After learning about the fox, albeit not in detail until the following morning, Greystar allows Stonetail the day off to recuperate via orders from Oaknose. Clay, recovering rapidly from his sickness, is nevertheless also excused, but mostly because he nearly retched on Robinfoot's tail the moment he woke.

"You need to rest," Streamheart advises when she stops by the medicine den before a midday hunting patrol. Robinfoot and Thrushpaw are both absent, tending to some other trouble in the camp. "You've run around enough for someone with a shoulder they were supposed to be resting only a couple days ago."

"It doesn't hurt," replies Stonetail, rolling the shoulder in question to prove her point.

It does hurt, but Streamheart doesn't need to know that. The silver tabby exits, placated. This gives Stonetail just enough privacy to groan and settle into a less painful position. Between the wounds delivered by the fox and the lack of adrenaline to put the pain at bay, the grey warrior feels a thousand aches at once, all in her shoulder. Poppy seeds might dull the pain, but she refrains from asking for any. They'll make her drowsy, and she has had quite enough of lying about despite the dangers activity brings.

The fight with the fox, as dangerous and foolish as it had been, had also been exhilarating. There are so few occasions to unsheathe one's claws for battle, and though that means the Clans are relatively safe, Stonetail itches to do it again. She doesn't want the danger to spread to her Clan, and she doesn't want to lead travesty over the stoop, but her blood is beginning to boil. Peace is so stagnant.

But turmoil brings misfortune, often in the form of death and sometimes to those least involved. The fire kindling in Stonetail's chest fizzles out, and she sighs, left with nothing to do but make herself comfortable until discharged to her duties once more.

Thankfully, Lakewhisker knows all about the tedium of the medicine den, and to the grey warrior's surprise, he comes to visit with two small sparrows in his jaws. Dropping them in front of her, he says with a purr, "I made sure to catch them upriver. No more of that sickness, hm?"

Stonetail's stomach growls. "Thank you," she mumbles past the chunk of sparrow already in her mouth. Until now, she had not realized how much she needed a proper meal. Adrenaline makes cats forgetful, it seems. Forgetful and hungry. Maybe just shy of starving.

Scarfing down the first sparrow while Lakewhisker delicately disassembles the second, she is more than happy to let the old tom lead the talk. "I thought that you might like some company," he begins, draping his tail over her back with a purr. "The medicine den can get a little dull; I've been in here enough times to know. StarClan, I've been in here more times than I can count. Did you know I once ended up in here for the same reason you're here now?" Stonetail gives him a sideways look. "That's right, I fought a fox. I don't think I jumped into it with as much gusto as you did, though."

The grey tabby stops chewing long enough to protest. "It wasn't gusto. It was stupid."

"And sometimes those go together better than you know." The tom's eyes fall half-shut with contentment. "You're young, Stonetail. I don't expect you to put those together until you're an old lump of fur like me, though a little caution wouldn't hurt you. But I'll blame my daughter for that. She's always been good at getting the pair of you in trouble.

"I remember when you two were about a moon shy of your apprentice ceremony and you decided to follow Fogfoot into the forest when he went hunting. He knew you were there, of course, but decided to let you two have your fun exploring. I can't say I liked it then, but now? You both came home safe, got a good scolding, and wised up enough to go by yourselves the next day. The pair of you have never missed an opportunity to be in the thick of it."

With a snort, Stonetail scatters some feathers Lakewhisker's way, causing him to sneeze. "We're the very souls of caution," she replies. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"If tackling a fox all by yourself is being the soul of caution, what does that make me? Plain lazy?" Lakewhisker laughs and gives her a gentle nudge. "You just don't like admitting you've got the heart of a lion and the sense of the mouse when it counts, you and Streamheart both. And you know? I'm proud of you two."

It's as if the wind changes abruptly in the den. Stonetail chews slower, and though she pulls one paw closer to her body while curling her tail in, she can't keep out the sudden chill that trickles down her spine. "What is it?" she asks, swallowing hard. "Don't beat around the bush."

Lakewhisker sighs. "Heart of a lion, sense of a mouse, and all the tact of a blind badger in a bramble patch. Must you crash through every conversation? Can't an old warrior have his subtleties?"

"Not when they're starting to worry me," Stonetail replies, ignoring the well-meant jibe. "Since when have you started calling yourself old, anyway?"

"When I decided it was time to retire."

