Past Audition Biographies

WHITEWATER was given the prefix WHITE for his thick, snow-white pelt. He has the suffix WATER for his CONSTANT, CALM PERSONALITY.

“My story is dedicated in seven parts to that and those which have always matter most. To RiverClan, my home and heritage, my past, present, and future. To Frostblossom, my mother, purveyor of kindness and wisdom and all that is good. To my father, Cloudthorn, who instilled in me the first stirrings of courage and loyalty…may he rest forever among the stars. To Firefoot, who took those stirrings and honed them into something much more, making me a credit to my Clan. To Foxfall, who became my second chance after my first failure, and who always put his faith in me. To Snowheart, dear brother, who is distant from me as the moon and stars, in a place where not even the love of family can reach. And, at last, to Applepaw. Applepaw, who rests where the poppies grow. This I will always remember, for a part of me will rest beside her forever."

“The greatest legacy one can pass on to one's children and grandchildren is not money or other material things accumulated in one's life, but rather a legacy of character and faith.” – Billy Graham

Countless seasons ago, in the land of the river where warriors grew fat on fish and swam like otters, a young she-cat fell deeply in love with a much older warrior. That’s not to say she wanted to use him to climb the ladder, no; though ambitious, her own personal vices had naught to do with the love she felt. Where she was kind and wise beyond her years, he was courageous and bold, the burning fire that complimented her soothing water. Her fierce admiration of him was practically tangible. He must have felt it in any case, for in the long, dark days of winter, he turned his pale eyes to her.

Frostblossom was very young, still an apprentice, when she and Cloudthorn were first introduced. He had been a warrior for seasons already, and his experience showed in the scars on his shoulders and the grim look in his eye; this was someone who had seen battle and death. But the young apprentice looked past his solemn exterior, expertly navigating the cracks in his armor to view the soul that burned inside. Tainted as he was by the darkness of war and misfortune (for he had lost his whole family to a combination of bad luck and battle), he had a strong and noble heart. He would never be described as gentle or sweet, but he was loyal and good and brave.

As a young warrior, she had little to offer. She hadn't proved herself in battle, nor could she claim any relation to anyone of worth - while she loved her family dearly, there were no leaders, deputies, or medicine cats to glorify her lineage. But she as she had looked past Cloudthorn's obvious qualities to peer inside, so he did the same with her. Brushing past her apparent youth and lackluster history, he saw her kindness, and became aware of her good heart. It didn't matter if she was young or that she hadn't won everlasting glory in war - he more than made up for it in both aspects. She had what he himself lacked, and, like magnetism, it drew him to her side.

Her youth and strength made for an easy labor, and Whitekit and Snowkit were delivered in record time. Named so for their white pelts, much like their parents, the two kits were healthy and strong, and for several days, most of the Clan passed through the nursery to exclaim and fawn over them, like they did with any other litter, but Frostblossom could only puff up with silent pride. Cloudthorn, who sometimes stooped protectively at her side to force out visitors who overstayed their welcome, could only twitch his whiskers at her immense fondness for their children. He felt something for them, of course, but the bond between a mother and child was something sacred, and one that could not be reproduced with the father. So he merely amused himself by watching her cuddle them and spoil them fiercely, occasionally offering his tail as a chew toy of sorts.

The kits grew swiftly, and as the moons passed, it was clear that Whitekit favored his father, bold and strong, while Snowpaw was quieter and gentler, much like their mother. But they attempted to make their parents proud in the best way that they could; both carried Frostblossom's patience and soft-spoken mannerisms, while also embodying their father's sense of quiet dignity, loyalty, and honor. As they grew, stories of their father's prowess in battle began to reach them, and they drank it in hungrily, their admiration for him growing each day. Even more tales were told of Raggedtooth, Cloudthorn's father, who had survived countless seasons of war, whose age reached back so far that not even Stonestar had been leading the Clan yet when he had been a warrior. Their mother fretted over all such stories, worried that they would feel pressured to seek some of their father's greatness, but her kits impatiently brushed her off. They were growing older now, and getting too old for a mother's coddling.

"Great was his glory, and long was the shadow he cast."

