private sudden burst of sunlight.

[CICADASTAR]

GUTTA CAVAT LAPIDEM : it was late. stars stud the sky above, tinged navy - black and startlingly cold. thick curls protect him from the brisk wind but even he feels the bite of its bitter chill, each step upon stone like a shockwave up the length of his arms. the river was near untouchable now — frosting further with each passing day, he watches their main source of protection, of life, cut off from them for the season. their freshkill pile is measly, ever - waning, and the panic keeps them out and on the hunt.

with willowroot soft and round with kits, nesting now amongst the milk thistle and moss of the nursery — and soon to be joined by bonejaw as the days get colder, shorter. the bicolors growing belly flashes behind his mind’s eye and his stress only increases, paperthin lids squeezing shut against the twinge of pain in his temples. two litters. — he and buckgait had taken the brunt of patrolling since the fated skirmish. and with now smokethroat, his other lead warrior, down for the count, their workload has only increased in that time. partially due to the fact that cicadastar himself could not seem to leave the rabbit - laden border, staring absently over the flatlands as if his icy gaze could freeze the specks of life he occasionally sees in quick passing ; he could rip them apart still, ached for it, felt the urge in his jaw to lock onto the soft spots of throat and pull. his mind occupies with phantom memories of claws tearing open that wiry side, digging into the soft innards of that wretched windclanner for reasons beyond the damned rabbit. it had fed them well, though. it had fed them absurdly well, a single rabbit . . the apprentices had shared it and left with bellies full, tittering with life for the first time in days. the chimera wished he could’ve seen it. smokethroat, he should’ve been there — to congratulate iciclepaw, to bat her over the ears playfully, he should have heard her gripe at him through mouthfuls of grey - brown fur and rabbit meat.

it’s silent when he enters the medicine den. the stench of herbs and blood flood his senses and he is tired, exhaustion pulsing from his looming form in palpable waves. the majority of riverclan had long since retired but he had only just come back, along with a gaggle of warriors willing to venture out for a late night hunting session. not much luck. no luck, in fact, and he once again retires without a meal in his stomach. it hurts, and his mind swims with the thought of life pre - war. pre - clan. his jaw sets, swallowing hard as he casts his gaze about the stony cavern, spotting beesong curled in the furthest corner, fast asleep. the man had already altered them of his intended presence and he does his best not to rouse him as he creeps towards an ever - familiar shadow, still banded with fresh cobweb and dripping with assorted herbs. as the leader pads closer he can see his face was clean — cleaned gently, and the feeling of the short, silken fur along rounded cheeks is a ghost upon his barbed tongue — and he’s relaxed, save for the faintest twitch of a whiskered brow. the chimera sighs, watching the cloud of breath dissipate around his arched muzzle. smokethroat had not woken since he’d been out. once again, he’d left the warrior in this prison of a nest, and returned to him just the same. once again, he crawls home to him, whether he ever knows it or not.

cicadastar rounds the dark tom — his heart, his beloved, his could have been — and smokethroat does not move. it is expected now and still the phantom lies, whispers, “ hallo, mein herz. “ quiet. the man slowly lowers himself to lie to his back, close, warm. he does not want to wake beesong and perhaps it’s futile, but as he adjusts long, mottled limbs around the tom, he murmurs the details of the day : what he’s missed, the hunts, the patrols, the worry for him. his ivory chin slowly rests carefully in the dip of his neck, feels the miraculously steady pulse in his throat beat against his own, breathes his words against the warrior’s ear. he speaks for a while, absently, watches the clouds roll from within the stony den. a particularly thick one covers the glow of moonlight and the world is suddenly darker, and in this quiet, he can pretend the man is only asleep. he can pretend his sunburst eye would open, gaze up at him, flit away with an embarrassed cough and suddenly his chest hurts — his eyes squeeze against it again but his chest hurts and his words trail into silence, slowly. he releases a breath and the clouds pass, bathing them in a streak of milky moonlight and he can see the tom’s face again, soft and relaxed and wounded, the jagged ends of fresh scars visible just beneath the fresh wrap of cobweb over his eye socket. the phantom is gazing at him, brow furrowed. eyes tender.

“ beautiful, stubborn thing . . “ perhaps he was selfish. perhaps he could be, in this moment — white paws against dark, ivory - speckled pelt. he is desperate, a pitiful, begging god beneath the eyes of starclan. the heavens gleam above, watching, “ open your eyes. “ you fought him. you fought well. you did so well, look at me — his throat clicks and his ears lower and he is exhausted. a bone - deep tiredness sets in, thick and heavy and his teeth grit, frustrated. he would not sleep tonight, he knows it. the tom could wake tonight and that knowledge, or hope, alone was enough to keep his mind from calming long enough to rest. he would remain by his side, should sleep come or not. he would not be alone, should he be welcomed back to the living. his chest twinges again.

icy luminaries close and a thick, plumelike tail comes to wrap loosely around smokethroat’s front, hoping to warm him from the chill of the riverlands.

he hums a lullaby.

− ♱ information visual reference out of character translations ♱ −

• − CICADASTAR ; he / him. roughly thirty nine months old, riverclan leader
  − handsome, lanky black smoke tortie chimera with curly fur and ice blue eyes
  − gay. speaks with a german accent, ages on the seventh, penned by antlers
  
  
• 
• @Smokethroat MY SCRIMBLOS !!!!!
  
• none.

