Lakewhisker enters a seizure. He writhes on the floor of the medicine den, paws bursting through neat piles of herbs and spraying them into the shadowy corners. Eyes rolled back in his head, he looks more wraith than warrior, and Stonetail freezes along the wall, breath caught in her chest. Streamheart does the same, leaping back from her father's thrashing with a cry of horror. This leaves Robinfoot and Thrushpaw to surge forward, dodging flailing limbs in an effort to pin the grey tom down until the seizure passes. The medicine cat is able to hold Lakewhisker's hind legs in place, but his apprentice is at a disadvantage with her small size and can only trap one forepaw against the ground. The other still twitches and shakes, claws sheathing and unsheathing at random; they have already scored Robinfoot's side in the commotion.
Coming to their senses, Streamheart and Stonetail jointly place their paws atop Lakewhisker's last free leg, and even though the silver tabby can be heard keening softly, ears flat to her skull, she remains in place until her father finally stills. There is a moment of unspeakable terror following this; the senior warrior appears to fall motionless entirely. But then he gives a great shuddering breath and moans, a rough, grating noise like rocks scraping against the skulls of rabbits left out to dry in the sun.
"Oh, thank StarClan," Streamheart chokes out, pressing her nose to Lakewhisker's shoulder. Robinfoot pushes between them, though, flicking his tail to push the she-cats back.
"We don't know what caused this, so don't get too close. If it's contagious, you two don't need to catch it," he says. "And I'm sorry you had to see that."
Streamheart's hackles rise and she thrusts her muzzle close to Robinfoot's, growling, "He's my father! I want to help."
"He's my patient," Robinfoot retorts, holding his ground, "and I don't want you to help because I don't want you rolling on the ground like he did. I understand your concern, but for now, you're better off anywhere but here."
She has to understand. After all, she's no fool. But all the same, Streamheart snarls and whips around, racing out of the medicine den and towards her nest. "You, too," Robinfoot says, giving Stonetail a pointed look. Hesitating in the entrance, the grey warrior looks over Lakewhisker one more time before turning away and following her friend into seclusion.
Inside the den, Streamheart is curled into her nest, glowering darkly at the woven bracken walls. Her tail sweeps back and forth, scattering moss fragments with abandon. "I want to help him," she mutters sourly when Stonetail sits in the nest slightly to her right.
"So do I," she says in reply, kneading her bedding anxiously. "I… He's done everything for us."
"Why can't we do that for him?"
"Because Robinfoot is being careful, and we're being…family."
Streamheart grunts, but rather than enter into further debate, she brings her tail around to rest tersely atop her paws. With her eyes squeezed shut, she does not see Stonetail shift nests to lie beside her. She also does not seem to mind, and exhales unevenly as her friend presses her back against silver tabby stripes. They remain like this, grim silence cloaking them comfortably. It is so much easier not to speak, not to share. Solidarity provides more comfort than the spoken word.
They lie this way without interruption for what feels like moons; it has probably been no more than minutes, Stonetail's reason tells her. But every silence comes to an end, and Clay brings that end. Stonetail expects him to run his mouth immediately, flooding them with asinine questions until the end of time. And while he does enter with a question, it is the last one Stonetail expects: "Is it okay if I sit with you?"
She and Streamheart stare at the tabby for a moment, equally surprised, but eventually Streamheart dips her head in consent. Clay purrs halfheartedly, taking a seat on the bare floor of the den, casting aside the comfort of a nest so he can press his nose to each of the she-cat's foreheads. "I'm sorry about your dad," he says, "but if you guys are anything like him, I think he'll be all right."
Stonetail doesn't have the heart to tell Clay that Lakewhisker is not her father, but not because she doesn't want the tom to be wrong. Rather, she does not want to entertain the thought that the old warrior is not of her blood when all her life, he has looked after her as if she were anyways. To admit that aloud would be nothing short of betrayal. But still, to whom? To herself, or to Lakewhisker? But it does not matter. She rolls slightly, taking the weight off her hip to settle into a more comfortable position without breaking contact with Streamheart, who lifts her head to see what the motion is about before looking away again.
