Archive of Our Own ^beta

Everyone Mistyfoot loves dies.

(Stonepaw asked her, once, if she remembered who they missed. Mistypaw had scowled and frowned. “Who is there to miss?"

He couldn’t answer her.)

“How are you feeling?”

“The same.”

Mistyfoot purrs, grooming Dapplenose gently. “You’re not just saying that?”

“Nope. Promise.” Dapplenose leans into Mistystar. “You don’t have to worry about me. You’re not my mentor anymore.”

“I’ll always be your mentor. And I’ll always worry.” She was, after all, the one to take Dapplenose to the medicine den when her joints started to ache. “Does Mudfur…?”

“He says it’s probably permanent. I’m trying to focus on what I’ve got going for me, over what I can’t get back.”

“Alright, alright. I just want you to be happy.”

“I am happy. Or I think I’m happy. Or I’m hoping to be happy again, or—oh, Mistyfoot. You don’t have to worry about me.”

“You’re my apprentice. I will always worry about you.”

“I know, but…look, I’m doing just fine. I’ll figure it out. It’s a loss, but it’s not going to keep me down.”

Maybe she’s turned a blind eye to it. Feathertail complains of aches before her time, grows stiff in the cold, has a pelt that never really reached the glossiness of her mother’s. But that isn’t surprising. Mudfur had examined her and concluded, with whiskers drawn back and an ear towards Leopardstar, that it was a consequence of lacking so much nutrition during a critical period.

At the time, she hadn’t thought to question why Stormfur didn’t seem to have the same deficiencies.

Now, though, Mistyfoot trains Mothpaw as Leopardstar trains Hawkpaw, and she thinks of Dapplenose, already in the elder’s den. Where Hawkpaw still has the hyper energy of a kitten, Mothpaw is already more stable. She’s better at fishing for it: she can sit and wait in a way it takes even a RiverClan-born cat moons to master. But it’s not typical. Mistyfoot has worked with enough young cats, has trained enough apprentices, to know.

(It’s with grief that she recalls Primrosepaw, hopping at the riverbank, batting the fluffy tops of grasses, tail flicking over running water, as Loudbelly tried to show her how to fish. By the time Primrosepaw was old enough to sit still, her lungs were heavy with fluid and her pulse weak and rapid.)

Mistyfoot thinks about it for a long time. She thinks when she can’t sleep at night, starlight leaving Stormfur’s pelt blue and Feathertail’s dull. She thinks in the heat of highsun as Mothpaw basks like she needs the warmth to loosen her body. She thinks as she eats with Dapplenose near moonrise, her appetite dull but teeth sharp. She thinks about how Primrosepaw was always breathing worse after Mistyfoot would spend a night with her and how until Tigerstar, she felt like she had boundless energy despite the cold. She thinks about Blackclaw, who started putting extra moss in his nest a few moons ago, where Leopardstar is still young. She thinks about Greypool, who aged quick and ragged, leaning against Mistyfoot as her mind left her.

Mothpaw sits next to her, watching the water move. They’re not really fishing, just sitting together. Both of them feel uneasy in camp sometimes, both feel the eyes that linger on them heavy. Mistyfoot feels where their pelts brush. She’s never paid attention to it before, but there’s a brush of heat that’s more than the sun alone. If she lets herself, if she focuses on it, it grows brighter. Mistyfoot tugs at the feeling, gets lost in the reaching, and when Mothpaw yawns, it genuinely startles her.

“Let’s go back to camp,” Mistyfoot decides, letting Mothpaw lead the way. She doesn’t seem any different.

Mistyfoot tries to let the idea of being cursed drift away from her. It was a silly thing to think in the first place. It’s silly, until the next morning comes and Mothpaw yelps in pain when she leaves her neck, her joints stiff and swollen. Mudfur treats her, tells her to rest, that she must have over-trained yesterday and she’ll be better soon.

She doesn’t get better.

Mistyfoot corners him after a half moon, desperate for answers. Her apprentice is hurting, nothing is making it better. She can’t lose another cat. Not when Mothpaw is so young yet.

“I’m sorry,” Mudfur says, before she can even ask. “I don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know what’s wrong?”

Mudfur flicks his tail. “I mean—I mean we know what’s wrong, but I couldn’t tell you why. Mothpaw is young, and…she should be healthy.”

