Chapter Text
Tallstar sits next to Deadfoot in the cool night air.
“Rabbit’s ear for your thoughts?” Deadfoot asks.
“This is a wind of change,” Tallstar says. “But I don’t know where it’s blowing.”
“Is Barkface going on again?” Tomorrow is a bad day for a singing day; it’s the first snowfall, and Deadfoot wants the apprentices to practice running in the snow before prey grows too scarce.
Tallstar laughs. “Just a superstition,” he says. “It’s an uneasy direction, the wind blowing in from the South. Tell the senior warriors to keep an eye out for anything unusual, will you?”
“Of course. Anything else?”
“I just need a moment,” Tallstar says, a softness in his voice. “That’s all.”
Deadfoot purrs. “Thinking of him?” Tallstar’s mysterious loner companion is an open secret, one Deadfoot has plenty of experience teasing him about. Still, it wouldn’t bode well if Tallstar were both talking about ill-omens and thinking about his old companion.
“Yes,” Tallstar says. “I am.”
Deadfoot sighs, pressing his nose into his leader’s shoulder. “Don’t stay out too long. Barkface will have my head if you catch ill.”
“Don’t fret over me. I’m not nearly that old yet.”
“I know,” Deadfoot says. “But I worry.”
Tallstar took as little as he could after they were driven out six moons ago, and there’s a frailness to him, one that may not be healed until new-leaf.
(The loss of Ashfoot’s litter is still heavy on Deadfoot’s heart. There should be four kits in the nursery now, not one.)
He runs his tail over Tallstar’s back, then returns to the main camp, circling before curling next to Ashfoot.
WindClan is strong. They have survived Brokenstar, and they will survive this leaf-bare.
Deadfoot sleeps fitfully, and wakes in the weakest dawn light. Ashfoot is still asleep beside him, and he extracts himself carefully, not wanting to wake her.
Barkface is inspecting herbs, but he waves his tail to Deadfoot as soon as he sees him.
“How are you?” he asks.
“I should be asking that of you,” Deadfoot says. “You look like you haven’t slept.”
Barkface grimaces. “I wanted to talk to you, and you rarely sleep past dawn.”
Deadfoot grumbles something about being predictable.
“Yellowfang reported that Cinderpaw — Fireheart’s apprentice — was hit by a monster,” Barkface says. “Her hindleg was torn.”
Deadfoot winces. In ThunderClan, pouncing and stalking are everything. If Cinderpaw’s leg doesn’t heal correctly, she’ll have to relearn even the most basic of skills.
“She’s in for a rough time,” Deadfoot says. “But I’m not sure why you’re telling me about it.”
“I was just wondering if you had any advice. Yellowfang doesn’t have any experience with twisted limbs.”
“If it’s her hindleg, I doubt anything I can say is relevant. I’m sure she’ll be able to figure things out once it heals, but they’ll have to be patient with her.”
He thinks for a moment, then looks at his own forepaw. “Do you remember when I got it cut?”
Barkface laughs. “You were the worst patient,” he says, “alternating between whining about how it was never going to heal and whining about how we wouldn’t let you go.”
“I figured it out well enough,” Deadfoot says. “But anyway, losing the muscle was worse than anything else. I imagine it will be harder for her. She’ll limp, and it will be new. But she can do it. If she’s Fireheart’s apprentice, at least some of his optimism must have rubbed off on her.”
“If you can limp, you can run,” Barkface says, echoing Hawkheart.
“Next time you see Yellowfang, tell Cinderpaw I send her my regards, will you?” he says. He doesn’t know her, but Fireheart is a friend of WindClan, and it must be devastating for his first apprentice to be hurt in such a way.
“I’ll pass them on at the next half moon,” Barkface says. “And I think a singing day is coming upon us soon.” He throws the last line in, knowing Deadfoot’s reluctance to spend a whole day doing hymns.
“Today?” he asks, internally calculating if they can spare any warriors. There are many parts to the hymns, and few cats to sing.
“No. Tomorrow or the next. I think, just from the hare to the moon on the river.”
“Alright,” Deadfoot says, “I’ll let Tallstar know.”
As the Clan wakes, Deadfoot returns to Ashfoot.
“Good morning,” he says.
She touches noses with him. “Am I on dawn patrol?”
“Can’t I just be kind?”
“No. You’re definitely putting me on dawn patrol.”