Remarkably, Clay respects the silence longer than anticipated. He is not without predictability, though, and finally caves in to the desire to fill the emptiness. It was bound to happen sooner rather than later, Stonetail reasons, and without the energy to be annoyed, she doesn't stop him from asking, "Will you tell me about him?"
Tell Clay what? There is so much to tell, much of it trivial and unremembered, but some of it personal and cherished. Striking a balance between the vague and the intimate proves difficult for Stonetail, but to her surprise, Streamheart throws her privacy to the wind.
"He declined the deputy position to look after my mother while she died," the silver tabby says. "Robinfoot didn't know what she had, but it gave her a lump on her throat that made it hard to eat and breathe. She couldn't hunt or fight, but Lakewhisker did that for her. He was in the medicine den every day, and when he wasn't in there, he was making sure I was okay nursing from Littlefeather. I was so young..."
Stonetail remembers Littlefeather. She had been a golden tabby queen with dainty white paws and amber eyes that glowed with love for every kit she ever nursed. It was Littlefeather that had nursed Streamheart, happy to provide for any kit after so recently losing both of her own. Stonetail had arrived little more than a moon later, left by Greystar, who had other duties to attend to after giving birth to her lone daughter, and the two she-cats had instantly become her surrogate daughters.
"He taught us to hunt when he didn't have to," Stonetail finds herself chiming in, pulling away from the fleeting memory of Littlefeather's glowing eyes during their apprentice ceremony; she had died two moons later of greencough. "He didn't have an apprentice, but he took us out to hunt whenever we asked him to, even if he'd been on patrol all day. I don't think he ever seemed tired. At least, he pretended not to be. For us."
"We got to be better hunters than the older apprentices, and they didn't know what happened." Streamheart lets out a cracked purr. "They thought Stonetail was getting help from Greystar and then teaching me."
"Which is the last place I ever got help."
"The very last place," Streamheart agrees, flicking her ear. Across from the she-cats, Clay sprawls out, legs stretched to their full length behind him and tail swishing gently back and forth. He glances over his shoulder, hearing something that the ShadeClan warriors do not, and curling his tail over his back, he invites Coal inside.
"They're telling me about Lakewhisker," he explains. "He's a great cat. And a great dad."
There is a hitch in Coal's step; he hesitates to take a seat, but after a wary look around the den, he does so, settling into some moss scraps in the corner and maintaining a respectful distance.
"You're treating it like you're mourning already," he observes softly, ears hanging low. "You still have him."
"That doesn't mean they can't talk about all the good things he's done," Clay replies defensively. Looking back at Streamheart and Stonetail, he adds, "Sorry. Our dad is…gone. It's been a long time." Behind him, Coal fidgets, resorting to cleaning his face to keep in motion. The black tom says nothing to overrule his brother, but certainly refrains from leaping into the conversation with zeal. He is impassive again.
For once, Stonetail feels the sudden urge to split him open, to see what lies inside. The skinny tom cannot be made solely of protective drive and careful choices. "Tell us about him then," she requests, speaking to Clay but watching Coal for a flicker of anything at all. The loner stiffens and avoids eye contact, moving onto grooming the ruffled fur along his sides. He seems to know who Stonetail meant to speak to and avoids her eyes. Now that she thinks about it, he does quite a lot of that.
"I don't really remember much," Clay confesses, shooting an apologetic look in his brother's direction. "Coal, do you?"
In silence, they all wait for Coal's answer. He methodically continues to wash his side, but his ears have drooped further, and his tail has coiled around one of his forepaws as if to provide support. "I remember a lot of things," he mumbles as if he wishes he didn't. "Mostly about our mother. I didn't spend as much time with Bear."
"Your father's name was Bear?" Streamheart asks, ears pricking with interest. Bears are creatures of legend to ShadeClan, though more than one elder in recent generations has claimed to have sighted one prowling the forest.
"Yeah, after the stories where he was from," Clay answers. "He was big and brown with really thick fur, and his paws were probably the size of Stonetail's head." Purring, he adds to her, "No offense. But he really did have huge feet."