“But she’s not.” And I am, Mistyfoot thinks. It works. She just wishes it didn’t cost Mothpaw’s life.

“She’s not.” Mudfur is hesitating, holding something back. Mistyfoot lets time pressure him into sharing. “She should think about what she wants to do. Patrolling duties may not be a good fit anymore.”

Mistyfoot nods, because if she says anything her heart will break open and spill from her mouth unbidden. She can’t tell anyone. They wouldn’t believe her if she did. It’s her curse to bear and manage in silence. She can do that much.

Mistyfoot wonders if—even by just being in her stomach—if her kits are being hurt. She knows she won’t be able to keep them, she knows Mosspelt will nurse them and comfort them when they slip and the unfairness of it feels like a test.

“I’m going to talk to Mudfur, about training under him.” Mothwing’s eyes are downcast. “I’ve always been interested, and I just…I can’t keep up.”

Guilt pricks at Mistyfoot. She didn’t mean to take this much from her apprentice. The echoes of the warrior Mothwing could have been echo. She is still a skilled fisher, although she can only fish on good days. Her build reveals a strong fighter who never got the chance to become battle-tested. Mistyfoot has watched her try for moons to do her duties on patrol, kept quiet on her frustrations at not meeting them. “There’s no shame in doing what you are capable of,” Mistyfoot says. “No matter what path you take, you will always make me proud.”

She licks Mothwing’s forehead.

Life sizzles between them. Mistyfoot can feel it, and she doesn’t know if she wants it.

(She doesn’t know how to stop it.)

It comes from just the brush of pelts and it leaves her feeling giddy and youthful. She was once a cat who loved so freely. Now, she only touches when she cannot bear to stay alone.

Feathertail dies in the mountains. Mistyfoot never sees her body. Didn’t have a chance to build a shrine.

Feathertail dies, and Mistyfoot would scream at Leopardstar, that she is the reason Feathertail learned sacrifice is another word for love.

Feathertail dies, and when Leopardstar stands next to Mistyfoot in a mockery of comfort, Mistyfoot focuses on the heat between them and pulls.

(Leopardstar loses a life over the journey. They don’t tell anyone. The sickness lapping at Leopardstar’s paws is creeping closer. The Clan doesn’t need to know how close it is.)

“I think Willowkit will make a good apprentice,” Mothwing says.

“I think so.” Mistyfoot bunts her temple against Mothwing’s, not saying what she should. That Mothwing is too young to need an apprentice. That Mudfur would still be teaching her, if he made the Journey. That she has no choice, because there are flecks of grey in Mothwing’s muzzle far too early and no one knows how to fix it.

Not even Mistyfoot.

She’s tried to give back what she took. To push instead of pull. It didn’t work. The river, once opened, only flows in one direction. She isn’t strong enough to swim against the current.

So though she is young, Mothwing must take an apprentice, and Willowkit is a strong candidate. She already shows an aptitude for mysticism, something both Mudfur and Mothwing lacked. It will be good for RiverClan to have a strong conduit to the stars. Mistyfoot has cause to wonder: if they had a medic attuned to StarClan, would Leopardstar have listened more?

“You drained my sister,” Hawkfrost says. “You stole her life—I don’t know how, but—”

“Let me show you.”

Hawkfrost’s eyes widen. “What do you…”

“You’re a threat,” Mistyfoot hisses. “I defend my Clan.”

She can do this. Kill him. And then she won’t have to take from innocents.

In the end, Hawkfrost turns to dust. Mistyfoot kicks his teeth in the stream and wonders if his soul will find the Moon. Hawkfrost wanted to take over the Clan. She knows him. She knew him before he was born. Maybe, though, since he didn’t have the chance to try, he won’t be condemned to darkness.

Mistyfoot schools her face and repeats her story. They were exploring the territory, and he fell by the cliffs, where the river feeds into the lake. It’s narrow but the water rushes fast, carrying his body out into the deep before she could fetch it. She’s so sorry, Mothwing. If anyone knows what it is to lose a brother—

If anyone knows loss, Mistyfoot thinks, as she sits vigil for a cat who didn’t deserve one, it’s her.

