Bluefur's Choice

A Matter of Time

The attack on the ShadowClan camp had been the first of many. It hadn't taken long before Longpaw, now the Clan's newest apprentice, was joining battles like a seasoned warrior.

As the days went on and the fighting continued, Bluefur reflected that at least Stormtail got the chance to die with honor. Knowing her father, Bluefur guessed he would have wanted that.

The loss of Thrushpelt hit Bluefur harder than she had expected. Some of it she knew was because of the pain his death was putting her kits through, and it caused an ache in her heart to see them so grief stricken over the cat they thought was their father. But she grieved for herself too. She hadn't realized how much time she had spent with Thrushpelt until now that he was gone, and his absence didn't seem real at times.

She hadn't appreciated him at all. While she didn't love him like she had loved Oakheart, Thrushpelt had been her closest friend. She wondered what he thought of her now that he was in StarClan. He must know about Oakheart. Did he hate her now? Somehow she knew he didn't; knowing Thrushpelt, chances were he would make friends with Oakheart in StarClan. Bluefur's whiskers twitched at the image.

Resting in the shade of the camp wall, Bluefur sighed, remembering how Thrushpelt had stood with her during most Gatherings. The meeting would be soon, and Bluefur was not looking forward to it. She recalled seasons past when she had been wholeheartedly interested in Gatherings, but those days were long gone; it was difficult to enjoy Gatherings when she was worrying about Thistlestar widening the rift between ThunderClan and the rest.

At least she was not alone all the time; since Thrushpelt's death, Whitestorm made an effort to talk to Bluefur as often as he could. He'd taken to hunting with her in the evenings after their warrior duties were complete for the day. Bluefur guessed he was concerned about her, but she was secretly thankful. It was nice hearing from Whitestorm from time to time; it helped her keep her mind off ThunderClan's recent troubles.

It was one such night when Bluefur got up from her spot by the warriors' den and bent her head to groom a cut on her shoulder; it was a bite she had received in one of the attacks on the ShadowClan camp she had taken part in.

"How is it?" Whitestorm twitched his tail at Bluefur's cut.

"Not bad." Moving her shoulder, Bluefur winced. "I think I'm well enough for regular patrols."

"That's for one of us to decide." Just then, Featherwhisker padded up, a bundle of herbs between his teeth. Spottedleaf trotted behind her.

"I do think it's getting better. I can at least hunt a bit," Bluefur insisted.

"Let's see." Featherwhisker leaned forward to sniff the cut, and then chewed up one of the herbs in the pile. "Stay still now." A moment later, before she could protest that she was fine and other cats needed herbs more, Bluefur felt pressure on her shoulder, and scented the tang of horsetail, a smell that had become all too familiar in recent moons. She flinched, narrowing her eyes as Featherwhisker applied the poultice. "You can hunt as long as you stay near the camp," he told her finally, stepping away. "That wound is two days old, and it will take many days to heal entirely. Keep that in mind." He turned to Whitestorm. "Your turn." As he worked he spoke with Spottedleaf. "We're running low on horsetail. It would be fine if this was a normal time-" he shot a glance at Thistlestar, who was speaking with Tigerclaw beside the Highrock- "but if this continues, and cats are coming home every other day with injuries, we'll have to restock."

Spottedleaf nodded. "I'll see to it that more gets collected. We need marigold as well."

"There should be a clump of that by Snakerocks," Featherwhisker told her, rising to his paws. "I can join you in a moment."