sensitive topics tell me where the good men go — death

[GILLSIGHT]

Beesong, Beesong. Where is Beesong?

The more the boy shouts, the less time there is to get help. To save his mentor. And yet, it's all he can do. "H-Help him!" he begs again, tear-blurred eyes scanning for someone to help. Clearsight needs to be saved, he doesn't deserve this. He deserves to live forever! Gillpaw needs him! Clayfur needs him!

RiverClan needs him.

Gillpaw moves to step away, moves to find something to stop his mentor's bleeding. Something, anything. Reeds, leaves. Cobwebs. Something has to stop it. Something has to save his mentor, his family.

"Gill, come here."

His paws stop before he can stray too far. Clayfur's words are nothing but, but they feel booming, loud. Like the boom sticks that once plagued their home, shaking him with fear, stalling his paws. Gillpaw knows with his words, that time has run out. He knew before he'd even moved, but the warrior's urging confirms it.

"N-No... P-please..." he chokes out, as he steps closer once more, standing beside Clayfur. "Cl-Clearsight, please stay. I..." I need you.

They still have training to do! Clearsight is meant to be at his warrior ceremony. They're meant to patrol together after Gillpaw becomes a warrior! His mentor is dying. Clearsight is dying. All of Gillpaw's hopes for the future are dying too.

The scene doesn't feel real. Doesn't look real. It has to be another nightmare. It has to be. It's not right. It can't be true. The moor-dweller must have hit his head too hard.

But, Gillpaw can't wake up from this nightmare. Gillpaw can't escape from drowning this time.

He watches. He watches as Clearsight shudders out a final breath and becomes no more, as he begins his trek to the stars. Gone, gone, gone. RiverClan has lost a warrior. A friend. Gillpaw has lost his mentor. Clayfur has lost his mate.

Another cry erupts from the boy. Because, that's what he is. A boy, merely a child, still working towards becoming a warrior. A scared little kit, stepping into unknown territory on his own.

Inky black surrounds the boy, leaves him with no exit.

Just like his mother, Clearsight has left him too.
​

 

[BEESONG]

windclan retreats and leaves behind them ruination. blood smears the battlefield that was once riverclan's camp only hours ago, mirrors the crimson dribbling into beesong's eye. windclan. the stench of the moorland invades his den, and clings to the disarray of his storage. those warmongering bastards had sent one of their soldiers to destroy riverclan's herbs... and by the luck of hell, they'd managed to.

beesong doesn't even have time to assess the damage when their name is screamed. desperate, terrified. their skin crawls from the sound of it, forcing back a flinch. nothing good ever comes after their name leaves another's lips, and this weighs heavy in their stomach as they grab whatever they could find in the mess of their den and scurry out.

but no amount of herbs could fix what lies broken in front of him. clearsight has collapsed, his blood a crimson sea around him. he's nearly unrecognizable, his blue fur painted a grotesque blackish-red, and beesong doesn't know how much of it is from him. the fallen warrior heaves for breath around blood that bubbles from his mouth, and dread turns the healer's veins to ice.

he can't fix this.

a sharp intake of air leaves the herbs they'd brought to fall at their shaking paws. someone screams at them— anyone— to help clearsight. but beesong can only stare down at the carnage, one haunted eye fixated on the fading light in the warrior's far-off gaze. head reeling from the intensity of their pounding heart, the world fades to a buzz around them. there is nothing they can do. the blood, stars, the amount of blood... when it pools from another's mouth and nose, there is no herb that can mend what has been destroyed on the inside.

"i-" the stifled voice does not sound like it belongs to him. his jaw clamps shut, tight to the point that beesong is surprised his teeth do not crack from the pressure, and the rest of the words do not come to him. i can't, his mind screams what his lips could not utter, and he wants to shrink away from the horrible truth.

clearsight is dying.

the cinnamon tabby shakes his head. clearsight, who has been a pillar of riverclan since the beginning. clearsight, who has shown nothing but kindness and unconditional support to his clanmates. clearsight, who had been just fine hours ago, smiling and talking with his friends. that compassionate warrior would never see the sunrise. riverclan is losing a good warrior, a good mentor, a good friend, because of windclan's selfishness.

you're doing so much, clearsight's voice echoes above beesong's thunderous heartbeat. for all of us. but it wouldn't be enough to save clearsight.

clearsight stills. beesong closes their smarting eyes, releasing a shaky breath that'd been trapped within aching lungs. it's over. the sobs fill their ear, as riverclan mourns the warrior that their healer couldn't save. useless. would they even have mint to cover the creeping scent of death? or had windclan destroyed the aromatic herbs in the raid?

when he forces his stiff eyelids to reopen, he steals a furtive glance towards those around him. some bury their faces into clearsight's cooling fur. others bow their heads in reserved grief. do they blame him? should he blame himself?

beesong takes a step back, then another, until they're retreating back into the chaos of their den to gather more herbs. away from the grief and sorrow, if only for a heartbeat. clearsight is dead, but there's still work for them to do... and maybe they're thankful that they can throw themselves into their looming duties rather than the guilt that threatens to swallow them whole.​