StarClan has given her this power to protect RiverClan. She won’t let it go to waste. Leopardstar cannot be trusted. Mistyfoot, seasons ago, when she was a different cat, when she had lost her brother but not her apprentices, agreed to be deputy, knowing she might one day have to do what Stonefur could not, and defy Leopardstar for RiverClan. She did not anticipate this reason: that Leopardstar would grow ill in body and mind, unable to lead and yet still with lives to carry her forward. StarClan has given her this power perhaps just for this moment. To let Leopardstar join the stars before she ruins what’s left of her legacy.

She has to be careful about this, make sure she positions herself carefully. The drought makes for good timing. She can remove Leopardstar from power, and the Clan would even thank her for it. The queen is spitting, her tongue more clawed than barbed, and RiverClan looks to Mistyfoot for what matters.

But still. She will not be able to explain the absence of a body so easily.

Mistyfoot is careful, until Rippletail doesn’t come back.

She was so careful with them. She nursed her kits until their eyes opened, then let Mosspelt raise them. She claimed being deputy was her duty, and that she couldn’t let someone else do it. She watched her kits grow and let other queens pin them for grooming so they didn’t embarrass themselves, never slept next to them because they were hurt. Reedpaw brought his first catch to Mosspelt, and it was everything Mistyfoot deserve and not enough for all she couldn’t tell him. RiverClan sits vigil for a soul already lost, and Greymist won’t sit next to Mistyfoot.

Time and time again. It is like Mistyfoot is expendable. Like Leopardstar has never truly forgotten what she believed. Like she believed it all along.

(Leopardstar did not have to sentence her brother to kill him.)

So Mistyfoot does what she has to do. She knows how many lives Leopardstar has left. It is harder than she expected, to stop herself, but she knows the feeling of taking just one life, and she pulls gently. Leopardstar, raving about things unseen, doesn’t seem to notice. It’s not until they’re near the border with ShadowClan, close enough Mistyfoot can spin a story of kittypets filled with loathing for Clan cats, vicious enough to ambush deputy and leader, and take Leopardstar’s last life.

The hardest part is letting Leopardstar hurt her enough for the story to be believable.

The Clan accepts her story with hollow eyes. They are all tired of her leadership. She deserves the dignity of a noble death. Willowshine prepares the body, and there is no fur caught in Leopardstar’s claws.

Mistyfoot licks her leader’s forehead, the way she would have licked her kits’, if she could have comforted them. Leopardstar, she will mourn. Even though the Clan needed her leadership to end, despite the fury Mistyfoot still feels when she thinks of them, StonefurFeathertailPrimrosePerchPikeRippleclaw, Leopardstar was once her friend. She will mourn that, if nothing else.

But not tonight. Tonight, she will meet the stars that cursed and blessed her.

She meets Mothwing’s eyes. It will be her that accompanies Mistyfoot to the Moonpool. Mistyfoot will stand before StarClan alone.

They depart as the Clan sits vigil. She tells the Clan with kittypets so vicious, she worries she can’t wait even a night without StarClan’s blessing. In truth, what is left of Leopardstar is nothing for her to mourn. And Stonefur didn’t get a vigil, nor did Feathertail or Rippleclaw. Why should Leopardstar get one?

It is a silent journey. This is part tradition and part history. Too much has gone unsaid for them to speak now. Mistyfoot’s guilt strangles her, and if she choked out a word she’d spill out an odyssey of history. What’s done is done. There may come a day when Mothwing can appreciate that what happened was necessary. That Mistyfoot could not have become the leader the Clan needs without learning what she is capable of. The cost Mothwing paid deserves to be honored, but it will go unknown. Mistyfoot could not bear to acknowledge it now and hold her tongue after.

The Moonpool is dark. The moon hangs, three claws deep, but the Moonpool itself is dark. Willowshine might think it an omen, but Mothwing does not speak to the stars and Mistyfoot needs no guidance tonight.

“You know what to do,” Mothwing says. Not a question, but a certainty. “I will be with you when you wake.”

Mistyfoot dips her head, laps at the water, tasteless and cool. She sleeps.

(She stands in an empty place. There are no cats to guide her. No lives to be given to her. Mistyfoot yowls into darkness and no one comes. There are no words. No loved ones, long passed, pressing courage or wit or passion into her being. There is nothing for her. She names herself Mistystar and glares upwards for a challenge. She shouldn’t be surprised. The stars have never spoken for her before.)

