private CHECKMATE [ x ] beesong

[CICADASTAR]

cicadastar wakes in a blur — a rabbit - heart panic, wide - eyed and hollow. for a brief, horrible moment, he cannot remember where he was. the return has been so recent, salt blue eyes flick rapid about the willow as if he’d not seen it before in his moons. smokethroat does not move despite the startled jerk of too long limbs, trembling sharp edges that weave through his own to release himself from their resting tangle. the lead worked himself to the seams, worked from the light of dawn until it died over the horizon once more and the harder he worked, the harder he hit their moss at moonhigh. his heart jackrabbits in a slim chest, hummingbird wings violent against the brittle bone.

the mottled feline staggers to full height, synapses firing images of death and rot — of a meadow turned brown. greenleaf was beginning already to verge on too warm, sweltering beneath a still - shedding pelt of thick curls and the panic helps none. rubberblack maw parts on a quick pant, wide eyes shining ivory in the few rays of moonlight to pierce their tree. the tom is bathed in luminance, blinding where stars studded the voidlike expanse of his fur. was this a sign? wide, corpse - like stare layers his love but his mind ticks — a clockwork repetition, a black dog biting at his heels and he knows not what draws his pawsteps to this place. the falls are roaring in thundering ears and with each stride they wail higher, sing a song of warning — or of beckoning. of promise, something lie there. something, something.

plains of bountiful harvests, of rooting herb and water that trickles lazily over corroding stone. bees bumble awkwardly about the river flowers, bumping into bright - colored petals. they were doing well, relocating back to their camp and reeling in prey to keep their bellies beyond full — claws slip from sharp - knuckled paws. moons of misery and loss have corroded him too, have left claw marks on everything he cares for, and his clan.. his clan is everything. his mate, his friends, his warriors and family.

the bees are gone, drifting away in the wind and the world turns like a sick stomach, wilts, and he is wilting too — weight slips from his bones, hollows his face and eyes. death sings around him, the lands rot and grey and he is still here, day after excruciating day. while riverclan rots, he lives, lives dragging through star - touched immortality. the world is in ruins, the wind reeks of moor scum.

the man spots him. the medicine cat, crouched at the edge of the gorge, moonlight bathing their cinnamon tones in a pale halo. led here — had he been? the stars shine above, gleam amidst the otherwise clear night sky. we’re they speaking to him? an urge, beckoning towards the rush of rapids only foxlengths forward. windclan reeks in the air.. was it from the other side, or had they been here? they’d no respect for his borders, no respect for his warriors — why was beesong so far away? the gorge gapes beneath and he steps forward like a snake, mottled ghost amidst the tall grass. why had they left in the middle of the night, no soul to have seen them leave? suspicion flares it’s talons and sinks into the soft flesh of his heart, the burn of betrayal worse than any fire to rip through thunderclan’s territory. what had they done? what were they doing?

were they leaving?

the tom stalls in the tall grass, heart pounding, throat tight and constricting further with each second. beesong. had it been a sign? was it a sign? the cinnamon tabby, his medicine cat, his supposed link to starclan and the one who had put that wretched molly in his deputy’s position — had this been planned? how much did he not know, how much was there to uncover within his own borders? cicadastar’s mouth parts, heavy breaths upon brittle reed growing ever heavier, eyes wide as they could go — pupils slitted. were they going, and where could they go? where had gloompaw gone? his fur bristles, ears snapping back and he is moving from the undergrowth viperlike, long body twining from the shadows to step closer — close, feels the mud and loose dirt of the gorge beneath ivory paws. he speaks from behind, while they are distracted. he speaks low. accusing.

" did you think you would go unnoticed? "

˗ˏˋ 𓆩  OOC ✟ VISUAL 𓆪 ´ˎ˗

• i.
  
• ˖ ⁺ ｡ ˚ ⠀ CICADASTAR⠀⠀−−−c−−−⠀⠀king of the rivers.
  
  
  m. he / him. black smoke & tortoiseshell chimera with intense salt - blue eyes. a handsome, looming tom bearing patchwork black - silver curls that fall over his slim figure in loose, shining rivulets, broken with white and glossy from his fish diet. descending from a heritage of overtyped oriental shorthairs, cicadastar stands unusually tall amongst his peers, and holds himself with a tragic grace, poised and prim and ever - aware of how he is being perceived.
  
