Busy like the Bees (Heronflight)

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Fogheart heaved a long, irritably sigh as he pawed through his severely depleted stores in the shadows of the split rock. Virtually no cobwebs left, a severe lack of catmint, something they still might desperately need. Leaf-bare was coming to a rapid close but it was not over yet, and the threat of greencough was still one had to consider. The rest of the Clan could, perhaps, put that fear behind them and move on to other worries, but not Fogheart. The medicine cat must always be worried.

Realizing he was short of chervil, too, and had only a few sprigs of marigold, Fogheart pushed himself onto his paws. Arching his supple spine into the weak spring sun, Fogheart turned and padded down the long fern tunnel into the main camp. He knew he would be too late to grab any of the apprentices. They would be training, or patrolling, or carefully avoiding the sarcastic medicine cat. No apprentice in his or her right mind would actually want to go herb hunting with Fogheart.

He was going to have to find a warrior, then. One not already busy, and preferably one he already needed to check up on. No point in wasting his time. The medicine cat was always short on time as it was.

Ears flicking against a light breeze. Fogheart turned himself towards the nursery. Heronflight was the first cat that popped to mind when he considered those conditions. Fogheart had not had a chance to speak to the father-to-be that morning, and with his mate so close to kitting they needed to have words.

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Heronflight was, as usual, staked out right outside the Nursery. He had a grumpy sort of frown tugging on his lips. Even from a few feet away, one could see him grumbling irritably under his breath. His tail lashed against the ground. Every few minutes he would turn and look anxiously over his shoulder towards the Nursery. He stood now, his claws kneading the soft dirt around the Nursery. He paced back and forth. Inside, he could almost see Cloudeyes rolling her head. Her belly was swollen, almost comical really. She had attempted earlier to creep from the camp. Yet she was within a week of kitting, truly it was foolish.

And in retaliation for being dragged back to the Nursery by her anxious mate, Heronflight had been yet again kicked from the Nursery. It didn’t seem to matter that he devoted every spare moment to bringing her fresh moss, prey or water – anything he could to make her more comfortable. She was independent. She always would be. And no matter how he complained and grumbled, he didn’t wish to see her any differently. And he knew, no matter how she protested, that it soothed her to have him near. Her fur, her nest, it always smelled of his lingering grassy scent – of shredded bark and pine needles. He cast another anxious glance over his shoulder, turning just in time to see Fogheart approaching. He bounded up to the other tom, his ears flicking back against his head. He searched the Medicine Cat, his stomach clenching. “Have you come to check Cloudeyes? She isn’t in labor yet, but it could be any moment. It’s a good thing you came.” His mind was going a hundred miles an hour, devoid of anything that didn’t have to do with his beloved mate and the precious lives she carried in her beautiful belly.

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Sardonic amusement glimmered in Fogheart’s leaf green eyes as he approached the frantic tom. Heronflight was an extreme example of the overprotective father-to-be. Part of Fogheart was relieved he would never have to deal with this anxiety, except from the outside. He already spent all of his time worrying about every other cat in the Clan, he did not need to occupy himself further with a mate and kits. He had long since decided this was why medicine cats had no families of their own.

“You worry too much,” Fogheart scolded Heronflight none too gently as he drew to a meandering halt at Heronflight’s side. The medicine cat’s ears flicked in a combination of amusement and irritation. If there was any cat in the camp who did not need to be told that Cloudeyes was very close to her kitting, it was Fogheart. He always kept a close eye on the queens and their kits. What sort of medicine cat would he be if he did not? “I checked Cloudeyes this morning. She’ll know when the time comes.”

Waving his tail, Fogheart glanced to the nursery, then back to the anxious tom. It was doing no cat any good to have him pacing around outside the nursery all day long. Heronflight’s time was being wasted, and he was likely depriving Cloudeyes and anyone else in the nursery of much needed rest. If there had been any doubt who Fogheart would be bringing along with him, it was gone.

“Come with me,” he mewed firmly, beckoning with his long, ringed tail as he turned away from the nursery. “There are herbs I need for when the kits come. I can’t carry them all myself.”

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Heronflight had never been one to be overly doubting. Yet today, standing anxiously in front of the Nursery, Heronflight doubted. He doubted his ability to care for Cloudeyes, to keep her safe and happy. He doubted his role as a father. He even doubted Fogheart’s healing knowledge. He shifted his paws, kneading the earth beneath him. A large part of him screamed that he shouldn’t move even an inch from Cloudeyes’ side. He couldn’t imagine not being there, not wrapping around her to watch the birth of their kittens. Yet another, quiet logical, side of him knew that what Fogheart said was right. He cleared his throat, appearing visibly calmer –though still on edge. He nodded his head, taking a first tentative step away from the Nursery.