Mistystar makes her choice between her kits carefully. Greymist is a queen. She doesn’t deserve to see her kits grow old and die before her. Reedwhisker’s daughter Minnowtail was close to him as a kit, but they’ve grown apart. It will hurt him to lose her, but not as much as it would hurt Greymist.

She doesn’t want either of them to die; she doesn’t want either of them to suffer. She refuses to lose both of them to an uncaring sky.

When Reedwhisker licks her shoulder, she pours as much energy as she can into their connection, and it flows into him. He pulls away with a deep breath in and he must know something has changed, but Mistystar cannot tell him, won’t burden him with a secret to keep from the Clan. This weight she bears alone.

Willowshine corners her days later. Walks into Mistystar’s den with confidence and bared teeth, blotting out the sun like so many before her. She is not the first to stand between Mistystar and RiverClan. But she is the youngest, the most malleable, the most reasonable. Mistystar appeals to that first.

“I thought it was a curse at first,” she explains to Willowshine. “And then I realized it was a gift. I am here for RiverClan. No leader could ever known what a gift it is to live their life for their Clan the way I have.”

Willowshine’s eyes are wide and round, pupils round to take Mistystar in. “This isn’t right.”

“Do you need to go back to the elder’s den for a lesson in what happens when the wrong leader comes to power?” (So many are lost. TigerClan is barely a ghost story. But Mosspelt lives, could tell Willowshine what Mistystar has dedicated herself to stopping.)

Willowshine just lashes her tail, then calms. “They’re unwell.”

“And StarClan will reward them for their sacrifice.”

Willowshine just stares at her. She doesn’t have an apprentice. Mistystar cannot risk the health of her Clan because a medic too young to know what she has the chance to do. “I need a medic who understands. One who will help me extend StarClan’s will. I’m sure StarClan’s light will shine on them. Keep them around as long as they are needed.”

And if there is bitterness in Willowshine’s eyes when she accepts this, it is a trick of the light.

“We love our apprentices like our kits,” Mistystar murmurs. “Moth, you have no idea what it does to me to see you hurting.”
“It’s my time,” Mothwing says, sighing. “My mind…it’s too much.” She blinks too fast for a moment, as if searching for words that won’t come. “Oh, Mistystar. At least I witnessed you become leader.”
She did, more than she will ever know. She saw Mistystar wake up unchanged and yet remade. It was her eyes that made Mistystar real, her voice that spoke Mistystar into being. It was her life that made Mistystar.
“You have served RiverClan well,” Mistystar says. “And trained Willowshine expertly. If it is your wish to retire, I broke no argument.”

Age does not creep up on Mistystar anymore. Age is a rising tide that threatens to swallow her. She trains Mintpaw, tempering her control and taking just a little, but she’s being chased by aching bones, and it isn’t long before Willowshine says, “He must have whatever Mothwing has,” and he, too, becomes a warrior the Clan knows will only patrol for a few seasons before he can no longer.

Reedwhisker, at least, looks young.

Mistystar tries to take the life of prey, but it is a momentary flash against the rapidly dying light. She cannot hurt another RiverClan cat, cannot sacrifice another she is bound to protect. During Gatherings, she pulls life carefully from the other leaders. Never too much, even though it rushes through her like the first rain in a drought. She is always careful to leave them without taking a life. The other Clans would despise her if they knew, would threaten RiverClan, would undo all the work she has done.

It’s for the best their leaders change quickly. One day, Mistystar will be understood to be RiverClan’s leader. That’s all she needs. She is no tyrant seeking power. All she’s ever wanted is her Clan.

Mothwing dies and Mistystar sits vigil for a daughter. RiverClan cannot understand the martyr they’re mourning. They will never know.

Mistystar builds the shrine for Mothwing she never built for Stonefur or Feathertail or Rippletail, the one she left behind for her first litter, for her mother, for her father. She is the only one who will ever come to it.

She hopes, wherever Mothwing’s soul finds to rest, she knows that she will not be forgotten.

Nothing fixes the tooth pain.

“I’ve found an apprentice,” Willowshine says. It is not the first time she has told Mistystar this. It is a tragic thing, her luck. The stars favor her, not those she surrounds herself with.

“Who?”

“Frostkit.”

