Rainbows After Rain (Grayley Kit Topic, OPEN)

The sun was shining, the flowers were blooming, and the sky was clear and blue. WindClan camp bustled with cats, either out to perform duties or just enjoy the warmth and companionship. And in the middle of the perfectly beautiful day, StarClan sent down a blessing.... well, four little blessings. Graybriar finally gave birth to her kits.

It was strange. The last time she'd had kits, she'd been an entirely different cat. Young, naive, believing that everything would be solved for her if she just believed hard enough. Head over paws for Badgerthorn, and adoring their kits. Now, she was much older and wiser, having seen and experienced much more pain- both emotional and physical. Through it all, she'd found her way back home, and felt a deep, true kinship and love with Barleytuft, who may have been younger than her but was the most loyal and worthy tom she'd ever met. And here she lay, looking down at the four tiny balls of fur that had come from their relationship. All she could feel was love. She leaned into her mate and purred as she studied the small cats. Two kits that looked like her- silver tabbies with tiny stripes, one with white- and two that looked like her mate, soft and fluffy and tan and perfect. They were all perfect. Her eyes met Barleytuft's, and she smiled. "They're perfect, and so are you." A rush of warmth came over her as she looked down at their helpless young forms, nostalgia and a tiny flash of grief for her deceased daughter and son. But the small burst of sadness was immediately pushed to the side in the adoration the queen felt just gazing down at them. Two she-cats and two toms. What should she name them?

Her first thought was Badgerkit, but the thought of her deceased mate brought up too many feelings that she didn't want to deal with. Plus, none of them really looked like badgers. They were so tiny and adorable... The tabby's eyes rested on the small she-kit who looked like Barleytuft. Her small golden stripes reminded her of the sun. "Goldenkit," she murmured decisively, nudging her daughter. A good name. "...and Mistykit," she continued, tapping the silver and white tabby she-kit nestled by her side. There was no particular reason to choose that name. She'd just always liked it. As she cast her mind around trying to think of names for the tom-kits, she remembered the flood, and the cats who had recently died. One of the oldest cats in WindClan, Quailfeather, had drowned in the elders' den saving Grousefrost. "Quailkit," she named the tan tabby tom, wanting to honor the injured she-cat for her final sacrifice. There were so many cats who had died... who else would she name a kit after? The thought of naming one after Frozenpaw or Rabbitfrost brought a chill to her spine- too close to her heart. That would hurt a little too much. But with another glance at her mate, she remembered the most recent casualty that had stricken him, Finchstar, and all of WindClan... "Cloverkit," Graybriar finally whispered, tapping the silver tabby tom and making direct eye contact with Barleytuft. "For Brookclover. She would be happy for you... if not me."

Mistykit. She didn’t really understand what that meant, but she liked it. Was that her name? It couldn’t have been any of the other ones she said, because she only touched her when she said Mistykit. So that was what she would be called, Mistykit! But who were the other names for? Were they for the other forms she felt beside her? Were they her siblings? She nestled in further into the larger she cat, the one who had named her. Her mother. She didn’t know how she knew the she cat was her mother, she just knew. Just like she knew the she cat would keep her safe. It was just instinct.

Mistykit curled up, a gentle snoring arising from her. The soft rise and fall of her belly was almost invisible underneath her fluff, but it was there. She had merely fallen asleep. She didn’t have much energy now, but one day she would grow, following her siblings into the trouble they would get into.

The weather had shifted earlier in the day, dark clouds dissipating to leave wispy trails of white glistening under a shining sun for what felt like the first time in moons. Barleytuft had awakened at dawn as usual with every intention of going on a hunt, but when he peeked into the nursery he found Graybriar already awake, feeling a familiar strangeness. The kits were going to come that day. While the sun rose and WindClan sprang to life, Barleytuft kept Graybriar company and did his best to help keep her comfortable. Inside, he held a dark, creeping fear at bay: he remembered a death, and before the death he remembered more.

Brookclover and her kits.

His apprentice had died to the earth, but moons before that - before the flood - her and Finchstar's kits had come early and perished, or lived short torturous lives. Barleytuft hadn't voiced the fears to anyone; after all, Graybriar certainly had her own fears and worries, being the one giving birth and everything. She didn't need to know he was thinking about the death of Brookclover's first and only litter. He wished he wasn't thinking about it. In the end, though, the thoughts managed to slip back into the shadows on their own at the need of the present.

When the sun was at its peak and WindClan's camp was bustling, Graybriar had given birth to four perfect, perfect kits. As she lay with them she leaned into him and gazed affectionately into his eyes, echoing his thoughts in a weary but earnest voice. Barleytuft hadn't stopped purring since the fourth kit had been born, but his purrs were given renewed strength at his mate's love. He rested his head ever so gently on her shoulders, gazing at the kits gathered at her belly. One by one, his mate began to name them: the two girls, Goldenkit - one of his look-alikes - and Mistykit; the two boys, one which was named Quailkit - his other look-alike. Barleytuft remembered the elder from whom the tom got his name and made a soft murmur of approval and sadness, nestling his face into Graybriar's neck for a moment before turning back to hear the fourth name.