He paused, turning to call over his shoulder. “I’ll be back soon, Cloudeyes!” He could have sworn he heard her grumble under her breath, probably something about not missing his obsessive presence. His ears flicked as he matched Fogheart’s stride. He had to force himself to keep his head straight. Someone would come for him, they would fetch him if something went wrong. Of course. They would need to, they’d need Fogheart. The thought calmed him somewhat as the distance between himself and his mate grew. He cleared his throat again, turning to Fogheart. “What is it we’re looking for? I’ll likely need a description of some sort.” He’d never had the sort of memory, or herbal knowledge, that was so essential to the life of a Medicine Cat. But then again, that pathway had never been destined for him. He’d been uniquely suited to the life of a warrior. In a way, it was simpler, easier. Yet perhaps Fogheart thought the same thing of the path of a Medicine Cat. After all, perspective lies in the eyes of the beholder.

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Fogheart’s tail swayed contentedly when Heronflight fell into step at his side. He did not mind having the overzealous father in his fur if he was out of every cat else’s. Fogheart knew better than most how to put a frantic cat to work. It was an essential skill for a medicine cat. Tilting his head so he could catch at least part of Heronflight in his good eye – the tom had managed to walk up right in the sights of his sightless side – Fogheart lead the way down the tunnel and out into the forest.

“We’ll need cobwebs,” Fogheart answered evenly. No matter what any cat did, no matter how well the birthing went, there would likely be blood. That was simply a fact of kitting. “And borage leaves. They’re fuzzy, with little blue flowers.” Fogheart did not bother to warn the warrior to come to him before biting anything unfamiliar. Apprentices needed to be told that, to prevent them from poisoning themselves on bits of plants not highly desired by medicine cats. Fogheart expected a warrior like Heronflight to know better than to just bite into any plant he found that seemed to match Fogheart’s description.

On light paws, Fogheart climbed the hill beyond the camp and looked out over ThunderClan’s territory. He glanced out of his functioning eye at Heronflight.

“We’ll head towards Tallpines,” he mewed simply.

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Heronflight dutifully followed Fogheart, though each step away from Cloudeyes was a fresh kind of pain. Eventually, though, he managed to distract himself. His ears flicked back, a flash of worry in his eyes. While he wasn’t any sort of genius, nor did he have any medicinal knowledge, he knew enough to know what cobwebs were for. He cleared his throat, a slight nervous hitch in his voice. “You expect bleeding?” Heronflight, for his part, knew nothing about birth. It was foolish maybe. He knew enough about HOW the kittens got there. He had his manly package to thank for that.

But as for the rest of it, well he’d sort of assumed the kittens would just…pop out. They’d sort of appear, when they were ready. He was a tom. And it wasn’t a tom’s business to be involved with the workings of a she-cat’s body. And anytime things got too descriptive, he tended to check out or at least make an excuse to escape. He had no desire to offend the Medicine Cat. Though it hadn’t been his pathway, he had nothing but respect for these cats. After all, it had been Fogheart who had cared for Cloudeyes after her head trauma, had nursed her through. He moved in silence, accompanying Fogheart to Tallpines. But eventually, he could hold his silence no longer. He cleared his throat again. He felt as if Fogheart deserved some form of apology, of explanation. “I trust you, to take care of her I mean.”

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Fogheart snorted softly at Heronflight's apology and flicked his striped gray tail across the tom's flank. If he had a day for every time an anxious member of a sick cat's kin doubted his ability, he would never, ever die. He could not afford to get upset every time some cat second guessed him. No work would ever be done.

"There is always bleeding when kits come," Fogheart told Heronflight simply. "I expect no complications Cloudeyes, Heronflight, but you can be assured I have thought of and prepared for every one. This is not my first kitting."

Reaching a crossing of the usual winding paths the ThunderClan cats took through the forest, Fogheart paused. He parted his jaws and lifted them to the wind. A sweet, heavy scent washed across his tongue - the thickness of borage leaves. Dimmed by distance, but still strong, coming from the vicinity of Tallpines. Fogheart was not surprised he had guessed right. He knew the herb patches in this forest better than he knew his way around his own den. That was no exaggeration. After all, he spent little time in his den. When he slept it was often nearer to those he might need to help.

"Have you and Cloudeyes thought of names you might like to use?" Fogheart asked as he turned and padded towards the towering trunks of Tallpines. He figured it would be best to keep the anxious tom talking about his kits. Most fathers, Fogheart had realized, enjoyed talking about their kits. He would never quite understand that. Of course, he had never been and would never be the father.

