brightest memory [open after kits/MC post]

Something was wrong.

A spike of pain in her belly woke Spottedfrog, piercing like thorn-sharp claws on the inside. The tuxedo she-cat lurched to her paws with a gasp of agony, stumbled out of her nest, and barely made it outside the warriors' den before the contents of her stomach spilled upon the ground, the bitter taste of bile coating her tongue as she heaved several more times, choking on the sensation. Her eyes swam, and Spottedfrog sat heavily, panting, her stomach twisting itself in knots. Another wave of pain and her vision brightened and then dimmed, ears ringing. Was she dying? It felt like it.

It was dark, the sun still hours away, so as she staggered towards the medicine den, the few sets of glimmering eyes that watched her went unnoticed by the distressed warrior. "Muddythorn," she panted. "Myrtledove. Something's-" she gasped in pain again. "Something's not right, I'm-" the smell of blood hit her nostrils as warm wetness flooded her haunches, "-bleeding."

* * *

As the sun finally lightened the horizon, Spottedfrog stared at the two tiny bundles of fur at her belly, both toms. She hadn't even known... but here they were. Her kits. Cedar's kits. The first tom was dark furred, like her, with patches of Cedar's light browns, and whites. "Quailkit," she said quietly, nosing him lovingly. The second born was large, and pale striped... and as her eyes flicked over him, the irony that he looked like Beechfang was not lost on her. Spottedfrog smoothed an errant wisp of fur on his forehead with her tongue. "Blizzardkit." Regardless of their familial resemblance, this little one would never be like his aunt... and if Beechfang ever sought to tear either of her sons down the way she had Spottedfrog herself... well.

She shook her head, clearing those thoughts. She shouldn't be thinking about that now. Love for these tiny bodies filled her, and Spottedfrog curled herself around them, a purr rumbling in her chest. Eventually, exhaustion overtook her and she dozed off.

Tucked warmly in the curve of his mother’s belly, the pale tabby kit hardly stirred when she murmured to them, lost as he was in sleep. ”Blizzardkit,” she named him. Like snow, his fur was white and tufted and long; it was a fitting name. And he was going to be big, by his paws, and how large he looked beside his littermate. Like a storm.

But the young thing slept peacefully, soft and sweet.

It wouldn’t last. (No, it wouldn’t last very long at all.) But… for now, fluffy and fed and warm, he was a sleepy ball of cuteness.

quailkit was covered by his mother's fur as he slept soundly. he was quite big himself, but next to Blizzardkit he might as well have been a pebble.