Whitepaw was immediately seen as a promising youth, full of natural talent and ability. What didn't come to him naturally, he made up for with rigorous dedication and discipline. He was given to a flame-furred warrior by the name of Firefoot, who wasn't too old himself, but was full of maturity and wisdom beyond what anyone could have expected. While Whitepaw didn't require much disciplining, Firefoot knew where he needed guidance and help the most, and always sought to offer his assistance in any means possible. The two became fairly close, and Whitepaw grew to trust his mentor without hesitation.

Snowpaw was different. Although he worked hard at his training and displayed the same dedication as his older brother, he didn't have the same natural ability that made Whitepaw such an asset to the Clan. His mentor, Crowfrost, hardly helped to diffuse the tension; the young warrior had never had an apprentice before, and didn't see the harm in comparing Snowpaw frequently to his brother, much to Snowpaw's embarrassment and frustration. Firefoot, ever the mediator, would often step in to mediate and offer a kind word or two, but he couldn't be there all the time to make things right. So Snowpaw grew up overshadowed by his older brother, who could do no wrong, and the first seeds of bitterness were planted in his mind.

As their training progressed and they advanced together into more complicated battle maneuvers and strategies, they both began to feel the pressure of their father's legacy, and the legacy of their grandfather. Whitepaw, emboldened by the thought of a challenge, met it head-on, and exceeded what was expected of him. It thrilled him, the feeling that he would one day be as great as their father, that one day, elders would be telling his stories to the next generation of starry-eyed kits. Snowpaw tried to follow in his footsteps, but found himself being out-maneuvered at every turn by his brother. Try as he might, no matter ho hard he trained, he could never best his brother in much of anything, something Crowfrost was quick to pick up on. Another of his antagonizers was their grandfather himself, a decrepit old thing that ruled the elder's den...or at least liked to think he did. The pair of apprentices would often have to suffer long visits to see him, so he could make sure they were living up to his expectations. While Whitepaw received praise for his soaring reputation, Raggedtooth often unfairly criticized Snowpaw in turn.

The pair ambled aimless on the edge of the river, quiet falling like a blanket over the both of them. Only yesterday, their father had been carried in from a border skirmish, one of his legs almost torn completely off. Lionbite had taken one look at Cloudthorn and given a despairing shake of his head. The warrior was old, and the blood loss had taken a heavy toll; by the time they had dragged him back and gotten him settled in Lionbite's den, he had been halfway to StarClan. All the medicine cat could do was give him enough poppy seeds to carry him the rest of the way.

"You'll be alright, of course," Snowpaw said suddenly, watching Whitepaw out of the corner of his eye.

He certainly didn't feel alright, and he shot his brother a sour look of disbelief. "What makes you so sure?"

“You are like the water itself.” Snowpaw kicked a branch into the current; it drifted for a ways, its progress followed by two pairs of young eyes, but became lodged between two rocks. The river was forced to break around it.

Whitepaw played dumb. “I drift around sticks?”

His brother’s expression was not impressed. “No. Nothing bothers you for long.”

As he spoke, the stick was pushed free by the demands of the current, and was washed away out of sight.

When they had neared the end of their training, a bit of a run-in with a badger seemed to forever split the two brothers apart. While out on a patrol, the great black-and-white terror had loomed up out of nowhere, flanks still wet from the river; it must have crossed over from ThunderClan or WindClan territory. But where it came from hadn't been the first thing on anyone's mind; they had all immediately sprang into defensive positions, bristling with fury. Standing shoulder-to-shoulder, Whitepaw, Firefoot, Snowpaw, and Crowfrost prepared for the worst.

The badger had lunged at them, scattering their defensive line like a cobweb, and, unfortunately, Snowpaw had happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. The badger corned him against the base of a bolder, and raised a paw to deliver what would have surely been a fatal blow. Whitepaw didn't act for glory or for recognition, but for his brother; with a running leap, he sprang for the badger's raised paw, sinking his teeth into the thick black-and-white fur. The thing had bellowed furiously, leaving Snowpaw in favor of shaking Whitepaw off. It would have gone badly for both apprentices had their mentors not been there. But Firefoot and Crowfrost, acting as one, were able to masterfully drive the bad-tempered creature away, and, with a few sharp bites to hurry it along, chased it out of RiverClan territory.

