- Jun 7, 2022
- 416
- 336
- 63
it had rained, early this morning. light, despite the swathes of grey - black clouds that rumble overhead. it’s been dark through dawn, tendrils of mist layering over the riverlands in long, coiling fingers. it’s as if starclan themself mourned along with them. he sits only a tail - length away from where the fallen tom is now — clearsight lie on a moss nest, softened by hardened paws and claws that had run the waters pink only hours prior. in this light, in this silence, he looked only sleeping — curled by loved ones who’d taken every precaution, every gentle adjustment before his body had locked into rigor mortis. his fur has been groomed to perfection. rivulets of swirling blue and white, shades like the river itself. he’d belonged here, alive amongst the river lilies and mint. not here, with them woven delicately into his fur by experienced paws, into his final nest underneath.
that, along with those that had groomed him for presentation, sharing tongues in their final goodbyes, was enough to cover the scent of death. those who had sat vigil the night prior smell of it, floral and sickly. medicinal. it threatens to twist his nose, but by some miracle, his face remains stony. was it a miracle? a miracle, or the absence of emotion? the exhaustion that keeps his features in a line, feelings spent. a night away in his temporary den, silent tears drained him. it didnt feel real — why didn’t it feel real? as if any second he would stroll through their camp entrance, holding a minnow or two, eyes wide as he scanned for his mate, or someone to share. had he ever eaten alone? stupid questions, meaningless now. he sits on his own, sits still as stone for he feels he would shatter into something irreparable if he moved. he could no longer bend without breaking.
a long time ago, when stress had first weighed heavy on his shoulders, the tom had pulled him aside — had not given him a choice, really. had met him on a walk before then. that had been the type of cat clearsight had been. ever - watchful, ever - caring. the only one to brush against him, to lean into his fur other than smokethroat. the one who had shown him comfort, adoration. he’d seen more than a leader, crazed in his rage and desperation. he’d seen him approachable, as he was — a cornered animal, one to speak to soft and low until his thoughts open, looking at past the ravings of madman. but they’d called him crazy. they would continue to call him crazy, bite at him and gnash their teeth, and here he was. before him, the body of one of the few that had calmed him, one who had thought to ask, long ago. before him, milling, broken - hearted riverclanners, attacked while they slept. and they’d lost him, lost that soft voice of reason. the clans would continue to look upon him just as wild and insane as they had always called him. he sat here, staring at his friends corpse — flower laden — and for what?
for what? for a reeking, bloodthirsty windclanner, more use dead than he’d ever been living. even worse, he’d planted his kits in some windclan molly, who will eventually birth his equally stinking, pitiful excuse of a litter. soot will continue to coddle them until they’re old enough, until they start to rival her size. he could only assume her jealous of the growth, more little warriors to strike whenever she saw fit. she would not think of her fallen warrior again, would be surprised if she’d even spoken his name outside of the gathering — but him? he mourned. he wanted to rip the grass up with it, wanted to scream into the hole he makes until starclan hears and sends him back in pity. he wonders if they regret it now.. her. they’d tried to strike her down. but they’d missed. they’d missed, they’d missed.
his faith wavers.
clayfur had been lucky. he’d deserved him, as sweet as they both were. the brown tabby wasn’t the brightest leaf on the tree, was never one for violence, but clearsight had taken up his other side. strong and charismatic, protective. where would he be without that? where? if he felt like this, how did his mate feel? his apprentice? he’d always been so close to those in his life — it was like he’d been scooped clean, stomach empty and aching. the camp was just.. empty, “ it isn’t fair. “ he murmurs, to no one in particular. this wasn’t real. this wasn’t real. this wasn’t his last goodbye — it wasn’t supposed to be, it couldn’t be. but despite his unwavering stare, unblinking and absent, clearsight does not move, “ it’s not fair. “ he wants to cry, but he would not. he wants to turn his face into smokethroat’s shoulder, wants to feel the heat of tears on his cheeks, but he cannot. when he finally moves, he does so only to push a small, blue - swirled pebble hed had tucked to his stomach alongside clearsight’s body. gentle, quiet, rests it beneath a cold, unmoving paw. his goodbyes. his head lowers slowly, touches a nose to a freezing cheek, “ rest easy, clearsight. “ friend. my dear friend.
