A/N: More SP! Another chapter I've had written for a bit, but had too much on my plate to post 'til now. I hope these more slice-of-life sections have been enjoyable to read. I love interpersonal Clan stuff. Thank you for reading as always!
The more Spottedfur visited Moleface, the more the kits suckling at her began to resemble… kits, from stubby, fetal limbs, to pink pawtips, even little claws.
Of course, in the days after birth, it was mostly Comfreywing, Thymepaw, that tended to her — the black molly, more often than not, had herbs to take, milk production levels to eye, and, above all else, mouthy kittens to nurse. At a point, Spottedfur began to appreciate how much she'd scrapped together a strong face, an easygoing smile, after her kits' births: how much she must have wanted nothing more than to pass out from exhaustion, but still found the time to banter with her mate, and, of course, give Spottedfur and Dawnwhisker their ultimatums.
Bristlekit was smaller than her sister: quieter, too, with how often Crowkit wailed. But, small as she was, that was still a future ElmClan warrior, and one with its fate in Spottedfur's paws. An apprentice he'd touch noses with someday. A cat he would give their warrior name someday… he tried not to get ahead of himself, but a pit formed into his stomach every time Moleface twitched her ear and said look, she already likes you.
Dawnwhisker took to Crowkit with confidence — she pulled aside Pinestripe to ask how he mentored Aspenpaw, she pestered Silvercloud about kits' developments (to which the molly was eager to share Comfreywing and Nettlenose's embarrassing nursery stories), and she kept watchful eyes on the litter, hoping for the day the little black molly would open her eyes and bat at her tail.
Her happiness was almost infectious. The lanky lilac molly always seemed to have something to smile about — yet, she understood gravity, never shying away from the serious talks about the kits' health, nor plastering on grins against IvyClan. Her smiles were weathered, worn, but genuine all the same, even when her lips tore in border skirmishes, when she chipped fangs against the wrong prey.
Spottedfur struggled to find that same strength in himself. Every night, Cloverfoot's words returned to him: You taught me more than I taught you, Spots. We want our kits to grow up like you.
I didn't teach you anything, he wanted to say, but couldn't stand to dash the dopey grin on his old mentor's face, unable to stop thinking about his stubby, kitlike legs, his inability to fight, how easy it would have been for the IvyClan cats, that moon or any other, to pin him down and gouge his eyes out.
I was a fluke.
Still, there were days he observed Sycamorepaw's training with her younger siblings, and found, even three-on-one, she was learning to wriggle out of their grasps and land decisive blows on at least one of them. Failing that, she was the best the forest had seen at trash talking, and Pebblefoot chided her for the language she was teaching Aspenpaw and Oakpaw.
If she could improve, there was hope for any cat. IvyClan had tightened their borders, and though Spottedfur prayed to StarClan that nothing would come of it, he heard whispers from the senior warriors, whispers from his father. Between helping Moleface nurse her kits, Comfreywing and Thymepaw always seemed to have scrapes to tend to, on whichever cat had last provoked an IvyClan border patrol.
A routine he didn't miss. Heronthroat was another name to hang up above camp, right next to Ivyfur, Maplepelt, Tawnyfur — for Heronthroat, Oakpaw had reportedly cried out as she bowled into an IvyClan cat on, objectively, their side of the border.
Spottedfur prided himself of thinking more with his head than his claws — what he'd give to sit the two Clans' authorities in a cave and force them to just talk, paws soft — but, as with his apprenticehood, he steadily grew to fear every rustle in the night. Someday, the same switch that flipped in Firwhisker could flip in the Clan's replacement deputy, the black tom that had escorted him home that fateful leaf-bare, and the next time prey was scarce enough…
…at least, in leaf-bare, blood splattering the camp floors melted away with the snow. Now, the stone jutting out of the grass was still discolored.
"Stormstar doesn't discipline her damn cats," Falconstar had growled, trudging back into camp after a Gathering. Spottedfur glanced up from his place watching the nursery, where Crowkit's ears had finally unfurled. Overhead, the sky was still murky, fog blotting out the moon, and Spottedfur winced. "She let Sheepclaw make a speech for her."
"Of all cats?" Pebblefoot asked, curled by the fresh-kill pile, brushing their cheek against their mate's in greeting as he dispersed from the Gathering group.
"Not a word about Maplepelt or Tawnyfur." Jaytail said, settling at Pebblefoot's side.
"Maybe she just doesn't want to pick old wounds," Dawnwhisker offered as she stepped over the fresh-kill pile, then added, with a shrug, "still, better ways to show that."
"Something or other about ShellClan." Brightclaw rolled his eyes, as Spottedfur turned, continuing to let Crowkit bat at his tail. Little fangs were beginning to grow in.
"Of course it was." Tinyclaw groaned. "ShellClan worships the ground those brutes walk on."
"Does Copperstar even like them?" Dawnwhisker asked, glancing over to the small gray tom.
"Copperstar's a very routine cat." Pebblefoot answered, while their mate plucked feathers off a blackbird. "I don't think they like anybody. But IvyClan's polite about their side of the border, and that's all they need."
"Polite!" Falconstar chortled, then shook her head. "StarClan's sake, those cats."
Spottedfur shifted his weight, tail flickering as Crowkit made a stumbling swipe for it, her sister asleep at her side, Moleface preoccupied with picking meat off of squirrel bones she'd insisted the young tom share. The faint buzz of camp conversation in the night, while tense, was familiar as the chirping of crickets.