“I’m not,” he says. “Barkface says there’ll be a singing soon. I was wondering if you wanted to sing the moon on the river.”
She closes her eyes, blocking out the weak sun. “Is that the last hymn?”
“Yeah.” It’s also her favorite.
“Mm, alright, then,” she says. “But if I’m not on dawn patrol, I’m going back to sleep.”
“You’re on dusk patrol, then. The apprentices are hunting today.”
He stretches, then heads back to the Meeting Hollow.
“I’m on dawn patrol with Mudclaw and Webpaw,” he calls. They nod, already awake.
Deadfoot swallows a lump in his throat. There aren’t enough cats; they’ve lost so many Clanmates. But life moves on.
I flow onward, uncaring of the times, and you will still come to me.
“All of the apprentices are on low-sun hunt. Tornear, Runningpaw, you’re on the dusk patrol with Ashfoot.”
“We can go out again,” Onewhisker says, his tail wrapped around Whitepaw. She’s skinny, too skinny, but Deadfoot can’t help that.
“No, you two can do battle practice. And Onewhisker, if you don’t mind helping around camp…”
Onewhisker dips his head. “Of course.”
“Thank you,” he says. “We have to take advantage of the early snow, since the snow rabbits haven’t appeared yet.”
“Are we stretched thin?” Tallstar asks. “I can go on patrol, if that would help.”
“If you want to go on the hunting patrol, I can supervise battle training,” Deadfoot says. It’s not necessary to watch a one-on-one session, but waiting in camp makes him feel restless.
“I can go hunting with Tallstar and the apprentices,” Ashfoot offers. Deadfoot blinks gratefully at her.
“I still want the apprentices to have a chance with the snow. So maybe we’ll do a low-sun training session, and at tilt, I can take Onewhisker and Tornear to do battle training, and the four of you can hunt,” he says, waving his tail at Mudclaw and Webpaw.
“Ashfoot and I will stay in camp until then,” Tallstar says. “I don’t want to leave camp undefended.”
“Of course,” Deadfoot says. “We’ll train in the Meeting Hollow.”
Assignments given, he dismisses them.
That evening, he talks to Tallstar.
“Fireheart’s apprentice was injured.”
Tallstar closes his eyes. He’s fond of Fireheart, and protective, for some reason Deadfoot does not understand. “That’s regrettable,” he says. “But I assume you’re not just bringing this to me so I’m aware of it?”
“Her hind leg was twisted, and ThunderClan has, apparently, no experience with that type of injury.” His own paw shakes, partially from the cold, partially from the memories of what was said about him, when they thought he couldn’t hear. “I want to visit her when she’s well enough.”
“Bluestar has always been reasonable,” Tallstar says. “Very well. I will ask her at the next Gathering.”
“Thank you.”
The conversation lulls for a moment. “Fireheart looks like him. I’ve been thinking about it,” he says, his voice catching.
“You’re missing him,” Deadfoot observes.
“I’ll always miss him,” Tallstar says. “But for a moment, foolishly, I thought I would see him again. We were near enough to where he lived, and when Fireheart came…” Tallstar sighs. It’s low and pained, a grief Deadfoot has yet to experience.
(But Deadfoot knows what it is like to lose the cats closest to you.)
“I’m sorry,” Tallstar says. “I’m not sure this is fair to put on you.”
“I’m your deputy,” Deadfoot says. “If it’s fair for anyone to listen, it’s me.” He pauses. “And I’m your friend.”
“That you are. Regardless, I appreciate it.”
Tallstar turns, facing in towards camp. “Barkface said we’re having a singing soon?”
“Ashfoot and I are singing the moon on the river,” Deadfoot says.
It’s an obituary, a tribute to their kits.
“Fitting,” Tallstar says. “And I’ll sing the hare.”
It’s an ode to home and belonging.
“Fitting,” Deadfoot says. “Lest the wiser run and leave you naught but dust.”
Tallstar laughs. “You always liked that one.”
“No, you just said it so much I couldn’t help but memorize it.”
Deadfoot purrs, and lets the quiet of the night settle over them.
“Send me light, send me love, send me your most distant and cherished,” Deadfoot sings. His eyes are closed.
He wanted to sing the part of the river, just for this line.
He wants so much back. He wants his kits back, he wants the time stolen from them back, he wants Ashfoot’s heart, unanchored with grief, back, he wants the sense of safety in WindClan back.
