Erin Hunter - The Darkest Hour

Cloudtail returned the lick, his tongue passing gently over the injured side of Lostface’s face. Firestar’s annoyance faded. He couldn’t help admiring Cloudtail’s unwavering devotion to Lostface in spite of her terrible injuries. His kin might be difficult and hotheaded, with little respect for the warrior code, but he had brought this young cat back from the brink of death and given her a reason to live.

As the welcoming cats began to disperse, Firestar caught the eye of Whitestorm, who had greeted him and then backed off a pace or two, waiting to speak.

“How are things in camp?” Firestar asked. “Was there any trouble while I was away?”

“Not a thing,” the senior warrior reported. “We’ve patrolled the whole territory, and there’s no sign of dogs or of ShadowClan.”

“Good,” Firestar mewed. Glancing at the well-stocked fresh-kill pile, he added, “I see some cats have been hunting.”

“Sandstorm took a patrol out, and Mousefur and Brackenfur put the apprentices to work,” replied Whitestorm. “Bramblepaw is a skillful hunter. I lost count of how much prey he brought in.”

“Good,” Firestar repeated. His plea sure in hearing his apprentice praised was tempered by the uneasiness he always felt when Tigerstar’s son was mentioned. Tigerstar had been a good hunter too, but that had not stopped him from becoming a murderer and a traitor.

Cinderpelt came up to him again. “I’m off to my den,” she meowed. “Call me if you want anything. Have you remembered that you need to appoint a deputy before moonhigh?”

Firestar nodded. Other duties had been more urgent, but now he needed to give this decision serious thought. Because she had been so shocked by Tigerstar’s treachery and exile, Bluestar had made Firestar’s own appointment a day late, without the proper ceremony. The Clan had been terrified that StarClan would be angry, and that had made things very difficult for Firestar. He was determined not to make the same mistake with his own deputy.

Watching Cinderpelt limping across the clearing to her den, Firestar realized that so far two cats had not come to greet him. One was Darkstripe; that did not surprise him. The other was Sandstorm, and that disturbed him. Had he done something to make her angry?

Then Firestar spotted her a few tail-lengths away, watching him with an uncharacteristically diffident air. Her green eyes flickered toward him and away again as he padded over to her.

“Sandstorm,” he mewed. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Firestar.” She didn’t meet his gaze, but looked down at her paws. “It’s good to have you back.”

Now Firestar was certain something was wrong. He had been looking forward all the long journey home to lying beside Sandstorm in the warriors’ den, to sharing tongues with her and catching up on her news. But he would not be able to do that again. From now on he would sleep alone in Bluestar’s old den—his den now—underneath the Highrock.

And with that realization came understanding of what was troubling Sandstorm. For all her confidence when he left the camp, she was not at ease with him now. “Mouse-brain,” he purred affectionately, pressing his muzzle against hers. “I’m still the same cat. Nothing has changed.”

“Everything’s changed!” Sandstorm insisted. “You’re Clan leader now.”

“And you’re still the best hunter and the most beautiful cat in the Clan,” Firestar assured her. “You’ll always be special to me.”

“But you…you’re so far away,” meowed Sandstorm, unconsciously echoing Firestar’s own fears. “You’re closer to Cinderpelt now than anyone else. You both know secrets about StarClan that ordinary warriors don’t.”

“Cinderpelt’s our medicine cat,” Firestar replied. “And she’s one of the best friends I have. But she’s not you, Sandstorm. I know things are difficult right now. There’s so much I have to do to take over the Clan…especially after what Tigerstar tried to do with the pack of dogs. But in a few days we’ll be able to go out on patrol together, just like we used to.”

To his relief he felt Sandstorm relax, and some of the uncertainty faded from her eyes. “You’ll need an evening patrol,” she mewed. Her voice was crisp, more like the old Sandstorm, though Firestar guessed she was covering up her unhappiness. “Shall I round up some cats and go?”

“Good idea.” Firestar tried to match her businesslike manner. “Go and have a sniff around Sunningrocks. Make sure RiverClan haven’t been up to their old tricks.” It would be just like Leopardstar, the ambitious leader of RiverClan, to try to claim the long-disputed territory while ThunderClan was shaken by the loss of Bluestar.

“Right.” Sandstorm hurried off toward the nettle patch, where Brackenfur and Lo n g tail were eating. Br a c k en f u r called to his apprentice, Tawnypaw, and all four cats headed for the gorse tunnel.

Firestar made his way toward the leader’s den. He still couldn’t think of it as his own, and he found himself missing his comfy patch of moss in the warriors’ den even more sharply. Before he reached it, he heard his name being called and turned to see Graystripe hurrying after him.

“Firestar, I wanted to tell you—” He broke off as if he were embarrassed.

“What’s the problem?”

“Well…” Graystripe hesitated and then went on in a rush: “I don’t know if you were thinking of choosing me to be your deputy, but I wanted to say that you don’t have to. I know I haven’t been back in the Clan long enough, and some cats still don’t trust me. I won’t be hurt if you pick another cat.”

Firestar felt a pang of regret. He would have chosen Graystripe above all other cats to hunt and fight by his side, and to give him the special support that a deputy gave the Clan leader. But it was true that he could not choose Graystripe so soon after his friend’s return from RiverClan. Though Firestar himself had no doubt of his friend’s loyalty to ThunderClan, Graystripe still had to prove himself before the rest of the Clan would accept him.

Leaning forward, Firestar touched noses with his friend. “Thank you, Graystripe,” he mewed. “I’m glad you understand.”

Graystripe shrugged, more embarrassed than ever. “I just wanted to say.” He turned and vanished through the branches of the warrior’s den.

Firestar felt choked with emotion and shook himself briskly. Padding around the Highrock to the den entrance, he heard movement inside. Thornpaw, the oldest apprentice, whirled around as Firestar went in.

“Oh Firestar!” he exclaimed. “Whitestorm told me to fetch you some new bedding—and some fresh-kill.” He flicked his tail to the far side of the den, where a rabbit lay beside a thick pile of moss and heather.

“That looks great, Thornpaw,” Firestar meowed. “Thank you—and thank Whitestorm for me.”

The ginger apprentice dipped his head and started to leave, only to halt as Firestar called him back.

“Remind Mousefur to have a word with me tomorrow,” Firestar mewed, naming Thornpaw’s mentor. “It’s about time we started thinking about your warrior ceremony.” It’s long overdue , he reflected. Thornpaw had proved himself an able apprentice, and would have been a warrior moons ago but for Bluestar’s reluctance to trust any of her Clan. He was the only one left of the group that had included Swiftpaw and Lostface, neither of whom would ever experience a warrior ceremony.

Thornpaw’s eyes lit up with excitement. “Yes, Firestar! Thanks!” he meowed, and dashed off.

Firestar settled himself in the mossy nest and took a few mouthfuls of the rabbit. It had been thoughtful of Whitestorm to have the bedding changed, though Firestar still felt that Bluestar’s scent lingered in the very walls of the den. Perhaps it always would, and that was no bad thing. There was pain in his memories of her, but comfort too, w h en he thought of her wisdom and her courage in leading her Clan.