ShadowClan battle is gone and nobody's plan, Sandpaw's least of all, stands tall as the dust settles.
Her sides heave, a long scratch tracing from one end of her flank to the other, and her back is map of missing the battle in missing fur, most of it probably still caught in ShadowClan's cowardly claws as they hightail it back to their camp.
It had all been out of nowhere, and it had been nothing like she had expected. In her mind battles were always won, and they were won well. She was always strong, and never backed away, and everything was glorious- in her dreams she never looked into the eyes of a warrior who had learned how to rend and tear and she never tasted blood upon their breath. Witnessing death is one thing; to wear it, another.
The clan is quiet now. What is there to say?
"This isn't my home," Ravenpaw whispers. "I'm not- this-" and he cannot finish his sentence, but Sandpaw understands.
ShadowClan had torn a hole in peace that will take many moons to patch, and the camp bears the tear like an elder bears greencough, frenzied and worn, a shadow of what it had been only a day ago. Change is becoming so swift in the forest that it dazes Sandpaw sometimes; she blinks and her father is dead. She blinks, and the camp is a ruin. She blinks, and their deputy lays bloodied upon the ground.
The wail Graypaw gives echoes in her head, familiar as the smell of a mother to her kits- the sound of unexpected grief.
"Lionheart is dead," Bluestar murmurs, and Graypaw runs to him.
One by one, the clan gathers to pay their respects. Sandpaw tries to muster the appropriate sentiment, the feelings for her lost deputy that a clanmate is supposed to have, but she can only feel loss, dulled by exhaustion and a deeper weariness that will not go away when she sleeps.
She is not the only one at Lionheart's body; others come and go, but Graypaw remains, his nose buried so deep into the deputy's fur that it is as if he believes that Lionheart's soul is buried there, hiding from the sun in the gold of his pelt. Lionheart does not need her nose or her heart- but she recognizes the look in Graypaw's eyes when they rise to meet hers, the pain and fury and emptiness in them, a bird that flies on the same wings as her own.
She settles down next to him and- perhaps to both of their surprises, begins to lick his fur.
Graypaw does not object.
Sandpaw is gentle with him. She runs her tongue over his pelt in soft, slow strokes. A rhythm. A reminder, a pressure to say that she is there. She reaches the base of his neck and pulls softly at a knot, and he closes his eyes for a moment as she works at it.
As the others come to pay their respects, there is many a sad glance cast at Graypaw; but the warriors do not understand. They have lost before. The first, the one that makes you realize what death means- there is nothing that comes between you and that chasmous grief.
Ravenpaw, though- his wide eyes catch Graypaw and Sandpaw can see the loss in them. He is always so afraid these days; she wonders if he has reason.
Ravenpaw takes up the spot on the other side of Graypaw. His black coat nestles against gray and Ravenpaw's long tail settles on Graypaw's shoulders.
And Dustpaw comes to her side; he always does. She feels a surge of affection for the apprentice that has stuck with her through all of this, who cares so much that he oversteps and stumbles, whose loyalty is fierce if hard to earn. That she was born with it is a privilege, and realization flushes through her.
Clan life is unfair. It's cruel. It is a travesty that Clan life can mean this- can bring grief that drags through you like winter clawing the land- but Clan is also this, as she laps at Graypaw's shaking pelt, and dustpaw's warmth presses to his side, as Ravenpaw rests his head next to Graypaw's and they all breathe in memory together. They are not kin, but Clan is connection, and she knows this in the part of her that she thought could only bear grief.
Thunderclan means something, and it is a something she loves. For a crystalline moment she understands her father, whose death felt so senseless. It hurts. But this is what it is to be Clan, and it is worth more than she can say.
Last in line is Firepaw.
He looks particularly shaken; not what he had expected when he had joined the clans, Sandpaw thinks. But this isn't what she expected, either, when she became an apprentice.
With trepidation, Firepaw gives a few quick, nervous licks to Lionheart's cooling fur.
He looks to the spot beside Ravenpaw, and it is clear that he wants to join his friends- though he does not know how, perhaps; he is an outsider despite himself, and Sandpaw doubts that will ever change. But Graypaw lifts his head and his eyes soften when they meet Firepaw's, and Sandpaw knows what she must do.
She stands in the guise of a stretch and catches Firepaw's gaze. She nods to the space on the other side of Ravenpaw. The words dry on her tongue, but Firepaw understands. He sits, and a breeze stirs Lionheart's scent into the air.
"I don't want to die."
Ravenpaw speaks the words that break the silence and immediately looks as if he regrets it.
"Me neither," Dustpaw says, voice small. "I thought I was going to back there. Their deputy had me cornered, and his claws…" he cannot finish his sentence.
"I felt like-" Graypaw can't even make it that far. He shudders.
"I don't want to die either. And I'm deciding now," Firepaw meows. "I won't."
The others go quiet, but Sandpaw understands.
"I'm deciding that I won't go down without a fight and I mean it," he declares. "Commit to living as you are, fully and without regret, and you won't die. I'm sure of it." He looks at others, that same light gleaming that so scared Sandpaw before. "We'll live to be elders and we'll scare the kits with our stories. We'll tell them about our trials, and our tragedies, and at the end, we'll whisper to them what kept us going through it."
"What's that?" Ravenpaw mews, a note of desperation in his voice.
"Our will. If we decide here- we can live forever."
"I decide to be fierce," Dustpaw declares. "I'll fight to defend my home as many times as it takes, as many losses as I'll have to bear."
"I decide to be honest," Ravenpaw pipes in. He doesn't elaborate, but Sandpaw sees resolution in his eyes.
"I decide to be playful." Graypaw looks at the ground. "Friendship is irreplaceable. I couldn't ever live in a cold world," he says.
"I decide to be kind, like ThunderClan has been for me. If someone is in need, I will never turn them down." Firepaw is resolute.
Finally, all eyes turn to Sandpaw. She hesitates; words of battle and blood brood on her tongue, ready to take to the sky as a resolution. She swallows them down.
"I decide to forgive." It is a different declaration than the others, she knows, but she feels it is right. A warm breeze blows through the camp, ruffling her fur and making the air taste of green once more. "Whatever the wound, I will heal. And I will make a softer day. We deserve a world that knows how to forgive."
Slowly, Graypaw's tense muscles soften under her tongue and his eyes lose the look of shock. He mourns until the moon is high in the sky, but they are all there- for once, they are young together, the apprentices of Thunderclan weeping together for what might have been, and, they know, if they are to become warriors- what inevitably will someday be.
Sandpaw does not know which of them will fall in battle, which to illness, and which to the old age that would one day take them all- but she knows that when they do, they will have their vigil.
And maybe Firepaw is right, Sandpaw thinks- if ThunderClan will live forever, so will she.