He wants what he’s lost, his most distant and cherished, back.
Ashfoot sings, “Let me arrive by your side, I’ll bring gifts of the stars,” and their eyes meet.
This is her favorite hymn, and he knows why. Even when not sung in grief, it is a beautiful one. Her voice carries, far better than his, the words stretched and fragile and delicate.
“Welcome in the light,” they sing together. “Let it cut through the darkness of the night.”
The Clan is quiet.
Deadfoot has heard that in ThunderClan, they interrupt each other when they tell stories, and in ShadowClan, they have no duets. He can’t imagine that. There is nothing but the old songs between him and Ashfoot, the memories of their kits bound up together.
“I’ll be waiting on you,” he sings. “Watching you through the sunrise.”
“Even then, my light, will be falling on you,” she sings. “Waiting until the moonrise.”
It’s a long hymn. One of the longest. It’s rarely a closing hymn — those are typically solos. But Deadfoot is grateful Barkface chose it for the closing hymn today. His heart aches less and less as it goes on, and when they come to the closing line, he hears Ashfoot’s purr — a real, joyful purr, the likes of which he hasn’t heard for seasons — and he can’t remember why he was so opposed to a singing.
Deadfoot is sitting watch over camp when Barkface returns from the next half moon meeting, and the medicine cat walks directly to him.
“I spoke with Yellowfang,” he says. “She says Cinderpaw’s leg is healing well, but her spirit is fractured.”
He sits, leveling his gaze with Deadfoot. “I think it might do some good for you to speak with her.”
“I would like to,” Deadfoot says, “although I’m not sure how.”
“Yellowfang is going to speak with Bluestar. Stars willing, we’ll be able to meet a patrol, and they’ll bring us to Cinderpaw.”
“Have you spoken with Tallstar?” His heart is beating faster. He’s not sure when, but over the past quarter moon, he’s grown more and more protective over an apprentice he’s never met. The realization that he’s never met a ThunderClan warrior who was injured in any way certainly started him on the process.
“Not yet. I don’t want to wake him.”
“I’m sitting watch until dawn,” Deadfoot says, shuddering as a cool breeze, chilled by the melting snow, brushes across him. “I’ll tell him when he wakes.”
“Yellowfang said to wait by the border at sunhigh in three days. If she hasn’t convinced Bluestar by then, she can tell me the next time I see her.”
Three days from now. With the sun where it is, the snow might be entirely melted. It’ll be good hunting if the snow rabbits are foolish, and poor hunting if they aren’t.
“The hare — being wiser than the rabbit, catches on and runs, and we watch its wake,” Deadfoot says.
“Tallstar is rubbing off on you, if you’re quoting hymns at me.”
“I was just thinking of the hunting,” he says. “But three days. From tomorrow or…?”
“Yes, on the third sunhigh from now, we’ll meet.”
Deadfoot nods.
“Should the thunder of paws grow loud,” Barkface murmurs as he leaves, “the hare…”
They wait on the ThunderClan border near Four Trees. Tallstar declined to come, but asked Deadfoot to pass his condolences on.
He’s not entirely sure those were in order, but the spirit of the message stands.
So he waits with Barkface and Onewhisker. The young warrior is close with Fireheart, and seeing a friend might lift everyone’s spirits.
Bluestar herself comes, along with Fireheart and Yellowfang.
“Bluestar,” Deadfoot says, dipping his head. “It is an honor.”
“Yellowfang tells me you wish to talk to Cinderpaw,” she says. It’s not really a question, but her gaze is steady and he feels uneasy.
He glances at Barkface.
“We thought it might be helpful,” Deadfoot says, “while she’s adapting.”
Bluestar looks them up and down. Her gaze lingers on Deadfoot’s paw, and he shifts, uncomfortable with it in a way he hasn’t been for many seasons.
“I see,” she says. “It could do good. Yellowfang clearly thinks it will.”
Fireheart murmurs something to her, just below earshot and then says, “She believes she can’t be a warrior, so I thought…”
“I can’t offer much in the way of healing advice,” Barkface says. “Deadfoot was born with his leg twisted. I can only speak to an injury he obtained as a kit which affected it.”
“Nor can I speak to overcoming an injury,” Deadfoot says. “But if she needs to believe she can fight, I can speak to her.”
Bluestar’s apprehension is clear. “I don’t like the idea of bringing enemy warriors deep into ThunderClan territory to meet with an injured apprentice, however nice the meeting might be.”
