Fire And Ice

Fireheart felt relief surge through his body. It was Graystripe! A brief flame of hope flared in Fireheart’s chest as Whitestorm stood aside and the other cats turned to look at the gray warrior. Graystripe stared around the circle of cats, meeting their gazes one by one with wide, steady eyes.

“Makes a change to see you speak up for your friend, Graystripe. Last night you wanted to shred him!” sneered Longtail.

Graystripe glared at the pale tabby, then whipped around as Darkstripe challenged him. “Yeah, Graystripe! How do you know Fireheart has blood worthy of ThunderClan? Did you taste it last night when you tried to take a chunk out of his leg?”

Bluestar stepped forward, her blue eyes clouded with worry. “Fireheart, I believe that you meant no disloyalty to the Clan by visiting your sister, but why did you agree to bring her kit here? It is not your place to make decisions like this. What you have done affects the whole Clan.”

Fireheart looked at Graystripe, hoping for more support, but Graystripe wouldn’t meet his eyes. Fireheart craned his head around, and every cat turned their gaze away from him. Fireheart began to panic. Had he endangered his own position in the Clan by bringing Princess’s kit here?

Bluestar spoke again. “Tigerclaw, what do you think?”

“What do I think?” meowed Tigerclaw. Fireheart felt his heart sink at the note of arrogant satisfaction in the deputy’s voice. “I think he should get rid of it at once.”

“Goldenflower?”

“It certainly looks too small to survive until newleaf,” the ginger queen remarked.

“It’ll have greencough by sunrise!” added Mousefur.

“Or it’ll eat our fresh-kill until next snowfall and then die of cold!” spat Runningwind.

Bluestar dipped her head. “That’s enough. I must think about this.” She padded to her den and disappeared inside. The rest of the Clan slipped away, muttering darkly.

Fireheart picked up the bedraggled kit and carried him to the warriors’ den. The kit was shivering and mewling pathetically. Fireheart curled his body around the little scrap and closed his eyes, but hostile faces of the Clan swam around his mind, filling his heart with dread. He thought he had been lonely before, but now it seemed as if the entire Clan had disowned him.

Graystripe pushed his way into the den and settled down into his nest. Fireheart glanced nervously at him. Graystripe had been the only cat to speak in his defense, and Fireheart wanted to thank him. After an uncomfortable pause, in which the kit cried and cried, Fireheart mumbled, “Thanks for sticking up for me.”

Graystripe shrugged. “Yeah, well,” he meowed, “no one else was going to do it.” He twisted his head around and began to wash his tail.

The kit carried on mewling, his cries growing louder. Some of the other warriors padded into the den to escape the rain outside. Willowpelt glanced briefly at Fireheart and the kit, but she didn’t speak.

“Can’t you shut that thing up?” complained Darkstripe as he prodded the moss in his nest.

Fireheart licked the kit desperately. It must be very hungry by now. A rustle in the den wall made him lift his head. It was Frostfur. She crept over to Fireheart’s nest and looked down at the miserable kit. Suddenly she dipped her head and sniffed the kit’s soft fur. “He’d be better off in the nursery,” she murmured. “Brindleface has milk to spare. I could ask her to feed it.”

Fireheart stared at the queen in surprise.

Frostfur gazed back at him, her eyes warm. “I haven’t forgotten that you rescued my kits from ShadowClan.”

Fireheart picked up the kit yet again and followed Frostfur out of the warriors’ den. The rain was even heavier now. Together they padded quickly to the nursery. Frostfur disappeared through its narrow entrance, and Fireheart squeezed in after her. He paused inside the thicket of brambles, blinking until his eyes got used to the dim light.

Inside the dry, dark cocoon, Brindleface was curled around her two healthy kits. She looked suspiciously at Fireheart, then at the kit that dangled from his jaws.

Frostfur whispered to Fireheart, “One of Brindleface’s kits died last night.” Fireheart remembered the sick kits squirming beside Yellowfang and wondered, with a pang, which one had gone. He put Princess’s kit down and turned to Brindleface. “I’m sorry,” he murmured.

The queen blinked at him, her grief raw in her eyes.

“Brindleface,” Frostfur began, “I can only guess at how much pain you feel. But this kit is starving, and you have milk. Will you feed him?”

Brindleface shook her head and shut her eyes tight as if to deny Fireheart’s presence in her den.

Frostfur stretched her head forward and pressed her muzzle gently against Brindleface’s cheek. “I know he won’t replace your son,” she whispered. “But he needs your warmth and care.”