Wheatbloom had crumbled in on himself. A trip by the orchard, always the orchard with the old butterflies giving way to fuzzy moth caterpillars on his skin, inching through his fur, along his red-rimmed wide eyes. Wide in death and chewing herbs and watching his apprentices and his mother and mother number two and father. He hoped he could see Addercloud again. The dog that had torn his body to ribbons in the orchard, always the orchard, always the orchard with the sweet apple smell and the quiet, had ensured he would see Addercloud again. He hoped Minnowstar and Brookpaw would forgive him for seeing Addercloud again so soon.
StarClan smelled like apples and herbs. He crept away from his body and watched constellations twitch across his fur and breathed in and out. In and out.