so much (for) stardust ✘ clayfur

[SMOKESTAR]

They had never once seen eye to eye, he thought the man foolish and a waste of effort to speak to and he was sure the same was thought of him though more to his stoic and brooding temperament. Smokethroat would not deny he was a hard cat to get along with at times, brash, blunt, incapable of speaking with any eloquence and about as brutally honest as they came; but he'd never really made attempts with Clayfur like he did many of his clanmates before though begrudingly. He didn't hate the tabby, had no real illwill towards him, they were just incompatible and that was fine. A quiet tolerance existed, he kept his comments to himself, occasionally spoke in passing, went so far as to once indulge in something idealically nonsensical such as digging holes. They had never really had a reason to speak much, they still didn't and seemingly even less of a reason now. While Clayfur was thought of as simply a clanmate he had felt a much closer kinmanship to Clearsight and the loss ached hollow in his chest in a way he knew was even more agonizing for the other. He lost a cat he would consider friend, Clayfur had lost a cat who was part of his own soul. They'd been inseparable, even as far back as the day he'd felt his own heart break the first time. He remembered it so clearly it could be just yesterday, racing panicked through trees with blood splattered across his face from their leader's sudden and horrifying end; Clayfur screaming at him that they shouldn't have ran, that they could save him.
It hurt, it had hurt more than anything he had ever experienced before and he knew why now. He knew he would be forced to witness the skewer and end several times over before the stars unhooked their claws and he had accepted this fate like a martyr, waiting patiently for the means to an end.
At the very least the skewer was ripped free from the brown tabby, while Smokethroat still felt his pinned in his throat, but he imagined it would be little solace to the other to know he only needed to watch his loved one die once. It wasn't something he'd ever speak out loud, but he'd have prefered it. It was a mercy.

"Clayfur." The camp was still in shambles, he felt his own breathes hitching as he tried to speak without strain; Beesong would surely be having some kind of fit once he found his patient wandered off but the dark tom was compelled by the need to seek the other out for some reason or another. Star-studded coat plastered in aromatic herbs and cobwebs, he paused before approaching further so he didn't startled, so that the name spoken quietly was acknowledged first. "I'm...I'm sorry."
He could not deny he felt some weight of blame, that it has been his voice that justified Hyacinthbreath's joining; that his name had been spoken in her defense although the decision had been fully Cicadastar's. Even then he knew, he'd known her, and it was her claws that brought WindClan upon them. It could never be taken back.

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[Ooc]
- @CLAYFUR
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[CLAYFUR]

Hazel eyes stare up at the sky, only half-seeing everything that’s above him. He’s felt… untethered, since the WindClan raid. Lost without his other half, his love. It all still feels a bit like a nightmare, like there’s a chance he might just… wake up someday, nose pressed into slate blue fur, tucked against a warm body in his nest. But the tired, torn ache in his chest is all the proof that he needs that Clearsight is gone. His mate is dead, bled dry by a WindClanner with no face, no name.

His ears flicker backward when a voice cuts through the silence—his name, dropped from the mouth of a clanmate he rarely speaks to. Since that day in the woods, their doomed patrol, he hasn’t felt like they’ve agreed on anything. That isn’t a bad thing, necessarily, but Smoke and Clearsight were friends. And now he doesn’t know how to talk about it.

"You should be in Beesong’s den. What if you reopen your wounds?" He can’t believe he’s lecturing a lead warrior on his safety; it’s blatantly hypocritical, given Clay’s own disregard for it. But Clay still has both his eyes—and hasn’t just gone toe-to-toe again with the WindClan lead warrior who caused it. At least Smokethroat is still alive, though, still breathing. As much as he may hold against the other tom, he doesn’t wish for him to die. RiverClan needs him.

He turns to the other with a raised brow, head tilted in curiosity. Has something happened back in the temporary camp to bring him here? He’s about to ask what the speckled tom is here for, but Smokethroat speaks first.

"I’m sorry."

A scoff leaves the brown tabby’s mouth, an involuntary response. He’s sorry. It’s almost worse than silence, to get pity from the lead warrior who hardly speaks to him otherwise. "I’m sure you are," he snaps, hostility bristling in the fur along his shoulders. It isn’t a good thing, the sympathy. It’s covering a mistake, one that the lead warrior had a paw in. Smoke had been a supporter of Cicadastar’s decision to invite Hyacinthbreath into the clan; he had a paw on the snowball, helped to set it rolling. Helped to let it grow and grow until it finally rolled over all of them.

He knows that what happened isn’t the lead warrior’s fault. Even if Hyacinthbreath was never allowed to join the clan, Sootstar would have found some reason to stage a raid while RiverClan is living away from their permanent camp. But he’s so torn between blaming Hyacinth and blaming Cicada and blaming Sootstar and blaming himself… He doesn’t know what to do.

"At least yours comes back. If you screw up and he dies, he still comes back." It’s unfair, he knows—it’s so unfair, but his beloved is dead while Smoke’s still lives, still walks. He would give anything to see Clearsight again. Smokethroat may have to watch Cicada die over and over again, but at least he knows he’ll see him again.
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[ YOU ARE THE STARS TO ME ]​

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[SMOKESTAR]

Clayfur had a point, a fact he would never outwardly admit because Clayfur so often didn't have points.
"And what if I do...wounds close. Least these ones do." It was a lighthearted statement that was the only thing he could manage before the other snapped at him with prickling fur and furious eyes and in the face of that anger he merely stared back. It reminded him again of the incident, Clayfur had cursed at him then as well, settled the blame on his shoulders an he had indignantly shouted back, but this time was different. Smokethroat held his tongue because he felt the same sense of betrayal. He would never shake the fact he had voiced approval at the molly's joining, leading to her slaughter of a WindClanner and the war that took their clanmate and wounded so many. If Clayfur hated him for it, Smokethroat hated himself all the more.
So he said nothing to that, there was nothing he could even utter that would be believably in opposition, defend himself, because it was something he also felt true deep down and denying it would only make this worse. For both of them. But his silence could only hold so long...