“We could meet at Four Trees,” Onewhisker says.
“Cinderpaw can’t travel that far,” Yellowfang says. “We’d spend all day getting there, with no time to meet.”
“What if only Deadfoot came?” Fireheart asks. There’s a pleading in his eyes. He cares deeply for his apprentice, that much is obvious.
But Deadfoot shakes his head. “I can’t. I’m the deputy of WindClan, and I can no more travel alone into ThunderClan territory than Bluestar can let an enemy patrol onto it.”
The conversation halts, the impossibility of the circumstance obvious.
“If there can be no solution reached,” Bluestar says, “we should return.”
“If Cinderpaw is unable to make it to Four Trees,” Deadfoot says, “she is still rather injured, correct?”
Yellowfang nods. “She’s healed enough only to walk short distances.”
“Is it possible she’ll heal more within a half moon?” Barkface asks.
“She will,” Fireheart says, looking embarrassed when Yellowfang hisses softly at him.
“I’m the medicine cat here, kit,” she says. “She should have healed more by then, although whether or not she can make it to Four Trees is anyone’s guess.”
“She’s lost her spirit,” Fireheart says, quietly.
“A goal might cheer her,” Yellowfang says. “Such as meeting the fabled WindClan deputy.”
Deadfoot’s tail swings once. If this were not an enemy patrol, the praise might make him falter.
“You’re suggesting we discuss this again at the Gathering,” Bluestar says.
“Yes,” Deadfoot says. “It would be nice if she’s able to come, so we wouldn’t have to interfere with anyone’s territory, but either way, Barkface and Yellowfang could talk.”
Bluestar nods. “We will discuss this at the next Gathering,” she says.
She turns to leave, waving for the others to follow. Deadfoot scrambles; he wants Cinderpaw to have something to hang on to.
“Tell her to pay attention to her balance,” he says, grabbing at his first lessons. “She’ll need to learn to hold her weight evenly. It won’t be easy.”
“I will,” Fireheart says. “Any other advice?”
Deadfoot shakes his head. “Not without seeing her injury, and even then, I suspect Barkface would know more than me.”
“Thank you,” Fireheart says. “Knowing you took the time to speak with us will cheer her.”
“Tallstar sends his regards,” Deadfoot says.
He turns, and they leave, and the resolve in Deadfoot hardens. He will help her.
Deadfoot passes the half moon anxiously.
The snow has melted, and they’ve been eating well. Gorsekit is starting to eat freshkill, and Ashfoot has begun to spend more time in the nursery, helping raise her sister’s kit.
They bring every warrior they can to the Gathering. Only Morningflower and Runningpaw stay behind. There’s no need for the other Clans to know how weak they are, and the three of them can easily evacuate camp if anything goes wrong.
Deadfoot sits at the base of the tree, while the leaders talk quietly and cats mingle. Fireheart finds him, looking upset.
“Cinderpaw isn’t much better,” he says. “Her leg is healing, but Yellowfang is afraid it won’t improve much.”
“How bad is it?” he asks, gently shepherding Fireheart to the backside of the tree, away from the other deputies but still separate from the main throng.
“Her leg is curved out,” he says. He twists his leg in a way that looks painful. “Like that. About that far, too.”
“Can she walk on it?”
“I’m not sure. She mostly limps. She’s still upset about losing her chance at being a warrior.”
Deadfoot tilts his head. “Has she? If she can limp, she can run.”
(Hawkheart’s mantra echoes in his head, along with memories of standing at the edge of camp, watching his siblings play and wondering when he could join them.)
Fireheart scowls. “She can’t, Deadfoot. I want her to be happy, and she wants to be a warrior, but I don’t see how that’s possible.”
Deadfoot takes a deep breath.
(“Who do you think Heatherstar will apprentice Hopkit to?”
“Barkface and Hawkheart could take him as an apprentice.”
“We don’t need three medicine cats.”
“Who else could she choose?”)
“She can, Fireheart.” He tries to remember the exercises Hawkheart took him through, when his paw was injured. “Talk to Barkface again. But keep her walking. If she can limp, she can run.” The words are metallic, the way the truest statements always are.
(“He has a tunneller’s build.”
“It’s not like we tunnel any more.”
“It’s not like he could tunnel.”)