"Kiona, our mother, wasn't that big," says Coal, surprising everyone with his addition to the narrative. "She was tall and thin, but had small paws and a small nose and…she was small." It's a lame, self-conscious finish, capped with a hasty smoothing of the fur on his chest.
Clay gives his brother a despairing look and stretches a paw out in his direction. "Is that all you've got?" He shakes his head, and instead of waiting for Coal to fill in the blanks, does it himself. "She and Coal looked exactly alike, except Coal had really stumpy legs for a long time. He had to run to keep up with her while she walked, kind of like we all had to run to keep up with Bear. But Bear didn't go places a lot, and Kiona did, so Coal did a lot of running."
Stonetail finds it hard to picture lanky, twig-thin Coal scampering along in the wake of a graceful shadow, legs pumping furiously to keep up with a mild trot, but suddenly she can, short limbs, kit fluff, and all. She pictures him tumbling downhill past his mother, careening headfirst into a puddle or a bush, bedraggled and waiting for rescue, which, of course, his mother provides. Her whiskers twitch against her will, and she shoots a glance at Streamheart, then Coal, unable to fully disguise her mirth. Streamheart is receptive, stopping to think about the image as well before letting out a stumbling purr, but Coal only grooms himself more meticulously. This pattern continues: the more silly kithood stories Clay has to share, the further Coal withdraws on himself, becoming so absorbed in cleaning, stretching, arranging his moss that his agitation brings a dour cloud over the brief joy the other three cats have found.
"I haven't eaten," he mutters when everyone turns to look at him in expectation of an answer for his behavior. His eyes graze the ground as he walks out, but when he looks back and makes eye contact with Stonetail, he snaps his gaze away and rigidly leaves for the fresh-kill pile.
An awkward silence hovers overhead. Clay appears to be on the verge of apologizing, Streamheart has sunk into her melancholy state again, and Stonetail cannot wrap her head around Coal's sudden skittishness. Where is the spitfire tom who had to be wrestled to the ground for demanding asylum, and what in StarClan's name has he been replaced with?
No one is given long to answer the question, because a screech explodes from the camp proper. "Do not eat that rabbit!"
"Robinfoot," Streamheart says, lunging to her feet and flying past Clay, who tries to catch her tail with his own as if to call her back. He misses and helplessly follows with Stonetail at his side, and by the fresh-kill pile, they find Coal frozen over the body of a young rabbit. The black tom, poised over the rabbit with his jaws parted, is as still as death for a moment under Robinfoot's wild stare. Then he cautiously rights himself and takes a step back from the prey, staring straight at the medicine cat.
It's not like Robinfoot to be so aggressive. Stonetail can't remember the last time ShadeClan's medicine cat raised his voice outside of his work. He's hardly prone to wrath, but here he stands with the fur along his spine raised in violent spikes. "No one touch that rabbit," he says to the gathering crowd.
For a moment, it seems that the brown tabby has gone mad, but Greystar, ever attentive to her camp, shoulders her way toward him. The haggard, crazed look in Robinfoot's eyes winks out, replaced by anxious deference. "What in StarClan's name are you yowling about?" she asks him, though she must know that the rabbit is the source of the drama; she casts it a sideways, offhand glance.
"Lakewhisker's patrol caught rabbits this morning," the medicine cat replies, hurrying through his words. "Thornpaw, Darkfeather, and Sootwing went with him to the BreezeClan border, and caught a couple rabbits that strayed into our territory for their meal. They brought two more back." Here, he dove into the fresh-kill pile and tugged out another rabbit by its hind leg, holding it gingerly between his teeth as if it pains him to touch it. "I think it made Lakewhisker sick," he finishes.
Streamheart does not wait to hear the rest of the tale. Instead, she sprints toward the medicine den, presumably to be with her father. Stonetail realizes that if the illness that struck Lakewhisker really has originated with these rabbits, then the silver tabby is in no danger of contracting the sickness herself. She sighs.
Greystar is less concerned with Streamheart. "Where are the other three, then?" she asks, looking towards the empty warriors' den. Redpaw answers for Thornpaw, though, crying out from the other side of camp. Next to her, the golden tom lies unblinking on the ground before thrashing about and making harsh choking noises. Robinfoot slips into his steady role as medicine cat again with the commotion, sending Redpaw to get Thrushpaw from the medicine den. Any trace of fear or anxiety over the rabbits has been replaced by the need to ensure Thornpaw's recovery.