Retire. It sounds scandalous. Impossible. Lakewhisker belongs in the warriors' den, a bundle of grey fur tucked neatly into the corner. First to arrive in the evening, but first out at dawn without fail. Loyal and true and old. StarClan, he is old. When Streamheart was born, he was not a young cat, and two complete season cycles have only heaped more age on his shoulders, which may or may not have always been so bony. It's hard to remember for sure, and Stonetail pushes the sparrow's carcass away. It tastes dry and thick all of a sudden.

"What brought this on?" she asks, taking her time forcing the question out. "You might be old, but you're not that old."

"I'm old enough, though," Lakewhisker counters calmly. "Patrols aren't as easy as they used to be, and I don't think I've gone a day without twitching like a shrew in a fit since I ate that bad rabbit. Besides, I thought about your fox. What good am I to the Clan if a fight like that would have me in walking through Silverpelt before I could lift a paw? ShadeClan needs warriors who can fight and hunt and make it around the borders without stopping for a much-needed nap. And that's warriors like you and Streamheart.

"It's time," he goes on. "I wish it wasn't, but I'm also lucky. Not all warriors get to retire."

"No, not all of them," Stonetail agrees reluctantly. She can't bring herself to look over. What if the warrior–no, the elder–sitting there is not the cat she remembers? Will retirement change him? Make him skinny, make him fat, make him blind? Her stomach flips. Will it make him forget?

"I don't think you should," she mutters, ears flattening and flaring with the heat of selfish guilt.

"If I don't, my tired bones might fall over before I get to meet the next great warriors of ShadeClan, who I'd very much like to see. Besides, I can trust this Clan with anything, including the work I'll leave behind."

Lakewhisker is at peace with the decision, that much is clear. Arguing it seems to hurt Stonetail more than it hurts her visitor, and she lashes her tail angrily. Instead of snapping at Lakewhisker, though (of all the ShadeClan cats, he has been one of the sturdiest against words meant to wound), she asks, "Have you told Streamheart?"

"Last night," he confirms. "Her first, then you. And when Greystar comes back from her border patrol, I'll tell her. I just wanted to tell my family first."

A ragged sigh bursts from Stonetail's chest. "Not just blood family?"

"Doesn't have to be. Never really has been. You're as much a daughter to me as Streamheart is."

For a while, the pair sits in silence, picking at their sparrows half-heartedly. Lakewhisker's decision is like a blanket of snow, chilling and coating the den in a hush that feels irreverent to break. Stonetail silently berates herself for reacting with such disbelief. This day would have had to come eventually, and trying to put it off even longer won't make it hurt any less.

At least one thing doesn't hurt.

"You said you're proud?"

"I did," Lakewhisker purrs. "I got to see you grow up quite well, harebrained fox fighting aside. I'm very proud."

Stonetail doesn't know if she's ever heard the words before, at least not directed at her. Her throat tightens, and though she feels like she ought to be going into mourning, she laughs. "First time I've heard that!"

"And I hope it isn't the last."

»»««

They do not get long to savor their kinship. As the pair drifts close to a nap, a wail rises from the camp, grief-stricken and sharp. "Thornpaw!"

"Stay here," Lakewhisker mutters, rising to his feet with a popping of his joints, but Stonetail disobeys and hobbles after him all the same. Whatever is in the camp is in the camp, and nothing Lakewhisker can do will change that. Perhaps she can be of some help, though.

But not this time. When they exit the den, though, Stonetail wishes she had stayed behind.

Thornpaw lies in the center of camp, Thrushpaw and Redpaw alike crouched beside his lithe form with their noses pressed into his tabby fur. Sageflight hustles her kits into the nursery, and Morningfur wobbles out to join the scene, round belly swinging and another wail tearing from her throat. Other members of the Clan, including the WillowClan refugees, look on without making eye contact.

"He relapsed this morning," Lakewhisker breathes, ducking his head. "I thought he was going to recover."

So that was why Robinfoot and Thrushpaw flew out of the den so urgently. Guilt makes Stonetail's paws heavy. Shouldn't she have known? Or maybe the medicine cats said nothing in order to prevent an uproar. All the same, her heart sinks low, and she digs her claws into the dusting of pine needles scattered across the ground. Thornpaw is young. Was young, she corrects herself, watching Morningfur grieve for her son. Everyone thought he would recover, and yet there's no life in the small, golden body.

