“Where’s Birchsweet?”
Myrtlewing sniffed around the resting place where his… he supposed his friend would normally sleep during gatherings. Where he could keep an eye on her and occasionally soothe the little moments of confusion that gripped her.
He nosed the moss, trying to make sure it was soft. After all, her joints were fragile these days.
“Hey! You!” He paused, trying to remember the name of the warrior he was addressing.
The white molly turned, her battle roughened hackles raising.
“Oh. you. Myrtlewing. What do you want this time?”
The offense was almost enough to make him claw her a new face.
“Where’s Birchsweet?”
Her tail drooped, and she looked away.
“Gone?” He restrained himself. This wasn’t the first time Birchsweet had wandered. It wouldn’t be the last time either, knowing how age had addled her mind, snagging at the fiber of her memories. He couldn’t kill anyone for his friend getting lost.
“Well then why isn’t anyone-”
“You don’t get it.” Sloehawk’s snarl made him jump.
“She’s gone to Starclan, Myrtlewing. She’s dead.”
Cold water seemed to rush through his ears, deafening him as he recalled, reasoned, and attempted to rationalize this impossible knowledge into something he could use.
“Tallpaw said it was age.”
“Tallpaw still has the eyes of a kit!” He stepped forward, bristling, hurting in a way he could not quite name.
“She can’t be dead!”
Sloehawk vanished into the throng of bodies, leaving Myrtlewing to face the awful truth.
Birchsweet- the old dear- was dead.