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Well after nightfall, Leafpool was trudging her way to the lakeshore. The ground underfoot was dry, crunching with fallen leaves and dotted with honeycombed mushrooms, but not for long—Longtail’s whiskers had told him that the next rainfall would come tomorrow and last for a day and a night, and his forecasts were yet to be wrong.
Dodging dips in the earth and weaving around clumps of stale fern, Leafpool was equal parts lost in thought and jittery with apprehension. Rain was easy to predict, but anything that went beyond was anybody’s guess—least of all hers. All she knew was that soon her heavy pawsteps would be growing even heavier, and that when they did, the nipping night frosts would kill every herb trove that she’d need to prepare for it.
She ground her canine into her lip. For a sense of reprieve, she lifted her head and looked at the thick canopy of ash and maple above instead, the rusting colors of which were just barely visible against the blackened sky.
So the story went, it had been a leaf-fall like this when her mother had returned from her journey back to the old territories, taking in the rusting upheaval of the forest as she walked, and the kittens she had been carrying had later turned out the same gorgeous orange and brown of the leaves. Leafpool’s name was a homage to that memory.
She stalled. She wondered how Sandstorm had felt that day, walking home to family and carrying her own. Her mother’s joy was picturesque in her mind, but she could not recognize herself in it nor siphon any comfort out of it; their circumstances couldn’t have been more different if they tried.
She took a trembling step and kept walking.
Tonight, Leafpool was going to meet Squirrelflight and give her the news. She should have done it a while ago, but now she could no longer afford to wait. That morning, she had received an omen—a little ladybug that had traveled along with the borage she had brought in and landed on the claw that she had extended to extract it. Upon inspection of its shelled wings, Leafpool had seen three dots—two large and one small.
Leafpool had sighed and flicked the ladybug into flight. She had hoped for just one. A litter of three would be a lot harder to explain.
Still, it was a push forward, and Leafpool was grown enough to start down the road on her own—the only thing left was to speak it into existence. She hadn’t yet decided on her words, but she figured that what she would say wouldn’t be as important as how her sister would react. Praying, she broke out of the forest and stepped out to the shore.
Squirrelflight hadn’t arrived yet. Leafpool took the opportunity to walk closer to the water’s edge, sinking her toes into the coarse sand, grounding her to the earth as she risked a glance at the open sky.
With no foliage in the way, the night was vast and encompassing. Since it was warm, only a few stars were out tonight, glinting in and out in waves. Leafpool was looking out for any that might be blinking for her specifically, but every ancestor seemed to be giving her the same, detached appraisal as the other. Leafpool’s heart clenched, but she had come to expect it.
Ever since her death, Leafpool had been searching for late Cinderpelt in StarClan. Every half-moon gathering and on her own supplemental visits, she had dreamed her way into the holy hunting grounds and asked for her mentor, stretching out her senses into the celestial space and feeling her way around for a familiar presence, but no-one had ever come for her.
Either Cinderpelt hadn’t heard her, or she simply didn’t care to see her. It would be both fair and unjust: Leafpool had given her every reason to abandon her after abandoning her first. But without anything but an omen to live by, Leafpool was quickly becoming desperate.
If Cinderpelt had been alive, she would know what to do. But then again, if Leafpool had never run away, none of this would have ever happened.
For the upteenth time that moon, Leafpool closed her eyes and whispered to the sky: I’m sorry.
But whatever you decide to do, please don’t leave me alone.
The stars were quiet. Water kept lapping at the shore.
A sprig of fennel rustled behind her and a crunch of leaves signaled an arrival. The wind was not in the newcomer’s favor; once it hit Leafpool’s nose, she knew to expect a pair of paws to collide with her shoulders, not heavy enough to bowl her over but enough to jostle. She turned her head and her eyes met a familiar green.
”Boo,” said Squirrelflight. She planted her paws back on the ground. ”Did I get you?”
”Sure,” replied Leafpool lamely.
Squirrelflight tilted her head, walking around to sit next to her. ”Rough night?”
Leafpool heaved a sigh, curling her tail around her paws. ”I’m not sure if I’ll have enough energy for you tonight after all.”
”But you’re supposed to have endless energy for my antics,” Squirrelflight said, her tail curling playfully.
”That’s Brambleclaw you’re thinking of.”
Squirrelflight feigned a thoughtful look, scrunching her nose. ”Maybe, but there’s a difference. Brambleclaw puts up with me by choice, and you have to do it anyway.”
Leafpool huffed a laugh. ”No-one has to put up with you. You know the Clan adores you.”