Stonetail turns away from the scene. "I should go lie down," she mutters, and Lakewhisker does not stop her from going. However, she hesitates at the mouth of the medicine den, pausing to watch the proceedings balefully. Morningfur crouches protectively over her son's empty husk as best she can with more unborn children swelling her belly. To the queen's right, Redpaw is tearing at the earth as if digging a hole to the center of the world might bring her best friend back. At Morningfur's left, though, Thrushpaw stands motionless, staring blankly at the body of her brother (how could Stonetail have forgotten that they were littermates? the loss seems even more raw now, knowing Thornpaw was on the verge of his warrior name) with a stoicism so rare from her fragile heart. She seems less like the small bird she was named for and much more like a predator. She is a hawk, stiff backed, ears flat, gaze empty, and Stonetail realizes that if death could be hunted down and given a taste of its own terrible might, Thrushpaw would never rest until getting her vengeance.

Before the grey warrior can retreat to the quiet of the den as she meant to only moments ago, a patrol returns to camp. Immediately Robinfoot emerges from the throng that begins to obscure Thornpaw from view, and dipping and bobbing his head nervously, he informs his leader of the latest tragedy.

Her response is to call a Clan meeting.

It feels callous. Stonetail bites down a snarl, though perhaps she doesn't have the energy for one in the first place. Quietly she limps toward the Great Timber, carefully avoiding eye contact with those too heavy with grief to attend to their leader.

"The loss of a Clanmate is a tragedy, and the loss of an apprentice even more so." It's a blunt opening. Where's the warmth, the compassion? But it's Greystar; such is her style to lay out the facts without letting her heart stray in the way. However, she has the sense to bring some comfort to Thornpaw's family, not to mention the rest of the Clan, and she does it in her efficient, pragmatic way.

"I cannot raise the dead," Greystar continues, "but I can do this. With your permission, of course, Morningfur. Thornpaw was due for his warrior name, and I do not wish for him to be denied that honor."

In the following pause, all of ShadeClan looks to the golden queen, who sits with her head bowed. Almost imperceptibly, she nods, but Thrushpaw echoes the gesture much more strongly at her side, giving Greystar the clearance she needs. Atop the Great Timber, Greystar clears her throat.

"I ask my warrior ancestors to look down on this apprentice," she calls out; even in the corners of the camp, her voice rings clear. "He has learned the warrior code and given up his life in the service of his Clan. Let StarClan receive him as a warrior. From this day on, he will be known as Thornwing, a warrior of valor and zeal." Then, directly to the body, she adds a traditional ShadeClan blessing: "May you walk the stars as you walked the pines, Thornwing. May you always remember your home, and may your home always remember you."

This adjourns the meeting, but few cats disperse, instead huddling close to whisper into one another's ears. Just ahead of her, Stonetail overhears Poppywing say to Owlclaw, "Burying the young ones is always the worst."

"Always," agrees the wizened brown tom, not without a great touch of sorrow in his voice.

Stonetail misses the rest of the conversation as Coal appears at her side. "There are death rites?" he asks.

She nods, tipping her head sideways when the tom's brow furrows. "There always have been. The body will be covered in herbs, his family and closest friends will sit a silent vigil for him tonight, and tomorrow the elders will take him into the forest for burial."

Coal sits silently for a moment, taking in the movement of the camp as cats press their noses into Thornwing's fur, say a prayer, and move on without fuss. He would be superb at sitting vigils, thinks Stonetail, not that it's that crucial a skill.

"I wish I'd known," he eventually says. Guessing his meaning isn't too hard once Stonetail remembers what little the brothers have told of their parents. To her surprise, though, Coal doesn't look especially wistful. He simply observes the trickle of activity before getting up with no more a goodbye than a small nod to Stonetail.

She's grateful. At this point, silence feels better, easier in the wake of death. Conversation would riddle her with guilt she has no reason to bear.

Quietly she returns to the medicine den, lying far out of the way so Thrushpaw and Robinfoot can bustle in and out without tripping over another cat. They say nothing to Stonetail. Stonetail says nothing back, and keeps to herself until the sun starts to dip below the horizon, at which point she excuses herself to retrieve a meal.

Guilty that she had no part in hunting today, she only takes a small vole, retreating toward the den but sitting outside to soak up the sun's last warm rays as they muddle their way through billowing clouds. Near the camp's center, the rituals for Thornwing are nearing completion. Dried burnet dusts his back, a traveling herb meant to bring strength for the journey to StarClan, while a scattering of sweet chervil and coltsfoot rests across his paws. Finally, lavender ghosts his pelt, masking the scent of death if only for a short while. It is easier to pretend he is not gone with one sense fooled, though some might argue it hurts more for that to be taken away. But rituals are rituals, and they must stay the same, which is why Thrushpaw is arguing with Robinfoot. Ears pricked towards the two cats, Stonetail listens with her chin on her paws, pretending to be resting.

