private ABANDON EVERYTHING YOU KNOW — gloompaw

[BEESONG]

since his dream a few nights ago, beesong couldn't keep his mind off of it. it didn't feel like a simple dream, a folly born from his imagination. it recalls to mind the same sensation of his calling to riverclan, his summons to the moonstone, and his visions of the albino buck. intuitively, he knows that this is starclan's attempt at imparting an important message to him.

the question that remains, is what?

they couldn't understand why starclan must keep up this enigmatic mask; rain had no trouble in telling beesong that they must leave everything behind to become riverclan's medicine cat, that night at the moonstone. why couldn't the rest of their messages be as straightforward as that one? it's frustrating, but beesong has no power in this. they have no choice but to accept it, no matter how infuriating, and try to decipher the dream.

he mulls it over. replays the dream in his mind, again and again... scorching heat. the earth dying. sudden darkness. plants blooming in the gloom.

the gloom.

the realization hits him, paws fumbling with the herbs he'd been sorting.

...

it's late afternoon when the healer seeks out a certain mink apprentice, left eye scouring the camp until it glimpses wisps of blue smoke. "gloompaw," beesong calls out to the young she-cat as they close the distance between them. "we need to talk."

@GLOOMPAW​

 

[GLOOMPAW]

Gloompaw, we need to talk.

Gloompaw didn't enjoy talks, lest it was silly banter. But the serious expression on Beesong's face left little of that theory to fruit. She swiveled on her heels, brows knitted together as she attempted to decipher the topic of the afternoon before he could say a thing.

Had she done something to the medicine den recently? Their talk about berries and their dangers had, honestly, warded her off any impromptu taste-testing endeavours. Gloompaw had begun to assume that days of clumsy paintings with red-green stains and cobweb lineart had been far behind. She'd not gotten in trouble like that for weeks -- or even a month, she swears!

Shoulders slumping when she couldn't guess, she broke her silence with a question. There was a peculiar air about, and it made her hair stand like a thunderstorm was breaching the horizon. "About what?" ​

 

[BEESONG]

beesong watches her carefully; the knitting of her brows, the way that her fur stands on end, and the wary silence that follows his statement. she has no idea what lies ahead of her, the weight that she must carry. the burden of her clan's well-being, and of starclan's will. she's too young for this, he thinks for only a heartbeat, before he shakes the thought from his mind. maybe it's better this way. maybe, without the time to devote herself so wholly to one path, it wouldn't leave such a nasty wound to fester.

maybe, she would want this more than he had.

gloompaw's shoulders slump. she gives into the silence between them, pushing beesong to breach the subject. "starclan sent me a sign the other night," they begin, careful, as if treading on ice that could crack underneath the weight at any moment. they feel as if they are. "they have chosen you as my successor. you are to become my apprentice." they do not leave room to argue. this is what the stars demand of her. their detached expression morphs into something more pensive as they regard gloompaw, cautious still. would she even want this? or are her paws to be forced onto a starlit path she'd never dreamed of, like beesong's had?

... either way, at least she wouldn't have to leave her home and family behind to follow it. he tries to hold onto that little sliver of optimism, keep it close to him, like a starving rogue would a morsel of rotting carrion.​

 

[GLOOMPAW]

The sky was clear. It shouldn't have been, because she could feel the burn of lightning in her heart, the tang of ozone in the back of her throat.

Their successor. Their apprentice.

Gloompaw didn't speak for a long, drawn out heartbeat afterwards. Her mind crashed sideways, reeling, edge over edge. She felt small. She had questions, but none of them ripped from her except a quiet "Me?"

There were so many things. Like how she would move from mentor to mentor. What the sign had been, what things beyond her comprehension had said of her.

She knew that come winter, Beesong would need a right-hand to provide for the Clan. For it to be her... her pelt stood on edge defensively. StarClan had been watching her. That riled her up and made her nauseous at the same time. She doesn't not want this. But she doesn't think she deserved it.

Gloompaw had been just that five minutes prior -- Gloompaw, bitey and not all too nice. Inconsequential and only beginning to follow rules when she returned from attempting to hunt her denmate's murderer.

But Beesong had said it like a declaration. He asked no question. Finality shot Gloompaw in the chest. Something funny wilted on her tongue and she gave a ragged breath to expel the ash. She bit back a scream, sifting it until it came out just as scared as the last question, "Why me?"

"...Are you sure it's not someone else?"​