he returns. a step away, a mite taller. stony. others would say their goodbyes — he does not announce it. a public vigil. a celebration of life.
he finds he does not want much for celebration.
that, along with those that had groomed him for presentation, sharing tongues in their final goodbyes, was enough to cover the scent of death. those who had sat vigil the night prior smell of it, floral and sickly. medicinal. it threatens to twist his nose, but by some miracle, his face remains stony. was it a miracle? a miracle, or the absence of emotion? the exhaustion that keeps his features in a line, feelings spent. a night away in his temporary den, silent tears drained him. it didnt feel real — why didn’t it feel real? as if any second he would stroll through their camp entrance, holding a minnow or two, eyes wide as he scanned for his mate, or someone to share. had he ever eaten alone? stupid questions, meaningless now. he sits on his own, sits still as stone for he feels he would shatter into something irreparable if he moved. he could no longer bend without breaking.
a long time ago, when stress had first weighed heavy on his shoulders, the tom had pulled him aside — had not given him a choice, really. had met him on a walk before then. that had been the type of cat clearsight had been. ever - watchful, ever - caring. the only one to brush against him, to lean into his fur other than smokethroat. the one who had shown him comfort, adoration. he’d seen more than a leader, crazed in his rage and desperation. he’d seen him approachable, as he was — a cornered animal, one to speak to soft and low until his thoughts open, looking at past the ravings of madman. but they’d called him crazy. they would continue to call him crazy, bite at him and gnash their teeth, and here he was. before him, the body of one of the few that had calmed him, one who had thought to ask, long ago. before him, milling, broken - hearted riverclanners, attacked while they slept. and they’d lost him, lost that soft voice of reason. the clans would continue to look upon him just as wild and insane as they had always called him. he sat here, staring at his friends corpse — flower laden — and for what?
for what? for a reeking, bloodthirsty windclanner, more use dead than he’d ever been living. even worse, he’d planted his kits in some windclan molly, who will eventually birth his equally stinking, pitiful excuse of a litter. soot will continue to coddle them until they’re old enough, until they start to rival her size. he could only assume her jealous of the growth, more little warriors to strike whenever she saw fit. she would not think of her fallen warrior again, would be surprised if she’d even spoken his name outside of the gathering — but him? he mourned. he wanted to rip the grass up with it, wanted to scream into the hole he makes until starclan hears and sends him back in pity. he wonders if they regret it now.. her. they’d tried to strike her down. but they’d missed. they’d missed, they’d missed.
his faith wavers.
clayfur had been lucky. he’d deserved him, as sweet as they both were. the brown tabby wasn’t the brightest leaf on the tree, was never one for violence, but clearsight had taken up his other side. strong and charismatic, protective. where would he be without that? where? if he felt like this, how did his mate feel? his apprentice? he’d always been so close to those in his life — it was like he’d been scooped clean, stomach empty and aching. the camp was just.. empty, “ it isn’t fair. “ he murmurs, to no one in particular. this wasn’t real. this wasn’t real. this wasn’t his last goodbye — it wasn’t supposed to be, it couldn’t be. but despite his unwavering stare, unblinking and absent, clearsight does not move, “ it’s not fair. “ he wants to cry, but he would not. he wants to turn his face into smokethroat’s shoulder, wants to feel the heat of tears on his cheeks, but he cannot. when he finally moves, he does so only to push a small, blue - swirled pebble hed had tucked to his stomach alongside clearsight’s body. gentle, quiet, rests it beneath a cold, unmoving paw. his goodbyes. his head lowers slowly, touches a nose to a freezing cheek, “ rest easy, clearsight. “ friend. my dear friend.
he returns. a step away, a mite taller. stony. others would say their goodbyes — he does not announce it. a public vigil. a celebration of life.
he finds he does not want much for celebration.
-
˖ ⁺ 。 ˚ ⠀ 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, courting smokethroat. smells like wet stone & moss.
ᨒ speaks with a german accent. 40 moons, ages on the eighth.
penned by antlers
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- none.