Warriors: Silverjaw's Sorrow

Chapter Ten

A golden ray of sunshine trickled into the RiverClan camp, shining brilliantly through wisps of fog. The first cracks of dawn introduced warmth to the chilly morning, eating away at frost-gathered grass.

    Cats emerged from their dens as they prepared for the new day, while Silverpaw sat, already present, in the center of the clearing.

    Her light paws were tucked under her stomach, and her nose remained pressed against soft, red fur. Her fur was bushed out, fighting to keep warm under the cool air. She inhaled deeply, knowing that one of these breaths would be the last time she'd ever smell her mentor's scent.

    "You were an honored warrior of RiverClan, Sorrelmouse. A mother, a friend, a mentor, and a mate; your ever-loving presence will forever be missed. May you find a safe passage to StarClan, where you will embrace a pleasant eternity with the sun warming your back and fish leaping into your paws," Wishfern finished solemnly, bowing her head to the red warrior's still body.

    Sorrelmouse looked as though she were merely dozing. Her pelt was nicely groomed, as it always was, and her nose was tucked lightly beneath her tail. The faint smell of watermint wafted from her body, disguising the undeniable stench of death. The wounds marring her fur were hidden as best as they could be. The injury on her neck, however, was still clearly visible. It was too large to be concealed like the rest, permanently dividing the warrior from what she was in life, and now in death.

    Silverpaw backed away, sadness hardening her throat like dry bark as the Clan's three elders carefully lifted her mentor's body and hauled her out of camp. As her golden eyes trailed the limp red figure, she could feel numbness spreading from her chest to the very tip of her tail.

    Denial surged through her—She can't be gone, this has to be a dream, but regardless of how hard she fought against the intrusive thoughts of reality, she simply couldn't. And that only hurt worse.

    Throughout the night, Silverpaw had only been accompanied by Dappledfang. The rest of the Clan had retreated to their nests long before moonhigh, leaving the two alone. The tom's grief was as clear as a full moon on a cloudless night, and he dared not spare a single glance to Silverpaw through his tears. She knew, deep down, that he blamed her for Sorrelmouse's death.

    As he should, she thought sadly. It really is my fault. If I'd left sooner... if I'd run quicker... she might still be here. She shuddered, snatching her eyes away from the camp entrance.

    With Wishfern and Pinestar on her tail, she had raced back to the border as fast as possible, only to be greeted by Dappledfang's mournful howling as he laid, hunched over his mate's unmoving body.

     Silverpaw was by his side in an instant; simply staring at Sorrelmouse's rapidly cooling corpse in a pool of her own blood.

    It was absurd to her how quickly a life could be snuffed. Her mentor; the cat who had taken her in as a daughter, had been stripped away in a single battle—just like Owlpaw. And neither had survived due to Silverpaw's negligence.

    Out of the corner of her eye, Silverpaw caught a flicker of brown fur through the hazy clearing. She dazedly turned her head to see Pinestar creeping out from between the roots of the ancient willow tree, his eyes gaunt with grief, but his form set with the imperturbability of a leader.

    He lifted his head and yowled, "May all cats old enough to swim in the rapids gather around for a Clan meeting!"

    The tom gathered his haunches and sprang atop a large, mossy boulder. His claws dug into the slick moss before he steadied himself, turning to face the swiftly gathering Clan.