Mistystar thinks of the kitten. She shows a good potential. A connection with StarClan. She could be good. Perhaps she could stay. RiverClan grows, and they could use a second medic. “She seems nice. I hope you pass on everything Mothwing taught you.”

A young cat does not need to know what it takes to protect a Clan. It’s a burden too heavy to be healthy.

Mistystar has seen her mother grow frail in body and mind, has watched Leopardstar rage over unknown slights, and now, she feels it in herself. There are phantom touches, but no real ones. Willowshine and Frostpaw and Reedwhisker are watching her, staring at her. The three of them are the only cats who are talking to her.

She picked well, then. Picked cats she can trust. Because if the other cats won’t talk to her, it must be a warning of something. There’s a plot. She can feel it.

But she won’t follow paranoia down that line. She knows how Bluestar died. There is little she wants to share with the queen who gave birth to her, and that least of all. There is no reason for these thoughts.

The ache in her jaw just keeps her awake at night.

She’ll need to take more at the next Gathering, but before the Moon even begins to rise, it breaks out in a thundering storm. Mistystar cringes at the ache that rises in her bones, wonders how to make it out this time. RiverClan isn’t ready to be without her. They don’t know what danger lurks, what ambition and vying for leadership can do. They have only known peace and prosperity under her leadership. Without her, they will crumble at the first test.

But the rain pours down too fast, too loud, for her to think. Willowshine slinks into her den with a mouthful of herbs, dripping just from the walk through camp.

Mistystar sniffs at them.

“You look unwell,” Willowshine says. “Have you been sleeping?”

“I’m fine,” Mistystar says. There is poppy seed in the herbs. Willowshine wouldn’t betray her, would she? Mothwing understood danger. Willowshine might not. Willowshine could be swayed.

“We’re worried about you.” Willowshine’s tail waves low against the ground, and Reedwhisker and Frostpaw creep into the den as well. They cast long shadows in the storm, thunder cracking as Frostpaw looks into her eyes for the first time.

How did she never notice the blue of Frostpaw’s eyes? Stonefur, Feathertail, how many cats have those eyes? How many ghosts must she see tonight?

“Mistystar,” Reedwhisker says. It’s so gentle. As though she were the kit. “It’s time for this to be over.”

Her son. He looks at her with pity now. He looks so much like his father, and Mistystar remembers the way Blackclaw loved him. It was not meant to work out between her and Blackclaw, nor was he meant to be a father, but still. He loved Reedwhisker, and Mistystar had loved that much of him, even to his deathbed. Her son, her only living son, what does he know of over? What does he know of time? He has only one daughter who lives. What could he know of loss?

“This will make it easier,” Willowshine says, nudging the herbs with her paw, but Mistystar is looking past her. Another set of eyes, a blue so familiar and forgotten her sorrow threatens to bring her to her knees.

“I’m sorry,” Mistystar whispers. “I failed you.”

Stonefur—how she’s missed his face!—just watches, his eyes heavy and sad.

“Why did you leave me?” Her bones ache. She’s fought off the inevitable for so long, it just feels like nothing. “I’m tired, Stone. I want to be done.”

Her brother is silent.

Where are her kits? Her family? She doesn’t think she’s going to StarClan—she thinks that path was crossed a long time ago—but if StarClan is here, where are they?

Beside her, Willowshine purrs, licking her head like a queen licks a kit. Reedwhisker and Greymist—do they know? Will they miss her?

“It’s all over now,” Willowshine says. Her voice is kind—Mistystar can’t remember the last time Willowshine directed her gentleness towards her. “You can sleep, Mistystar.”

“Tell me what’s going on,” Mistystar pleads, searching Stonefur. “Tell me what’s happening to me.”

He doesn't answer.

Her fur coarsens, then falls out, and her limbs feel weaker. Death comes for her not like the Fox Mothwing once told her of, not like the victory in battle it should have. It comes for her like sinking deep into the river.

“Do the others care?” She misses them. It’s been so long—too long. Her bones are crumbling. She couldn’t stand.

“Be at peace,” Willowshine says.

“Stonefur,” Mistystar begs, gasping for air. “Stonefur, please don’t leave me.”

He dips his head, then turns away.

“I love you,” she says. “I’m sorry.”

“I know,” Willowshine says. “They know.”

Her senses are failing her. Her lungs and heart slow until they stop, and Willowshine purrs until Mistystar knows no more.