camp COMING HOME [★] VIGIL

[CICADASTAR]

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.

− ♱ information out of character ⟐ visual reference translated ♱ −

• ˖ ⁺ ｡ ˚ ⠀ 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​
  
  
• 
• none.

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[LILYBLOOM.]

It is a solemn day for RiverClan as they mourn one of their own. Dear, sweet Clearsight, cruelly cut down in the defense of his home. He should not have died. He should still be hear with them, with Clayfur, speaking those gentle words of support and reassurance he was well known for.

Lilybloom has woven flowers in Clearsight's pelt, small scented blooms that only look nice but mask the scent of death. She thinks he'd like them of he was alive, that he would admire their simple beauty and pleasant smell. When Cicadastar approaches his body, no longer hovering nearby, Lilybloom steps back allowing the leader to have a private word if that was his perogative. After a moment, the leader steps back, a swirled pebble left at Clearsight's side.

Lilybloom knows there are clanmates who will have more to say than her, but she decides to say a few words over his silent form. "May you find peace among the stars, Clearsight," She says softly, bowing her head. "I hope you find all the best fishing spots and that your belly is always full. Just... don't go falling into any rivers accidentally." A bittersweet laugh leaves her mouth as the memory of Clearsight falling into the river on a hunt alongside Lilybloom came to mind. A fond memory made even fonder by his recent loss.​

 

[CLAYFUR]

They had done such a great job cleaning him up, covering the smell of death. Clay isn’t sure whether that makes him feel better or worse.

He watches in a daze as first Cicadastar and then Lily approach him, saying their goodbyes to a friend, a clanmate who does not hear their words. Hazel eyes are dull, glassy as he sees without truly seeing, hears without understanding. It feels like a part of him has been cut from his body, skin torn away to expose an open wound. It aches. Oh, how it aches. He wishes it would stop hurting. He never wants it to stop hurting. He wants his mate back.

He feels the eyes of his clanmates like a weight, like thorns in his pelt, as he steps forth to say his final goodbye. He hadn’t said it while he was still breathing, hadn’t had the heart to tell his love goodbye, and he doesn’t know how he’ll muster the strength for it now. He doesn’t remember moving ever closer, doesn’t realize what he’s doing until he does it, licks a gentle stripe over the fur between his love’s ears. It feels like he’s seeing through someone else’s eyes, floating above someone else’s body.

His throat hurts, raw and scratchy from ceaseless tears. His eyes sting with the threat of more. He presses his nose against Clearsight’s, cold and lifeless. It’s so hard to—to accept it. This is life now, burned to ashes. Just a few days ago, they were okay. They were happy, curled around one another in a nest and sharing hopeful conversation about the springtime.

He sucks down a grating breath. When he speaks, his voice is rough, wet with despair. "We didn’t have enough time—but I don’t think any amount of time could have been enough." He could never get enough of that kind smile, gentle eyes… and more than that, the care and love that was given so freely, so easily, even to someone like Clayfur. His mate is way out of his league, could have had any other tom he wanted—but for some reason, Clay was the one that he chose. And he wouldn’t trade that privilege for the world.

He manages to settle onto his haunches, sniffing back more sobs. It’s such an impossible task, saying goodbye. "I love you to the moon and… farther. More than that, way more. You don’t even understand how much. And how much it’s… killing me, that you’re gone and now I can’t even tell you how much. We were supposed to get old and gray and stupid and cranky together, Clearsight. We were supposed to…" He catches sight of the blue-swirled stone, a perfect match for the whirlpools of his pelt, and more tears track down his face.

He wants to be angry. He wants to lash out. At his clanmates, for not protecting him. At Hyacinth, for getting them dragged into this war. At Sootstar, for being a monster without a heart. At Clearsight, for leaving him behind. But he can’t be mad at his love, could never turn anger upon him even if he isn’t around to hear them. And for all the others, his anger isn’t deep enough to outweigh his grief.

And besides, none of it will help anything. Clay is only one cat, even if he feels like he’s been split in two. "We were supposed to start a family and have so many kits, and let them be kits for as long as possible. They would have been troublemakers, with us as dads, huh?" A tear rolls down the bridge of his nose, falls, soaks into cold, still fur. "I hope you… I hope… I just..." He hangs his head, shoulders going slack. "I miss you. I love you."

He doesn’t dare look around at the other RiverClanners who have gathered around. Can’t risk meeting their eyes, seeing the cracks in them as well. He takes a few steps back, giving others space to grieve, to say their last words, but he won’t leave. Not yet. Not until he’s buried.

He feels like he’s been hollowed out. How awful it is, to be the one who survives.
​

[ YOU ARE THE STARS TO ME ]​

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[Redpath]

Her wounds throbbed in pain and her recently dislocated hind leg screamed at her with untold fury as she made her way to say.... Goodbye, to Clearsight. Her gaze was downcast and dull, full of sorrow and grief.

