So Close, So Far [Open]

With a thaw settling over the land, intricate crystals of ice were rendered little more than a means for the frosted dust of the moorland to be rendered into a slurry of mud and snow. It clung to the coats of the many cats whose paws disturbed the earth in their hurried tasks. Above the sun aided in the efforts of the mildly warmer breeze. Brookclover found herself unable to come to a decision about how she felt in regards to the weather. On one paw, the sun along her back was a more than welcome sensation. As it heated the russet furs of her sleek coat, the queen almost broke into a purr as she rasped her tongue along her pelt. That was until her tongue could no longer reach a particularly aggravating patch of mud that plastered back the fur on the far side of her overly plump side. Instead of the originally contented purr, a mixture of an exasperated sigh and an annoyed mrrow was exhaled through the sides of her maw. Sitting up, the she-cat sought to find a comfortable sitting position, which proved quite impossible. With a huff, she awkwardly shifted to a sideways laying position. Where was Finchbreeze when she needed him?

Brookclover longed to move, to run, but her body protested any such movements. Her graceful canter had been marred by the current affliction that rounded the sides of her stomach. All the kits had done thus far was slow her down. She internally griped as her head lay across her paws. From her resting place, the she-cat allowed herself once more to partake in the enjoyment of heat along her spine until another cat approached. A flicker of a smile came across her maw as she instantly recognized the tom, "Barleytuft, can you believe this mess? At least with the snow, I could shake my coat to dispel it. This muck is making my coat itch." As if to emphasize her point, Brookclover lapped at her muddied pads.

Barleytuft, like Brookclover, was grateful for the thaw, and he'd said as much to any cat that would listen to him. The sandy tabby WindClan tom had been born with a relatively thin coat and, while his coat had filled out a bit with age, it hadn't thickened enough for the winter, leaving him particularly cold with the piercing, icy breezes on the moor. To him, all it meant was that he needed to run faster and more often. He had been out on a quick solitary patrol, marking a few places that seemed like they might need it, and returned to the protection of the walled camp. His tabby pelt was ruffled from the wind, but now that he was in camp and safe from it the sun felt much warmer. Upon entering, he spotted the familiar deep russet pelt of his former apprentice, Brookclover.

Seeing the queen seated somewhat uncomfortably and looking annoyed, Barleytuft approached as she slid to a laying position, his tail up as he greeted her with a soft mew. Immediately the she-cat looked at him, looking mildly relieved despite her obvious frustration. She complained about the mess just as he had been doing for some time, and he couldn't help but chuckle despite feeling exactly the same. Brookclover was always so strong and elegant... she would be again, it was just amusing for Barleytuft how much bearing kits had forced her to slow down. He watched the young warrior lick her pads and replied, "I agree completely. Graybriar and I were saying earlier that the moors feel a bit like ShadowClan's territory must." The sandy tabby tom settled into a crouch beside her and began to groom some debris away from her pelt in a place she clearly couldn't reach herself.

Finchbreeze's normally white paws had been stained a sticky brown from the mud that coated the moors, he had been off on border patrol, orange tabby fur sticking every which way, tossed carelessly about by the cold wind that caressed the hills. Ever since Aspenpaw's disappearance, Finchbreeze felt he needed to contribute more to his clan. Guilt hung over his shoulders like a rock, and every day the tom hoped the gray tabby would make an appearance, but none came. With a sigh, the young warrior found a dry seat on a tuft of grass, and began to clean the dirt from in between his pads. A pair of voices reached his ears and he smiled. Finchbreeze knew those tones well. His mate, Brookclover, plump with his kits. And her mentor and friend, Barleytuft, who Finchbreeze had grown a strong respect for. Ignoring his muddy paws, the orange tabby picked his way over to the two warriors, a purr rising in his throat.