"Cloverkit."

Barleytuft immediately looked back at his mate, eyes wide and shining with emotion. Are you sure? he nearly asked, but she met his gaze with such a look that he melted into admiring acceptance and turned back to look at the newly named Cloverkit. "She would be happy for WindClan, and that's what matters," Barleytuft offered gently, grooming Graybriar's flank before stretching forward and giving Cloverkit a lick. "I hope he'll have some of her spirit. " The little tom squirmed, and Barleytuft pulled obediently back to rest his head near Graybriar's shoulders again.

---

There were so many things wiggling around him that he wiggled in frustration and protest - after all, he couldn't do much else. He didn't wanna be in the middle, he wanted to be on the ends! He couldn't communicate that, though, and so he just protested by wiggling. A gentle touch on his head made him squeak softly with surprise, but the gentleness with which it had touched him brought a weariness over him. "Cloverkit," the voice said, and he wondered what those sounds might mean as he kicked pretty ineffectually at one of the other kits, trying to gather more space for himself. Another feeling, equally gentle, touched his forehead, but this smell wasn't familiar - not yet. Cloverkit squirmed away from the strange warm sensation on his head and though it quickly dissipated, he harbored feelings of indignation for as long as his new-born kitten brain would allow.... which wasn't long.

A squeak of protest came from the small she-cat as the feeling of a kick pressed into her side. Wiggling away from it, and closer to the warmth and comfort that was she recognized vaguely as being something she knew, she blindly curled herself into Graybriar's side. A voice cut through the darkness, speaking a name. "Goldenkit," it said, accompanied by a gentle nudge that was different from the kick that she had experienced moments before. A soft squeak came from her as she tried to figure out where the voice was coming from, but her attention was pulled by another sensation that was pure instinct, and she curled in further on herself in surrounded by the warmth and love of the nursery, her family, and her clan.

Aspenpaw pushed past the gorse opening of the nursery, a little less gracefully than he would have preferred. He came carrying a bundle of herbs, held together with a leaf pouch, delicately hanging from his jaws. He smiled sheepishly at Barleytuft and Graybriar, unsure on whether to intrude on their family moment. He quietly approached the tabby queen and set down the herbs.

"I brought a little of everything... Never dealt with kitting before, but, erm..." the medicine cat stammered as he opened the leaf. "Chervil juice for pain, and that's drizzled on these borage leaves for milk, and then I wasn't sure how you were feeling, so... thyme to ease your mind." In the entirety of his speech, his eyes were locked on the tiny scraps of fur snuggled close to their mother. He lingered for a moment and crouched near them. "They're cute, Graybriar. No thanks to your dashing mate, I'm sure." He gave Barleytuft a teasing wink. He was glad to be back to normal with Finchstar, and it was affecting his mood in quite the extreme way. The tiny, blind kittens really were beautiful. They were a welcome change in the aura of the camp. He was overcome with joy to see his clan recover from the horrors they had experienced, and he was even more glad to know they were finally in good paws.

Until, of course, he remembered that his paws were also part of the equation. "Oh!" he said as he lifted his body up. "If any of them seem unwell or start coughing, let me know. Coltsfoot is blooming because of all the wetness on the moor, and Mintwhisker and I have been collecting it by the pawful."

Briarpaw made his way into the nursery. He walked up to Greybriar, and nuzzled her gently. "They look amazing, mother." He gazed at the young kits, remembering his time in the nursery. It wasn't as happy as these kit's would be. Briarpaw had the luck of being born when Lichenmask and his followers, both in the clans and StarClan, had begun their quest to 'relive' the Clans of their 'impure blood'. This had been terrifying for him. Not only because the sun went dark, but because he was only one fourth WindClan, with his mother having been born in SkyClan. "Hello," Briarpaw said to the kits. "I'm Briarpaw, your older brother! Greybriar is my mother, too!"

Camp seemed to be rotating around the sun as it once had. Finchstar looked up to its brilliance and let out a sigh. It was not a heavy one, nor was it sad. But one of recognition, that things truly had moved on. Raventail had been made a warrior, and amends had been made with Aspenpaw. Yet there were still holes burning in the leader's retinas, like drops of flame from the sky. Barleytuft. He had barely even spoken to the tom after Brookclover's death, and admittedly had been avoiding it. A strange thing, for a cat like Finchstar to consciously avoid a conversation. Usually he would leap at the chance to pry into another's mind. But things had been ever so perfect recently, as if one wrong step would shatter the fragile peace he had found. It wasn't superficial, no. But it was new, fresh, like the kits Graybriar had brought into the world. Finchstar wished not to slip up and taint it, but Barleytuft was just another soul, like himself. And he was as prominent and real as the sky above his head. It would only be right to make amends, quite the tedious time to do so, yes. But Finchstar decided he couldn't put it off much longer.