“And see how much flexibility she has,” he adds. “My leg curves in, so I’m limited by how much I can lift it. She might have the opposite problem.”
Fireheart still looks skeptical.
(“If you can limp,”
“I can run. If I can run,”
“You can hunt. Now get out of here. Your siblings are going to tear apart the herb stores again.”)
“Fireheart, trust me. I swear on the stars, she can do this. She just needs to give it a fair go.”
Something sets in Fireheart, his doubt cleared by newfound determination. “You’re right. There’s always a way.”
Satisfied, Deadfoot returns to his position.
“What was that about?” Mistyfoot asks.
“He just needed some advice,” Deadfoot says, glancing at Tigerclaw. The tabby is a good deputy, Deadfoot is sure, but he’s not exactly approachable.
Mistyfoot dips her head in understanding. “Stars bless whoever he mentors. That cat has far too much optimism.”
Deadfoot laughs as Tallstar calls the Gathering to order.
“I’m worried about her,” Deadfoot says, as he grooms Ashfoot. “Even Fireheart seems to have given up on her.”
“Is her injury that severe?”
He shakes his head. “As far as I know, it’s not that bad. Well, she can limp.”
“And so she can run,” Ashfoot says, purring.
“And so she can hunt. But the longer she waits, the less she’ll believe in herself, and the more she’ll struggle. She’ll lose any flexibility.”
“I’m not sure there’s much you can do for a ThunderClan apprentice,” she says.
“I know.” Deadfoot sighs, resting his head on her shoulder. “But still.”
“Maybe you should talk to Yellowfang,” she says, after a moment or so passes. “She’ll be able to give a better account of her injury. And she’ll be able to tell you what’s improving.”
“That’s a good point. And she was born in ShadowClan, so she might not have… well, you know.”
Ashfoot makes a confused noise as she shuffles to groom him.
“Well,” Deadfoot says, “I was thinking about it, and I’ve never seen a ThunderClan warrior with any kind of permanent injury.”
“Huh,” Ashfoot says. “Hold on, what about White-eye?”
“Oh, that’s fair. But aside from her.”
Silence falls, neither of them able to think of another warrior.
“I mean,” Ashfoot says, “we’re not exactly a model of injuries.”
“We have as many Clanmates as I have claws,” he says. “That doesn’t leave many chances for injuries.”
She huffs. “You’re being difficult. The facts are what they are: Cinderpaw is in ThunderClan, and they’ve given up on her. You haven’t, but you’re in WindClan.”
“We can help her. Doesn’t she deserve a chance?”
“Deadfoot, WindClan can barely help itself. We’re barely a battle patrol, and you want to adopt an injured apprentice from another Clan.”
He flicks an ear, embarrassed. “She deserves an opportunity.”
“And we’re the only ones who can help her,” Ashfoot says. “I know.” She leans back, touching her nose to him. “If you think it’s the right thing to do, I’ll support you.”
A moon passes. Gorsekit will be apprenticed, soon. The Clan needs more warriors, but it’s doing well. Deadfoot is proud of how hard they’ve worked.
Morningflower leaves Gorsekit with Ashfoot. Morningflower is the only queen, and there are no elders to watch him, so she’s hardly had a break.
Deadfoot follows Tallstar to Four Trees. It’s just a Gathering, but Deadfoot wants this to go well, and not just for WindClan’s sake.
“You’re going to talk to Yellowfang,” Tallstar says.
“Yes,” Deadfoot says. “I’m worried for Cinderpaw. They don’t believe she can be a warrior.”
“She can walk. Isn’t that all it would take?”
“You would think,” Deadfoot grumbles. “But apparently ThunderClan has some more specific requirements.”
They arrive at Four Trees, WindClan fanning out more than usual. Morningflower touches noses with a ShadowClan queen Deadfoot doesn’t know by name. He searches for Yellowfang. She’s not alone; there’s a younger cat beside her.
Her leg is twisted.
Cinderpaw.
Deadfoot rushes to her, overtaking Tallstar. He can hear the softest purr from his leader.
“Yellowfang,” he says. “Is this Cinderpaw?”
“Yes,” she says. “Cinderpaw, Deadfoot.”
“You’re the WindClan deputy,” Cinderpaw says. “Fireheart told me about you.”
Deadfoot purrs. “He told me about you, too. It’s good to see you at a Gathering.”
“That’s what Yellowfang said,” Cinderpaw says. “We left early.”