Squirrelflight leaned over to headbutt her shoulder. ”Maybe you missed the memo, but you aren’t actually supposed to compliment me,” she said. ”Dustpelt said that it’ll get to my head and I’ll float away like a cloud on the next breeze.”
”Then you’ll be the first cat to fly,” Leafpool said.
Squirrelflight smiled. ”Imagine.”
A silence followed, with both of them looking out at the indistinguishable horizon. Leafpool’s previous melancholia had lifted, only to double down on the bubbling anxiety. She was glad however, that wallowing around Squirrelflight was almost impossible; her presence was so loud that it filled the perimeter of her mind moments within stepping into her space. So loud, in fact, that when she spoke up, Leafpool felt like she had been speaking the whole time.
”Did you want to talk here, or walk first?” Squirrelflight asked.
Leafpool took a cursory glance up at their ancestors. Their judgement felt pressing enough when she wasn’t out in the open.
”Walk first,” she said.
Squirrelflight was already on her feet. ”The usual spot?” she said, meaning a small clover ditch close to the abandoned human house. It was similar enough to their hideout in the old forest.
Leafpool nodded, ”Lead the way.”
Squirrelflight started up the bank, clearing the stretch of sand in a few easy leaps. She crossed the fennels into the forest as Leafpool followed behind, taking her time with setting her paws. She had gotten slower these days, but Squirrelflight still carried herself with the same buoyant gait, tail held high to keep the prey coverts still in her wake. As an apprentice she would walk with her chin so high that she’d trample on puffballs and trip on molehills, and Dustpelt had said that she’d be the best birder in the forest if only her precious attention span wasn’t wasted on spotting clouds rather than finches. Even nowadays, Leafpool half expected Squirrelflight to pounce on wet moss patches to see which one made the best splash, staining her single white paw green in the process.
But Squirrelflight was no longer the same cat Leafpool knew as a kitten. She had gone on that journey to find the sun-drown place and left Squirrelpaw behind, returning independent and wise beyond her years, but still feisty and beautiful all the same. Leafpool wanted to run ahead and bat her around the ears and scold her like why did you grow up when I wasn’t looking? but frolicking around too much didn’t seem like such a good idea anymore.
And why did I grow up without you, she thought, feeling worse by the moment.
Ahead, Squirrelflight was jumping off a giant oak stump, disappearing behind the spikes of bark that jutted off its edge. When Leafpool caught up, Squirrelflight was sniffing the air, tail thoughtfully waving in the night breeze.
”You know, this quarter-moon has been really good so far,” she was saying. ”Brackenfur was making it sound like all the prey would have turned to ice in their nests by now.”
”It will be more wet than anything,” Leafpool replied. ”Anyways, he’s only nervous because he has a litter in the nursery.”
”If they’re anything like him and Sorreltail, a little freeze won’t hurt them,” Squirrelflight shrugged. ”This whole fatherhood thing seems to be putting him on edge. Who knew it could change a cat so much?”
Leafpool pressed ahead, eyes to the ground. ”There’s a first time for everything.”
”Well, I say he’s being a worrywart for nothing. It’s not like he can make new-leaf come any sooner,” Squirrelflight said, bounding back to her sister’s side. ”Did you know, there’s a saying in WindClan: ’Worry about the warrens after the rabbit’s in it, not before’, or something.”
“Yes, I did know that one,” Leafpool said bluntly.
“Oh,” Squirrelflight blinked. The how dawned on her. “Right.”
The rest of the walk was silent, with Squirrelflight trying to seek out her sister’s gaze and Leafpool purposefully avoiding it. It had been like this for the moon or so since Leafpool had been back in ThunderClan—every cat carefully circling around the incident and anything that had to do with it.
By all accounts, Leafpool should have been convicted as a traitor and punished accordingly, but the healership vacuum where Cinderpelt used to be had made it easy for her to return to her old duties and take on the new ones. It’s not like Firestar could do anything about it, or any cat for that matter.
But oh, did they talk. Leafpool only gave it half an ear because she knew better than to torture herself like that, but it didn’t exactly seem like joy nor relief they felt about her return.
Even Sorreltail, her oldest friend, had turned infuriatingly polite around her, asking measured questions like are you settling back in nicely? and are you sure being a healer is really what you want?, as if Leafpool hadn’t already run her brain ragged about it before. She gave her best non-answers that made it hard to pry and even harder to get close, and that was just how she liked it.
There was no point in thinking about the what-ifs and what-could’ve-beens anymore. She had made her nest and now she had to lie in it. The only thing she could selfishly hope for is for someone to know and to bear witness to her transgression. An accomplice, even.
