haunted by the narrative

It feels like eons, but it’s probably only seconds before she jerks to her feet and heads to the mouth of the leader’s den. What she sees when she raises her eyes burns itself into her retinas: Crowcall, silent as death, dragging a small, silver and black (and red, so red) body into the center of camp. 

“Lambheart,” Bunnystar chokes out. “Oh, Crowcall … not your-”

Crowcall’s cold mask of apathy breaks into a million pieces as he swings around to glare at her. “Don’t talk to me!” he spits, Lambheart’s limp body dropping to the grass with a dull thud. “Just- just leave me alone.” His voice cracks, and with a twitch of his mouth, he breaks eye contact, looking down at the ground in shame. 

It’s a useless demand. How could she do that when he’s hurting so much? Bunnystar opens her mouth to say something more, but before she can, Crowcall turns and breaks into a run toward the edge of camp, then beyond, aimlessly throwing himself into the forest. Smoketooth, ever the loyal mate to him, follows him a moment later; Bunnystar watches them disappear into the woods, then turns back to Lambheart.

To any other clan, he’d be unrecognizable. The once handsome silver-on-black of his coat is torn, weeping gashes carved into it. Still-wet blood paints his fur, and his face … Bunnystar turns away. She can’t throw up in front of everyone; she has to be strong. That’s who she is—not the best hunter or the strongest fighter, but the heart of the clan. That’s what she tells herself, anyway, but this is …

The breath falls lamely out of her lungs when a soft brown pelt brushes against hers. Without a word, Bunnystar turns to bury her face into the long fur on the back of Hareclaw’s neck, clenching her teeth so she doesn’t join the chorus of whimpers. “I’m fine,” she says. “I’m fine. I got this.”

She couldn’t possibly love Hareclaw any more when she says, “I know. It’s okay.” 

Another part of her, though, wants to scream. Of course it’s not okay! A cat is dead! “I … named him last moon. He was only- Hareclaw, he was a kitten.”

Bunnystar holds back a meow of protest when Hareclaw leaves her side, padding up to Lambheart’s body to touch her nose to his forehead. She stays there for a few silent moments before raising her head and asking, “How did he die?”

“Only Crowcall would know for sure, but it looks like he got mauled by a dog,” Mistcurl says a little too bluntly for Bunnystar’s comfort. “What should we do, Bunnystar?”

Well, at least she can take orders. “We need to find it and drive it away,” she says, raising her voice: it’s time for her to be a leader. “Hareclaw, Wildblaze, Wolfheart, Doesong, and Foxflame—come with me.” She sighs. “We’d better find Crowcall and Smoketooth, too. I don’t want them getting killed.”

Hareclaw gives a brisk nod, and within moments, the others heed her call, surrounding her with their own masks of bravery on. “Are you all ready?” Bunnystar asks, and they all nod, some more hesitant than others. “Alright, that’s the spirit. We got this, okay? No mousebrained dog could beat six of us.”

Wolfheart and Foxflame share a dubious glance, but soften under Bunnystar’s gaze. “Yeah, okay,” the latter says under his breath. 

After a long walk—during which Buzzardfur nearly slips on the wet rocks multiple times—Bouncerumble comes to an abrupt stop next to a fallen tree trunk that spans the river. “Sit,” they say, and Buzzardfur does, staring into the water that sparkles beneath Silverpelt.

“This is the place?” 

Buzzardfur winces at his own stupid questions, but Bouncerumble simply nods. “Touch your nose to the water,” they instruct, “and let your mind be free. StarClan will visit you. I know they will.”

Buzzardfur is still dubious as he crouches down next to the river, but he obeys nonetheless. 

It doesn’t happen right away, but it doesn’t take too long, either. One moment, all he sees is the inside of his eyelids; the next, Buzzardfur finds himself in the center of a grassy clearing, his fur drenched in silvery starlight. He looks down at the ground and rubs one paw against the thick grass beneath it; he knows—thinks—he hasn’t physically moved, but it feels as real as the wet rock had just a few moments ago. 

Why is he alone, though? Where is everyone? Surely some cat is supposed to be here to greet him—nine of them, if they’re planning on giving him his nine lives. But …

“Buzzardfur.”