  ᨒ gay, mated to smokethroat. smells like wet stone & moss.
  ᨒ speaks with a german accent. 43 moons, ages every 50 posts.
  
  penned by antlers​
  
  
• 
  
  
  
• "speech"
  

​

 

[BEESONG]

it starts with a night more restless than others. troubles rise like the flooding river, encroaching on what little’s left of beesong’s rickety ‘peace of mind.’ beesong knows he wouldn’t be able to sleep on a night like tonight; with everything bad that’s happened in such a short span of time replaying in his mind. and he doesn’t see much point in tossing and turning in his nest, only to muss it up with no rest to show for it.

so, he slinks from the camp, as stealthily as he could so as to not wake anyone. i’ll be back, whispers his mind to the sleeping figure of ravenpaw as he departs, a shadow curled in his own nest within the medicine cat’s den.

they couldn’t explain why they’re drawn to the gorge, the falls drumming a deadly rhythm and the air reeking of windclan. except, maybe, sleep deprivation. but their paws guide them to the outskirts of riverclan’s territory, only fox-lengths away from certain death, should an unfortunate soul lose their footing.

a patch of parsley grows near the edge. beesong recognizes the long-stemmed plant, with its crinkled leaves and small yellow flowers, easily. good for bellyaches, he recalls as he steps closer for a better look at the herb, checking for dead leaves or hungry insects.

star-crossed is he, that the wind blows towards him tonight and that the sharp scent of parsley occupies his nose. he doesn’t notice cicadastar’s approach, until a voice is speaking from behind. accusing.

beesong whirls around, dizzying themselves, and they stumble. the dim moonlight casts ominous shadows across cicadastar’s features, contorted by paranoia. glinting in wide, manic eyes that fixate on beesong as if they are a dangerous outsider rather than his healer.

up until now, cicadastar’s wrath has only ever been directed towards others— windclan, thunderclan, buckgait— yet it is something that beesong has feared from the moment he stepped foot onto the riverbanks. maybe beesong had been fortunate, blessed by survival skills passed down from his turbulent childhood to aid him in keeping his head down and following orders without complaint. but luck runs out, and now, he finds himself staring at the forbidding image that’s haunted his mind for the past moons.

their heart drums louder than the falls. racing brain screaming at them to put distance between themselves and the sudden threat cicadastar poses. in the heat of the moment, they foolishly comply; taking a step backwards, and then another, until they ghost the perilous drop into the gorge by only a whisker’s length. “what?” beesong asks, trying to keep the waver out of their voice. appease him, they think. calm him down before things get worse.

enunciating every syllable slowly, as if the very act of speaking is dangerous— and it very well could be, in this moment— they continue. “cicadastar, i don’t know what you’re talking about.” a half-truth. their brain racks itself for the possible answer; had cicadastar caught them staring a little too longingly at the pine forest? had he decided to denounce them for appointing ravenpaw, a former kittypet, as their apprentice? or will they be condemned for the deaths of riverclanners they couldn’t heal in time?​

 

[CICADASTAR]

the medic whirls around, nearly trips over his paws in their panic to turn to him — guilt paints the scar tissue of his features in broad strokes of ivory, moon - caught and illuminated. a crime come to light, positioned forth before starclan’s judging eye. at the very edge of this gorge, these open plains of sprawling meadow the cinnamon - toned feline steps back, and it’s as if each fumbling backwards stride is a breath of confession, fear in the wake of being caught. like a kit, he thinks — stumbling over a mossball when caught out of their nest past moonhigh. wild gaze fixes on him and he returns it just as bitter, just as cold as the slitted ice - chip blue luminaries stuck wide. a gentle breeze pushes ruffled curls but he remains still, save for the barest flick of a thick, mottled tailtip. tall, sleek audits are twisted backwards, whiskers back and he feels as though he were zeroing in on a mouse — all but wiggling his hindquarters to adjust into a better pounce.