"You think it makes it easier?" Despite the turmoil boiling in his chest at the accusation he does not raise his voice, in fact it comes out softer than intended, almost a whisper, a strained hiss of a sound. The pain of a leader was an agonizing one, dying over and over again; ripped from the stars each time to continue their duties despite the horror of what had happened, despite the agony of death still clinging so close. He was still not over Cicadastar dying the first time, still thought of it every time he tucked his head under a wear head, felt the gnarled scars looping the others neck like some macabre kittypet collar. Every time he saw the parted white fur of the tom's throat he remembered the skewer, the wires. Everytime he saw his maw he did not think of the smile there or the thoughtful expression resting wearily upon it but the frostbitten scars that tore black lips upward and made his visage more grizzled than it was meant to be.
"Selfish...it's selfish." Smokethroat says despite himself, breathless tone, caught off-guard, "I wouldn't wish it on anyone. I would rather he just die, I would rather it just end. As much as I want him to stay, I want him to not suffer more. But each time it..." He stopped himself, choked it back; his worst fears rising to the surface. Each time Cicadastar seemed a little more different and a lot further away and it was frightening in a way he had never felt before. He was a stalwart and sensible cat, no-nonsense and could rationalize even in the heat of the moment but what StarClan did to those blessed by them he could never wrap his head around, the idea of dying but not was still a mortifying idea and he would never truly get over how terror struck he was at it. He shook his head, he wasn't here to get heated, to lose his head in his own troubles, he was here because for whatever reason he liked Clearsight. He owed him this much, he owed him enough to reach out even if he was swatted away because grief was strange and heavy; too cumbersome for just one to carry. The dark tom gave a heavy sigh, weary and defeated; they had been beaten in their own territory, they had losses plenty in both blood and lives. He didn't want to fight Clayfur right now, he didn't have the energy nor heart to do it though he knew an argument is what the tabby wanted. An outlet of some kind, a way to grieve loudly and violently.
"...he was a good cat. Better than most of us. Take care of yourself for him."

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[CLAYFUR]

At the sound of Smokethroat’s voice, quiet in contrast to his words, the tabby tom’s entire body slumps. The fight goes out of him as quickly as it had come, without any reason to keep tearing into the lead warrior. Drained from where it began to burn in his chest, the hollow feeling rushing back in like floodwater.

He hadn’t considered how awful it would be to watch his love die once. To do it over and over, knowing that it was only going to happen again? Even with the understanding that Cicadastar would return from death… it must be something worse than Clay feels, for the shadowy tom to show such strong emotion. To be anything less than harsh. But just as he couldn’t months ago, he can’t understand why. If he were in Smoke’s paws, he wouldn’t be struggling just to breathe under the weight of all that he feels. "I’d think it would be easy," he says, for once finding himself at a loss for words.

The other warrior tells him that his mate was a good cat—and, yeah. He was. He was the best mate, the best warrior, the best part of Clay’s life. And now he’s gone, and he doesn’t have an extra life to bring him back. "He was." His voice is still brittle, still edged with melting ice, and it’s still so unlike himself that he feels guilt climbing up his throat once again. Smokethroat tells him to take care of himself, and he flicks his tail with something between irritation and understanding. "I’m… I’m trying." He can’t just throw his life away, not like he has been recently. Skipping meals, not sleeping, hardly leaving his den—that’s hardly a life, is it? Clearsight wouldn’t want that for him, but he just can’t seem to find a reason to do anything without his mate.

He shakes his head. "It’s just. What’s the point, you know? I don’t have… It feels like I don’t have anything without him." No mate. No future. He tilts his head to look the other tom in the eye, "You ever felt that way?"
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[ YOU ARE THE STARS TO ME ]​

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[SMOKESTAR]

"...maybe the first time." Smokethroat remarks idly, unsure of how to actually explain it. It was a gift, that first time, watching the long-limbed phantom return to camp bloodied but no less alive than he'd been the previous days before the skewer. It had really hammered in his belief in StarClan then, they'd brought him back as promised; kept their word. Surely, it means, that things would always be on their side so long as they looked to the sky for council, so long as they basked in the glow of those night lights. But he'd been wrong, it was strange to realize now when before he viewed it as a blessing, a sign. Now it felt like a burden, one too heavy to place upon the brow of just one cat. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice...

"Try harder." It was said in the same tone he'd used on Iciclepaw before, drilling into her to adjust her form, to push, to not simply exist but to achieve; he did not mean for it to come out as harshly as it had but he did not correct it either. His shoulders rolled in an awkward shrug, he kept his gaze directed downward and only lifted it up on occasion as he spoke; this conversation was too heavy, too many words and feelings but he had willingly decided to partake in it for reasons he didn't even truly understand. He didn't even really like Clayfur, didn't hate him but found him tiresome. So why was he bothering? Smokethroat sighed, he was too tired for this and couldn't even sort out his own personal thoughts so why he was diving into the emotional affairs of others recently was a mystery.
"...plenty." He replied quietly, tone muted and uncertain if he wanted to delve into this topic. Maybe a touch afraid of what it would entail. He had nothing before RiverClan, he was surviving not living and the clan gave him purpose, Cicadastar gave him something else entirely that he could live without but he certainly didn't want to but when it came down to it sometimes you DID just have to survive for a while first. Tread water until you made it to land.
"You existed before him." It felt patronizing but he spoke sincerely, "I can't tell you what purpose you have now, that's yours to find but know that RiverClan would grieve you just as much as they grieve him."
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