[Fawn]

61 Moons. Senior Warrior. Tom. NightClan.
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First, No Sequel

Heatherflower was dying.

He had known it for a while, had denied it for as long as she'd been denying it, the aged blue-gray tabby doing her best to appear well until she woke up one morning and couldn't leave her nest without breathing troubles.

Dimstar had assigned Ghostlight to the dawn patrol, and Lichenbreeze was still sleeping off last night's vigil. it was Blackwolf's turn now. Snapping at any apprentices that got too close, Blackwolf tidied his mother's pelt, grooming her for ticks or thorns or clumps of mud that didn't belong there.

He listened while she spoke, having never known her to be so talkative, yet he enjoyed the sound of her voice. It was the surest sign next to the old she-cat's heartbeat that she was still alive. Blackwolf dutifully replied with a word or two, whatever was necessary to keep the conversation going.

"Blackwolf." She turned cloudy blue eyes upon him, and he stopped grooming, straightening his posture to turn an attentive eye and ear her way. His heart and his stomach had swapped places, tying themselves into knots in the process.

"I think its time we spoke of your father." Heatherflower blinked, as though overcome by remorse—or nostalgia?—the end of her tail slowly tapping the cavern floor like the regular drops of water from a stalagtite.

Blackwolf didn't bother to suppress a growl, his patience evaporating. He didn't want to spend his last moments with her talking about that old dead fleabag!

"I don't want to talk about my father." Those words softened by the time they left his mouth, but the coating of venom for the deceased warrior wasn't entirely absent.

Heatherflower spoke quietly, wrapping her tail around her paws, the appendage quivering slightly.
"I don't mean talking about Hawkscreech."

Blackwolf went very still, feeling as if he was reliving the time that badger had bitten a chunk out of his chest—the tightness, the dizzying, breathless feeling was the same, sans excruciating pain.

"I'll be back. Getting water."

Before the elder she-cat could protest, Blcakwolf had already left her den. A moment. He needed a moment.

Young Blackpaw, young Blackwolf even, would've considered it to be a triumph, finding out Hawkscreech wasn't his real father.

But Blackwolf now, with a family of his own, a legacy, a mate he would die for—he understood the hefty implications of his mother's sickbed confession.

And it filled him to the core with dread.
If she tells me I'm not pure NightClan...

Blackwolf suddenly felt ill enough to vomit.

The ambush pond was one of the only tried and true places to get water clean enough to drink. It had never been a far walk—and his pace was not slow—but it felt long, as if the sudden, peaty earth were trying to stretch out for miles if he wasn't keeping a close eye on it.

Almost operating outside of himself, Blackwolf found moss to soak, shook the droplets from his whiskers after drenching the moss in the pond, and quickly returned.

Setting foot in camp was harder than Blackwolf had anticipated. More than the shock of Hawkscreech not being his own father, was the very real possibility that a cat he had hunted with, patrolled with, fought alongside, was his real father. Coward. How could the tom not say anything? For 53 moons? The excuse could be made that maybe his birth-father didn't know, but Blackwolf was never the sort of cat to give anyone excuses.

Unless...his father wasn't in NightClan at all.

Blackwolf set the moss down harder than he meant to, flicking his tail in agitation when he finally reached his mother's side. While she bent to take a drink, he could hold back his words no longer.
"Is he NightClan?" Blackwolf demanded, tone edged with desperation. The fury of being a Half-Clan cat would probably burn him up from the inside out. How could he look his Clanmates in the eye if he had TreeClan blood in his veins? Or worse, those fish-eaters next door.

Heatherflower paused in lapping at the moss, fixing Blackwolf the kind of stare reserved for kits that asked stupid questions.
"Of course. What kind of a cat do you take me for?"

She sounded so much like her old self, he almost smiled.

Still not entirely relaxed, Blackwolf gave his chest a few reassuring licks, tongue rasping over the knotted gray scar from many moons ago.
"Who, then?"

"Hawkscreech and I—I cared for him, and he for me, but we had our share of arguments. He was so stubborn, and often too proud to apologize."

Blackwolf could tell she was building up to a story, but he hardly had the patience for it.
"Mother, who—"

"Pipe down, Blackwolf! You never used to interrupt me like this, not even as a kit." Heatherflower's tail lashed behind her like a striking water snake, and it was suddenly easy to that her health was failing.

The old NightClan queen coughed, whiskers trembling. Blackwolf fell into silence.

"I fell in love with two toms. Hawkscreech as a warrior, but there was another cat I adored in my apprentice moons. He was lively, with a sense of humor and a little boastful, but good-hearted. The complete opposite of Hawkscreech, for that matter." Heatherflower smiled, the gray in her muzzle visible.

Blackwolf leaned in, two-tone stare intense and unflinching. And?

"Back then, he was called Shadowpaw."