and what, they say, as if the situation had not painted itself clear enough. as if he did not stand here — the notches of his angular form arched upwards and bristling like something from a kit’s tale. something beastly and jagged, head low like a fox and eyes bright as the brimming moon above. as if he’d not been led to this place from his dreams, dreams that slip rapidly through the talons of his shot memory. the word has barely left the medicine cat’s tongue before his maw is opening again, flashing pearl teeth to hiss, ” do not play dumb with me! “ viscous, glinting salt blue wild and the tabby watches him, stares as if he were something rabid and foaming. perhaps he is. the gnarled skin over his maw lifts, twists to push back long, twining whiskers. perhaps it’s warranted the way they stare, toddle back and he steps forward, marionetted by the prey - like skitter. his head is ducked low, shoulder blades arched up from the eel sleekness of his body and even now, he still looms. a shadow cast, creeping ever closer with each abortive stride until — until —

he can nearly hear it, the dusting of dirt and rock falling away from the unsteady edge of their yawning gorge. the medicine cat feels it, the drop, its jagged edge a feathers length away from where their paw grapples to the ground. in a beat of silence the leader looks at it — stares at the way their paws phantom just over the shoddy edge. there is no way to tell whether the rush in his ears sings from the nearby falls or his own hot, pulsing blood but his skull is ringing either way. for a long moment he simply looks at their paws, precarious.

beesong. bee. they’d been raised with kittypets, built to ache and yearn for the kibble - scented life of ease that calls from beyond the pines. the stars had appointed them to him, but he has seen the stars take their decisions back. he has seen the soot that sullies the damned paws, has seen betrayal by those meant to heal. he thinks of cinderfrost, he thinks of emberstar. he thinks of the hypocritical hisses and snarls of those who had turned their back on the forests ways. he was not blind, not any longer — he could see, righteous and star - blessed as he was. as cursed as he was, as illuminated in starlit immortality as he was, a warning was spoken to him. lain out like a gift and illuminated against the rushing backdrop of violent rapids, shadows cast upon the scars of their face. i dont know what you’re talking about — and it is a lie. they are frightened, trying not to be and failing despite the way their voice tightens. it was because they were caught. it was the only reason, it could only be.

why else would beesong be afraid of him? why, when the stars guided his paw — why, other than to preserve themself in this moment? he only wanted to know where he was going, the mottled leader steps closer, closer, before pausing with a paw lifted, sharp knuckled and unsheathed with claws long, curving. he does not know whether the drip at his curled maw is river water excess or the mad froth of drool slipping from bared teeth. he was angry — wasn’t he allowed to be angry? ” there were locusts allowed in my garden. “ how far did this web go? he thinks of the brown molly still lounging uselessly in his nursery and makes a sound, something akin to a growl with his maw parted and it comes out something guttural. had he known? had they felt pity in their soft kittypet heart for such a wretched molly that he lied — a liar. liar, liar, liar.

their only blessing by starclan and it was to save her sorry tail, only for her to dig her claws in deeper. and they leave now? when they need them most? they choose to leave — they were leaving. the visions wouldn’t lie, not like they had. ” did you think you could just leave? “ and he thinks of smokethroat, lying in their den layered with herbs and cobweb and still reeking, writhing as if he were rotting from the inside out. infection still stings his nose. he thinks of gloompaw, missing. missing, still. the leader moves and this time, he does not stop his slow stride, head low and eyes slitted. he thinks of clearsight, thinks of pumpkinpaw and ashpaw and — it meant something. it did, ” what are you hiding? what are — “ what does he ask? bees drift away in the wind and the flowers rot. he wants to leap at them, wants to dig into their shoulders and snarl until they give him the truth. why are you so afraid? it is guilt? does it eat you alive explain explain explain, ” what are you HIDING! “

˗ˏˋ 𓆩  OOC ✟ VISUAL 𓆪 ´ˎ˗

• i.
  
• ˖ ⁺ ｡ ˚ ⠀ CICADASTAR⠀⠀−−−c−−−⠀⠀king of the rivers.
  
  
  m. he / him. black smoke & tortoiseshell chimera with intense salt - blue eyes. a handsome, looming tom bearing patchwork black - silver curls that fall over his slim figure in loose, shining rivulets, broken with white and glossy from his fish diet. descending from a heritage of overtyped oriental shorthairs, cicadastar stands unusually tall amongst his peers, and holds himself with a tragic grace, poised and prim and ever - aware of how he is being perceived.
  