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[SMOKESTAR]

How many spirits haunt you because your protection is not as divine as you think it is. He's tired, heavy, but this is not the glorious and thrilling end he once daydreamed about as a rowdy young apprentice-aged tom; seeking a name in death and not realizing how much more significant life was. He's afraid, because he finally has things to lose but he does not regret his actions for even a moment. StarClan is not the glittering and peaceful serenity he expected it to be, but a cold and expansive abyss of black-chilling as the winter and empty as the night is of light.

When he was younger and fretting over the strange spots forming on his pelt, Moss had told him they were gifts. Starlight from the heavens strewn like ornamental feathers or flowers, a token of one's worthiness to ascend to a better plain of existence one day. Worthiness was born from bloodshed, combat, his sword arm sang. His heart thrummed like war drums.
There was no glory in a bloodless death, at the very least his claws left marks that would carry eternal; his roar like the torrential waterfall that would ring in the ears of the moorland fools-a warning to mind their paws for moons to come.

"Poor form, Ember." Moss's voice is cold like the river is now, he'll never see the ice break and the fish return; the relief that it would bring to the clan. The brown tabby she-cat, muzzled dulled to a handsome gray, regards him in annoyance. Disappointed, as always, she's never once complimented his hunting or his prowess in battle, never once offered him a kind remark; but she cared in her own way. He wished it had not taken so long to break from the habits she beat into him, but as she pulls away from him he rises to follow almost obediently before he stops.
The swilling blackness around them seemed almost too devoid of life, ringing falsehoods and broken clarity.

"You can't be in StarClan…you…you died before the Great Battle. This isn't real."
None of this was real. He was dreaming. Which meant he was alive…

---

Smokethroat was awake, it was not a slow rousing or jolting upward but an almost dream-like blink of that one eye finally opening after having closed for so long. He wasn't even fully aware of where he was, if he was even alive, if this was not just another layer of a dying dream, but he lifted his head up slowly and gave a strained, rasp of a cough before staring in confusion to the coil of warm fur around him like a coccoon; only barely realizing the familiarity of the mottled gray, black and white patterning. "...Cada?" His voice cracked, broke, shattered like the ice of the river; it hurt to talk, it hurt to exist, there was a throbbing in his skull that reverberated into his throat-one great agonizing beating heart.
It didn't make sense to him, a cat with no medical knowledge, why he did not just feel fine after recovering from the blood loss but Smokethroat had no idea what infection was and what it sufficed. He had no idea that his head was filling with fog and his blood a poison slowly developing in his own body to kill him.

"...where..?" His head lolled as he struggled to keep it upright, the inside of the dark den was hard to place but the sharp scent of herbs told him it was mostly likely Beesongs.

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[CICADASTAR]

GUTTA CAVAT LAPIDEM : when he hears it, it frightens him — cada. his voice would be a blessing should it not have been so slurred, heavy with sleep and a confused, feverish pain. to an extent, he’d not been expecting it. this limbo felt like an eternity, watching the rapid rise - fall of his chest until slumber takes him. cicadastar feels his heart tick faster, pounding against his chest and the urge to pull his limbs away overcomes him. he feels scolded, ashamed, and it’s a familiar feeling. despite the haze over his past he knows the cold eyes of his mother, of the cats he and wasp were raised with until that fateful event that separated him. he feels caught, caught expressing himself, having something . . now someone to himself. how could he? selfish, isolated thing. but long limbs do not unfurl, especially as the males head luls, wavers as he struggles to lift it and the river phantom finally makes a sound, a little trill of warning in the back of his throat. he lifts his head and the warmth against his throat dissipates in seconds, leafbare chill erupting where he’d been lying.

“ careful, liebling. “ it’s a smoke song, quiet and coiling against him despite the quake, thunderous beneath his oddly sloping vocals, “ be calm, you’ve been through a lot. starclan — “ and there it is. that bubble, thick and cold and lodging deep in his esophagus until he takes a shuddering, raking breath in . . and it comes from his maw, a single choking sob.

enough, enough. his past looks at him in disgust and he lifts up his head, tips his ivory chin towards the ceiling. the tom had nearly died — still might he thinks, trembles — and here he was, pitifully fighting the foolish blubbering he knows would spout from his panicked maw, “ i thought, i — i thought, we . . “ idiot. idiot. smokethroat could not even be listening, possibly could not hear beyond the haze of his injury. the man hopes he could, hopes his words do not go unbidden. a final chance? no, his eyes squeeze against the thought and his jaw sets, curled mess of his tail flicking where it sprawls over the pebble - lined ground. his chest is on fire, blazes wildly both with relief and new, brittle fear, “ i thought we’d lost you. “ it sounds forced, he knows — he pushes the words from his tongue like a physical pain, pins his ears as if stinging. i thought that moorland rat had taken you — from me, from us. the chimera snaps back, rattles in another breath, as ragged as it is. the man had woken up, he was awake, he was hurting, he was awake —

“ i’m sorry . . “ a rough wipe of a paws against his arched nose, the contact on its windbitten surface stinging momentarily. he glances towards the medicine cat and the cinnamon tabby sleeps away, soundless. they’ve been having a hard time, between bonejaw, willowroot, smokethroat and the apprentices who all felt the brunt of windclan that day. where . . ? , “ beesong’s den, do you need them? let me— let me wake them. “

− ♱ information visual reference out of character translations ♱ −

• − CICADASTAR ; he / him. roughly thirty nine months old, riverclan leader
  − handsome, lanky black smoke tortie chimera with curly fur and ice blue eyes
  − gay. speaks with a german accent, ages on the seventh, penned by antlers
  
  
• 
• none.

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