Whitepaw's act of heroism was spread throughout the Clan upon their return, although it was attention that he didn't need, nor did he particularly want it. Whitepaw wasn't stupid; he knew the effect such praise would have on his brother, and would have much preferred for everyone to let it lie. But it did not. Clan warriors, much older than him or even Firefoot, congratulated him on his bravery, and when Mousestar proclaimed it to the entire forest at the next Gathering, everyone gathered chanted their names. Snowpaw had been included in much of it, but still he festered silently and resentfully, for, in his mind, much of the admiration was for Whitepaw alone.

While the two brothers ate a small dinner in silence, Raggedtooth appeared. What their grandfather was doing out of the elder’s den, they’d never know, but it couldn’t mean anything good at all.

“I’ve heard nothing but great things about you, Whitepaw,” he croaked, fixing the apprentice in the stare of his milky eyes. “Helping to chase off a badger? Wonderful, wonderful.”

Whitepaw dipped his head and said nothing, for silent was how Raggedtooth liked apprentices best.

“Now, your brother, on the other hand.” The old cat swung his head to look less favorably on Snowpaw, who flinched. “Had to save him, didn’t you? Imagine a grandson of mine, a coward! Lucky for your father that he is dead, lest he would have to live through watching his son fail!”

Snowpaw’s head hung so low that his whiskers were brushing the dirt. Out of loyalty to him, Whitepaw broke his silence. “It wasn’t his fault-”

“Be silent!” Raggedtooth spat, all his previous warmth towards Whitepaw evaporating in an instant.

“Trouble?” A flash of ginger appeared at Raggedtooth’s shoulder. It was Firefoot, come to rescue them, or so Whitepaw hoped. Speaking over the elder’s grumblings, his mentor patiently guided their grandfather back to his den, diplomatically settling him in.

The apprentice turned to his brother. “Snowpaw, you know he’s crazier than-”

“Thanks for sticking up for me,” his brother interrupted quietly, picking himself up. “I think I’ll do a bit more hunting.” He did not invite Whitepaw to come along, instead picking his way slowly across the camp to vanish into the reeds, leaving his vole half-eaten.

Firefoot, having paced back to his side from the elder’s den, brushed shoulders with Whitepaw. “I’ll have a word with Mousestar about keeping Raggedtooth in line.” He followed Whitepaw’s gaze into the reeds, which were still trembling where Snowpaw had passed.

Whitepaw sighed. “How can one so old cause so much trouble?”

“Never underestimate an elder,” Firefoot cautioned seriously. “There are so few of them for a reason; beware the man who is old in a profession where men die young.”

“For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.” – Matthew 6:21

By some small grace, Whitewater and Snowcloud became warriors together; Whitewater had privately feared that if one more distinction was made between the two of them, that would be the end of it. Whitewater gained his warrior name in honor of his steadfast reliability, the nature of his blood to carry on regardless of what was in his path, and he was reminded of the silent walk by the water all those moons ago, where Snowcloud had compared him to the flow of the river. But before he could cherish the notion that he and his brother had finally been placed on the same playing field, something happened that he did not expect. Three seasons after the completion of his training, he was given an apprentice.

Applepaw was a child of the entire Clan. Her mother, Brightwhisker, had died giving birth to her, while her father, Redsky, had perished in a flood shortly after her birth. Thus, she was the kitten to every queen, and the daughter of every warrior. But only Whitewater would receive the distinct honor of mentoring her, she who was so beloved by all the Clan. He took his appointment very seriously, remembering how important Firefoot had been to him, and how much he still trusted his old mentor, and he would endeavor to teach her everything that he knew, for she certainly deserved that much. Snowcloud would not have to be sullen over this new divide between them for long, for he soon received his own apprentice, a young tabby by the name of Branchpaw.