"Brookclover, Barleytuft." He addressed the two with a grin, finding a seat beside his partner. It slowly dawned on the warrior how much Brookclover was beginning to show the signs of kits. Finchbreeze snorted to himself, thinking on what an adventure it had been so far. If Brookclover wasn't sarcastic enough, she certainly was now, but to the tom, nothing could be more endearing. He gave the russet warrior's paw a lick, and let himself stretch out over the grass. "I'm starting to believe even ShadowClan's marshes may be drier than this." Finchbreeze teased, tail flicking in amusement, unlodging some dirt from his mate's paws.

As her mentor approached, the she-cat felt a wave of relief wash over her. Barleytuft had always been one of her favorite cats in the clan and a more than welcome presence. The rhythmic laps of his tongue soothed her and she relaxed. At the mention of Graybriar, however, her ear twitched. As of late, the tom had been spending more and more time with the former Skyclan cat. Although Graybriar had supposedly been considered a clanmate since before Brookclover even existed, her reputation preceded her. Brookclover had learned how she was supposedly born into the wrong clan. At the thought, a scornful snort threatened to bubble out the sides of her maw. Either the situation was a commentary on the ridiculousness of Starclan or the fool-brainedness of a prior leader she hadn't know, and Graybriar herself. After all, if she was meant to be in Windclan, why hadn't she been born here? Her disliking for both other clans and Starclan colored her perception towards the she-cat.

Finchbreeze's appearance was timely. It prevented the waning measures of control that wore thinner and thinner within the russet queen. She glanced up and offered him a flicker of a smile. Her head hovered just above her mate's as she took in the warmth of his presence. Underneath the laps of both tom's tongue, she relaxed. Between her two favorite clanmates, she found herself finally able to relax for a moment, something that had proven to be near impossible given her current affliction. Resting her head on her forepaws, her gaze flickered back to her swollen stomach and she glared for a moment before letting out a huff and closing her eyes, "It appalls me that any cat could live in a territory like this." Mud lapped at her belly fur and caused it to itch uncomfortably. With a discontented sigh, the russet she-cat shifted her weight slightly to the side.

After a moment, there was brief peace. It seemed like so long since she'd last felt normal. Brookclover longed for the days where she could run with the wind rushing through her fur once more when she would not be encumbered by the burden of kits. As if on command, there was a stabbing pain in her stomach. Brookclover grunted. Not seconds later, another ripple of pain washed through her body. Teeth clenched tightly together, she squirmed, "This can't be normal." It was all she could do to not yowl in pain. Before, the worst the little beings had done was kick the walls of her insides and squirm when the hunger became too unbearable for all of them. Now, it was as if she was being ripped apart. The she-cat's sides heaved and raspy attempts to gasp for air interrupted the laps of the tongues that had once been the only sound besides their voices.

It all happened so fast. The kits were coming, there was no denying that. As her very being felt ripped apart, Brookclover moaned lowly. Over and over waves of anguish racked her body. Everything hurt, from her whiskers to the tip of her tail. Before they could even call for Briarpaw, the first kit entered the world. Its little dark russet body was slicked with a mixture of blood and other fluids. And it did not move. The second follow closely behind, except it wriggled fiercely, shuddering against the slurry of mud and scarlet droplets. White and ginger patched fur was somewhere underneath. Brookclover's head swan furiously as the waves subsided. She lifted her head to stare at the kits and much to her surprise felt a flicker of love towards the pitiful creatures. The new mother didn't even realize the still frame of the larger kit as she laid her head back down in exhaustion. As much as she wanted to say something to Finchbreeze, yowl in joy that her pregnancy was over, for now she just wanted to rest her head. Hopefully, everything would stop hurting soon.

Focused on his new task of helping to detangle Brookclover's muddied pelt, Barleytuft took no notice of the way the queen became tensely silent at the mention of his friend. For him, talking about his interactions with Graybriar was becoming a much more commonplace and normal thing. He didn't piece together his mention of the she-cat with Brookclover's pause. The sandy tabby tom merely took her quietness as contentness, her slightly tense fur a result of her pregnant discomfort. Barleytuft continued to groom her carefully and thoughtfully. After a few moments, the sound of paws squishing in the mud caught his attention, and he glanced up to see Finchbreeze, Brookclover's mate, approaching the two of them with a short, friendly salutation.