  ᨒ gay, mated to smokethroat. smells like wet stone & moss.
  ᨒ speaks with a german accent. 43 moons, ages every 50 posts.
  
  penned by antlers​
  
  
• 
  
  
  
• "speech"
  

​

 

[BEESONG]

he cannot disguise the flinch, the twist of a grimace on his scarred face, as cicadastar snaps back with a vicious hiss. lips marred by the memory of frostbite curl, deadly sharp teeth bared for the medicine cat to see. it takes every last ounce of willpower beesong possesses not to skitter away any further, as cicadastar stalks closer, like a hunter stalking its prey.

like the monster in his nightmares.

even with the leader’s head held low, he looms over the smaller beesong. casts a shadow over them as he corners them between his bristling form and the unstable crevice of the gorge. it thunders beneath their paws, a reminder as dangerous as the manic tom before them, and beesong’s rattled brain cannot decide which is more frightening. what little distance they’d put between themselves and cicadastar is closed within a couple of strides. get away, their mind begs to scream, alarm bells ringing in their ear almost as loud as the roaring of the falls. but their tongue does not obey that urge, caught behind the prison of their clenched teeth.

beesong’s words do not placate cicadastar, as he’d hoped they would. they only enrage him further; claws glint from a raised paw, curled lips dribbling. more akin to a rabid dog than a feline. there were locusts allowed in my garden. beesong jerks his head back, as if the statement had burnt him. does cicadastar think him a blight? a pest to exterminate?

with the way that he looks at beesong, now… it doesn’t seem so irrational. they swallow hard around the lump in their throat, hackles rising against their will. they’re scared, and it’s becoming hard to hide. would they have to fight their way out of this, if cicadastar decides on an execution? but, a scuffle this close to the gorge would be too dangerous; cicadastar may have lives to spare, but if beesong falls, it would be their certain end. would they be able to flee? their gaze darts to the side, and then refocuses onto their- riverclan’s leader. he’s too close, they think. if they try to run now, cicadastar could easily intercept them.

the leader’s voice breaks through their hurried thoughts. did you think you could just leave? leave? cicadastar believed they were leaving? memories of homesickness and longing glances swirl in the back of their mind… it explains this sudden shift, at least. but beesong would never leave… not until riverclan had another to take their place as the medicine cat, at the very least. it was their duty to rain, and to starclan.

“cicadastar, you’re being too presumptuous. let’s talk about this, please-“ one ditch effort to talk his way out of this, now that he knows the reasoning, however flawed, behind cicadastar’s fury. but cicadastar intercepts. he demands to know what beesong is hiding. a curled ear swivels back, the healer’s head shaking as if trying to dispel the accusations. cicadastar moves forward, again, but this time he does not seem to have any intention of keeping even a sliver of distance between them. one hind paw shifts backward on the instinct to get away, however, it quickly retreats as the healer stumbles on the ledge of the gorge. loose dirt crumbles and falls into the depths below, and beesong just barely manages to catch himself before cicadastar’s opening his mouth again-

the thundering of cicadastar’s voice shoots icy fear through beesong’s veins. this time, the startled medicine cat doesn’t stop himself. his trembling limbs move on their own, tottering backwards.

the unsteady ground disappears from beneath their hind paws. beesong lets out an alarmed yowl, their pounding heart dropping into their twisting stomach. claws unsheathe to scrabble at dirt, at grass, at anything that would stop them from plummeting. but there’s little purchase, and they cannot pull themselves up, their lower body dangling helplessly in midair.

they couldn’t die. not here, not like this. riverclan still needs them- the friends they’ve made in riverclan still need them. apricotflower, mudpelt, smokethroat, ravenpaw… ravenpaw. they still need to see ravenpaw earn his full name.

they couldn’t die.