Whitewater, who had been anxious over being a good mentor to an apprentice, was surprised at how much he loved to do it. Applepaw was bright, curious, and determined, and was always ready to go at the slightest whim. While he struggled at times to keep her obedience in check, for she was very spirited and, honestly, used to getting her way, through trial and error, he slowly discovered the best ways to handle her, and how to coax her into listening to him when she was feeling particularly rebellious. She repaid his efforts by working hard in training, excelling in practice battles and bringing back more than her fair share of fresh kill for the Clan. As she grew, her willful disobedience began to give way, and she began to pay closer attention to the things Whitewater had to say, for she was beginning to take seriously the fact that one day, it might save her life. To his joy, he found them becoming as close as he and Firefoot had been, and reveled in the trust and respect she gave him.

They patrolled together often, and eventually, Applepaw began to relax more completely in his presence. She told him of her fears, of how, in spite of being raised by an entire Clan, she still felt lonely sometimes having to live without a true family. In a poppy field at the edge of RiverClan territory, she declared that she looked up to Whitewater as a big brother, and almost like a stand-in father for her, for no one had ever taught her or cared for her more. Touched by her faith and love for him, the warrior had almost been moved beyond words. It had been hard for him, growing up, to feel the rift between him and his brother growing, and in spite of having the admiration of half the Clan, he still felt terribly alone without the sibling he was raised with. So to hear Applepaw call him a brother was rather like gaining a little sister, and it eased some of the pain he felt over the loss of his kin.

He smelled it before he saw it. Fox, but not fox. Rotting from the inside. The fur on his spine stood on end as though he had been struck by lightning. He didn’t recognize it, had never experienced it before, but knew instinctively to fear it.

“Get down,” he hissed to Applepaw. “Keep your ears low.”

His apprentice must have sensed it too, for her eyes had grown wide with fear. “What about Branchpaw?” She whispered.

“Let me worry about him,” Whitewater murmured, nudging her lower with his shoulder. “Just stay hidden.”

Branchpaw was sniffing faintly at the roots of an oak tree at the edge of the clearing, but by the way he suddenly stiffened, the warrior knew that the young tawny apprentice had picked up on the cues of the forest. The silence of the birds, the stillness of the air…the sound of something lurching unevenly across the earth, breaking branches carelessly and scattering leaves in its wake.

Whitewater hissed in warning, signaling with his tail. Ever quick on the uptake, Branchpaw stooped to hide among the roots, and just in time. As the tip of his tail vanished into the shadows, a terrifying sight staggered into the clearing, its over-bright eyes squinting aggressively. Froth dripped from its scarlet maw to drip on the pale chest as it swung its head left and right, as though it didn’t know where it was.

The RiverClan warrior crouched protectively over his apprentice as the rabid fox stepped, shaking, across the grass. Its walk was unnatural, its path undetermined, and its mouth was gaping constantly, looking for something to bite, to kill. His heart leapt into his throat as it began to limp towards the oak tree where the other apprentice hid.

Applepaw mirrored his concern. “Whitewater,” she whispered from where she was smothered underneath him, her voice trembling, “Whitewater, its gonna kill Branchpaw.”

Had it been a healthy fox, he wouldn’t have thought twice before charging it down. But this was different. From elder’s tales (the real ones, not the stupid horror stories made up to scare kits at midnight), he knew that one bite from a rabid animal was as final as any sentence of death. He knew that he had to protect both of them, but he had to be careful. One wrong move could spell the end for all three of them.

His apprentice gasped into his ear as the fox began to root blindly at the base of the tree, obviously sensing that something was near. “We have to help him!”

“Stay where you are!” he commanded harshly, his fear making him short-tempered. He was trying to think of what to do, how best to lure the fox away where it wouldn’t be a danger to the apprentices. If he had to sacrifice himself, then so be it, but he would have to draw it out of their path. Gathering his courage about him, he made to rise.

Unfortunately, this was where Branchpaw’s luck ran out. With a snarl, the beast lunged. Scrambling over the roots just in time, the tawny apprentice burst from his hiding spot, with that deadly, foaming mouth closing inches away from his tail. Before he could stop her, Applepaw had shot out from underneath him, rushing to her denmate’s aid.

