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Cresting over the moors, all Luckypaw can think is how wonderful it smells, how wonderful and familiar (if not a little off in some strange, imperceptible way) and how distinctly not like them it smells. The journeying cats' scents had all started to bleed together at some point, he knows, Clans dissolving into one big jumble of cats, but he hadn't realized it was this extreme until the smell of was all around him once again. Will they smell strange to the others, he wonders? Surely they would, even if he'd never dream of calling the scent that still wreathes around them strange, not after growing so used to it. Regardless, he's happy to feel the springy grass beneath his paws, to spot gaping holes in the ground that set his heartbeat alight, and to finally see the gorse tunnel again. It looks...the same, and he's almost disappointed, as though he were expecting something to have happened to it. To have changed it. It's a silly thought, and he pushes it away at once in favor of a million others more relevant; for everyone at home, there hadn't been some life-changing event, no struggle aside from that against yellowcough.
But they're here, now, he thinks, his fur brushing against the gorse and his tail kept carefully tucked as best as it can be against his side - they're here now, and they have the lungwort, so it's all going to be okay. "We're home..." he murmurs, awestruck at a sight he hasn't seen in far too long. "We're home - we're home!" Luckypaw crows, and it's a wonder he doesn't drop his precious bundle at the wave of emotion that finally seems to hit him. Their arrival seems to diffuse through camp quickly, as their clanmates start to gather, and again, he's struck with the urge to go slack, to finally lay down and not have to worry about how much progress is to be made in the morning, or what the next obstacle might be. No more mountains - only moors and tunnels, for now and for forever!
First, though, the lungwort - Wolfsong and Cottonpaw will dole it out, surely, as any expertise the rest of them might possess has only arisen from carrying it so far. They've come so far with it; too far to just drop it to the ground now, hoping that somebody will find some use for it. Before he can ask what to do with it - where to put it - any thoughts of lightening his burden are chased away at the sight of Rattleheart. Luckypaw's excited to see friends and clanmates alike (Redpaw's excitement is surely contagious), but something greater in him had spent the whole trip back burning to meet family again. Like Scorchpaw, he can hardly hold himself back from surging forward and embracing her, stopped only by the distance left between them all. "Rattleheart! You're - you're-!" The words stick in his mouth, any carefully rehearsed phrases and greetings failing him in the moment; all he can offer is an overjoyed grin framed with petals, though the state that she's in causes him to wilt, even more so when Rattleheart breaks the news.
Weaselclaw and Lambcurl...they hadn't - they hadn't made it? But - they were...they were supposed to save everyone. They were supposed to bring the lungwort back, and save everyone - there hadn't been any alternative, not for any of them. They were supposed to save everyone - and clearly, they had failed.
Would Weaselclaw and Lambcurl still be here if they had moved any faster? If they - if they hadn't gotten caught in that rockslide, would there be two more WindClanners here before them today? The thought makes Luckypaw sick. What about the other Clans? Had they lost cats, too? Many of his fellow journey members had sick family back at home - had they lost them, too? Rattleheart's assertion that she and the others were still here - that they still need the lungwort, that they can still be saved - is cold consolation in the face of the losses that had already been dealt, even if he's selfishly glad it hadn't been Rattleheart buried in the cold, hard ground. Mintshade, Moorpaw, Venomstrike - they're all ill, and yet, once again he feels relief that it's not Rumblepaw or Frostpaw or Rabbitclaw mentioned. Surely, they're all okay; somebody would have said something by now if they weren't, and yet he aches to see them, to know for a fact that they're all okay, his littermates especially in the wake of Badgermoon and Curlewnose.
Though, is it really still in the wake if it's been - what, over a moon now? For all he knows, everybody's adjusted already, Sunstride having cemented himself as the new deputy, and it's just him still struggling to come to terms with it. Luckypaw steals a glance at Scorchpaw - did she feel any different since they'd last spoken about it, he wonders? Is it still a fresh wound, or is it starting to heal - like the gash across her face, like the bend in his tail? For the first time since entering camp, he takes in just how different they must all look - battered and worn, bearing the hardships of the journey plainly for all to see. When his clanmates looked at him, did they just see troubles - the tired tilt to everything, his thin frame, the permanent crook to his tail - or could they pierce through that, to his very core, even? Could they see the marks the others had left on him - the impact that those he had called his companions over these last weeks have had on him? He hopes not; there's no way he could explain that to those left behind, and besides, it feels like something private, some bond shared only between those who journeyed up into those treacherous mountains.
Of course, no matter how much he longs to finally rest, there's still matters to be taken care of - namely, that of explanations. It's clear their mission was a success, and yet, all those who had set off didn't stand within the boundaries of camp just yet. It's easy to see why they would all be worried about Periwinklebreeze, given his conspicuous absence and their weary frames, though Gravelsnap in particular seems the most distressed at the empty spot where the other warrior should have been. Scorchpaw offers a brief explanation, but that isn't good enough for Gravelsnap, who demands more, just like he's sure others will, too. It's surely not his place to give any sort of official summary of their travels, and he scarcely thinks he'd be capable of it, especially not not, but this? This he can handle. "We ran into some dogs, close to home - so close. Periwinklebreeze - he got hurt, and he wasn't the only one, either. We wouldn't be able to maintain our pace, so they - we split up, like Scorchpaw said. Magpiepaw stayed with the other group, so, um I'm sure they'll be okay." Whether the others know Magpiepaw as ShadowClan's medicine cat apprentice or not, he doesn't realize, the name rolling naturally off his tongue as though he were talking about Cottonpaw.
"We - there was a lot that happened," he finishes lamely, falling silent as if they, themselves, are to serve as testament to what that 'a lot' might have been. Even despite the way his body aches with exhaustion, he seems to carry himself differently, now that they're back. A little taller, a little more confident - just, different. He's sure they can see it in him, and probably in the others, too; none of them had come back as they'd left, and while that once might have been a frightening prospect, now Luckypaw finds some degree of comfort in it, knowing that even split up they wouldn't be so quick to forget everything that had happened, even if there were some things he wished he could forget. The rockslide and the tunnels come to mind, as does Little Wolf's sacrifice - something that hurts all the more now that they've returned to find it too late to save Weaselclaw and Lambcurl, and surely cats from other Clans, too. He prays Little Wolf's kin was able to hold out for this long, that all the other sick cats in the other Clans would be okay - that Little Wolf's sacrifice hadn't been just for Cherrypaw. That her efforts wouldn't go unsung, even if they hardly mattered in somewhere like WindClan.
The excitement must be getting to him, he thinks, that and the crash after being so overwhelmed with elation and with guilt and with a hundred other emotions, and a small sigh leaves him as he offers Mouseflight a crooked grin, leaning against Scorchpaw's unoccupied side on steady paws, for once. They hadn't returned in time to save Weaselclaw or Lambcurl, but - they had returned. All hope wasn't lost; it had meant something, all that effort. They had meant something.