Stonetail's skin crawls beneath her pelt. The rabbits have never been sick in greenleaf before. So why now?
»»««
The rabbits are not the only ones who have fallen sick. A day later, while Lakewhisker and Thornpaw are recovering and Sootwing and Darkfeather are slogging through their own bout of the sickness, a cat arrives from BreezeClan. Her name is Mothmoon, she tells Oaknose, whose patrol discovers her stumbling through the forest, and cats are dying. Apparently, seizures have wracked the other Clan, reducing warriors to shambling, shaking bags of bones, teetering on the edge of death. Some have recovered, like hardy Hawkwing and young Shortpelt, but others still court StarClan. "We need help," Mothmoon begs before Greystar and Featherstar, who were sharing a hushed meal before the ginger tabby's arrival. Looking directly to Featherstar, she adds, "Your deputy and medicine cat have been doing their best to help our medicine cat, but your Clan is falling sick, too. Please send help."
Greystar is, naturally, reluctant to offer aid, but Featherstar is adamant, demanding for all the ShadeClan camp to hear that help be provided to BreezeClan and the remainder of WillowClan residing in the other territory. "You cannot choose to save half of a Clan," the white leader says boldly. In one short declaration, she takes her stand, opting to side with the portion of her Clan she is parted with.
Stonetail finds she admires Featherstar from then on. True, the WillowClan leader might be a half-Clan cat, and true, Stonetail's family line is entwined with Featherstar's, but she feels no kinship for the long-furred she-cat, only an observer's respect. After all, Featherstar has spoken out against Greystar and succeeded, making it appear simple, even trivial. A single announcement, brimming with contempt for the idea that Greystar might choose to save half a Clan, and the recovery effort is set underway. Featherstar's smooth influence is impressive.
And if Featherstar is a suave diplomat, Greystar is an efficient tactician. Not to be shamed by Featherstar's actions, she saves face by rising from their shared meal to go speak to Robinfoot about running supplies between the camps. She leaves the carcass of her squirrel lying before the WillowClan leader, as if expecting her half-sister to clean up after her, which, to her credit, Featherstar does. It's a delicate game of holier than thou, waged in acts of reason and charity.
Streamheart hates it. "Cats are dying," she tells Stonetail that afternoon, lying next to Lakewhisker, who is softly snoring his illness away, "and they have the nerve to play for power at the same time. They're supposed to be leaders, not kits."
Maybe Stonetail agrees, but caught between her new appreciation for Featherstar's deftness and the old wounds between her and Greystar, it's hard to say what she truly believes, and so she pretends to go along with it, nodding her head and turning the focus back to Lakewhisker as soon as she can. He's recovering at a slower pace than Thornpaw, who, while small and shaken, is younger and sprier. The old grey tom's muscles still tremble in sporadic attacks, but they are vanishing with time. Neither of the younger warriors want to leave him until he can reliably stand on his own, though.
Of course, Stonetail cannot stay. The situation in BreezeClan warrants another medicine cat's attention, and the two cats for the job require an escort.
"Stonetail, Streamheart, get the loners," Greystar commands, not even bothering to stick her head into the medicine den. "The four of you will be chaperoning Thrushpaw to BreezeClan tonight."
Is there a response for such an order? There's no respectful way to defy her leader (there never is), but with Thrushpaw involved, she desperately wishes there were. Beside her, Streamheart fixes her with a stern look that screams, "Go fix things or so help me StarClan."
Needless to say, it's far easier to obey the wordless advice of her best friend that the impersonal imperatives of her mother. With as little commotion as possible, Stonetail gathers Clay from the elders' den, where he has been sitting with Redpaw and Mistpaw to listen to the tales Poppywing and Owlclaw have to tell. With his usual enthusiasm, he scampers off to retrieve Coal from the warriors' den, and soon they reunite at the camp entrance. Thrushpaw arrives shortly, flanked by Streamheart.
"Four of you?" she asks, setting down her packet of herbs. "This is a medicine run, not a patrol."
