For Whom the Bell Tolls [Death]

The old tom's breath rattled painfully in his chest as he lay in a half-curled "C" shape within the medicine den. Since being washed into Thunderclan territory, his condition hadn't improved, despite the medicine cats' efforts. The cold he'd found himself with after waking had quickly turned into whitecough, then had only gotten worse from there. Often the days were broken up by coughing fits, when the medicine cats weren't reluctantly waking him in the daylight hours to give him herbs. Were he a younger cat, perhaps in better shape than being in the elder's den for so long allowed, the herbs might have worked.

As it was, even curled up in the relative warmth of the medicine den, the chills continued. The body-wracking, painful coughs continued. The old tom's chest felt strangely heavy, like the air was slowly being crushed from his lungs. By the time flecks (small flecks, he told himself at first, it hadn't been a lie... for a little bit) of blood started appearing in the phlegm, Mistyfalcon had resigned himself to the fact that this was unlikely to get better.

He found his thoughts increasingly turned towards the past. Brighteye and Batglow in Starclan. The Asylum and Tavora's sick game. Getting Murkystrike out of their claws. Vea's rogues, Dawnhawk's rogues, two sides of the same clan-hating pebble. Murkystar's sacrifice - some part of Mistyfalcon had clung to the idea that he'd misunderstood in his grief. That she would be up there waiting anyways. In his heart, he knew better than to cling to false desires. It only made the ache in his chest deepen. Their kits were up there too. Nightstalker had survived, Roseburn and Echomist had too. Harechaser and Swiftheart and Leafpaw, though... And Basilbloom, poor, fragile Basil... He wondered if they might be there on the other side to greet him. He hoped they weren't. He knew better than to pray for such, however, Starclan seldom listened to the living. Why would they listen now?

Mistyfalcon would find out soon enough. Over the last couple days breathing had become a struggle. Each coughing fit left him less able to catch his breath than the last. What little energy he had was gone, even eating was more of a chore than anything. There were paws at the entrance to the den, his tattered ears didn't twitch. Even that was too much effort. Nightstalker perhaps, come to check on him. He didn't have the strength to lift his head.

Perhaps, if Mistyfalcon were another cat, he could say he just needed sleep. Mistyfalcon had been doing a lot of that lately, even with the movement around the den during the daytime, he found that it didn't seem to wake him as easily. Perhaps he'd simply adjusted to it, his ears dismissing the sounds as normal.

Mistyfalcon closed his eyes.

Mistyfalcon has died.

Nightstalker seldom visited his father in the medicine cat den, finding himself often pulled away to tend to a scuffle, or jerked away by Thunderclans leadership to discuss something before he even had the chance to entertain the thought of visiting his father. He had half a clan to manage, but it felt more than that with all the issues he had to tend to. The young deputy had finally managed to get some time to himself after returning from a hunting patrol with a frog, which he had caught for Mistyfalcon. He hoped that he could bring strength to his father, knowing his worsening state as the medicine cats had kept him up-to-date best they could.

The young tom hovered at the entrance of the medicine cat den, a sudden apprehension clogging his lungs. While they had reconciled, and rebuilt their burnt bridges, returning to what should have been normal did not come naturally to Nightstalker. Taking in a breath to steady himself, he pushed past the lichen that shielded the occupants from the sunlight. He blinked steadily, allowing his eyes to adjust to the change of light before walking in fully. His eyes were drawn to his father as he rested the frog in front of his nose, he himself sitting as he waited for his dad's nose to twitch.

But it didn't twitch.

Nightstalker nudged the frog a bit closer, wondering if Mistyfalcons nose had clogged up, but when Nightstalker did so... he could smell the faint scent of death underneath the stench of illness that had consistently plagued his father. The young deputy's hackles raised as he pushed his nose against his dad's cheek, stunned into silence as his pupils dilated, a fear-scent emanating from Nightstalker, so thick it was starting to clog the herbal scents of the medicine cats den.

He pushed again, harder this time, hard enough to make his dad's head lift and roll back into place. Nightstalker started to shake. Violently.

"Mistyfalcon... dad..." He croaked, tears welling in his sharp amber eyes.

"Wake up. C'mon, you can't, you can't-" Nightstalkers breath came fast and short as he whipped his head around, "Fawnshine, Eggdrop! I-It's Mistyfalcon! Please come quick!" he called, the whites of his eyes showing vividly in his uncharacteristic panic as he continued to shove and shake the still form of his father, disbelieving.

Roseburn's leg was healing rather nicely, to the point where, although it hurt, she could hunt. So of course she was expected to tag along with a ThunderClan hunting patrol every once in a while to do just that. She had just returned with one of these patrols, two squirrels hanging from her jaws. They dropped the moment she heard Nightstalker's cry.

No.

This wasn't real. This wasn't happening. Her heart dropped as she raced over to the medicine den, plowing through camp on three legs. Using the fourth would only slow her down. Tears were already streaming from her eyes as she ran into the medicine den. Seeing tears in her older brother's eyes as well, and her father's limp form in his nest, any hope she might have had that maybe, just maybe, her father was okay had completely disappeared. And she collapsed in a fit of sobs.