Yellowfang watches them with some interest. “I’m going to speak with the other medicine cats. I trust she’ll be alright with you?” She doesn’t give Deadfoot a chance to answer, just turns towards where Barkface and Mudfur are already talking.
“Well,” Deadfoot says, “would you like to meet the other deputies?”
Cinderpaw chirps her assent, and Deadfoot is struck by how young she is. What a tragedy, to make her believe she can’t be a warrior, he thinks.
He watches her stand. Her hind leg is clearly still sore, and she favors the other, but it’s weight bearing enough.
“How’d you get to be deputy?” she asks.
“Same as every other deputy. I had trained an apprentice, and Tallstar picked me.” They’re walking slow, but Deadfoot doesn’t mind. It’s a chance to observe Cinderpaw. She has plenty of potential, he decides. Her gait needs adjustment, and she might never be effective in battle or the fastest of runners, but she’d make a decent warrior. An excellent flusher — she’s more nimble than he expected.
“Yeah,” she says, “but your leg’s like mine.”
He knew this question was coming, but it still takes him aback. WindClan is used to his leg; even Gorsekit doesn’t look twice.
“Sorry,” she says, wincing. “That’s probably rude.”
“Maybe, but I don’t mind talking about it. I was born like this, and I was apprenticed to Tallstar, and that was that.”
They’ve arrived at the cluster of deputies.
“Cinderpaw,” Tigerclaw says, “I see you’ve made a new friend.”
“I wanted to meet him,” she says. “Yellowfang says his leg is like mine, and it is, and he’s deputy.”
There’s a hint of pride in that statement. Deadfoot wonders if Tigerclaw is one of the cats who said she couldn’t.
“So he is,” Tigerclaw says.
The conversation ends, and Cinderpaw is shuffled back to ThunderClan at the end of the Gathering. Deadfoot doesn’t get to say goodbye.
“How was it?” Ashfoot asks.
“Cinderpaw can more than limp,” he hisses. “They do her an injustice if they don’t let her become a warrior.”
Ashfoot sighs. “Go to sleep,” she says, stretching so there’s room beside her.
“It’s angering,” he says weakly.
“There’s time for a crusade of justice in the morning. I can assign patrols while you explain it to me for the fourth time.” Her tone is light-hearted, her head on her paws as she starts to fall back asleep.
“Hey,” he says, and she opens her eyes, blinking blearily at him. “I’m lucky to have you.”
“You are,” she says. “I’m glad you know it.”
His anger doesn’t fade.
Ashfoot doesn’t bring it up again, and he tries to keep it to himself.
But it doesn’t sit right with him. Cinderpaw could make it to Four Trees. That’s certainly enough strength, that’s certainly far enough.
And she wants it, badly. As soon as the possibility of becoming a warrior returned to the table, she lit up, her voice picking up and her ears pointing forward.
But she’s a ThunderClan apprentice, and he’s the WindClan deputy. He has no jurisdiction over her, no way to help her. All he can do is watch, and pray he finds a solution.
Deadfoot finds Barkface gathering herbs. Apparently, some have been sheltered from frost, and he wants to collect them before they rot.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Barkface asks.
“I was thinking,” he says. “If Cinderpaw were a WindClan cat, would you be able to treat her?”
“In general? Of course. Better than Yellowfang?” Barkface trails off, his tail still. “I’m not sure.”
Barkface passes Deadfoot a pile of herbs, and he grabs them by their stems, trotting after Barkface.
“Why do you ask?”
Deadfoot sighs, pausing to place the herbs on the ground. “I can’t get her off my mind,” he admits. “And I want to see her succeed.”
“A WindClan deputy, caring for a ThunderClan apprentice.”
Deadfoot’s ears flatten back. “You and Ashfoot both…” he mutters. “But it’s hardly about that.”
“I know,” Barkface says. “If nothing else, I wouldn’t do worse than Yellowfang. But that hag cares a lot more than she lets on, and you’ll have a hard time prying her patient away from her.” He says hag with fondness, making Deadfoot stifle his laughter.
“Nothing is even in motion. But I believe in her, and it feels like ThunderClan has given up on her.”
“Determination is something we do have in spades,” Barkface says. He picks up another bundle of herbs, looking over the snow covered moor. “It’s a good solution, I’ll be frank. It’s just a tricky one.”
“I didn’t need an easy solution,” Deadfoot says. “I just want a solution.”