"Greystar's orders," replies Stonetail, taking a deep interest in removing a blade of grass from between her toes. Suddenly she feels like the apprentice all over again; Thrushpaw has capitalized on their rift, adopting the brusque mannerisms of an efficient medicine cat as if she were born for the role. Perhaps she was. There is a squareness to her shoulders now, a shine in her eye that had been missing before. Either way, Stonetail feels cowed, and cannot recall the mentor she once was. Even the attitude she adopts for Clay and Coal eludes her, because Thrushpaw is just not the same. Selfishly, the grey warrior wishes she were.
Admitting this is not an option. In silence, the small party sets out for the BreezeClan border, Thrushpaw and eager Clay taking the lead, followed by Streamheart. Stonetail, though she feels the itch to head the group, lingers, unwilling to chance irritating the tension that lurks so close to the surface. Coal also lags, his forepaw still swathed in cobwebs, though in fewer than before. He manages a steady limp disguised as a gangly lope.
In pairs, though with Thrushpaw the lone lead, they pad along the ShadeClan trails, but somehow their order gets mixed up. Stonetail slowly realizes that Coal has increased his pace to meet in the middle with Clay, who feels the need to marvel at every new detail he comes across, causing him to fall behind. Thrushpaw falls back to mesh with the group, perhaps feeling too forward as the leader, a position Streamheart takes naturally to, and guilt straddles Stonetail's shoulders as she realizes she is the only one lagging. In a couple reluctant bounds, she draws level with Thrushpaw.
Neither cat takes the initiative to speak. Clay's chatter fills the background, a comfortable white noise they can sink into it, but somehow it cannot break through the tense bubble surrounding them. The tabby's voice grows muffled and distant in Stonetail's ears, and she sneaks glances at the little apprentice beside her; they do not go unnoticed.
"What?" Thrushpaw finally asks, the word coming out semi-stifled from behind her packet of herbs.
It's a good question, one Stonetail dreads to answer, so instead she asks one of her own: "Are you okay?" By the furrow of Thrushpaw's brow, though, the grey tabby knows she's asked the wrong question. Quickly, she amends herself. "As Robinfoot's apprentice," she adds. "Are you…happy with it?"
She shouldn't have to ask. She knows the answer. It was written into every hesitant swing, every reluctant pounce and bite and snarl. Nearly five moons of warrior training should have made it so clear: Thrushpaw was not happy before. She wasn't happy until it was over.
Thrushpaw stops here, setting her bundle down at her feet. "I'm better," she says. "I'm right." Stonetail almost flinches. Since when was it a question of right and wrong? But then she realizes that there's no condescension in the phrase. Rather, Thrushpaw means that she feels right. And while Stonetail has considered this role may hold purpose for her former apprentice, it's stunning to finally accept that the little she-cat has discovered a path worth walking.
More stunning is the question Thrushpaw asks in return, just as the loner toms catch up. "Are you happy with it?" Clearly not intending to speak further, she picks up her herbs again and stares at the grey warrior, waiting for her answer. The brothers stop as well, and Stonetail feels three sets of eyes on her, then four as Streamheart pauses. Thrushpaw's simply wait, neutral, while Clay is expectant, eager to hear what Stonetail has to say. Streamheart's eyes are patient, knowing as usual. And then there is Coal, who drops his gaze immediately. He is hardly the paragon of honesty and openness.
And so Stonetail opts to tell the truth. "No," she admits. "I'm not."
They walk the rest of the way to BreezeClan in silence. Even Clay senses the change in the air and clamps his mouth shut, not even pestering Coal with questions. Together, they cross the border, meet a patrol, and are escorted to the other Clan's camp, where Thrushpaw sets them to work assisting Crookedfoot and Brackenheart, the other two medicine cats.
Curiously, she sends Clay to Crookedfoot, Coal to Brackenheart, and Streamheart to Cloudwing, claiming Stonetail as her own aide. Amidst her steady instructions and administrations, the medicine cat apprentice pauses once. Looking Stonetail in the eye, she says, "I'd be upset, too. I'm sorry."
Stonetail is okay with that.