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A wave of foolishness overcame him. Heronflight was, by no means, an inexperienced warrior. He had passed his second cycle of seasons. He had seen leaders rise, kittens made apprentices. He had trained his own apprentices. He had seen more queens that he could count go through the process of birth. Well not “seen” exactly, but he knew of their successes. He had seen glowing fathers, healthy kittens. Yet he’d also seen mothers fall, their little bodies worn out and weak. He’d seen kittens who had never even opened their eyes carried away for quiet burials and reunions with Starclan.

How could he not fear Cloudeyes could become such an empty carcass, that his own kittens may reach towards the stars before their time? He shook his head, ducking his gaze towards his paws. Thankfully Fogheart changed the subject. Despite his reputation for being rather abrupt, he spared Heronflight this small kindness. He grinned, flashing his teeth at Fogheart. “I wouldn’t say we’ve come up with names. Cloudeyes has certainly disqualified a number of my suggestions.” He chuckled. He’d been inclined to follow in his mother’s footsteps. He’d volunteered such names as Swallowkit or Peregrinekit. He remembered clearly how Cloudeyes had snorted, rolled her eyes, muttered about “foolish sentimentalism”. She was firmly against any themed names. What use was there, she mandated, in having their kittens match? And he, because he loved her, gave way easily. He would love them, no matter their names. He shot Fogheart another grin. “Perhaps you have some suggestions?” He didn’t have many close friends to speak of. His taking Cloudeyes as a mate publically had earned him some ostracism in the clan.

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"It is not my place to suggest the names of your kits," Fogheart answered simply, flicking his tail to dismiss the question. It was not a terribly helpful response, but it was a necessary defense. Fogheart knew if he began naming kits, he would grow closer to those kits than any others he might have in his charge, and if he became too attached to a particular set of kits, he may begin to crave fatherhood. He already yearned for the deep love and affection of a mate, some cat with whom he could share every part of himself, and whom would share equally with him. It was a dangerous path to walk for a medicine cat. He could not afford to indulge his desire for family.

Parting his jaws again, Fogheart sought out the scent of borage. Thick and sweet, it guided him down between the towering trunks of Tallpines. The needles squished pleasantly under his soft pads. Soon enough, he spotted the broad, deep green leaves and small blue flowers of the plant.

"Here," he murmured, drawing up alongside the borage. It grew in a small patch at the base of a pair of twin pines. Crouching down, Fogheart nosed the fuzz-covered leaves. "Only take a couple of leaves from each plant. You don't want to hurt them or we won't have borage next season."

Tail swaying easily, Fogheart began snipping leaves off with his sharp teeth. Crouching this way, he had put Heronflight into the blind spot left by his sightless eye. He could feel his muscles tense. Heronflight made enough noise that Fogheart could tell where the warrior was, but he could not see Heronflight, and that always made the medicine cat nervous. He had no doubt it would make any cat nervous.

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Heronflight’s ears fell back against his head with disappointment. He’d been hoping to move past the awkward atmosphere that appeared to have settled over them. He desperately wanted some form of connection to the Medicine Cat. Of all the Thunderclan members, Fogheart was one of the only cats who had treated Cloudeyes with respect, with kindness. His mate had been an outcast since her birth, since her childhood. Her connections were few and far between. And though she rarely gave it a second thought, Heronflight did everything he could to cultivate favor towards his mate. After all, the way the clan perceived her would reflect on how they accepted his kittens. And though she denied it, he knew it had hurt – her utter rejection. And he refused to have such a fate befall his innocent kittens. He forced himself to nod, letting the subject of names fall to the wayside.

He approached the patch of plants Fogheart had indicated. He dipped his head, carefully snipping a few leaves from each plant. He set them to the side, gathering a small pile. He was careful to follow Fogheart’s instructions exactly. He would not be the mouse-brained warrior who depleted the vital medicinal stores of the clan. As he well knew, a lack of even a single herb could spell death. He looked to Fogheart, clearing his voice. Perhaps a subject less personal, more superficial, would put the other tom more at ease. “What is borage used for?” His interest was only mild, but he truly did wish for conversation. While some were comfortable in silence, Heronflight was not. It made his skin prickle. The silence settled on him. With Cloudeyes, it was usually he who dominated the conversation. Yet she replied, even if it was snarky and sarcastic. She humored him. And he hoped Fogheart would do the same.

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"We give borage to queens when they kit to help them produce more milk," Fogheart answered instantly. Even as he spoke, he could hear Pinewhisker's cool, soothing voice in the back of his mind. So many moons had passed since the gentle she-cat had gone to join their ancestors in StarClan, but when Fogheart whispered to a sick clan-mate or delivered a scolding to a hapless apprentice, or when he guided Coalpaw gently away from the berries that looked so very much like medicine but would end a cat's life in minutes, he could hear her words laying over his own. So much of what Fogheart knew, of what he did, came directly from Pinewhisker. He doubted he would ever stop grieving for her.

