flesh of our fathers — rubble's burial


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    ── Many of those who lost their lives now rest in the battleground itself. What were once corpses are now mounds of disturbed earth, dirt shoveled over bloodless wounds as though it could protect the living from their shame. Roseal hadn't wanted to leave Rubble there with them. Logically, he knows it doesn't matter to him; he's dead, and funerals are to comfort the people still breathing— but he deserves more than a tired, repetitive burial, and he'd fought for this expanse of mud, so he might as well return to it.

    He tries not to think that he would have walked back on his own legs if it weren't for Roseal. He's not successful, to say the least. His stiff body is Roseal's albatross fixed tightly around his throat, an omen and consequence all at once.

    The ground here is softer, at least, which makes for easier digging even if it dirties Roseal far more. The sun's blissfully hidden by an overcast sky, but he almost wishes it were out in full-force to rightfully burn him. He eases Rubble's shape into the cavern marked for him, and he packs him in with moss and bits of marsh plants before painstakingly rolling small stones across him. Then comes the dirt again.

    Always the dirt.

    Rose determinedly twists another set of rocks into the space just above the mound. He'll have to return periodically to ensure they remain. He wonders, ridiculously, if Death has ever bothered presiding over graves as Roseal must now. Of course not— it has no need to, after all, not with its work finished. It leaves guiltlessly while Rose remains here the penitent middleman, not the ferry but the scythe.

    "Sorry you couldn't see it rebuilt. Guess your name was some kinda prophecy, old man." He wishes he could say that it's all shaping up to be something better, but that wouldn't be true. He's spoken so many lies his tongue is a bed for deceit. "Thanks for trying, anyway."

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  • ──── surr'oseal'isme (roseal). he/him pronouns. roamer; goes where he pleases.
    ──── approximately thirty-eight months old; not entirely certain of his own age.
    ──── single & uninterested in any romantic attachments; possibly open for flings.
    ──── very tall, scarred albino with sharply-peaked ears and a bobbed, scruffy tail.​
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Indeed most of the bodies from that battle were buried there. Mounds upon the great rock in which they had fought to keep what was there's. And now what was once there is now splinter and taken from them regardless and leaving Shadowclan in a sorry state. She's not one to be too eager to go back there now and after having to help her sister bury her own mate at the Rock the woman has grown tired of emotions. Watching someone she wishes had not decided to take a piece of that splintering has made things grow numb. Now seeing this, an old soul being put into the ground she merely stands there. A shadow with nary a breath as the body is laid to rest within the ground. There is nothing for her to say about it, this is almost like the norm and she hopes it will not continue to be so. Taking a deep breath in she merely looks and pulls her ears forward to hear what Roseal says as he pushes dirt over the body. It's words she doubts she is supposed to hear and she will keep them to herself.

Dipping her head she closes her eyes and offers her silence only for the departed. It seems the right thing to do despite the dead having come back to tear Shadowclan a part. It just only seems right.