A New World

Sharptooth struggled through the deep snow, her breath forming a halo around her head as she panted with exhaustion. Two kits hung from her jaws, swinging back and forth with every step she took. A third kit was slung across her heavily scarred shoulders, mewling piteously as he slid precariously each time the thick-furred she-cat moved.
Sharptooth was weakening. Her mangy pelt did nothing to hide just how skinny she'd become, and a recent bout of whitecough had only worsened her condition. Every day, the tabby she-cat marveled at her ability to live and breathe. Despite everything, she was still alive.
Her kits were only three sunrises old. Any longer, and she wouldn't be able to give them up. She needed to act now, before it was too late. She refused to die and condemn them to a life on the fringe of the clans, condemned despite their birthright.

"Hush." The battle-scarred she-cat bent down, gently placing her two daughters on the bone-chilling snow before twisting around to gather their brother in her jaws. She set him beside the others, glancing around warily before curling around them with a small huff. She would wait here, keeping them alive until some warrior approached.

Weary paws lead him along the borders once more. Another solo patrol to fill the time, to distract his mind, and keep him going. Each day seemed to stretch on longer than the last. The warrior was grateful that he was now able to roam the territory without worrying about whether or not another cat was at his side. As he padded along, the tom noted a faint scent of twoleg but thought nothing of it. Not long later, his scent glands were overwhelmed by that of a strange cat scent. His ears pricked. The fur along his shoulders rose slightly. Even in his deadened state, Beartooth couldn't deny his duty as a warrior. When he finally broke through the bonedry thickets. His eyes widened slightly in a shock that he hadn't been prepared for. There was a rogue but also something more. Kits.

Ears flattened. Kits were normally scared of him. The thought caused a delay in his reaction before his dull forest gaze trailed up to meet Sharptooth's, one not too different than his own. Struggling to find the right thing to say, the massive tabby merely stared unblinkingly for a brief moment. His piddling mind failed to find the right thing. Finally, after a pause, his low rasp cut through the frigid air, "This is Thunderclan territory. Why are you here?" He wouldn't attack in front of kits.

"You!"
Sharptooth looked up, her eyes clouded. "I know you."
She recognized everything about him, although they hadn't formally met. The way he moved, his eyes, the curve of his face. "You're my kin. Eagle's son, perhaps..." She trailed off, her gaze growing more distant.

One of her kits mewed, and she suddenly stood. "Listen- you don't know me, but my name is Sharptooth." Her name felt unfamiliar on her tongue. "I-I don't know how much longer I have before I... before..." She swayed on her paws, glancing down at her litter. How long had it been since she ate? She was so very tired...
"I need you to take them." Her voice was edged with desperation now, and her voice grew faster, more slurred. "Rainkit- he called her... Galia. A-and Dewkit, and... A-Ara..."" She took a small step back, her paws dragging through the snow. "P-please, you don't know... I can't condemn them to a life outside of Thunderclan. Say t-that you found them a-abandoned here. Don't let Leopardstar know... that they're mine." She moved more sluggishly with every word, her chest rising and falling with an irregular rhythm. She met the tom's gaze and her eyes blazed with a sudden fire. "Swear to me, son of my son, that you'll care for them. I'm not long for this earth, and I know that Thunderclan will protect them."

You! Beartooth's ear pricked, and his eyes widened slightly in surprise. That was not the kind of response he had been expecting. No intruder had ever acted in such a manner before, but then again, most rogues did not simply show up with kits. You're my kin. Something stirred within the tabby warrior. His spiteful mother had passed when he was young, and his absentee father not long ago during some ill-fated skirmish. Other than the background knowledge that he and Marshstorm were distantly related in some way he had never committed to memory, Blizzardshine's litter were the only cats he considered to be his kin and they were not even blood. As she continued to speak, the bulky tom found himself drawn in by her words, more than anything that had touched him over the past couple sunsets. He felt something more than the deadened sense of self-hatred that had settled in his chest like a ball of ice.

There was a flash of pity as he drank in what a horrific state she was in, and shock as he realized that he cared about the fact. If she wasn't lying, this cat was his kin, and she was more than just some rogue. The name Sharptooth nagged at the edge of his conscious but he found himself unable to conjure up a memory of where he might have heard it before. But one thing was clear if she was no longer a Thunderclan cat, she had abandoned her clan. Or, perhaps a worse fate, exile. Regardless, any sort of brief connect he felt with her was dimmed at the idea. His eyes cast a long glance over the kits that writhed at the malnourished queen's paws. A deeper pity for them. Their ignorant actions were wrought with the innocence of their age. The wounds across his eye stung slightly from underneath his prolonged green stare and he drew back to look up at Sharptooth.

She asked him, pleaded him to lie to his leader. Why? Beartooth was not the type to think too deeply into his actions and was shocked to find himself nodding to her. The leader had never turned away rogue kits before, these would not be any different. Saying that they were a rogue's kits would not be a lie. He didn't even have any knowledge of this she-cat. Swear to me, son of my son and daughter, that you'll care for them. I struck a chord within him. Despite the cloud that had hung over him, threatening to fall him, Beartooth raised his head in a manner reminiscent of the strong warrior that he had always been.

Finally, he spoke with a low, rough meow, one that cracked because of the dryness of his throat, "I will make sure these kits are taken care of. But you must leave. This is not your home, Sharptooth." The name felt strange on his tongue, almost as foreign as the sound of his own voice. Stretching out out a many-toed pad, Beartooth drew Rainkit, Galia, towards him. The sight of his own horrific paw caused him to wince slightly but after a moment he had managed to bring the kits to him. It appeared each had been fitted with a clanname alongside some loner name that had been bestowed upon them. As much as he valued clan-life over that of rogues, he couldn't deny the kits what little he did know about who they were. Someday he would give them more than their clan names, he supposed. None of these thoughts were fully formed in his mind, merely fleeting somewhere in the back of his conscious.

"Now, go. They will be safe."