The abandoned human house stood in the forest like a creature, the occasional flashes of moonlight blinking through the cracks like pairs of eyes. Leafpool felt safe here; it was hidden and well out of earshot from anyone who would think to be out this late, and most importantly because the overgrown ditch west of the house had quickly become sacred to her and Squirrelflight, their own pocket of the world to spend time in, though they had been there scarcely.
Squirrelflight descended into the dip, taking a spot underneath an overhang of hazel. Leafpool followed suit, her heart hammering so hard it was threatening to knock her off her paws.
“So,” Squirrelflight began airily, “I think you’ve kept me in suspense long enough. What did you want to talk about?”
Leafpool opened her mouth to speak, but she realized she couldn’t hear herself; only the sound of her heart pounding in her ears. She sat there, gaping, willing some sort of wisdom to impart upon herself, but there was nothing. Only the truth that felt too big to come out.
Suddenly, Squirrelflight was pressed to her side, tail sweeping her back comfortingly. “Hey, you look terrified,” she said, voice low. “Are you okay?”
Leafpool shook her head. “It’s—it’s hard to say out loud,” she breathed out. Breathe in, breathe out.
“Talk to me,” Squirrelflight said, holding her tighter. “There’s nothing in the world that can shock me, you know.”
Leafpool braved her mind and lifted her gaze to look into Squirrelflight’s eyes, those bright greens that had never shown anything but love and sincerity for her. Her sister would not abandon her; she knew this, but despite everything there was a seed of doubt that seemed to sprout whenever she thought to place her trust in someone. Maybe, this was too much for even Squirrelflight to handle, or maybe she’d blame her, or…
Only one way to find out.
”I’m pregnant.”
Leafpool watched Squirrelflight’s expression go from concern, to steadily mounting surprise, to— then it became unreadable because she wasn’t looking at her anymore but to some middle space and Leafpool was just about ready to fly into panic until Squirrelflight promptly tucked her under her chin and forced a purr for her to listen to.
”Oh, Leafpool,” Squirrelflight whispered, and Leafpool heard her swallow thickly. ”I thought you were going to leave again.”
Leafpool trembled. She felt like she should. Anywhere but being on ThunderClan territory and under StarClan’s watchful eye would’ve felt better right then. But she would not run this time.
”I’m sorry,” she said under her breath, and felt Squirrelflight shaking her head, the movement ruffling the fur on top of Leafpool’s head. Nothing to be sorry for, her sister would’ve said, if there were any words to be spoken.
A long moment seemed to pass like that. A lonely owl cooed somewhere nearby, turning in for the night. It wouldn’t have felt like more than a few heartbeats until either of them spoke, if Leafpool couldn’t tell time from the moonlight; one moment it shone through the hazel and by the next it was gone.
A tongue rasped over her ears. ”How long have you known?” asked Squirrelflight.
”Not too long. A quarter-moon,” Leafpool replied.
”Ah.”
Had it really been that long? It felt like most days had blurred into an intangible mass. The rest of the Clan had been relishing in good weather, while Leafpool was stuck thinking about the rain.
”What are you going to do?” Squirrelflight was saying, carefully, like she wasn’t sure whether she wanted to hear the answer or not.
Leafpool shook her head. ”I don’t know.” Then, desperation seeping into her voice like a badly dressed wound, ”I don’t know.” She was so tired of thinking, and running around herding her thoughts into something that made sense, tripping over everything she refused to reflect on.
”Then we’ll figure it out,” Squirrelflight said with a little nudge. ”Together. Process of elimination.”
She sounded much more confident than she looked. She doesn’t know what to do either, Leafpool realized with a painful start.
”Is there something you can do to, you know—” a vague wave of a white paw, ”—make them go away?”
There probably was. If Leafpool asked around some, she was sure there existed some sort of protocol. Nevermind the fact that it sometimes just happened, without rhyme or reason. But the longer she entertained the thought, the quesier it made her feel.
”It’s a gamble at best,” she said, curling in on herself. She wasn’t showing properly yet, but it wouldn’t be long. ”Besides, I—I don’t think I can.”
”Okay,” Squirrelflight said, pupils flitting on the ground in thought. ”Okay. So now the question is what happens afterwards.” She flicked her eyes to Leafpool, brows knit in an anxious crease. ”Do you want to have them?”
”I can’t be a mother,” Leafpool murmured to her paws, gripping the fallen leaves underneath. ”Now I know more than ever what I am meant to be. A healer. And kittens cannot be a part of that.” Because the whole Clan is meant to be my children, she finished in her mind. ”But now it looks like I cannot have neither.”
