- Aug 9, 2022
- 689
- 327
- 63
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He had been avoiding the looming willow tree at the heart of the camp, not once looking at the swaying trails of spindly branches and curled leaves as he set about assisting in the cleanup.
But finally he could ignore it no longer, like a ghost it haunted him - clung to his back weighted like the body he carried into the marshlands several days prior. Smokethroat swears he still feels the pressure, the weight of it upon his spine; chilling and damp.
The moment he steps in he can tell the rogues had been in here, but among their scents the more overpowering one is still him. It lingers, the scent of storms: the aftermath of light rain, the salt of the river, the heat of the sun-kissed stones along the shore. It’s nauseating, he feels lightheaded, a flood of copper smell rises, his pelt feels too tight on him; too hot.
Smokethroat steps back, shakes his head, the den is too much right now. He can’t go in, he can’t face it. Grief and something else, something more horrifying, builds in his chest and tightens.
It was time to stop lying to himself, the tom he loved-the cat he had been so devoted to…he’d been gone for a while hadn’t he? Well before this, well before the kits came. He couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment when he lost him but it was quite some time, when had he noticed the changes? The argument in the river was but a small sample of the sudden shift in demeanor, temperament. He had gone from being so forcefully confident to flinching at every pawstep at one point. A man ruled by his paranoid delusions and no amount of his efforts would have saved him. Maybe that was he tried not to believe it, tried not to think about it. When the signs flashed before his eye he closed it and blocked it out, curled into the mottled and familiar pelt and waged the war inside his mind demanding he face it at last.
Smokethroat had no choice but to face it now, to realize that Cicadastar was gone. Had been gone. Lost to them. Every movement was as though he was pulled forward on pure will alone, every time he’d died he came back a little more on edge, a little more different. His final life brought an end to the cycle. As much as it hurt, he was free now wasn’t he…? The burden of it was the dark tom’s to carry now, the liberation stained his teeth red, but the wires were undone.
He didn’t cry when his mother died, too young to really grasp the finality of it. He had not wept for Moss, she would have scolded his show of weakness and called him pathetic for it. Inside his body were tears unshed for years, fossilized into slivers of ice and finally, finally the heat of his own heartbreak had melted them back down.
And he cries. Shoulders shaking, head bowed, partially crouched in the opening of the willow den he had slept in for so long with another right beside him - that he would now be left in alone. Part of him is aware of how ridiculous he must look, how much the clan must be worried for their future with their deputy and soon-to-be leader crumbling into pieces like this. He was supposed to be stalwart at all times, stone, unmoving and in control.
Who knew stone could crack so easily.
He had been avoiding the looming willow tree at the heart of the camp, not once looking at the swaying trails of spindly branches and curled leaves as he set about assisting in the cleanup.
But finally he could ignore it no longer, like a ghost it haunted him - clung to his back weighted like the body he carried into the marshlands several days prior. Smokethroat swears he still feels the pressure, the weight of it upon his spine; chilling and damp.
The moment he steps in he can tell the rogues had been in here, but among their scents the more overpowering one is still him. It lingers, the scent of storms: the aftermath of light rain, the salt of the river, the heat of the sun-kissed stones along the shore. It’s nauseating, he feels lightheaded, a flood of copper smell rises, his pelt feels too tight on him; too hot.
Smokethroat steps back, shakes his head, the den is too much right now. He can’t go in, he can’t face it. Grief and something else, something more horrifying, builds in his chest and tightens.
It was time to stop lying to himself, the tom he loved-the cat he had been so devoted to…he’d been gone for a while hadn’t he? Well before this, well before the kits came. He couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment when he lost him but it was quite some time, when had he noticed the changes? The argument in the river was but a small sample of the sudden shift in demeanor, temperament. He had gone from being so forcefully confident to flinching at every pawstep at one point. A man ruled by his paranoid delusions and no amount of his efforts would have saved him. Maybe that was he tried not to believe it, tried not to think about it. When the signs flashed before his eye he closed it and blocked it out, curled into the mottled and familiar pelt and waged the war inside his mind demanding he face it at last.
Smokethroat had no choice but to face it now, to realize that Cicadastar was gone. Had been gone. Lost to them. Every movement was as though he was pulled forward on pure will alone, every time he’d died he came back a little more on edge, a little more different. His final life brought an end to the cycle. As much as it hurt, he was free now wasn’t he…? The burden of it was the dark tom’s to carry now, the liberation stained his teeth red, but the wires were undone.
He didn’t cry when his mother died, too young to really grasp the finality of it. He had not wept for Moss, she would have scolded his show of weakness and called him pathetic for it. Inside his body were tears unshed for years, fossilized into slivers of ice and finally, finally the heat of his own heartbreak had melted them back down.
And he cries. Shoulders shaking, head bowed, partially crouched in the opening of the willow den he had slept in for so long with another right beside him - that he would now be left in alone. Part of him is aware of how ridiculous he must look, how much the clan must be worried for their future with their deputy and soon-to-be leader crumbling into pieces like this. He was supposed to be stalwart at all times, stone, unmoving and in control.
Who knew stone could crack so easily.
-
Smokethroat
—⊰⋅ Deputy of RiverClan
—⊰⋅ He/Him
"SPEECH", 'THOUGHTS', ATTACK
—⊰⋅ Black tom w/vitiligo & one orange eye.
—⊰⋅ penned by Rai