Depositing another few leaves in their little pile, Fogheart raised his head and sniffed hte air. It was difficult to pick anything up over the cloying scent of borage leaves but after a moment he caught a whiff, just the barest whiff, of chamomile. He turned and fixed his single functioning eye on a cluster of the plants a short distance away.

"We should gather some chamomile as well," Fogheart mused. It would be useful to keep up the strength of his Clan's queen. He hesitated, though, glancing at the rather large mound of borage leaves. He doubted they would be able to carry chamomile on top of that. He was going to have to bring Coalpaw out to collect some more later on, when the apprentice was not busy with his other tasks, and Fogheart did not have a worried father to look after.

He turned back to Heronflight. The tom's attempt to move on to an easier topic had not been missed by the sharp-tongued medicine cat, and he decided to humor his warrior friend.

"How has Cloudeyes' temper been?" he asked idly, padding off toward the chamomile. He gestured with his tail for Heronflight to follow.

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Heronflight’s ears perked. Milk? He had always thought it was just a sort of automatic thing. Honestly, it wasn’t as if he’d given female anatomy any in-depth thought besides the interesting parts. But a small section of his brain had sort of just automatically assumed that they had endless milk, all the time. Like it was just sort of just waiting around for kittens. Perhaps it was like having a second stomach, except this new organ was just filled to the brim with milk. So the idea of needing borage to somehow stimulate milk didn’t entirely make sense to him. But he shrugged and let it go. Fogheart definitely knew more than him. He had a wisdom, granted him by Starclan and those who had come before him. And Heronflight, well he stuck with what he knew. He just kept snipping away. He didn’t want to voice his imaginary milk-filled organ.

He perked his ears, abandoning the borage leaves and following Fogheart’s indication of a plant apparently known as chamomile. He cleared his throat again. “Does chamomile stimulate the milk too?” He dipped his head, nosing among the plants and snipping a few leaves. A question occurred to him then, his image of a milk-filled sack still fresh in his mind. “Will Cloudeyes run out of milk?” A slight edge of panic lingered on the outskirts of his voice. He knew enough about kittens to know if they didn’t get enough milk, it could affect their health. And he wouldn’t choose between his children, watch them die because there was nothing he could do. He tried to swallow down his panic, though, repeating Fogheart’s earlier words to himself. He was being overly hysterical. If there was any danger, Cloudeyes would have addressed it. Even if she wasn’t the most outwardly affectionate of cats, he knew she would never sacrifice her children. He raised his head at Fogheart’s next words, an eager smile now floating onto his lips as he obediently followed. “She’s been well!” He chuckled, “I think that head trauma did more good than harm.”

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"I've told you Cloudeyes is in no danger, haven't I?" Fogheart pointed out somewhat shortly. Sometimes the medicine cat got tired of repeating himself, even with his more nervous clients. He was not, and never would be, as understanding as Pinewhisker. He tried, but they were, and always had been, very different cats. "She is in no danger of running out of milk, but the kits will be stronger the more milk she can produce."

Snipping free just a mouthful of chamomile leaves - it was all they could carry, he would have to gather more later that afternoon - Fogheart swept them into a small mound with his tail. A smile teased at his eyes when Heronflight's tone changed. Changing the topic to one that would keep Heronflight happy was all too easy. Fogheart had noticed that about cats in love. All any cat had to do was ask about their mate and they brightened up instantly. Things worked the same way with new parents and their energetic broods.

"Pick these up," Fogheart mewed and pushed himself to his paws. He gestured with his tail towards the little pile of chamomile leaves. "Let's get back to camp. I've got my whole store to sort before nightfall."

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Heronflight’s ears flicked back against his head. He could tell, from Fogheart’s voice, that he was testing the other tom’s patience. He ducked his head, immediately going quiet. He concentrated instead on gathering the little leaves, careful not to tear them. He knew enough to know that torn leaves would be useless to Fogheart. He dipped his head at Fogheart’s command, carefully grasping a bundle of leaves in his lips. He held them gingerly, moving after Fogheart. He didn’t say a word in the following minutes. It took all his effort and concentration to maneuver through Thunderclan’s territory without crushing or accidentally swallowing the leaves in his lips. The camp loomed before them, and the sun was beginning to sink. He made his way to Fogheart’s den, carefully placing the leaves in an open space. He would make no attempt to actually sort the herbs. He knew the Medicine Cat likely had his own specific way for organizing everything just the way he liked it. He backed out slowly, keeping his voice level. Now that he was back in camp, his greatest desire was to see Cloudeyes, to check that his hours missed with her hadn’t been crucial. He dipped his head respectfully. “I enjoyed our excursion today, thank you.”

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