Whitewater screamed, absolute terror coursing through him for the first time in his life. The fox, over-excited by the commotion, swung its head eagerly in his direction, only to catch Applepaw in the chest, cannoning forward at top speed.

He bolted forward as the fox staggered, snapping its jaws furiously. Applepaw had enough wits about her to roll away swiftly, out of range. Branchpaw raced forward as though to help, but Whitewater kicked him back, knocking him away from the danger.

"Go get help," he spat, but Branchpaw had gone still, gaping with silent horror over Whitewater's shoulder. He whirled, and his stomach dropped down to his paws. The fox was looming over Applepaw, its quivering shadow casting her into darkness as she cowered under its wrath.

Had it not been sick, confused, and weak, he never would have dared to be so bold. But the life of his apprentice was at stake, and it was distracted. Whitewater flew over the grass, his paws hardly brushing the earth, and sprang onto the back of the hated creature. All for claws digging in, he found the nape of its neck and bit down hard, searching for the spine. It severed in his jaws with a sickening crack of sinew and bone, and the fox whither to the ground an instant later.

He sprang away from it in disgust, his heart still pounding wildly in his ears as he took care to avoid the mouth which still foamed. At least he had made it in time to save her...

Only he had not. The ginger she-cat stared up at him weakly and fearfully, trembling. There, across her right shoulder, was a long, deep gash. And coating the fur and skin surrounding it were long, sticky strands of clear saliva.

Lionbite had taken one look at her injury before he turned away, sorrow and frustration clouding his old eyes. It was a look Whitewater recognized, for he had seen it before; it was the same expression he had worn when Cloudthorn had been carried back into camp, half-dead already, and Frostblossom had begged for him to save her mate. It meant that there was nothing he could do. It meant the end. The warrior was frustrated over the medicine cat's lack of trying, but also understood the reasoning behind it. Recovery from such an injury was unheard of, and Applepaw's death loomed on the horizon, certain as the sun at dawn. And she would suffer under it, just as the fox had.

But she didn't know what it meant. By no means foolish, she had picked up on their silence, but did not comprehend her mistake that would eventually bring about her own death. She was curled up in her nest in Lionbite's den, wide-eyed and shaking, and Whitewater was overcome with the need to go curl around her, to lie, to say everything was going to be fine. But he could not. Lionbite, uncertain on how to act with an apprentice who was almost certainly infected with an apprentice who carried a disease that could wipe out the entire Clan, had place her under strict quarantine. He himself had swiftly stitched up her wound, and had tasked himself with bringing her prey, but no other cat would be permitted to go near.

For some weeks, the situation remained the same, and Whitewater found himself hoping against hope that, by some grace of StarClan, his apprentice would live. The wound itself had healed nicely, leaving no trace of a scar, and there was no indication that she carried inside of her any illness. But Lionbite remained cautious, keeping her under his care. The disease, he warned, could show at any time, and simply because she didn't display any symptoms yet, it was foolish to believe that she was out of the woods. But Whitewater continued to hope, and to deceive himself. Even Applepaw, normally so cheery and optimistic, had seemed to accept her fate, for the medicine cat had, as gently as he could, informed her of the repercussions of such an injury.

As the weeks passed, the fury began to set in. When Lionbite would bring her food, whereas before she would be, at the least, polite, Applepaw snatched it out of his grip. She became aggressive and insulting, and began to forget where she was, and why she was there. Whitewater, sidelined through the whole ordeal by Lionbite's orders, could only look on hopelessly from a distance as she spiraled deep into the symptomatic rage, becoming something that was far from what she had been. She lashed out without realizing, and thirsted but could not drink. And finally, when Lionbite called Whitewater out from where he was brooding silently in his den, the white warrior knew that this was the end.

Lionbite's soft words, while sympathetic, had been very clear. If they were to do this the civilized way, they would have to act while she could still swallow. Otherwise...the medicine cat had broken off with a shake of his head, and Whitewater understood. Otherwise, he'd have to murder his own apprentice, as coldly as he had killed the fox. This way would be easier for both of them, and would spare Applepaw a continued descent into madness and pain. Whitewater would not be allowed to go near her himself, for the sake of the Clan, but Lionbite would allow him to be near when it happened. And so the warrior followed the old cat to where Applepaw was being kept under close watch. At the entrance of the makeshift den, balanced delicately on a leaf, was a pile of bright red berries that would soothe her pain forever.