Squirrelflight was shuffling next to her. She was the kind that thought with her whole body, tail-tip twitching pensively, the rhythm of it no longer comforting on Leafpool’s back.
”Not necessarily,” Squirrelflight said after a pause. ”Obviously it’s against the code, but Firestar wouldn’t let anything happen to you. If we tell Sandstorm first—”
”No,” Leafpool said, eyes wide in alarm.
Squirrelflight looked dumbfounded. ”Why not?”
”I can’t ask her to lie! Not to the Clan or her mate,” Leafpool pleaded, hoping it’d convey why telling Firestar was even further out of the question. It’d put him at odds with everyone around the lake, if it came to light that he was willing to overlook such iniquities from his cats.
Squirrelflight gave a grave sigh. ”So you want to keep this a secret, from everyone?”
Leafpool bristled at her tone; it made her feel cornered. ”A Clan cannot keep a secret. And when it gets out, it’ll be more trouble for everyone,” she said. ”WindClan will stake a claim to the kittens and I cannot let them shed blood because of me.”
Firestar would fight for them, of course. He would war nail and tooth for his grandchildren if he had to. But she thought of her father, how tired he’d been the past year; leading his Clan across the mountains to a new home, dealing with Onestar, dealing with the loss of both of his best friends.
What was more, it had only been a fortnight or so since that heinous attempt on his life, when Leafpool had feared that she’d lost him for good. The still-red scars left by the snare, lapping all around his throat, were looking like they were going to stay there for life, forever a reminder of what prowled in the darkness.
To trouble his convalescence with the actions of his foolish daughter…
No, it was unthinkable to tell Firestar. And as much as she ached to tell Sandstorm, to curl up by her side and be comforted like a distraught kitten again, she could not bring her family to ruin. If the worst came to pass, she wouldn’t let Squirrelflight be indicted either. There was only hoping that StarClan would forgive her involvement as that of an unwilling accomplice.
The mention of WindClan had flared Squirrelflight, her lip curling contemptuously. ”Here we are while he’s probably getting off scot free.”
Leafpool didn’t want to think about that, not now. ”Focus.”
”I am,” Squirrelflight said.
Another tense silence followed. The longer it seemed to stretch on indefinitely, the more Leafpool felt it sapping hope out of her, thick tendrils of dread smothering it out of her insides. Her belly felt heavy, portentous with its very presence; she felt as though she was growing bad omens instead of kittens, and she hated it, and more than anything she hated herself for feeling like that. They didn’t deserve to be the sum of her mistakes; they deserved to be wanted and loved by their Clan as every kitten ought to be, but she feared that their names and futures would forever be tainted by mere association.
Maybe, if Leafpool could spare her kittens by taking the brunt of the consequences and the Clans’ ire, maybe that would make her suffering worthwhile.
And yet.
There was no way out that she could see, none that would save everyone else from the heartache she was feeling. The future felt like a great oppressive badger, blocking her path, staring her down through the stars in the sky. She was certain of it now; her ancestors had nothing more to say to her. She was forsaken.
The moonlight had disappeared for good now, enveloping the forest in dense darkness. It felt pressurizing around Leafpool, and she was cold in a way she knew wasn’t because of the weather.
Squirrelflight said something to her, but she didn’t hear it. Only when she felt her poke her shoulder did she numbly raise her head.
“I know it looks bad right now,” Squirrelflight was saying, pausing between words to cast faith into her voice, “but I thought of something. I think it’s our only choice.”
Leafpool’s ears perked, but the look she caught in Squirrelflight’s eyes froze her in place. It was deathly serious.
Surely not.
Surely she wasn’t going to suggest a desperate measure like—
“I’ll take the kits.”
Leafpool blinked.
“What?”
“I’ll take the kits,” her sister repeated like she was stating a fact—water is wet, the sun is hot and Squirrelflight has finally lost her wits for good. “Nobody needs to know that you’re the mother.”
The high whistle of a nightingale echoed throughout the forest. Leafpool was struggling to follow along. ”What do you mean?”
”You’ll give birth to them somewhere where the Clan won’t see it, and I’ll bring them back,” Squirrelflight explained. ”It’ll be leaf-bare by then, so we’ll say we found them abandoned—it happens with loners and rogues and such, right?”
She began to gesture on the ground as if she was drawing, but Leafpool was too stunned to follow her gaze. ”Maybe somewhere past the borders would be good, that way nobody could run into us, and obviously nobody would think to connect a healer to the kits. Once we’re back, they can call me their mother if they like—the point is,” Squirrelflight said, ”I’ll be their warden.”