"I hope I'm not interrupting anything." The leader mewed softly, his tall frame blocking out the sunlight from the nursery entrance. It was quite crowded, and seemingly the whole clan had come to give Graybriar's kits their blessings. Finchstar wasn't surprised. WindClan had become a place of friendship and comradery, he loved every bit of it. And slowly, slowly, was immersing himself back into the game. "They're beautiful." The orange and white tabby breathed, looking down at the four small scraps of fur that wriggled at their mother's belly. Barleytuft sat behind his mate, head on her shoulder. Finchstar gave him a tired, wary smile, and for once in his life, he didn't know what to say.

Aspenpaw and Briarpaw sat in the den as well, saying their hellos. The leader gave his former apprentice a grin, finding comfort in his eyes as they both seemed to share an uncomfortable feeling. Wanting to strip it away, the tom found a seat carefully, positioning himself in the corner of the nursery, not wanting to step on any kits. "Have you decided on names yet?"

Quailkit has been sleeping, curled up with his mother as his fluffy tan fur twitched as the air changed into something cooler as a cat entered. However, the little scrap of fur and pure joy stayed asleep with the occasional twitch of his bright pink nose. He shifted and let out a little grunt at all the new noises and his siblings shifting around him. He lied in his new position for awhile before lifting his small head weakly to look around and clear the sleep out of his eyes.

Graybriar leaned into her mate's broad shoulders, gazing down with absolute love at the faintly moving, tiny bodies of her kits. Would they have his determination, his instinctive kindness, his unfailing loyalty to their Clan? Or would they inherit her desperation to belong, her attraction of predators, her need for love? It didn't matter who they would be. They were her kits, and she would love them, no matter what. The perfect, silent reverie was broken as another cat walked into the nursery- followed by a few more in rapid succession. Aspenpaw first, the new medicine cat apprentice of WindClan who had replaced her son after he stepped down. Though it would have been easy to dislike him, there was something about the young tom he liked- his unsure, hesitant eagerness, his desire to help. She graciously accepted the herbs with a smile. "Thank you, Aspenpaw," she purred, both for the gift of herbs and his compliment. "I would argue that all their good looks come from him. How could they not? And, I'll let you know the second they seem unwell."

Almost immediately after the current medicine cat, the former one made his way into the nursery, bringing with him a familiar scent. A few hours ago, this tom had been her only living kit- Briarpaw, the only one left from her litter with Badgerthorn. Now, he had a posse of younger brothers and sisters. Hopefully he could adjust well to the change. A purr of love rose up from inside her at his nuzzle, and she licked his cheek to smooth back the whiskers that always sprung up. She was glad to see him, especially after the massive change in his life that his warrior apprenticing had been. "If I'm lucky, they'll end up as much of a pawful as you were," she teased gently as he bent down to see the four tiny forms. A small laugh rolled out of her at his words to the kits. "Sorry, Briarpaw, but you'll have to wait until they're older to have conversations. They can't even see yet."

The third cat who came in was somewhat of a surprise. Finchstar, the young leader of WindClan, good friends with Barleytuft... or at least he had been, before the death of his mate Brookclover. Seeing the grief on the young tom's face at the Gathering had been painful for her too, even though the she-cat's death had only hurt her due to how much it hurt other cats. It was a strange thought, that the leader was a cat half as old as her. The fact seemed painfully obvious now, seeing the ginger and white cat next to her son, almost as old as he was. But she smiled softly at the leader, noticing the uncertainty on his face. "You're welcome here," she murmured, speaking still through her exhaustion. Barleytuft's presence gave her strength. "And we have decided on names for all four of them. This is Goldenkit... Quailkit... Mistykit..." She tapped each tiny tabby in turn, and as she nudged the last tan tom-kit she looked up at Finchstar. "Cloverkit." Her voice was barely audible.

The peaceful quiet of the den was broken by the sound of shuffling pawsteps outside, and through of the entrance tunnel came Aspenpaw, WindClan's new medicine cat and a cat who Barleytuft was fond of despite that they weren't close yet. Seeing the uncertain look on the young silvery tom's face, Barleytuft offered him a welcoming smile. It seemed that Graybriar had done the same, for Aspenpaw padded up to the queen with a packet of herbs. The small amount was still fragrant in the small den, the scents mingling with milk and fresh moss and bedding. The tom explained what they were, all the while watching the kits with a look Barleytuft couldn't quite read. After a moment he complimented their beauty, then teased Barleytuft about his own.

The cream tabby tom chuckled with amusement, uninjured by the jest, and looked away from Aspenpaw to see Briarpaw entering, Finchstar close behind. It seemed that the whole Clan had come to see his kits, and Barleytuft could hardly stop himself from purring at the overwhelming love in the small den - he did feel a bit crowded, though. Briarpaw was Graybriar's son from her first love, Badgerthorn, who had perished, and he approached his mother quickly to crouch beside her and share soft words.

Barleytuft turned his attention to Finchstar while the mother and son spoke, and his purrs were renewed again as the ginger-and-white tom complimented their beauty. The warrior nodded in agreement as his mate welcomed their leader. Carefully Finchstar came further into the den, settling himself out of the way before asking if they had decided on names. Barleytuft looked at each of the kits in turn, but when Cloverkit was named he looked up at Finchstar, a sudden feeling of worry coming over him. Would their leader approve?