Whitewater didn't know exactly how it had happened, or what he had done wrong to deserve such a devastating blow. Where there once had been a kind, loving, intelligent apprentice, on the cusp of becoming a great warrior for her Clan, there was now only the dead shell of a rabid animal, splayed motionlessly in the shadows of her lonely den, where she had been forced to live out the last hopeless weeks of her life in near-solitude. She wouldn't even be buried in the normal grounds with her ancestors for company. No, Mousestar had made it clear that she was to be taken as far from the camp as possible, buried deep enough in the earth to where no passing scavenger would find her. Again, Whitewater understood, but he also grieved, for how could such a lovely young apprentice meet such a terrible end?

“Hey, Applepaw."

Whitewater crouched before the little mound of freshly-dug earth. It seemed oddly out of place among the scarlet poppies that swayed gently in the breeze, but in time, he knew, new flowers would bud up over the disturbed earth. Her final resting place, desolate and lonely now, would be beautiful someday, even if he had to dig up and replant the flora himself.

The sun was bright, and he hid from the glaring rays by resting the top of his head against the earth. He imagined he could still smell her, as though she were right behind him, waiting to go on another training mission. If he closed his eyes, he could see her looking at him with admiration and love, the kind of innocent love you have for someone who is important to you, the purest kind. Big brother, she had called him.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, and his voice broke. But he wouldn't stop. Applepaw deserved the goodbye he couldn't give her when she had been alive. "I'm sorry this happened to you."

"You were so beautiful. Did you know you turned the heads of half the Clan when you walked by?" He laughed at the fond memory of the younger, male apprentices hovering star-struck in her wake. "You would have made someone very lucky one day...what a mother you would have been. What a proud, strong warrior you would have made." He recalled her patience, gentleness, and loyalty. "I wish...I wish you could have had that opportunity." He clenched his jaw and bit his tongue. The taste of his own blood in his mouth was sour.

"I'm sorry you had to face it all alone," he forced out, and the burning at the back of his throat threatened to overwhelm him. "I wanted to be beside you, I did. If I could have taken away your pain, I would have. I wanted to...believe me, there is nothing I wanted more. But I left you alone. You must have been so scared..."

He swallowed, taking a moment to steel himself. "I miss you, you know. Every time I turn around, I expect you to be there. Every time I go out, I look for you, before I can remember..."

How long he crouched there, turning over memories in his mind, he had no idea, but he was startled out of his thoughts by the hunting cry of an owl. Much as he wanted to stay, the Clan would expect him back soon, and Applepaw, he knew, wouldn't want him to crouch at her grave in despair forever. He touched his nose briefly to the little bulge in the earth before getting to his feet.

The poppies, pale in the light of the rising moon, waved at him in farewell, and a smile curled the corners of his mouth. "I will come back and visit you as much as I can, and one day, we will meet again."

Still weighted down with sorrow, though it was not quite as heavy now, he turned to make the long trek back to camp, leaving his apprentice in the field of flowers she had so loved.

“Never can true reconcilement grow where wounds of deadly hate have pierced so deep...” – John Milton

Whitewater was alone in the forest when Snowcloud’s rage found him.

“It should have been you.”

Startled, the elder tom whirled on his paws to face the speaker, who was none other than his own brother. Snowcloud, who was usually content to simmer in frustration as opposed to dramatic orchestrations of anger, was bristling in an aggressive way that Whitewater had never seen.

“What are you talking about?” he whispered, and his brother paced forward.

“Branchpaw told me what happened that day. How Applepaw was the one who went to rescue him. Not you.” Snowcloud’s gaze was sharp and accusing, and Whitewater flinched away from it, the truth of his brother’s words falling on his skin like glass.

“Do you think I don’t regret that every day? Don’t you think if I could go back-”

Snowcloud cut across him, fury sharpening his tone and adding volume to his voice. “He said that you only came out of hiding when your apprentice was in danger, but not for him.”