She was looking at Leafpool expectantly now. Her grit only seemed to strengthen the longer they stared at each other. Leafpool felt sick to her stomach.
”You’re kidding,” she said.
Squirrelflight made an offended noise. ”Yes, I’m obviously joking. Come on.”
“No,” Leafpool shuddered, shaking her head to rid herself of the thought. “You can’t.”
“Give me one good reason why not.”
“Do you even know what you’re suggesting right now? You’re giving up too much—your entire future for this,” Leafpool all but growled.
Squirrelflight was the youngest warrior in ThunderClan, and despite her budding relationship with Brambleclaw, she had never mentioned, or really even seemed interested in starting a family so soon into her career. The small pause that gave her, gone in an instant but not soon enough for Leafpool to not notice, was all it took to confirm just how far she had thought this through.
“The Clan will be there for me,” Squirrelflight defended. “Daisy and Ferncloud will help me rear them. I’ll vouch for their right to stay when it’s time. Nobody would dare object if they become a part of the leader’s family.”
Leafpool narrowed her eyes. “You’ll be lying to everyone.”
“I’ll be lying more or less no matter what happens—this is the least painful way to do it,” Squirrelflight shot back. She rose to her feet and rounded around Leafpool, picking apart her incredulous expression like a sour meal. “Do you think I’m not capable enough for it?”
Leafpool ignored the flash of cold all down her side from where her sister had been a moment before. ”That’s not the point.”
Squirrelflight would be wonderful to the kittens. It was Leafpool who was grasping at straws.
”Then why?”
”Because that’s not how this works!” Leafpool yowled through gritted teeth, mustering a bravado that sounded weak even to her own ears. ”I know you’re a self-sacrificial idiot who thinks she can fix others’ problems by making them her own, but this is not your burden to bear. It’s mine.”
She couldn’t look at Squirrelflight’s eyes when she said it. The affronted silence was almost enough to make her take her words back right then and there, almost.
Leafpool knew this song and dance from when they were younger; she would get into one of her moods and Squirrelflight would keep following her around camp, demanding to know what was wrong, not letting up no matter how stung she looked by the ignoring and pointed jabs. Sometimes she managed to wear her down into talking, sometimes she would sneak a fire ant into her nest because having Leafpool be angry at her felt better than seeing her so listlessly sad.
Sometimes Leafpool hated how her sister seemed to know her better than she knew herself, and how she always knew how to weaponize that against her.
They locked gazes again, and Leafpool saw herself mirrored in her sister; the taut pose, the defiant set of her ears. Only Leafpool was always going to be the first to crack.
“It’s your choice,” Squirrelflight said, voice low and clearly articulated, “but I won’t back down about this.”
Of course she wouldn’t—that much had always been clear, as was the fact that Squirrelflight was right and any resistance against her was always going to be futile. Out of the two of them, she had inherited their parents’ stubbornness—no, they were both stubborn in all the worst ways, that echoed none of Sandstorm’s tact and everything of Firestar’s inanity. At least that could be a point of pride to them if nothing else.
Leafpool swallowed back something, a tremendous thing in her throat that was threathening to overcome her.
“I could never ask you to do it,” she said, hardly louder than a whisper. One last out was all she could give Squirrelflight at this point.
The stone cold look of resolve in her sister’s eyes melded into something impossibly tender and knowing, so potent that Leafpool almost had to look away. “Of course you wouldn’t ask,” Squirrelflight said softly. “That’s why I’m asking you first. You’re so caught up in not being a burden that you forget what family is for,” she went on, coming closer; Leafpool saw the extended paw in her mind.
“To be leaned on.”
Leafpool’s composure was coming undone; slowly, carefully, she was letting down her defenses, with all the uncertainty of a fawn taking its first step.
One last question stood in the way. “Why would you do it?”
Another too-wise look that didn’t look like it belonged on her little sister’s face, but was determined to make a home of it anyways. “Better me than you.”
The dam broke.
Leafpool hadn’t known what it was, until her vision had blurred into smudges of ginger and dark, and whole-body sobs were rippling through her from her nose to the tip of her tail. Squirrelflight was pressed next to her again, sweeping her tongue across Leafpool’s hackles as she listened to her cry helplessly into the night. This time, the purr reverberating from her chest sounded genuine.
The nightingale sang from deep within the forest, as if offering its own share of solace.