“CICADASTAR-!” beesong screams, terror-filled and desperate as his claws slide across the earth. closer to certain death. his hind legs kick at the air, his panic-stricken eyes staring back into cicadastar’s. “help me-!“

help does not come in time. or maybe, there was never a possibility that cicadastar would save him. even the stars are cold, silent, watching him slip further and further towards the edge. until-

the earth crumbles under their weight. beesong lets out one final scream as the world falls away. cicadastar disappears along with the ground, and the cinnamon tabby plummets. the wind rushes past him, stinging his tear-filled eyes. terror thrums through every vein, limbs flailing uselessly. the raging currents below grow closer with each heartbeat that feels too quick and too slow all at once.

beesong does not have enough time to pray to starclan before they collide with the surface of the water, and they exhale their final breath.​

 

[CICADASTAR]

if dawn breaks over his deeds, he’d say there was nothing to do. he would say that, by the time earth is giving way to scrabbling cinnamon paws, he could only make it a fox - length towards them. he’d say ivory paws scuffed the mud and earth sloped, hind claws hooking into stable soil to keep him from tumbling as well. there would have been no time before —

cicadastar!

his name, screamed to the heavens and echoing emptily against the light gleaming overhead. he stands stock still, head lifting from where it had been ducked threateningly to peer over the crumbling gorge - edge, pupils blowing against the sudden light. they scream his name and twin audits flick backward with something like indignation, cold - fire eyes flicking back just over a slim shoulder, as if expecting phantom pawsteps. there are only seconds in time, but they seem too frozen — slush - thick, phantom memories limbs fighting through an icy grave — but there are only seconds. and by the time slim, ivory paws have brought him gorgeside, the waters have already calmed down below : the falls are rancorous and feeding, sure to spit the remains of its latest meal into the rivers before the sun crests. the mottled feline stares into the the darkness, and the silver - glinting waves stare back, unfeeling as it had ever been.

the man takes a deep breath all too suddenly, staggers a step back away from the edge as if the darkness could pry him in as well, heavy breath panting into the humid newleaf warmth. the river has always taken as much as it gives — prey flourishes beneath the waves they would pull beesong’s body from within the next sunrises, yet their hunting patrols will never miss a beat. the gorge had done his work for him, gnawing and violent and demanding. stars above, dead eyes had watched as their medic had fallen and he knew. for the best, he knew. the rivers will churn out excess in turn and yet there is a hollowness to him. his chest aches, a deep, dark emptiness — swirling chasm of fear - anger gnashing like the waters below.

you’re being presumptuous! a voice shaken with fear, eyes wide with — with fear. of what? there was nothing to fear with him, he’d done nothing but care and slave. he’d done nothing but secure their place in his clan, let them skirt about the fringes of his camp in trade for his healing. they’d begged to talk, but what was there to talk about? what else was there to say? they’d not argued against him, they’d not denied it. they’d wanted to quell him, to calm him down, to ease his frayed nerves. they were not the only one — weak - willed and soft - bellied, willing to turn up their paws at the mere mention of defending their home.

he was keeping his clan safe. his head pivots towards the sky, one he knows stares back. lights gleam bright overhead and he takes their rippling shine as something congratulatory — despite the way limbs shake, maw parted. he stays for longer than he knows, but after beats of silence.. he steps another paw away from the gorge, icy eyes lingering where small, frantic claw marks still mar the sloping edge. he says nothing as he turns, wind pulling at the curled ends of his bicolored coat, and begins towards camp. the falls would spill them into the pools below, and he would be fast asleep in his willow den — he slinks into camp long before light begins to peer over the trees, the night guard dozing lazily against the rippling outskirts of their home. they would never admit it to him, and for once, it suits him just fine. he makes a note to avoid setting them to duty again unless.. unless.

˗ˏˋ 𓆩  OOC ✟ VISUAL 𓆪 ´ˎ˗

• i.
  
• ˖ ⁺ ｡ ˚ ⠀ CICADASTAR⠀⠀−−−c−−−⠀⠀king of the rivers.
  
  
  m. he / him. black smoke & tortoiseshell chimera with intense salt - blue eyes. a handsome, looming tom bearing patchwork black - silver curls that fall over his slim figure in loose, shining rivulets, broken with white and glossy from his fish diet. descending from a heritage of overtyped oriental shorthairs, cicadastar stands unusually tall amongst his peers, and holds himself with a tragic grace, poised and prim and ever - aware of how he is being perceived.
  
  ᨒ gay, mated to smokethroat. smells like wet stone & moss.
  ᨒ speaks with a german accent. 43 moons, ages every 50 posts.
  
  penned by antlers​
  
  
• 
  
  
  
• "speech"
  

​