SHOW ME HOW TO SAY GOODBYE ♰ smogmaw

[Magpiepaw]

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"Come with me, I need assistance."
It was all the black and white medicine cat apprentice would offer the deputy before leading him along at his usual slow and awkward pace, pausing every so often to redirect himself as his body tended to lean to the left and his pathing wavered. Magpiepaw offered no explaination of idle conversation, he never was much of a talker outside brief moments of interest and with cats he considered tolerable above all else. His quiet nature left most of what he did a mystery and he knew this was a sudden and unexpected thing to be doing but it had been at the back of his mind for several moons.
ShadowClan's graveyard came into view, not officially the place cats were laid to rest but commonly used - the area itself at least. Stones were ringed around now partially flattened mounds of dirt grown with grass, nature taking back what was given, swallowing bodies whole until one day they would be indistinguishable from any other wild stretch of earth. He wonders how much of ShadowClan territory was an ancient grave from times well before cats even claimed these forests, how many bones lay underpaw, how many stories ended in triumph or tragedy or meekly without a sound. Some of the marked graves were neatly groomed, weeds and grass plucked and flowers left littered around them - he knew for a fact the one they visited now was well-tended, her children saw to it the way her mate did not. Magpiepaw had realized early on Smogmaw's dismissiveness, his refusal to face what stung so deeply the thorn could not be removed by his own teeth; so he would wretch it free himself.
Magpiepaw paused, circled the spot and swept his tail over the stones ringing the settled earth to clean them of loose debris and the layer of mud from a recent newleaf rain. With eyes narrowed he stepped to the side and nodded, "Say goodbye." He said simply, before continuing on with more emphasis as he felt it was necessary, "You never did. You can now. You'll be back, you promise you will." Starlingheart had told him in her feverish state, near the end how the bicolor molly had been heartbroken when no farewell was given upon the journey's start. "Then you can tell her you're home." Her final words were joy, relief, hallucinating the sight of the blue tabby's figure stepped into the den. The tom was silent then, he expected anger, he expected to be told he was out of line, but he could no longer watch the path of morose self-destruction leading their deputy further into despair.

——— ⸸ I'm the kid in the rain. Celebrate the insane ———— ⸸ Yeah, never goes my way

• - @smogmaw
• 
  
  
  Magpiepaw
  —⊰⋅ MCA of ShadowClan
  —⊰⋅ He/They
  "SPEECH", 'THOUGHTS', ATTACK
  —⊰⋅ Black tom w/a white throat and blue-violet eyes.
  —⊰⋅ Has mild cerebellar hypoplasia (Wobbly cat syndrome)
  
  

​

 

[smogstar]

Lukewarm acceptance had honoured the petition, but it wasn't as though he had any other recourse but to comply. Magpiepaw's voice in this clan bore a significance that rendered refusal impossible. No matter how capricious the request, even should it lack a tangible objective, or how futile or irrational it appeared, refusal would amount to nothing less than a stark admission of mistrust in a high position. So the younger cat ushered him along, with all the indifference of one leading a mindless drone. The shared silence certainly lent credence to the impression.

Magpiepaw doesn't like his clanmates in the typical sense, if at all. Those beady eyes anchoring firmly to their recipient reveal no indication of empathy nor desire to understand someone beyond their body parts—it is like his clanmates are specimens for study, with himself the diligent observer. Therein lies an alignment between the deputy and the medicine cat apprentice, as unwelcome a recognition as it is. Cold detachment. Only it feels odd to stand on the receiving side for once, and the disorientation only escalated as he is steered further and further from where he stood prior.

Shadow-streaked shoulders part bulrushes as the miry terrain gives way to firmer footing. Those internal contemplations had consumed him such that no room had been left to consider the intended destination. To that end, a desert forms in his mouth when he realises his location.

A glade carved out amidst the marshland's shifting and treacherous muck, carpeted by a grassy earth and fraught with the final resting spots of their forebears, loved ones, and kin. The clearing's verdant green is offset by its stillness, and the stillness by the upheaval rattling in his innards. Then does the true intent behind the expedition emerge, laid bare before his eyes and in full, ego-eroding clarity. He's struck anew, for a second time, when Magpiepaw speaks his piece. Getting conned into confronting the sorrow he'd endeavoured to smother. Under a guise so transparent, no less.

"You mean to bring me shame." Rosewater eyes stare on emptily, though there's a quiver in those fluttering lids, so too the twitch in his whiskers. It's a piteous display, the kind offered out in supplication. Fervently has Smogmaw restrained himself, as best as he could, from lowering to the point of grieving. Fervently, for if he allowed it, the flood would wash away his reason, his poise, and his composure. Now his most base vulnerabilities were being exploited, to expose the blight on his psyche and have him unburden his guilt. Supposedly. If it were conceivably possible now.

What solace does the other tom hope he discover from reliving his misery? Does he assume it'll be as easy as laying a paw on those old graves? A paw to his heart? It is an insult to his intelligence. "This doesn't suit me, and it certainly doesn't suit her," he replies, his voice brittle. "I don't need you, or anyone else, to remind me how she's gone. I'm well aware."

It's the same line he'd fed himself and forced himself to believe, over and over again. And it worked. It made all the sense in the world. As long as he didn't think about it, the ache in his heart would be no more than a dull throb. Halfshade came as his first love, and she left as his first heartbreak. He was ill-equipped to deal with loss then, and even more so now. Yet he did not mourn. He chose to move on.

Smogmaw can't bear to look at the stars'-damned weasel for any longer. Head pivots sidewards so as to avoid meeting those unflinching, beseeching eyes. "Both of-" he tries, faltering only when he sees his mate's grave marker, tended to and embellished with flowers. His throat burns. The knowledge that his kits, grown as they were, cared for their mother's resting place like this makes his eyes prickle with unshed tears. He did not help them through their grief, and he'd done so knowingly.

"Both of us," he croaks out, bitterly, "have overstayed our welcome here."​