It didn’t feel like a respite. More like the opposite; Leafpool was heartsore and afraid, trembling against another body like huddled prey, waiting to be struck down by things largely out of her control. Her head and her eyes hurt, body faltering under the weight of her tears, like a flash flood eroding river banks in its wake, drowning everything that tried to live there.
But she allowed herself to feel it, that unspeakable pain of self-hatred, hatred of her circumstances, the hopelessness.
It felt like it was giving way to something. A common ground over the chasm she had built around herself to keep her bent soul from breaking out in the world.
Crossing it was always going to be a problem, but she knew what they said about heights; just don’t look down.
And she wasn’t planning to. Not when she had someone else to look at, waiting for her on the opposite shore.
She kept on crying, until there were no tears left, every part of her buckling under bone-dry exhaustion. Her sobs eventually weakened into quiet sniffles, muffled where her head was buried under Squirrelflight’s chin. After a while, the latter ceased her grooming and leaned back to look into Leafpool’s wet eyes, with a nurturing sort of encouragement.
“We’ll figure out everything later,” Squirrelflight reassured, tilting her head. “Let’s just sleep on it, yeah? Tomorrow is another day.”
Leafpool nodded, sniffling. It was like Cinderpelt used to say, accompanied with a cheeky smile: It’s always just one paw in front of the other—you’ve got four good ones for it!
Leafpool didn’t know what she had done to deserve the cats in her life, even after everything she had taken for granted and eventually lost.
All she knew was that she had never loved her sister as much as she did now.
“I’m sorry for being so difficult,” was all she elected to vocalize of it.
Squirrelflight gave a big, exaggerated sigh. “I really do put up with so much from you, don’t I? Not to mention your awful taste in toms,” she said, whiskers twitching with the gentle teasing. “I mean, Crowfeather? You couldn’t have chosen a worse father for the kits.”
Leafpool leaned back in to nuzzle into Squirrelflight’s neck. “I don’t want to talk about him,” she said, but not as heavy-hearted as before.
“Me neither,” Squirrelflight said, pausing for a moment. “But, for the record—”
“He won’t be involved.” What he doesn’t know, can’t hurt him, Leafpool thought. Maybe there would be a right time in the future to let him in on it—it didn’t feel fair to keep him in the dark forever. But for now, Leafpool was determined to keep her distance. Going back on a goodbye was for a broken heart like a dirty tongue was for cleaning a wound—only a temporary relief, and worse in the long run.
The topic jogged Leafpool’s memory; something that should have been addressed from the start. “What about Brambleclaw?”
Squirrelflight shrugged. “He can choose what he wants to do. I don’t imagine he planned for kits either, but he’s not going to run.” Her tone supplied the context: he doesn’t want to be like his own father.
Leafpool nodded, but it was still tugging at her mind. “I won’t let you lie to him too much for me.”
Squirrelflight chuffed. ”You won’t make a criminal out of me yet,” she said, but upon seeing the still-stricken look on Leafpool’s face, she conceded: ”I won’t. Only your involvement will be a secret.”
That seemed satisfactory. Leafpool couldn’t think of anything else to add.
Squirrelflight gave the space between her brows one last lick before rising to her feet again and bowing down for a stretch. She made a face at a leaf glued to her heel, kicking it twice before it fell off. Leafpool smiled.
”Ready to go back to camp?” asked Squirrelflight.
Had it been an option, Leafpool would’ve been happy to stay in the ditch for the rest of her life. She knew she looked awful, hastily groomed fur and snotty face and all, but at least she had the healer’s den all to herself now. There was a sad little relief in that.
Wordlessly, she rose and lifted herself back to ground level with the help of her sister. She could’ve mentioned that she wasn’t so pregnant yet that a little climb was above her capacity, but she held her tongue. Being doted on for a change felt nice.
Starting down the footpath that led back home, Squirrelflight looked lost in thought. Leafpool was about to ask, but they met halfway.
”How many do you think there will be?” Squirrelflight pondered. ”I just sort of assumed that there’ll be more than one.”
”Three,” said Leafpool simply.
Squirrelflight blinked at her. She looked like she was about to question how she was able to tell so soon, but thought better of it. Healers and their means and all.
”Three,” she mused, tail curling slowly above her back. Then she smiled. ”Three’s a good number. We’ll have a witness if two of them turn out to be troublemakers.”
Leafpool couldn’t quite match her smile. It was a good saying, but having spent enough time with elders and queens, she knew what they really meant when they spoke about litters in threes: they won’t be lonely if one of them dies.
