Tortoiseshell Tears

A tightness in Scorchclaw's chest seemed to keep him from breathing. Gingerstripe was gone—the murderer, the ShadowClan exile, the RiverClan warrior. With him had gone his mate. Dewshine's last gift to her clan had been three newborn kits. Their eyes still closed, their bodies covered only by a thin layer of fuzz, they had already been bereaved of both parents. They would grow up alone, never knowing the faces of the cats who had borne and loved them. StarClan—no, fate itself, had thrust them out into the cruel world, abandoning them to the natural course of things. The large tabby had been absolutely powerless. There had been nothing he could do. He was no medicine cat. How did one save a dying queen? How did one raise the dead back to life? In the end, the only thing he had been able to do was watch helplessly. Another life had slipped beyond his grasp. While these two had been alive, he had not thought much of them. But now that they were lying before him, silent and inanimate at last, he felt an unexpected ache. His heart hurt with a pain that was thick and suffocating, a pain that his tongue was unable to express in words. Flurryshine's grief was almost palpable in the air, and mingled with her sobs were the thin mewling of the newborn kittens. To him, their cries were utterly disconsolate. The kits were searching for milk, for warmth—for a mother that they would never find now. His darkened gaze focused on them, he murmured under his breath, "Are you sad?" They were blind to him and deaf to his words. He knew that the kits would not be able to understand him. The question was a rhetorical one, more to himself than anyone else. His brow furrowed, and he answered his own question. "Of course you are... Your mother is dead." No matter how young they were, they were not completely ignorant. Even they could sense that something was wrong, but they could not yet understand the concept of death.

How pitiful.

What had happened to being a RiverClan cat? Of the five clans, they were known for their skill in the water. Was not the river as much a part of their home as the land was? Yet it was the river that had dashed their camp to pieces, separated clanmates, and claimed their lives within its cold, dark depths. Just as it gave to all living creatures, it could take from them in the flash of an eye. Gingerstripe had been a weak swimmer; once a ShadowClan cat, it was no surprise that the transition to RiverClan life had not been easy for him. Had the blood of the marsh-dwellers let him down in the end? Dewshine was a pure-blooded RiverClan warrior as far as Scorchclaw knew, but even she had not been spared. Their heritage, their blood—when put to the test, they had not made much of a difference. The mortal cats were weak and powerless; they were so fragile that they could be snatched from the realm of the living at any moment.

How truly pitiful.

For a moment, Scorchclaw almost felt like laughing. A sense of bitterness welled up within him. It was a bitterness that surpassed all the herbs he had ever eaten; it was the kind of bitterness that one could not rid himself off, no matter how many times he ran his tongue over his lips. They were lost and far from home, with bodies to bury and newborn kits to care for. What an optimistic situation to be in. His lip curled. If he had been any less rational, perhaps this would be the point at which he would have screamed out his frustration to the sky. But he was stronger than that. Flurryshine's screech still rung in his ears; the overwhelming pain in her voice at that moment had touched the deepest portions of his heart and shaken him. The RiverClan deputy was a rational cat. His despairing would help no one, especially in such circumstances. Tipping his head back, he drew a slow breath. Think. Use your head. He was in charge here. No one would save them, and no one would heed their pleas for help. They were going to have to be their own heroes. If he wanted to mourn, he would have to wait.

Motion at the corner of his vision caused Scorchclaw to turn back to Flurryshine. The white-furred warrior, having lifted her head from her mentor's corpse, was reaching out to the kits. With a sweep of her ragged tail, she drew them into her protective embrace. Even as her sides heaved with broken sobs, she began to groom them with shaky, uneven strokes of her tongue. The little things' cries ceased somewhat. At the sight, Scorchclaw felt a complex mix of both relief and sorrow. The scene before him was devastating, and nothing changed that fact. Nevertheless, as he witnessed the strange bonding session that was taking place, it strengthened the hope that flickered within him. They would live on. "Take care of them, Flurryshine." He informed the she-cat in a low, uncharacteristically gentle voice. "I will scout out the area and return before too long." Even in her current state, he knew Flurryshine would not let any harm come to Dewshine's kits. No—perhaps it could be said that her current state was precisely the reason she would definitely protect them. As he padded past Gingerstripe's body, the RiverClan deputy paused. He cast a glance back at Flurryshine; when it was evident that she could not see him, he waded into the water. He had to force down the nausea that rose when he sunk his teeth into the ginger scruff. The body had already bloated from its time in the water. Even if he could not bury Gingerstripe right now, the least he could do was drag the tom from the water's clasp. It was part of a clanmate's responsibility. When he had hauled the body unto the shore, he released his hold. Forgive me, Gingerstripe. The thought flashed briefly through his mind as he set off once again. Just wait a little while more.