Cicadastar was right. This wasn't fair. Isn't.

Clearsight didn't deserve to die. He deserved to live happily with them. With Clayfur.

A frown pulled at her face as those around her said their goodbyes, sobs threatening to escape. It was Clayfur's that broke her though. Quiet cries escaped her as she bowed her head low.

Those Windclan bastards. They'll pay with their lives for this. She won't be happy until each one of them is dead.

Every last one of those moorland rats deserved nothing more than a slow, agonizing death.

But her lust for revenge was drowned out by her sorrow. She lifted her head briefly to look at Clearsights form.

"Goodbye, Clearsight... We'll miss you..." She spoke quietly.

It wasn't fair.

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[iciclefang]

Lilybloom has woven blossoms throughout the tangles of Clearsight's water-silver fur, and the scent of the flowers mingling with his dead-scent is enough to cause Iciclepaw's stomach to heave. She struggles to look at him. A warrior she'd known since kithood, since she could leave the nursery. Loyal to the end, always wanting to protect even those who refused to be defended. Clayfur's other half.

It pains her to look at her uncle now. His spirit seems torn in two, part of it padding away on starlit paws with the mate he will not see again for many moons. Iciclepaw cannot imagine that pain, never wants to experience it herself. She wants to go to her kin, to offer her shoulder, to support him physically -- but she cannot bring herself to do it. Her paws are frozen to the wetlands beneath her.

She bows her head, waiting for Redpath to pay her respects. Heartbeats later, she approaches, staring at the lifeless form of a warrior she'd always aspired to be like. "RiverClan won't forget you," she says, pressing her nose to a bloom caught in his pelt.

Iciclepaw hesitates before stepping away. The anger freezes the blood in her veins, stiffening her muscles and frosting her expression, her eyes. She whets her hatred, and it is sharp to the touch. RiverClan will not forget who did this to you. I will not forget.

The metallic taste of vengeance feels like blood in her mouth. It's a comfort. Iciclepaw stares at the fallen RiverClan warrior for another second before stepping aside.​

[ PENNED BY MARQUETTE ]​

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[Cindershade]

The soft mist of rain falls upon the sodden ground, traced with blood from the nightmare that plagued RiverClan's camp. It's soft caress dampens her dark silhouetted fur, mixing with dried ichor that runs off her in steady streams. She's conscious, but not fully. Her usual piercing eyes are hazy and dull, succumbed to exhaustion and her sleek form is now tattered in open wounds. She had not even bothered to see Beesong yet, not with death on everyone's mind. They dressed Clearsight in absolute beauty, cleaning his tabby fur to pristine condition and laced flowers and mint into dampened fur. He looked angelic, laying there ever so still. As if he were in a deep sleep. The stench of death still permeates her dusty rose colored nose despite the flowers, but she bites back down the bitter taste of bile rising within the back of her throat. It was not a new smell to her, but it was a smell one could never get used to.
Her clanmates gather around him, whispering and cried out their final goodbyes. Cindershade sits a bit away from it all, her small form sulking with shoulders and head slouched. A monsoon of emotions drench inside of her, washing and waving, push and pull. She's angry, oh so very angry. She wants vengeance, wants to find his killer and make him wish he'd never been shit out upon this world. Red-hot heat passes through her, it's temperature so fierce that it singes her cool rain kissed skin. Curved claws strain and dig themselves hard into the soft soil beneath her, kicking herself over and over for getting too caught up within her own battle to not look after her own clanmates. A job to difficult for her to bear upon her own shoulders. But that was her role, was it not? A lead warrior—to ensure the safety of her clan and lead them by example. She knows he fought valiantly, died as a true warrior defending his home.

But it just wasn't fair.

