Bluestar's Prophecy

Thistleclaw had established himself as a senior warrior, taking a nest near the center of the warriors’ den. Tigerclaw had been a warrior for four moons and had already claimed a nest close to Thistleclaw’s, shunning the outer den. No warrior had challenged him, though Bluefur wasn’t sure whether that was because his denmates respected the fierce, dark tabby and his former mentor—or feared them. Thistleclaw had become like a father to the dark tabby in Pinestar’s absence; he had trained him to win at any cost, defending his methods as part of the warrior code, though Bluefur saw no honor in the way Thistleclaw fought for his Clan.

Tigerclaw watched Whitestorm now; the new warrior’s eyes glittered as he padded over to Bluefur and dipped his head to her.

“Thank you.” The white tom’s mew had grown deep. “You have given me so much.”

Bluefur’s heart swelled. I won’t let anything hurt you, ever.

“Your mother would be proud of you,” Bluefur murmured, her mew catching in her throat.

“I know,” Whitestorm purred. “She’d be proud of you, too.”

Bluefur’s gaze clouded as she reached up and licked a stray tuft of fur on the warrior’s shoulder. She noticed with a pang the scar behind his ear. Tigerclaw had done that when he unsheathed his claws during a training session, when both cats were still apprentices. Bluefur had blamed Thistleclaw.

“If you taught Tigerclaw respect for his Clanmates, it would never have happened,” she had told him.

Thistleclaw had curled his lip. “His Clanmates must earn his respect.”

“But Whitestorm will be scarred for life!”

“It’ll teach him to react more quickly next time.”

Bluefur had stalked away fuming. She was furious at the way Thistleclaw had seemed to pitch the apprentices against one another, again and again. Seeing the scar now, she still had to push away a bolt of anger. What’s done is done, she told herself. Perhaps Thistleclaw’s ruthlessness had made Whitestorm a better fighter.

“Whitestorm!” Lionheart and Goldenflower were calling to him.

Whitestorm pressed his muzzle to Bluefur’s cheek and hurried away.

Larksong! Bluefur remembered that she’d promised to tell the old she-cat about the naming ceremony. She had been too frail to leave her nest. Padding to the fresh-kill pile, she picked a juicy mouse from the top and pushed through the branches of the fallen tree.

Larksong was curled in her nest with her nose on her paws and her eyes closed. Her tortoiseshell pelt, once so pretty, was now dull and ragged, but the old she-cat never lost her humor, even after her denmates Weedwhisker and Mumblefoot had died.

“At least I’ll get a few moons’ peace from their bickering before I join them in StarClan,” she had joked.

Not wanting to wake her, Bluefur laid the mouse beside her nest and began to creep out of the den.

Larksong lifted her head. “Did it go well?”

Bluefur turned. “Wonderfully. Whitestorm is a warrior now.”

“A good name for a strong warrior,” Larksong commented. She sniffed at the mouse and sat up, stretching. “You’ll miss him.”

“What?” Bluefur was unnerved by the solemn look in the old she-cat’s eyes.

“Whitestorm.”

“He’s not going anywhere. In fact he’ll be closer now that we’ll be sharing the same den.”

“But he won’t need you as much.”

Bluefur felt a pang. It was true. “I still have Frostpaw to train,” she pointed out.

“Training an apprentice is not the same as raising a kit.”

Bluefur blinked as Larksong went on. “You gave up everything for Snowfur’s kit. Look around you: Your Clanmates have mates, kits—lives of their own, beyond being a mentor.”

“There’s nothing more important than training warriors!” Bluefur protested.

Larksong gazed at her. “Really?”

Bluefur shifted her paws.

“You’ve fulfilled your promise to Snowfur,” Larksong mewed softly. “You need to live your own life now, Bluefur, before you wake up and realize that you’re as empty as a beech husk.”

Is that how the old she-cat really saw life? Surely there were things to offer the Clan other than kits! Bluefur was proud of what she’d done for Whitestorm, what she was doing with Frostpaw. Her apprentice was going to make a fine warrior. My life isn’t empty! She started to back out of the den. Was this really how her Clanmates saw her?

Larksong prodded the mouse and, without looking up, rasped, “Maybe Thrushpelt has waited long enough.”

Bluefur scooted from the den without replying. Was Larksong telling her to take Thrushpelt as a mate? She shook her head, baffled.

“Bluefur!” Tawnyspots was calling her from beneath Highrock. “You can join Lionheart’s hunting patrol!”

Lionheart and Goldenflower were pacing the clearing, while Thrushpelt sat nearby, plucking absently at the ground. Bluefur nodded to Tawnyspots. The ThunderClan deputy was growing thin again, his eyes tired. The sickness that had dogged him last leaf-bare seemed to be returning. The Clan cats might need a new deputy sooner than they thought.