"Finchbreeze," Barleytuft greeted back warmly as the ginger-and-white tom stretched out on the other side of his queen. Barleytuft himself went back to grooming, focusing on a tight mat that had begun to form on poor Brookclover's hip, as Finchbreeze joined in elsewhere. The younger warrior joked. "I'm starting to believe even ShadowClan's marshes may be drier than this." Barleytuft nodded once in agreement, but the small mat he'd been working on had finally started to come loose and so he focused on that, trying to untangle and remove it as gently as he could without causing Brookclover more discomfort than she was already in.

Fortunately, the deep red she-cat seemed distracted enough with the topic of the weather and the marshiness of the moors as she spoke back against such territories. Barleytuft let out a soft, breathy chuckle as the tiny pinmat of hair came loose, and he turned his head aside to spit the dusty russet tuft onto the ground. He turned his attention back to Brookclover's fur, though he paused for a moment to let her readjust uncomfortably on the marshy terrain. Once she had settled, Barleytuft got back to it, lapping peacefully at her thick fur. Several moments of quiet peacefulness passed, and with each moment Barleytuft felt more and more content with the scents of his two dear friends around him and the rhythmic, soothing sounds of licking in his ears.

He had finished a quick swipe of his tongue over Brookclover's side when suddenly he felt her jerk slightly, letting out a grunt of discomfort. Barleytuft immediately lifted his head back and asked, "Are you alright, Brookclover?"

An instant later the queen jerked slightly again, only this time Barleytuft saw a slight convulsion of muscles just underneath her belly fur. Barleytuft immediately stood, his dark amber eyes wide with alarm, and he asked uneasily, "What's going on? Is it the kits?" The tom had never been present for a birth before, but he was certain as Brookclover was when she said in a pain-racked voice, "This can't be normal."

Barleytuft began to take a couple steps backwards, stammering, "I-I'll go get Briarpaw." As soon as he began to turn, however, he saw the massive contraction the racked Brookclover's body a second time, and despite how strong the she-cat was, he could feel the pain radiating off of her. The warrior turned his worried gaze to Finchbreeze, panic clear in his amber eyes, as he hesitated; should he leave Brookclover at a time like this? Could he? The queen was in good paws with her mate for the moment, but--

Without warning, a new little warrior entered the world.

Barleytuft gasped and called out in a frightened voice, "Briarpaw!" Again the sandy WindClan warrior began to turn from Brookclover, but that one short sight of the firstborn kit kept his paws rooted. It was supposed to wail and wriggle like all newborn kits, wasn't it? The mess was one thing, but that tiny body that slumped to the mud motionless...

Barleytuft shook his head fiercely and made his decision. The lanky tom turned and whirled towards the medicine den, calling over his shoulder, "J-Just hold on, Brookclover, I'll get Briarpaw!" He bounded across camp with fabled WindClan speed and burst into the medicine den, calling desperately, "Briarpaw? Briarpaw! Help, Brookclover's kits are coming! Something's wrong!" His tabby paws worked anxiously at the ground as he waited for the medicine cat apprentice to spring into action like he was always so good at doing.

The brief peace that had washed over the clearing was very welcome. Finchbreeze felt himself slipping into it, yellow eyes closed with bliss. He was next to his two favorite cats, and even with the harshness of leafbare, their company made it bearable. For a moment, it all seemed perfect, life. A purr rose in the tom's throat and he let himself drift away into a daydream, still lapping at his mate's pads, the rhythm lulling him into a light sleep.