Why did it have to be Clearsight? A sunlit glow amongst the bog of night. A man who could make even her own self smile a genuine smile, though she'd never admit to it. He'd always been so contagious with his giddy laugh and clown antics. Oh, that time Buckgait had bumped into him into the frigid river. It was a potentially dangerous situation, but he recovered well from it. Cindershade had dived into icy chambers with no hesitation and hauled him out with the help of the earthen deputy. How she wished she could've saved him now. Maybe trade her life for his. He deserved a long life-line filled with love and peace. He deserved happiness. He had a mate, had the potential to even become a lead warrior himself and maybe ascend even higher than that.
Too lost within her own woeful thoughts, Cindershade doesn't realize that she trembles violently. Shudder upon shudder pass over her, uncontrollable and raw they were. Hot, salt-dashed tears welled large against her corneas, unable to hold them back. One fell, then two. It stream-lines down her wounded features, stinging—and she does not flinch from it. The rain that falls upon her camouflages her silent weeping, her heart felt as if it had been squeezed too tight—a vice grip upon her. That searing heat of white iron had now been fizzled out, only replaced by grief and helplessness. Her nose cranes to the blotted out sun, thickly shrouded in heavy clouds as rain patters against her and she stares. She wonders—is he up there? Is this him weeping along with them? Or a mere coincidence?
Finally she stands from her perch, no longer a shadow looming to the side. She had been there when Clearsight departed, despite her own suffering wounds. She was nearly unconscious in it all, but she managed it. She didn't leave his side like many others, falling into a deep dream-less void till morning came. Her paws drag her forth, ignoring every throbbing muscle that screamed in protest. Iciclepaw had just stepped away from the silver warrior, her features fixed like stone. So much of her reminded Cindershade of her own self. She knew that look from anywhere. A look of vengeance. The rosetted molly gently brushes by the young tortoiseshell in passing before making her way towards the earthen tom. His eyes fixed upon his lovely's still form. She settles beside him and says nothing, for what could she say? No words could bring him back. So she rests upon her haunches, gently pressing her scarred form into his without a word. A silent comfort. She too will stare upon Clearsight, sending silent prayers that he made a successful journey among the stars.

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[ SILENCE IS DEAFENING ]​

 

[FERNGILL]

He felt like he needed to be still, needed to be silent. His uncle was grieving- and there too was a hole in Fernpaw's chest, though not one that bled quite so profusely. Clayfur had loved Clearsight, hadn't he? They'd been in love, and- they'd been good to everyone. So what had Clayfur done to deserve having his heart torn in two like this? What had RiverClan done to deserve losing a warrior who had been the most loyal and protective and loving tom there was? And, most of all, what had Clearsight done to deserve his life being severed short?

Fernpaw... didn't want to think of how hurt he might have gotten if Clearsight hadn't helped him get out of the apprentice's den when it had collapsed. A strong swimmer, he doubted he would have drowned... but it the rubble had forced him underwater for too long, then maybe... and Clearsight, he'd been the one to help. As his father had helped heave his sisters out, Clearsight had pulled him free, and...

He could still remember grinning at his face. Could still remember Clearsight like he was alive. It had been only yesterday, after all.

Fernpaw was frozen. His paws melded to the ground, he watched as Iciclepaw- brave as ever- touched her nose to the fallen warrior's fur. Was she brave, though? Or was he just a coward? What did he have to be afraid of- it was not as if he'd catch death from going near the dead. It wasn't as if Clearsight had been slain by a disease, something that could harm him, but...

It was the sight of him that made him feel sick. How wrong it was to witness- it was the wrongness of it all that kept him rooted to the ground. He'd been fine yesterday. And he'd never done anything wrong. And Fernpaw felt ill looking at him, nauseated by the justice and the truth that someone he knew was dead.​

✦ penned by pin ✦​

 

[GILLSIGHT]

His eyes burn. Tears have seldom ceased their flow since pushing through the group that once surrounded his blood-spilled mentor - wounds that have since been cleaned for the moment Gillpaw stands now.

Everything between then and now has been a grief-filled blur. He hardly remembers who'd done what, who had woven flowers into blue fur, who's already arrived to say their goodbyes to Clearsight. He hardly remembers his own wounds, the stinging pain in his shoulders long forgotten, numbed by their prevalence being shoved to the back of his mind.

It isn't fair. It isn't fair that WindClan invaded their home. It isn't fair that they took and took and took. Gillpaw now stands mentorless, so close to his warrior ceremony. The apprentice still has plenty to learn, still needs a warrior to guide him, to lean on. And yet, Gillpaw would rather stay mentorless, than replace Clearsight again.

Again. The first, temporary. A younger Gillpaw was still able to visit Clearsight, to keep him company in the medicine den, tell him all about his day. Gillpaw wouldn't be able to do that again. The apprentice won't be able to visit Clearsight this time, won't be able to tell him of what he's learned and the clan's gossip. The blue-furred warrior won't be in the medicine den, if Gillpaw steps inside it.

The apprentice can only hope Clearsight will see from the stars. That he's got a nice view up there, of him and Clayfur and the rest of RiverClan. Gillpaw can only hope that Clearsight will be able to watch from above, all the things he would have opted to tell him at the end of the day.

Soon, it is his turn to step forward, to observe his fallen mentor once more. Void of the crimson pool of blood, but still doesn't look quite like Clearsight. No, he is too still, too... at peace. It's unsettling, the sight. Gillpaw wants to turn away, to wake up from this never-ending nightmare.

But, he must be brave. For Clearsight.