Buzzardfur starts, the fur on his back raising, and whips around, but when he sees who it is, his haunches settle. It’s nobody he knows, he thinks, not even anyone he’s seen at a gathering, but somehow, the cat who’s greeted him—a small, silvery-white tom with black swirls in his fur—is familiar, like an old friend. “You’re … Do I know you?” he asks, and the other cat smiles gently.

“Not yet.” The other cat shakes his head, though the smile remains. “I’m here to watch over you and the cats you lead. My name is Lambheart.”

“Lambheart,” Buzzardfur repeats. “Are you … are you from the original WaspClan?”

The smile on Lambheart’s face falters. “I was, yes,” he says after a beat, a hint of sadness in his voice. “It was a good clan when I knew it. We were …” He shakes his head. “No, that’s not what I’m here to talk about. There’s a new WaspClan, Buzzardfur, and I want to help give you the power to lead it.”

Buzzardfur’s questions are still myriad, but he doesn’t protest, as much as he wants to. “Right. I’m ready,” he lies, and shuts his eyes.

When Lambheart touches his nose to his forehead, Buzzardfur hardly has a moment to register it before a wave of intensity washes over him. There’s no other word to describe it: it’s not a good feeling or a bad one, just … intense. Over the pounding over his heart in his ears, he makes out Lambheart’s words: “Take this gift, to help you endure in the face of hardship.”

Buzzardfur opens his mouth to reply, but finds himself speechless. When he manages to open his eyes, he finds himself surrounded by wispy, starry figures in the shape of cats. Some of them are strangers, but some he recognizes—his sister Stripekit, who’d died of redcough; his father’s best friend, Wolftooth, who’d been slain by a SaplingClan warrior. His voice fails as he tries to call out to them, but just seeing them fills him with warmth.

“We grant you your remaining eight lives,” they say, a chorus of meows filling the air. Over and over, Buzzardfur is hit with swirls of energy, stronger than anything he’s ever felt before. “Use them well, with our blessing.”

The StarClan cats’ voices are still echoing in his mind when Buzzardstar opens his eyes—his real ones this time. He stares at the star-speckled water of the Moonfalls, breathing heavy. Buzzardstar, Buzzardstar, Buzzardstar!

“Buzzardstar?” Bouncerumble asks, and the voices fall silent.

“I can’t believe it’s real,” he mumbles, nigh inaudible. “I thought it … I thought they were just some old queen’s tale.” He turns to look at Bouncerumble, who’d come to a stop at the lip of the clearing. “How did you know?”

“The same way I know anything. StarClan’s sign.” Bouncerumble’s voice is clipped, a bit too fast, but who could blame them? Buzzardfur himself isn’t particularly calm, either. “They wanted us to find this. I think … to start WaspClan anew.”

“Start it anew?” Runningripple asks, speaking up from the back of the group. “Why not leave it in the past? That Clan ate itself from the inside out, didn’t it?”

“I heard the last leader’s mate was killed, and she went mad with grief.” Shiveringkit’s little voice is far too bright a chirp for the severity of her words. “I heard she made the other cats practice with their claws out. She even poisoned some of them!”

“Actually, they weren’t mates; Bunnystar was just in love-”

“Stop it, Moorpaw,” Buzzardfur says, and his apprentice falls silent. “We can’t let ourselves get carried away with rumors. We don’t know what happened here, just that it was some clan’s camp. And if Bouncerumble says this is where we should be …”

“Then we should stay here,” Runningripple finishes, padding up to stand beside him. “It’s got more than enough space for us, and StarClan knows Thornstar is too logical to take us back.” She says it with derision, and Buzzardfur can’t help but agree—surely there was a better way to solve an overpopulation crisis than to cast out some of his own cats. “Is everyone in agreement?”

There are some grumblings from the rest of the clan—if it can be called that—but none of them have anything to say, even Hailbark, who always seems to have a gloomy remark in her mouth. 

“Right, then,” Buzzardfur says, and sighs. Thank StarClan Runningripple is taking the lead; he doubts he could have wrangled them the same way as she does. Why they all elected him leader is beyond him. 

He’s taken a few more steps toward the smallest den, nestled in the hollow of a dead tree, before something occurs to him. “What do we call ourselves?”

Bouncerumble’s voice doesn’t hold a hint of uncertainty as they say, “I told you—we’re WaspClan.”