Her thoughts flitted back to the smallest dot on the ladybug’s shell; the runt of the litter. Her heart clenched painfully in return. A small hum was all she replied to Squirrelflight with.
As they walked at the leisurely pace set by Leafpool, she had plenty of time to ruminate—not like she had been doing much of anything else with her downtime lately. She still wasn’t convinced about going along with Squirrelflight’s plan, but they had to agree: it was the best, and probably the only choice they had for now. Some part of Leafpool felt better for having bridged the gap between them by telling the truth, but now the stakes were twice as many; Squirrelflight was promising away too much of her life, and afterlife if StarClan didn’t see their situation the way they did.
The awful dread, all too familiar by now, twisted in Leafpool’s gut. She wanted to ask, what if things go wrong? but knew already how Squirrelflight would respond: what if they go right instead?
Leafpool closed her eyes, and resolved to be brave.
She had made up her mind. She would place her trust in her sister, for better or for worse.
A small twitch in her belly caught her attention, so small that she was almost sure she imagined it. Then you must agree, she thought to her children.
For what felt like the first time, Leafpool thought of the kittens—not as a vague, congruent idea, but as cats that she was yet to meet. She had avoided it consciously, too afraid to bare her soul to it, but her curiosity—and, to some extent motherly instinct—was getting the best of her.
Somewhere past the highlands, they would have led entirely different lives, free to play, hunt and wander as they pleased. But within the realm of the Clans, they’d have to conform to an inconvenient lie—that they were not Clanborn, sons and daughters of outsiders, deserted ones at that. Leafpool hoped her concern was unfounded; ThunderClan had been very accepting of newcomers as of late, the streak beginning with Firestar himself, but she knew what some of her Clanmates thought privately of that policy. “The diluting of blood”, she’d once heard, and Sandstorm next to her had shot the speaker a look that could kill.
(If by some force ungovernable, the truth got out some day…
She decided not to finish the thought.)
Within Squirrelflight’s influence and her care, Leafpool hoped that the kittens would be untouchable. They could have parents and grandparents, a wayward aunt and even some cousins, if that’s what they choose to call them. She hoped they could grow, surrounded by an accepting Clan, like they ought to be. She hoped they could thrive.
They have to, a bolder part of Leafpool said. Her resolve surprised even herself; it was the first time she felt sure of anything during this ordeal.
Indulging herself for a moment longer, Leafpool found herself picturing what the kittens might look like. She hoped not, for the sake of their story, but she wondered if any of them would be brown, like her, or orange, like Squirrelflight—the color of the leaves.
Prompted by the thought, Leafpool lifted her gaze up to the canopy above. But it wasn’t the glorious amber of the maples she saw—they were passing through a glade, where the trees were fewer, making space for the sky. It was a black, gaping chasm, where even less stars were blinking than earlier.
The sight seized her for a sudden moment, her claws digging into the soil. She squeezed her eyes shut and shook out her fur, hoping to rid herself of their gaze, and forced herself to keep walking.
She had been praised as gifted and studious; a born healer. Now she felt like a joke.
”I can hear you thinking from over here,” Squirrelflight said from ahead, making her jump. She had heard Leafpool sigh before she had even registered it herself. ”Out with it.”
”It’s StarClan,” Leafpool said. ”They’ve been quiet.”
Squirrelflight paused, looking back at her. ”More than usual?”
Leafpool shrugged. There was no way to quantify StarClan; they rarely spoke when spoken to, sharing wisdom whenever they themselves saw fit. But when Leafpool needed guidance the most, they had only told her something she would have learned eventually anyways. There hadn’t been a face nor a voice in moons.
”I think they’re angry with me,” Leafpool said quietly. It sure felt that way.
Squirrelflight considered that, but ultimately, the statement did not seem to carry the same weight to her as it did to Leafpool. She hadn’t expected it to, but what came out next still surprised her.
”They’re not. Well, I wouldn’t know,” Squirrelflight corrected, ”but they haven’t abandoned you.”
“How do you know?” Leafpool asked, somewhat childishly. She knew she was asking the wrong cat, but any reassurance, whether it came from a place of knowledge or not, was indispensable right now.
Squirrelflight purred, giving her a sideways glance as she leaped on top of a slab of rock. “That’s easy. You’ve told me yourself.”
Leafpool blinked up at her, quirking her head to the side.
Squirrelflight smiled, the one that said she knew something others didn’t. She looked up at the stars, but Leafpool kept her eyes on her as she spoke.
“Do you remember when Brambleclaw and I were about to leave on that journey?” she began, whiskers streaming in the breeze. “I was scared that we’d get lost and never find our way back home.”