"There's not enough lavender," she insists tersely.

"There's enough to put the smell at bay until morning. We don't need more yet, and it can wait until after the vigil." Robinfoot sounds weary. He has been darting about all day, though, and failed to save the life of a budding warrior. That he is still on his feet is something of a miracle.

Thrushpaw's tolerance for miracles, however, seems to have dropped to a record low the moment a miracle neglected to spare her brother's life. "He deserves more lavender," she growls, and without waiting for permission, she stalks away from her mentor, looking straight ahead the whole way to the camp entrance. There, she disappears into the rising night, leaving only swishing ferns in her wake.

The part of Stonetail that still aches from the hole mentoring has left wants to scold the tabby for being so snappish, but the part of Stonetail that was once just as prone to storming off knows that a confrontation will only bring conflict to a boil. She sighs. The solitude might do Thrushpaw good.

»»««

By the time moonhigh rolls around, Stonetail cannot sleep. The smell of the medicine den makes her stomach twist, and the low hoot of an owl in the distance resonates again and again in her skull. She gives in to the relentless itch in her bones, and with a half-hearted yawn, she creeps out of the medicine den.

The camp swims in fractured moonlight, rippling across the pine needles and grass in silver waves. By the warriors' den, Stonetail spots Clay and Coal sitting upright and still, Streamheart half a tail-length behind them. A cool breeze wafts through, just cold enough to lift a shiver from Stonetail's back, but the toms do not move. Though they are not among Thornwing's closest friends and never were, it seems that they are conducting a vigil of their own at a respectful distance. A look towards the den the brothers were once confined to reveals Mistpaw doing the same with one of her Clanmates droopily squatting beside her. The apprentice is wide awake, however, and hardly blinks save for when the moonlight strikes her in the face. If the vigil didn't ask silence of the Clan, Stonetail would purr at the sight. Thornwing's death is no treat, but it is nothing less than heartwarming to discover the small pockets of unexpected support.

Around Thornwing himself are his mother, his mentor, and Redpaw. Grasspelt, his father, emerges from the dirtplace momentarily to take a seat besides his mate, draping his tail across her shoulders as he scoots closer to her side. Stonetail cranes her neck to peer at the small group, taking in the silver-bathed details until she is certain that something is amiss.

Thrushpaw is still absent.

She spoke so firmly about retrieving more lavender for her brother's sake. It's hard to believe that she isn't sitting vigil. Stonetail even slinks toward the dirtplace for another vantage point, fur startlingly silver in the moonlight, only to find that the apprentice isn't hidden behind anyone else's form. Of course, asking if Thrushpaw withdrew from the rites out of exhaustion is beyond inexcusable. Silence is the rule until sunrise unless an emergency presents itself. Answers to this conundrum will have to be obtained otherwise.

Stonetail opts to let it go. Grasspelt just emerged from the dirtplace. Who's to say Thrushpaw isn't off doing the same in a different location? Another yawn comes, this one more forceful and earnest than the last, and the grey warrior lies down on a bed of pine needles beneath one of the younger trees that lines the camp walls. It's soft and cool, and with the occasional breeze, the air is much fresher than the stuffy medicine den. Of course, the wind carries grief in swirling circles, but in the open, the scent dissipates. Out here, she might be able to get some rest.

The owl seems insistent on preventing that, however. At first, sheepishness about lying down to sleep in full view of a vigil keeps her awake, but having overcome that embarrassment, justifying her need for rest, Stonetail attempts to fall asleep. But the owl's hooting continues, low and steady.

And then, mid-hoot, it is gone.

Stonetail looks up. The moon has tracked further along in the sky, surpassing moonhigh. It is not time for owls to return to their daytime hideouts, and looking to the vigil, she realizes it is well past time for young apprentices retrieving herbs to return to their Clan to mourn their fallen brother. Slowly she rises, careful not to draw attention from the mourners, and with her ears pressed flat, she slips into the dirtplace, heading straight for the skinny gap in the wall.

It's a slight squeeze, but the break in the bracken is wide enough to allow a cat as lean as Stonetail to pass with ease. Once through the barrier, she heaves a sigh that becomes another yawn, at which point she puts a forepaw to her face and gives her ankle a short nip. It pinches sharply enough to jolt her into a more wakeful state, but doesn't hurt more than a moment. The pain ebbs quickly, and with one last glance through the dirtplace to be sure no one is following her to drag her home, Stonetail pads into the forest.

If no one else is worried about Thrushpaw, then she will be.