"At least Ashstar was nice," he heard Dawnwhisker say.
"Ashstar's nice." Falconstar echoed, Spottedfur surprised to hear any positive sentiment out of her mouth. "Her and Snakewing both mind their own business."
"Do they still have a loner problem?" Moleface asked.
"They didn't mention it, but I assume so." Nettlenose interjected, perhaps relieved to find a safe topic.
"I don't think they want to talk loners after Firwhisker."
The conversation fizzled out into territory gossip, at which point a weight at Moleface's side rose to her feet, and stepping over Moleface, the kits, Spottedfur, a pregnant Silvercloud poked her head out of the nursery and shouted, "it's moonhigh! Don't you cats have dens to sleep in?"
"Sorry, Mom." Nettlenose called back.
"StarClan alive." The silver tabby grunted, shambling back to her nest as Moleface swallowed back a purr.
Spottedfur didn't miss Gatherings. He hadn't been picked for one since before Heronpaw — whether it was Falconstar assessing his presence would cause a stir, or Daisyheart or Comfreywing sensing that he just plain didn't want to, was any cat's guess.
Once, he found them awe-inspiring, and saw that same excitement in the apprentices — at the moment, Poplarpaw and Aspenpaw were pestering their sister to share every juicy detail — but now, there wasn't anything he wanted to think about less than sitting at the front row to hear about Clan politics.
Overhead, the fog covering the moon was only now dissipating, as cats began to filter away into their dens.
A flurry of tall, thin limbs came trotting over, and soon, Dawnwhisker was squeezing past Spottedfur to whisper goodnight to Crowkit and Bristlekit.
The kits were already sleeping, but Spottedfur hoped they appreciated the sentiment.
Now, without the air of gossip, of complaining a show for their Clanmates as they walked back to the warrior den, Spottedfur muttered, "how was the Gathering?"
Dawnwhisker shrugged. "Same old. Stormstar got Sheepclaw up to the stand to thank ShellClan for territory stuff. Cats complained, but nothing broke out." The molly blinked, thinking hard. "Uhh… the DuneClan apprentices behind me wouldn't stop talking. The deputy lashed at 'em. Stormstar's eye is healing up, the fur's grown back white, so she kind of has a…" Dawnwhisker pawed at her right eye in gesture. "I helped a blind ShellClan elder navigate the crowd. DuneClan molly called me pretty."
"Sounds eventful." Spottedfur purred.
"I mostly just hung out with Nettlenose. We roped that DuneClan molly into our argument about what kittypet food we'd pick if we were forced. He said he wouldn't mind the bowls of mouse droppings, I insisted the wet stuff was better, and then the DuneClan molly started telling us about a kittypet she met once who ate rocks."
"Heh. Was IvyClan giving you any trouble?"
Dawnwhisker trilled her lips in thought. "I mean, I don't know what Stormstar was thinking, letting a murderer speak at her Gathering. Maybe she wanted to show it was behind 'em, which…" She shook her head. "I don't know. It doesn't sit right with me, not while Falconstar's still walking on eggshells about the whole thing." Her usually pale gaze was muddy and unsure, and Spottedfur began to regret asking. "I like to give her the benefit of the doubt, StarClan knows she's in a rough spot, but… of all cats to thank ShellClan for prey? Y'know?"
Prey and borders. That was all Sheepclaw's murders were, and he would be brought up to speak for the four Clans about prey and borders, all the same. ShellClan cats rippled through creeks to snag fish in their jaws, ElmClan cats climbed and lept for birds — IvyClan had begun to learn the taste of trout, texture of waterweed, but would continue to grapple for ElmClan's squirrels and starlings until the forest wasted away. StarClan hadn't given prey's life to ElmClan, ElmClan gave their lives for prey.
Stupid, petty nonsense. The fresh-kill pile had dwindled into fat-glistened bones, between cats grabbing snacks before the Gathering, and their Clanmates left behind using the chance to raid for leftovers. By nightfall, we all need to eat, don't we?
Catching Spottedfur's silence, Dawnwhisker twitched an ear, then cleared her throat. "Well, it all worked out in the end anyway. We didn't upset StarClan, so that's a win, if nothing else." The molly yawned, stretching out her gangly forelimbs. "Wake me up for dawn patrol tomorrow, I 'member Daisyheart saying they wanted me."
The night passed without incident — at sunup, Spottedfur prodded his denmate awake, where she rolled out of her nest, shook off her fur, and trotted to the leader's den, bright and early.
Gatherings and dawn patrols… Spottedfur mused. Falconstar seems to really like you. He thought, watching Dawnwhisker go, seeing Daisyheart give the molly a fond lick to the forehead, where she barked out a laugh and nudged the cream cat away with her paws. But I don't blame her.
Inaudibly, the two spoke, until Dawnwhisker broke away to pad to the apprentice's den and disrupt her plus-one's beauty sleep. Sycamorepaw whined as she groggily rose to her paws, complaining all the while about having to sleep in that damn den and not the warriors', while Dawnwhisker nudged her with a comment about, hey, at least you don't get squashed between Pebblefoot and Jaytail's snuggle sessions — "I lived through enough of that in the nursery!" Sycamorepaw groaned, and Dawnwhisker laughed.
I don't blame her at all.