---

The sand shifted beneath his paws; the sunlight beamed down on his back. Despite green leaf's onset, a chill was still prevalent in the air. Scorchclaw's thick coat, previously waterlogged, had dried out somewhat. Even if it remained damp, its current state was an improvement. Logically speaking, he should not have felt too cold; yet he shivered uncontrollably from time to time. Was this condition due to fatigue? He was tired—more tired than he would have liked to admit. Ever since he had arrived on this shore, he had not rested once. After hours and hours of drifting down the river, with only a piece of driftwood to cling unto, his strength had reached its limit. The breeze seeped continuously through his wet fur. Yet the need for rest was the last thing on his mind at that moment. He shoved it to the back of his thought process. Absentmindedly, he hoped that neither Flurryshine nor the kits would catch a cold. There was no certainty that medicinal herbs would be present in their new environment. Even if they existed, finding them was another issue.

They would need prey.

They would need shelter.

They would need a queen to nurse the kits.

To accomplish all that, he could not simply sit around. Scorchclaw needed to know what this new environment held. What were the dangers? What were the benefits? If any more of his clanmates had swept up here, he needed to find them. He had to protect and guide them—just as Jaystar had done all along. Deep down, he knew that he was inferior to the silver tabby. As much as the thought irked him and dug under his skin, he had to admit that it was true. When the flood had broken out, Jaystar was the one who had united the panicking clan. If only the RiverClan leader was here now—was this situation not the reason StarClan had allowed him to keep one final life? The ancestors had known about the upcoming disaster. They had known that Jaystar would be needed. Yet Scorchclaw was alone now. What if the leader had not been swept away? Then the large brown tabby would be alone. He had to take charge, make use of himself. After all, that was the duty that had been placed on his shoulders the day he had been chosen as deputy. Even if Jaystar had broken the Code, Scorchclaw never intended to break his promise—the promise that he would not fail him.

Such was the determination that had been spurring him on, when he stumbled upon Wasppaw. Her face was turned away from him, but he would never have mistaken her tortoiseshell fur for any other's. He froze mid-stride. Why was she here? Had he not told her to evacuate, to get to safety with her clanmates? At that moment, he could not decide on a single emotion to feel. Relief, joy, exasperation, frustration, and even irritation swelled up from within him. Should he have been happy to see her safe, or should he have been upset to see her stranded here with him? All those considerations fell away, however, when he saw the form of the cat lying at her paws. As soon as he caught sight of it, he felt the crushing weight of reality. Brookpaw. He recognized it instantly. It was a young she-cat he had named an apprentice not too long ago—another one of Swanpetal's kits. No. Before he even had the time to think, he was sprinting forward. "Wasppaw!" He shouted.

Don't look!

Scorchclaw skidded to a stop by her side.

Don't look, Wasppaw!

Tears trickled down the apprentice's face.

Close your eyes!

But it was too late.

It was all too late. He had been too late.

As he drew a shuddering breath, Scorchclaw could only gaze down at the scene before him with wide green eyes. Wasppaw—she was right there. If he simply reached out with one paw, he could touch the apprentice. But, at the same time, she was not truly there. The moment she had laid eyes on the corpse, something within her had been lost. A piece of the innocent, inquisitive tortoiseshell he had come to care for had crumbled, never to be found again. She was the same Wasppaw, except she was different now. And he saw the effect almost immediately. Her ears, that could not hear him. Her eyes, that could not see him. The tears, that continued to trickle down, wetting the thin fur of her cheeks.

Wasppaw now knew true loss.

Helplessly, Scorchclaw watched as the small she-cat sat down by her sister's side. Just as Flurryshine had done with Dewshine's litter, Wasppaw wrapped her tail protectively around the corpse. A knot tightened within the large tabby's stomach. This was wrong. Why did these young apprentices, barely out of the nursery, have to experience such tragedy? He had never once thought of the world as a kind place. When he had been a mere kit, war had broken out between RiverClan and ThunderClan. Life as a warrior entailed pain and hardship. But even so...

There ought to have been something he could have done. Perhaps if he had only gotten here earlier... Perhaps if he had been by her side...

For the stars' sake, he was her mentor. And yet he could not even protect her from such grief.

What could he even have done? In reality, it was a process every cat would eventually have to go through as they grew. But why so soon?

The large tabby clenched his jaws, his features twisting with inner pain. His darkened gaze flicked over Brookpaw's body. That unnatural swelling, the stiff fur—she had drowned just as Gingerstripe had. How many more of his clanmates had he lost, that he did not already know about? His tufted ears flattened at Wasppaw's cry. Just like Flurryshine... The raw pain in that wail was enough to cut into his flesh. And then she turned towards him, pressing her face into his fur. Almost instinctively, he pulled her close with his feathery tail. "It'll be all right." Such words died on his tongue.

Things were not all right, and he had no idea if they would ever be again.

"I only wish it were..." He muttered softly.