Warriors: Beetlestar's Path

Chapter Twenty

     The burial had been lengthy. Dustfoot had worked tirelessly to clean and dress Troutpaw's body, saying nothing to anyone, and the following vigil had lasted up until sunhigh. When Troutpaw was finally laid into his grave by Reedtail and Piketooth, the storm finally broke. A shadow fell over WaterClan as a constant torrent of rain flooded the territory. Although such rains weren't uncommon, the darkness that came from them was, and it seemed as though the world was mourning the Clan's loss as well.  

     After awhile, the Clan returned to the warmth of their camp, leaving only Beetlestar and Badgerpelt beside the grave. The old molly, worn and ragged after so much death, did not utter a word, instead staring at the earthen mound with eyes clouded by unspeakable pain. She did not blink, hardly moving to breathe, and she reeked of sorrow. 

     Beetlestar shared her agony. He had felt the pain of loss many times before, with Ravenflight and Flywing's passings, as well as the deaths of Shatteredstone and Dovescratch. But this pain reached into the very depths of his heart and mind and dug claws into him, pulling him apart at the seams and unraveling his very soul. He felt as though the hurt might kill him, if he didn't do it himself.  

     As he watched the dirt of Troutpaw's grave turn to mud, memories flooded his mind. Images of he and Troutkit stargazing, and images of the kit's apprenticeship ceremony and the gentle touch of their noses as they created a bond. Images of his first catch: a vole whose den he had stepped on, leg plummeting in and paw grabbing the rodent by chance. Images of him in the DarkClan medicine den after the fire, and of him bravely tackling the fox, and then him lying under the rocky outcrop as carrion birds flocked down. 

     He had been so young. 

     And so the two sat there, heads bowed together as the world cried for them. 

     Five days passed since the burial. Five excruciating days crept by as Beetlestar finally settled into his proper den and laid in a fresh nest made by Heronswoop as a show of kindness. Five days blurred here and there as he slipped in and out of feverish sleep, plagued by dreams of yellow eyes and Troutpaw crying in the night. He had emerged at least once a day, urged by Swiftcreek, who kept the Clan in check for him. And in those few times he simply sat by his den and felt an emptiness eating at him. 

     He did, however, observe from the shadows of his den when his body ached too much from laying down. He watched as Flutternose carried prey to Badgerpelt in the warriors' den. He caught cats glancing at his den, Sorrelclaw and Dustfoot doing so the most, though no one really visited. 

     How pathetic I must seem, he thought one morning, as cats left camp for their patrols or were given orders to sort out some hole in a den. I'm just laying here. But he could not muster the drive to get up. 

     Five days after the burial, he finally received a real visitor besides his deputy or a solemn Dustfoot; Badgerpelt wandered in, a finch in her jaws. She dropped the bird in front of Beetlestar's nest and sat at his side, eyes trained on her paws. Silence passed between them until finally she sighed laboriously. "I don't know what to do." 

     Beetlestar didn't reply. He stared at the finch and his belly twisted into hard knots. Badgerpelt continued on. "How am I suppose to feel?" She whispered. "He was all I had left of her. He was all I had left of my own." Her eyes glittered with pain. "Everything feels so empty and quiet now. I can't stand it. I can't bear not having him here." 

     Her eyes darted to Beetlestar, who could only answer with a glance to her. It was foolish to be so broken over a single cat, especially when so many he held dear had died before, but Troutpaw's death simply felt so cruel.