“Fallowed fields make for hungry prey,” Barkface says. “Just make sure it’s a good solution.”
Deadfoot nods. “I should return to camp. But I’m happy to carry these back.”
“Place them on the flat stone. Spread them out a bit, if you can spare the time.”
Deadfoot signals his agreement, before taking off across the melting snow.
“Tallstar?”
His leader looks at him, ears perked forward. “What is it?”
Deadfoot shifts uncomfortably. He’s asking for a lot. “I was thinking, about Cinderpaw.” He takes a deep breath. It’s just Tallstar.
“ThunderClan has given up on her,” he says. “But I haven’t.”
“You’re not leaving, are you?” Tallstar asks, worry peaking into his voice.
“No, I’m not.”
(I could never, he thinks, but he doesn’t want to insult Tallstar.)
“But I thought, maybe she could come here. Not forever, just… long enough to get back on her feet.” It’s a wild, brash request. Deadfoot can think of very few instances of warriors changing Clans, even temporarily. Yellowfang and Cloudberry, both to ThunderClan, but WindClan certainly hasn’t gained anyone new in seasons on seasons. He takes a breath, then adds, “I talked to Barkface, and he’s amenable to the idea.”
Tallstar contemplates this for a moment. “It is a tidy solution, but Bluestar is a proud leader. She’d be uneasy to admit her Clan couldn’t care for a cat.”
“And Fireheart knows how weak we are,” Deadfoot says. “He’ll be reluctant to let his apprentice join us. But she’d be a good flusher, if nothing else. And she deserves a chance.”
“That she does,” Tallstar says. “Carried by breezes, the winds of change, the song we sing,” he says.
“Is made to be our names and summons, our winds of stability,” Deadfoot finishes.
“There is still a wind of change,” Tallstar says. “Very well. If Bluestar agrees, she can come.”
“Thank you. I appreciate it.”
“Don’t thank me yet. The Clan won’t like it, and there’s no guarantee she’ll come at all.”
“I’m going to talk to Yellowfang at the next Gathering,” Deadfoot says. “I won’t mention it to the Clan until the matter is settled.”
“It may come to a casting,” Tallstar says.
“Then we will deal with it as it may. Are you on my side?”
“Yes,” Tallstar says. “I agree with you. I only worry for the Clan as a whole.”
“I do, too. But she’d be an asset.”
Tallstar closes his eyes. “Fireheart can come with her, if he wishes. He might want to.”
“I’ll let Yellowfang know.”
He’s still a long way from victory, but this is a bud, ready to blossom.
Cinderpaw is sitting with Yellowfang again.
“Deadfoot!” she calls. “I’m here again.”
“Hello,” Deadfoot says. “How’s your leg?”
“As good as it’ll get,” she says, displeasure drooping her whiskers.
“Go talk to the other apprentices,” Yellowfang says. “Spending this much time around us old bats can’t be good for you.”
“I’m not that old,” Deadfoot says, as Cinderpaw leaves.
“But you didn’t want to talk in front of her,” Yellowfang says.
“No,” he says. “I wanted to talk to you.”
She waves her tail down, signaling him to get on with it.
“I was thinking, how everyone is convinced she can’t be a warrior.”
“She can’t. Not with her leg.”
Composed as he can, Deadfoot flattens one ear, watching as Yellowfang takes in his paw again.
“She can,” he says, “if she has the right support.”
“And that support would be you?” She’s annoyed, but Barkface warned him she would be prideful.
You will be answered by the call of the howling gales.
“If I’m able, I would like to offer her stay in WindClan — Fireheart too, if he wishes and is able.”
“She’s agreed to train with me,” Yellowfang says. “Not that it’s official, yet.”
“I wasn’t aware she wanted to be a medicine cat.”
His gaze drifts to Cinderpaw. She’s talking to her brother, as well as some apprentices Deadfoot doesn’t know by name.
“She didn’t,” Yellowfang says. “But it’s her only future in ThunderClan.”
And you will be answered by the softness of the buds and the roots.
“She has respite in WindClan,” he says. He can’t make the formal offer of hospitality, Tallstar will have to offer that to Bluestar, but he can make the closest promise. “She will have a place, if she is able.”
Yellowfang’s tail waves. “I’ll discuss the matter,” she says, her eyes narrowed. “You’ll have an answer by the half moon.”
But speak of that which grows above, of the grass and field.