Squirrelflight hadn’t needed to ask; Leafpool remembered that night like it was yesterday. It had taken a lot of courage for Squirrelflight—then ‘paw—to admit her fear of the future; before then she had hidden it a little bit too well, behind impish grins and chipper tones. Leafpaw had seen through it like a pool’s surface.
Nobody says you have to leave, she had said, silently pleading for her sister to stay. But Squirrelpaw had stared off somewhere, alert and ears perked, like she had heard her name called.
But I can tell that this is important, she had said with a distant note, and that was the only reason she needed.
Leafpool had known then that Squirrelflight had to be the most loyal cat in the forest; not only to others, but most importantly, to her own heart. Telling her to defy it was like telling the wind which way to blow.
“That’s when you told me that StarClan hides in everything,” Squirrelflight continued, returning Leafpool to the present. “They may rest their eyes during the day and keep vigil at night, but they’re never not watching, always following, even if you stray from the forest.”
Her tail kinked as she leaped off the slab, eyes twinkling the way they did when she was getting to the good part of the story. “But that’s all in the ways that they love us! They see every stumble and dead end, but they’ll never, ever let you walk your path alone.”
Is that in the ways they loved me too, Leafpool thought, by giving me a sibling like you?
”I don’t really know all about that spiritual business—all I’ve ever been able to do is pray and do my best. But I do know that they would never turn away an earnest cat, least of all a healer,” Squirrelflight was saying. She shot a defiant look at the stars, as if daring them to argue. ”And if they do, well…they can count me out, too.”
Leafpool’s heart felt as though it was growing too big for her chest to contain.
”When did you get so smart?” she asked, a purr rising in her throat.
Squirrelflight grinned. ”Just quoting another wise cat I know,” she said. Then her face grew solemn for a moment and she padded forward, gently touching her forehead to Leafpool’s.
”So promise me you’ll try not to worry too much,” she said softly.
Leafpool nodded. She could promise to try.
”I don’t want you to go gray before our dad does,” Squirrelflight said with a playful tone, turning around and heading back into the direction they were going in.
Leafpool followed, mind and body feeling lighter. ”Let’s see how you look when you’re done running after the kittens.”
”Pah! I’d like to see if they can keep up with me,” Squirrelflight boasted, doing a little skip of her feet as she strode over a knotty oak root. She had short legs, but their strength no doubt came from within. She had never lost a race against Firestar when they were younger.
(And if their father had always shot Leafpool a little look before purposefully running slightly behind, well, that was between the two of them.)
Leafpool tutted, amused, and walked along.
A gust of wind blew in from the east, refreshing and pleasantly warm, bringing in the unmistakeable scent of petrichor among a dozen others. It picked up a pawful of dried leaves, twirling them in the air like a small dust devil en route to camp with them. Leafpool made a point to enjoy the crispy weather now, while she still could. For once, she felt as though she had the right.
Her eyes were still raw and bleary from earlier, stinging whenever the wind hit them just so. The exhaustion was hitting her too, heavily; she felt as though she had been up for a day and a night straight, and supposed it was more or less true, with only the fitful bursts of sleep inbetween. She had no idea how she was supposed to keep her strength up enough for the kittens and herself, when even the thought of eating or swallowing a herb made her nauseous. It felt like an uphill battle, every step of the way.
But for now, even for this brief moment alone, it was okay. She knew it would not be okay later; the worst was only yet to come.
But she wasn’t alone anymore. Never was, she realized with a small startle, glancing at her belly.
Still half expecting wrath but no longer cowering from it like a preyed animal, Leafpool looked up at the slowly clouding sky through a gap in the leaves. She met their thousand blinking eyes, unwavering.
She thought: StarClan, I don’t know what it is that you want me to do. I wish you would tell me that I’m not just covering up my mistake by making another.
She took a deep breath, letting it out in a steady breeze.
But I’ve decided to have faith.
If this is your will, then it must be so.
Soft, rustling pawsteps sounded from ahead. Leafpool lowered her head to eye Squirrelflight silently; she had crouched next to a brush, pupils as round as a pair of moons, sniffing at something that lay underneath. But as soon as she realized that it was an owl pellet and not an appetizingly still dormouse, she wrinkled her nose and shook herself off. She loped a few lengths forward and then stopped, turning to look back at Leafpool. She fixed her with a curious, warm gaze, waiting for her sister to catch up.
Leafpool looked at StarClan one last time, and thought: Thank you.
She ran ahead, back to her sister’s side. Walking home to family and carrying their own, they returned back to camp together.