With a sniffle, the boy sets down his own gifts beside blue fur. The rock he'd pulled out of the rubble of the apprentice den, one of the first he'd ever collected. The warrior needs it more than him now, he thinks. A shining black, Gillpaw opts to place it there as a reminder of him - a reminder of the apprentice he once trained and the bond they carried.

Yellow flowers are placed beside that, ones he'd only just collected to weave in between his rock collection. He does not weave them between blue fur, as he thinks there's already enough within it, but merely nestles them beside Clearsight, and the rock he'd brought forth.

"I-I'll be the best warrior," he murmurs to Clearsight's form, a promise only just made during their last training session. Only recent, but still, seemed so far away now. As if it were moons ago, though Gillpaw knows better. Oh, how quickly things turn. "I promise."

A promise made with Clearsight in mind, that he was RiverClan's best, that Gillpaw would try to be as good as him. But now... Now Clearsight was gone. Gillpaw can't imagine anyone replacing him.

"I-I'll... I'll make you p-proud," he promises, tears beginning to fall once more, as he presses his nose into his fallen mentor's shoulder, "I'm g-gonna be a warrior, a-and you've g-got to watch from the s-stars, okay? Y-You have to be th-there." Gillpaw doesn't know - if StarClan works that way, if Clearsight will be watching over him on the day of his warrior ceremony - but he can only hope. He can only hope that Clearsight hasn't left RiverClan forever, that when the time comes for stars to grace his own paws, to grace Clayfur's paws, to grace any river-dweller's paws, that they'll meet again.

"G-Goodbye, Clearsight," he finally lets out, voice shaking more than usual as he stifles a sob. White paws step away from Clearsight for a final time, leaving room for the next cat to say their goodbyes.

He'll be brave. He'll make him proud.
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[SMOKESTAR]

Blood on the inside, breaks in the bones, it made it hard to tell the tom was dead; he looked sleeping and restful, like at any moment he would lift his head and ask where his apprentice was, make some light comment that didn't fit the tension in the air.

He had not visited Moss' grave in so long he often wondered if the earth had reclaimed it, but he'd checked earlier that day to find it overgrown but untouched; newleaf lightly dusting it in greenery once more and the sun filtering dappled light down on the crook of the roots his mentor was long buried under. Back to the earth, like all things went when they died. The dark tom can remember a calm night, beneath moon shine and shadow where he sat despondent and confused of the future his life was moving toward only to find comfort in a tall form with spots like storms and a tabby with fur like the river's current. Smokethroat wants to feel something more intense, but there's an ache and a hollow in his chest that keeps him from saying anything, not that he thinks he has any words at all to give; or at least none worth speaking out loud.
Gillpaw's voice, rattled with sobs, draws his attention briefly and he looks to the young tom only a few moons from recieving his name who will do so without the cat who taught him present. His sunset eyes would search the audience and no blue tabby face would greet him with a final word of encouragement. Smokethroat thinks about leaving Iciclepaw too early, thinks about not getting to see her named a warrior and it is an uncomfortable tightness in his chest he can not quite smother under layers of apathy like he does most things. This hurt. In a way he was not familiar with. RiverClan had last a few cats before but never any that struck him so sharply as this. Young apprentices lost, drowned, murdered in cold blood but avenged. Clearsight had no vengeanance-he does not even remember what cat the tabby had been fighting in the chaos, but he longs to pierce that throat.
Smokethroat waits for the others to mourn briefly before stepping in, the golden flower between his teeth is not quite fully bloomed; a life cut short by his own teeth. He is aware of the irony yet drops the wilted marigold atop the other all the same. The same flower he had once rested on Moss' grave so long ago on a nightly walk.

With a turn he partially limps back to Cicadastar's side and sits, leaning into the taller marbled tom in utter silence and defeat. The wound along his stomach burned, he yearned to go back into the fray and spill more WindClan blood in retribution but he feels an exhaustion on his shoulders that reel him in. 'I could nap for a thousand years and it would never feel like enough. Is that what its like...to die? To sleep eternal?' Part of him wishes to ask the imposing cut of the leader beside him some day but the other part is too fearful to know.
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[DARTERWING]

(=^･ｪ･^=))ﾉ彡♡ —With heavy paw-steps the molly approaches Clearsight's resting body. She was far from the closest to him, far from his greatest friend, but he had been a clan-mate, a RiverClanner, by oath they were brothers and sisters in arms. Darterwing presses her nose into his fur, cautious not to disturb the deceased's grieving lover. "RiverClan will never forget your bravery and sacrifice, friend. May StarClan's rivers be plentiful and full of fish, may you find comfort in old friends and family." Her pink nose draws away, breathing in the last scent of the fallen tom she'd ever get.

She glances at Clayfur, wishing there was something anyone could do to comfort the grieving tom. Time is the only herb for this type of pain, that Darterwing knows. A solemn frown tugs at her lips as she walks away.— tags​