The orange and white tabby's purr was cut short as Brookclover contracted, her face flashing a look of pain. Eyes narrowed, the warrior meant her eyes, resting a paw over his mate's pelt in an attempt to calm her. "Brookclover? Is everything alright?" Finchbreeze rose to his paws quickly as he attempted to judge the situation, yellow eyes darting over her body. Is it the kits? The orange and white tom opened his jaws to say "Briarpaw" when Barleytuft spoke first. Finchbreeze gave the cream tom a grateful nod and he turned back to meet his mate, gasping at what came next.

A dark russet kit had made its way into the world, slick with fluids, and ominously still.
"Alright... Let's see... It's okay Brookclover, you've given birth... It's okay..." Finchbreeze's words were airy, quickly falling from his mouth as he attempted to find his bearings. The tom didn't quite know whether he was trying to comfort his mate or himself more, but he knew he needed to take action. The orange and white warrior watched as Barleytuft sprinted off towards the medicine den, trying to ignore the panic in his voice. A second kit had found its way out, and feeble movements could be seen. As if in a trance, Finchbreeze gingerly picked up the first kit and placed it at Brookclover's belly, ignoring the lack of movement. He did the same for the second, trying not to use any teeth. This is what you do right? Kits need their mother...

Ignoring the inevitable, the tom began licking at his kits' pelts, cleaning the liquid from their fur. The darker russet one wasn't moving, but the tom didn't care. He licked until they both were dry. We'll have to think of names... Finchbreeze thought, the smallest smile gracing his maw. It helped him forget the sinking feeling in his chest. Why is that kit not moving?
The tom watched as Brookclover laid her head down, panting. He felt a wave of affection wash over him, drowning out the sense of foreboding. The kits were fine. Definitely. Squeezing his eyes shut, Finchbreeze laid down next to his mate, a grimace on his face. Maybe his mind could ignore the pain but his body would still show it. The warrior pressed his face into his partner's, letting her russet fur cover his eyes. Barleytuft will be back soon, with Briarpaw, right? A long sigh left his maw, and Finchbreeze's yellow eyes glazed over. "You did wonderfully my dear." He needed to be strong for Brookclover. He had made a promise. "I'm right here..." The warrior's voice drifted off into just a whisper as he let his mate's breath wash over his fur. I'm right here...

"I'm coming! I'm coming!" Briarpaw rushed out of the medicine den, bolting towards Brookclover, only to see that she had already given birth to two kits. He came out just in time to see Finchbreze place the second kit at its mother's belly. "We need to get them into the nursery," He meowed. "This slush and mud isn't good for them." As Briarpaw moved to pick one of the kits up, he noticed it wasn't moving, or even breathing. He began to panic. Calm down Briarpaw, CALM DOWN. He told himself, nudging the queen. "Brookclover, you need to get up."

OOC: Is the first kit dead, or do you want Briarpaw to revive it or something?

Grousepaw padded into the camp in time to see the small cluster of cats. His mentor, her mate, Barleytuft and was that Briarpaw? The small chaffinch dropped from his jaws as he ran over to see his mentor. The red she-cat seemed focused, but injured. The tiny little lumps next to her belly, one unmoving. He tilted his head, ears flicked back uneasily as he looked at Finchbreeze, then down at Brookclover. 'Well. They don't look like much.' He thought to himself... then paused. One of them was still... it didn't nurse. It laid there, like a dead mouse. With a look to Barleytuft, then at Finchbreeze and Briarpaw's attempts to nudge her up, he grit his teeth. A dead kit. 'What use is that?'

The cold thought was chased away as he looked at his mentor once more. The kind she-cat... who was usually so efficient and practical. It wasn't her fault the kit was born wrong. He was grateful he hadn't said the cruel words as he padded to the other side of her and used his smaller body to help attempt to push her up.
"Come on Brookclover." He meowed, then added "I thought you'd be smarter then to have your kits in the snow." a cheeky tone in his voice as he pushed against her shoulder to encourage her to stand or at least move somewhat. "I expect to play with your kit one day, but you need to be in the nursery first."