Your paws are cold and rough. You can feel that they're drenched in the stale blood of your dying clanmate that you just know you can't save, but you're hoping – praying – that StarClan will give you just one more life.

Hard breathing lulls you to sleep. That is, on the nights where Foxleap is calm. His whimpers, grimaces of pain send chills up your spine, shaking legs stumbling over themselves to shove more poppy seeds down his throat in an attempt to keep him holding on for as long as he can. He just needs to stay out for a little longer, you reason with eyes screwed shut and jaw clenched as you try to drown out the begging of Icecloud to save him. If he stays asleep for another half-moon everything will be alright.

But you know it's not going to be alright.

Once, you recall it had only been a few hours since the battle, Foxleap woke. You could feel the way he stiffened his muscles, neck straining to look around.

"Wha' happened?" He murmured as if in a daze. Your paw gently pushed his head back to the moss. The lump in your throat was unmovable; you couldn't swallow it if you tried.

"You're hurt, Foxleap," Was your whispering reply, claws tightening into the dirt. Foxleap shifted and then whined. "Stomach hurts," He moaned. His voice was hoarse, as if all his energy had drained. You blinked back the frustrated tears in your eyes. "Yeah, I know. I'm trying to help you get better. I'm going to put you back to sleep, alright?"

Foxleap sank back into the soiled moss (moss that couldn't be changed for fear of opening wounds) and gave a quivering sigh. "'kay."

He hadn't been that lucid for days.

Leafpool began to worry for you. Her nose was always in your business, reminding you to eat, that a walk in the forest would do you good. You turned her down every time. You knew what you were doing. You knew what you were doing. You always know what to do.

Dovewing keeps coming in. She's asking about your powers. You can't talk about those powers when youre powerless to help your clanmate. You know she's worried, you know you're worried too. But talking makes it too real. You can't talk about it. Foxleap is what's important.

Foxleap's breathing is getting shallower. You try to ignore your pounding heart. This is fine. He's fine. You sleep curled up against his stomach like a kit, despite only being mere moons younger than he is. You beg StarClan not to take him.

I can't take another death. You can't seriously be expecting us to handle this.

Please, StarClan.

Don't take another away from me.