Whitewater curled his lip, stung at the accusation. Was his brother implying what he thought he was implying? “I had to think of them both! If I just gave away my position, the fox could have gone for Applepaw! I was trying to think of how to lure it away. I thought-”

“I know what you thought!” Snowcloud spat, interrupting him again. “You thought, ‘oh, that’s just Snowcloud’s apprentice, so he can hardly be of any value’.”

“You know that’s not true,” Whitewater protested hotly, taking a few steps forward himself.

Oh, but it is,” the other tom returned coldly, his expression filled with disdain. “You’ve always thought yourself better than me, and apparently you put your apprentice above all the others, too. And you couldn’t even save her.”

His words hit Whitewater like a kick to the gut, and he recoiled as though his brother had lashed out at him with unsheathed claws.

Snowcloud smirked at him. “That failure hurts, doesn’t it? Waking every morning, wondering what more you could have done, asking yourself why it had to happen to you. Well,” he was shouting now, and towering over Whitewater, who crouched at his paws in disbelief, “I know how that feels! That’s how I’ve felt every day of my whole stinking life, living under you! And now, it comes full circle.” His eyes gleamed with a sort of malevolent satisfaction. “Now, you will suffer for your failures, and you will know what it feels like to live every day knowing there’s nothing you can do to make it better.”

With that, Snowcloud spun away and disappeared into the undergrowth, leaving Whitewater in the little clearing alone, shaking from head to tail.

In his entire life, Whitewater had never once thought that his relationship with his brother had been irreversibly damaged. Distant and strained? Yes. But lost forever? He had never even entertained the thought. But now that he knew the depth of Snowcloud’s feelings, the uncomfortable truth began to dawn on him that they might never be brothers again. He had attacked him and accused him, needling the parts where it hurt the most, and what was truly the worst of it was the fact that there had been brutal honesty in his brother’s voice. He believed what he said, and hadn’t just been saying it for show, or to hurt. No matter how Whitewater looked at it, it seemed that going back to the way things were before all of this happened was impossible.

Though he had never really had his brother around to begin with, the final separation between the two of them hit Whitewater hard, and that coupled with the loss of Applepaw caused his life to take a definite turn for the worse. For the Clan, he put on his best front and attempted to continue on as best as he could, for there was no room for mourning or weakness. But everywhere he turned, he expected to see a flash of ginger fur, or to perhaps hear the bright sound of mischievous laughter. But in the space that Applepaw had once occupied, there was emptiness and silence. And Snowcloud, whom he had foolishly thought might come to support him in his time of need, was, of course, nowhere to be found.

Moons passed, and with the changing of the seasons came changes in leadership as well. Mousestar passed away, last life winking out into nothingness, and Magpiethorn took up the mantle as leader of RiverClan. As with any shift in leadership, when Magpiestar took command, subtly changes began to occur, and one of them was that Whitewater would be getting a new apprentice. The thought of replacing his old one chafed at him, and he had thus avoided the unpleasant task because others took pity on him. But as one of RiverClan’s older warriors, he was expected to pass down his knowledge sooner or later, and it might as well be sooner. He found their logic reasonable, and accepted Foxpaw as his second apprentice, although his heart wasn’t in it.

Training was initially rough and slow-going for both of them. Acutely aware of the bruises that still pained his heart, Whitewater attempted to train Foxpaw to the best of his ability without getting close to him at all. Of course, without the connection between the two of them that was necessary for a mentor and apprentice to have, all of his sincere efforts fell flat, and Foxpaw grew to be frustrated and angry with his progress. It occurred to Whitewater, suddenly, that he was on the same path as Crowfrost, and was turning out to be a worse mentor to Foxpaw than Crowfrost had been to Snowcloud. And Foxpaw, bold and inquisitive as he was, deserved better than that.

“You trained with my mom when she was an apprentice."

Whitewater made the half-effort to make sense of Foxpaw's statement. His apprentice's mother was Dawnfall, who he had, indeed, trained with in earlier years. He said nothing, but flicked his ear in acknowledgement.

"When she found out you were going to be my mentor, she couldn't stop talking about you. She really thought you were something great."

