Wasppaw's Moonstone Journey

From the mountains and from the lake, RiverClan had returned to their home. Friends and families had been reunited after an agonizing period of separation. At long last, a modicum of normalcy could be glimpsed about the island. Dens had more or less been rebuilt, borders had been remarked, and hunting patrols were desperately trying to stock up on prey. Despite the painfully slow progress, the land was beginning to be recover. With every new day, the cats fought to move on. And now, even moonstone journeys had resumed.

Time slowed for no one. Before the flood, Wasppaw had been nothing more than a bumbling half-kit, an apprentice barely out of the nursery. She had been ignorant and loud-mouthed, capable of insulting the SkyClan leader at the top of her voice before an entire clearing of cats. She had easily been the most troublesome apprentice Scorchclaw had ever taken under his tutelage; she probably still was. Today, however, that little tortoisheshell was ready to undergo one of the last rites of apprenticeship. Contrary to what he might have been expected moons ago, the RiverClan deputy did not find himself relieved. Greater than joy or pride, the main emotion he felt was grief and regret.

Crossing the clearing in quiet, almost imperceptible steps, the large tabby stopped before his apprentice. "Wasppaw." He called her name in a low yet clear voice. "It's time to leave." He had let her know in advance of the trip they would be making today; he always did, with the apprentices. Unlike past times, there were no travelling herbs to be eaten; Fallowlight had not managed to gather enough of them to spare.

While Scorchclaw had not been present at the battle in the mountains, he had heard from his clanmates of Swanpetal's death. The sight of Wasppaw when she had finally returned to camp was something that he would not forget anytime soon. In fact, he did not think he ever would. His apprentice, with her small and battered frame, had stumbled into camp lugging along the broken corpse of a once great beast. It had been her mother's murderer, who had met its death in return at her paws. Scorchclaw should have been grateful, really, that she had even returned to him alive. He was; he really was. Unlike someone else, she was still by his side. But it cut him deeper than he would ever admit to have seen his once bubbly apprentice in such a state. He hated the fact that he, who was supposed to be her mentor, had been unable to protect her from such heartache. First, Brookpaw. Then, Swanpetal.

Had it been too much to wish for, that his apprentice would be able to grow up happy and untouched by the cruelty of such loss? StarClan seemed to think so.

The physical wounds could be healed, whether of flesh or of earth; indeed, they had begun to heal. But the wounds that could not be seen were much harder to heal. In some ways, the absence of loved ones hurt worse than death itself.