Shadowpelt is my father?"
Blackwolf stared, pouncing on every memory of the dark-pelted warrior that he could recall, pinning down each one as if to examine it for signs he'd missed. Similarities. Anything. They hardly talked, Shadowpelt was a decent warrior—quiet, didn't stand out, reliable and did whatever was needed—but what stood out the most for Blackwolf, was who Shadowpelt had sired.

He's the father of Brightfeather, Darkblaze and Hazeheart.

Heatherflower was talking still, walking him through the events that had led up to her affair with Shadowpelt, but Blackwolf was barely listening.

Suddenly, all the scorn and seemingly baseless cruelty Hawkscreech had shown him was no longer so baseless. Empathy was not a talent of his, but since becoming a father, Blackwolf often found himself considering things that wouldn't have mattered much 30 moons ago.

If Ghostlight had cheated on him, and Hollystorm, Bonepaw and Coyotepaw hadn't been his, would he have done what Hawkscreech had done?

Blackwolf shuddered, blooking out of the den, repulsed to even consider that scenario. The anger he would've felt towards his mate, and the fact that his kits would serve as constant reminders of their mother's mistake... He almost couldn't stomach it.

"He must have loved you, mother. More than I gave him credit for." Blackwolf murmured, unable to look at her. He was too caught up in the sinkhole of his own thoughts. Too busy combing through the memories.

He could hear the smile and the sadness both when she spoke next.
"He was too proud to let the rest of the Clan know you were not his. He took out his frustrations at me on you, but Hawkscreech wasn't going to let anyone know the truth; not even you."
Heatherflower licked his ears, startling him.

"Shadefang and Lichenbreeze are only half-siblings, then." He grunted, as if he had not heard her defense of his step-father.

"That's right. And Hazeheart and Darkblaze and—"

"I know."

Silence hung like the limbs of a weeping willow, dividing them, obscuring them from each other as they each withdrew to the privacy of their own thoughts.

Why had she told him this? To ease her conscience before she went to StarClan? Blackwolf's throat tightened. To let him know he still had family in NightClan, even after she was gone? Or maybe it was to let go of Hawkscreech. To help him let go of years of resentment and cruelty the older tom at directed at him and received in return.

If it was to let go of those strong, negative emotions, well Hawkscreech wasn't the only one with too much pride. Blackwolf's pelt prickled. How had Heatherflower sat on this information for so long?

The warrior felt himself torn between respecting her desire to shield him from the truth, and resentment over needing a deathbed confession to hear these words at least. He would have liked to have known sooner. It wouldn't have changed anything, but Blackwolf didn't like having secrets kept from him, benign intentions behind them or not.

"Why did you tell me this now?" He asked her quietly, watching his mother slowly look up, her eyes coming back to focus.

"So that you would be a better parent to your kits than I was to mine."

Blackwolf felt as if thorns were pressing against his throat.

Heatherflower nuzzled him, seeming so small and frail next to her broad-shouldered, scarred son.
"I am sorry it took me so long to tell you. Truthfully, I was... afraid of what you would think of me." The old queen looked down, gathering her strength. "You can't pick your parents, Blackwolf. All we can do is try to be better than the ones who raised us. Don't make my mistakes."

Heatherflower's tears glittered on his shoulder like dew.

"Don't give your kits any reason to resent you. Be there for them, even when you disagree. If you love them, do the best you can."

Blackwolf gently licked the top of her head (she was so frail, now; this conversation was clearly taking a lot out of her). He answered in a hoarse whisper. "I will."

He would do better. He would try to understand Coyotepaw. He would mock Bonepaw less. He would stop being so critical of his daughter. And he would make sure Ghostlight knew how much he loved her.

"Send for Lichenbreeze," said Heatherflower, suppressing a painful wheeze. "And Smokefur."

With a jolt of grief already forming gnarled, twisting knots in his stomach, Blackwolf did as he was told.

Just after the first few stars began to show in a deep blue sky, Heatherflower left NightClan for good.

Heavy of heart and locked in a deep silence, Blackwolf sat vigil over his mother's body. Lichenbreeze had returned to the nursery to feed her hungry kits, and he had ushered Ghostlight and their children back to their respective dens. This wasn't something he wanted to share with the others.

After Dimstar and Sleekshade paid their respects, Blackwolf found himself alone in a dark camp.

An hour seemed to pass, then another.

Blackwolf's right ear swiveled, catching pawsteps approaching.

A black warrior with a silvered muzzle and bright golden eyes appeared behind him.
"She told you?"

"Yes."

Shadowpelt sat down on Heatherflower's other side, careful not to disturb the lavender and sage laid gently around her body.

They kept vigil until the first light of dawn, holding onto the silence.

There would be much to talk about after they buried her; family, the past, the she-cat they had cared about, and what this meant for everyone involved.

Blackwolf sighed, feeling the first ray of morning chase away the shadows, a pool of light spilling into the middle of the cavern. He had lost a mother, but somehow gained a father.

Do the Math, No Equal

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Word Count: 1875 Words
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