He flinched, but when he searched for any sign of subtle accusation in the young tom's words, he found none. "Are you disappointed?" He ground out irritably, turning to look Foxpaw in the eye.

The apprentice did not shrink away, but tilted his chin up proudly. "A little," he admitted honestly. "But I'm also just waiting for you to be great again."

Which, of course, left his mentor at a complete loss for words.

“What is dark within me, illuminate.” – John Milton

Slowly, Whitewater found his old courage and determination in himself. With each training session and each patrol, he and Foxpaw each opened up to the other a little bit more, and when his apprentice placed him complete faith and trust in him, he felt the familiar spark of pride to have such a close relationship with an apprentice once more. As the moons came and went, he found himself becoming sincere, the mask becoming less and less of a mask as he became truly happy once more. Though Applepaw could never be replaced, Foxpaw had settled and filled the gap she had left behind, and, together, they forged new bonds of trust and companionship that he had never gotten the chance to experience with his former apprentice.

As a fast learner, Foxpaw progressed quickly through his training once Whitewater began putting the effort in to it, and the white warrior worked hard, for the young tom had put his faith in him from the start, even though he had been undeserving of it. Determined to right his neglect, Whitewater answered every question, practiced every requested move, and stayed out longer on patrols to give Foxpaw as much opportunity as he could possibly give. The youth became skilled in battle, and even more adept at hunting, repaying Whitewater’s hard work with the battles he fought and the prey he brought back to the Clan.

At the turn of the season, Foxpaw underwent his final assessment, and, upon its successful completion, became a warrior: Foxfall, in honor of his mother, who had died of illness earlier in the season. As he took his place beside Whitewater for the first time as an equal, not a student, the older warrior couldn’t help but feel the faintest stirrings of relief; though the pain from Applepaw’s death lessened with each passing day, he had always had the nagging fear that his next apprentice would suffer a similar fate. But he shouldn’t have doubted; Foxfall was brilliant and strong, and had fought his way forward to stand where he stood today.

With the passing of time, Whitewater returned more to his old self. He had faced adversity, had been through the dark, but had come out on the other side, all the more powerful and determined for it. Never again, he vowed, would he sink to such a place, for the person he became when he wallowed there was not the warrior that he truly was. Each day became meaningful to him again, and the old joy of life and a challenge flickered to being inside of him once more. But even as everything settled firmly back into place, there was one part of his life that remained coldly distant.

He had not tried to speak with Snowcloud since. His brother kept his distance with determination, and the two of them were only in close proximity with each other on patrols or missions. But they never kept each other’s company outside of that. Though not in his nature to hold grudges, every time Whitewater attempted to make amends, the words died in his throat at the memory of his brother’s hate and accusation. It was something, he knew, that was entirely hopeless, and he thought if he approached his brother, he would only push him further away. So he waits, patiently, for Snowcloud to come back to him in the vain hope that one day, he might actually do it.

He remained on good terms with both Firefoot and Foxfall, still being mentored by the former and, in some ways, still mentoring the latter. Foxfall never hesitated to come to him when he needed advice, and, when he got his own apprentice, the little she-cat would often seek him out as well. Whitewater enjoyed it; the initial awkwardness of being an information source had passed many seasons ago, and he was more than happy to part with any information he had that anyone asked for. It gratified him to watch them take what they learned and apply it, and he often watched Foxfall train with his apprentice with an almost envious gleam in his eye.

When Yewtail stepped down, it caused something of a disturbance in the Clan. Not because stepping down was something uncommon or unusual, no, but rather because of the short amount of time the position had been held. Whitewater wondered over it and had his own speculations, but he kept them to himself. The empty position called to many of RiverClan’s warriors, and he would be lying to say that he wasn’t one of them. Whitewater had always enjoyed a challenge, and though he wasn’t power-hungry by any means, ambition stirred within him. He would respect any warrior who would become deputy, of course, but he also desired it for himself. But it wouldn’t do to covet the vacant rank, for he knew Magpiestar would make his selection based on merit, not by how badly anyone wanted it. And if he didn't receive the appointment, well...he had certainly lived through worse things.