to jest with scars ✘ ravensong

[SMOKESTAR]

A promise was made and he intended to keep it but he was not prepared for the strange and overwhelming emotions that would hit him in a heavy torrent throughout the days, it feels as though every few seconds he was struck by some powerful urge to huddle in the dark, cold corner of the willow tree den and not leave until it was over, until the feeling faded. Until they were gone-out of him-it was over. The dark tom often paused his walking about camp to get a grip on himself, come to terms with it all again as though he'd forgotten but every pain and every breathless realization he couldn't keep pace with others like he used to was an agonizing reminder of what was to come and he hated it. He hated every moment of it. He regretted it, but he couldn't say as much, he couldn't lament because he'd already agreed to this and the mere idea of breaking Cicadastar's hearts with his own unease and worries was too much. It's not like he could do anything about it now anyways, so he might as well grit his teeth and cope. Or was there? The idea hit him during that morning after a particularly bad stomach pain that had him dry heaving for longer than he'd expected. Was he thinking straight? He wasn't sure, but once the thought settled he found he could not shake it and so he left the den to wander out toward the medicine cat den with little hesitation.

He has not been in this den since he'd stepped in here for confirmation on the kits, prior to that the last time he was here was poking his head in to visit Beesong and the thought of the cinnamon feline makes his chest feel tighter; he thought he'd gotten over the grief but apparently it came in small waves now, the occasional ripple disturbing the otherwise calm waters. Smokethroat dips his head low to not seem too imposing a silhouette as he pushes through the tall reeds inside and it takes only a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dark and find the medicine cat sitting there hunched over something.
Smokethroat didn't want to interupt whatever it was he was doing, but he was also too anxious now to back out of his intentions so he cleared his throat in what he hoped was an audible enough sound to get Ravensong's attention without startling him, lone orange eye narrowed apologetically. "...pardon, do you have a moment?"

---

[Ooc]
@RAVENSONG
​

 

[RAVENSONG]

Ravensong was treating Smokethroat's pregnancy with an air of cool professionalism. He did not coddle or swoon over the deputy—such things he figured would best be reserved for the mate of the cat—nor did the medicine cat seem particularly excited about it. Pregnancies were the condition he perhaps knew the least about. He could never physically bear kits either so to attempt to sympathize with the expectant seemed disingenuous. He had wondered what Smokethroat thought of it—not just how Ravensong treated it as if it were another tick to pull from a kit's paws either (in some part of his mind, he hoped the gruff cat appreciated that treatment)—but of the entire process. No doubt he felt different. Ravensong cannot imagine being in his paws.

He had been close to his mother before she died. He tried to not dislike the entire process of pregnancy and birth because it would be a burden—that would be a disservice to his mother.

And yet, having kits had never entered Ravensong's mind with such force until now.

"Actually, yes," Ravensong was loafing on the ground, his eyes half closed as he tilted his head to look up at the singular orange eye down at him.

"You need to come here more often. Or I will have no choice but to hunt you down." He chastised with a lazy flick of his ear, still remaining in his loafed position. He fell quiet to beckon Smokethroat to speak up.

​

 

[SMOKESTAR]

Smokethroat would not admit it out loud but the medicine cat's cool and quiet manner of dealing with most things was greatly appreciated, he couldn't imagine how mortified he'd be if the other treated him like finely spun spider web-easily broken and delicate. He was having kits, not dying, he was still as fit as he was before and still took the time to keep up enough activity in the safety of the camp he felt a degree of confidence he'd be back in his usual routine not too long after they were born. It was only three moons before they were apprenticed anyways, once weaned he could leave them to the care of another queen proper perhaps.
He seemed slightly surprised by the response, unsure of how to parse it. He was supposed to be poked and prodded more than he already was? An irritable grumble was witheld at that and he offered no complaint but he still wasn't fond of the suggestion. Still, if the medicine cat insisted, he had never been an unreasonable or bothersome patient for Beesong and he'd extend the same courtesy to their apprentice as well.
"I'll make sure to do so." Was all he said to it, already miserable at the idea but not willing to whine like a petulant kitten over it. When his lone orange gaze drew back up the other was waiting expectantly for him to explain his visit and he felt his nerves tighten the same way he might stiffen moments before springing into combat itself; throwing his life onto the line for RiverClan, for its safety, for its honor. This was nothing like that, he shouldn't feel as though he was a tail length from death over just a question but it made him anxious all the same.
"...is there...herbs that can stop this? Stop a kitting before it happens?" His ear twitched, he heard the wind rush through the reeds in a sound not too unlike pawsteps but the rattling of the cattails brought him solance, "....not that I....I mean I don't think I..." Smokethroat's expression drew strained, eye closed tight and ears falling flat; just be honest. While he and Ravensong were not particular close, he had sworn an undying loyalty to Beesong, to their healer and he would pass it down to the younger dark tom and put his trust there as well. "....I'm terrified." His voice rose in a rare tremor, he was not a cat who showed fear often if ever-he did not display his emotions so openly for the world to see and the fact he could not quell the building unease and dread of having kits was some kind of sign. He needed to do something about it, his immediate panic reaction was to find a way to stop it but he doubted it possible; and even then he didn't NOT want the kits. He was just afraid of the process, a process he knew nothing about, he wished there could have been any other way to have them than this. "....I don't...know what to do about it. I can't stop feeling this way."
He could not lament his worries to Cicadastar, did not want to burden his own misery on the already stressed leader and part of him perhaps was also afraid that he might take Smokethroat's apprehension as some kind of rejection; he didn't intend it-but it was always hard to tell how that long-limbed phantom felt at times.
​

 

[RAVENSONG]

"Better to catch irregularities sooner than later." He explained curtly, glad that he was not pushed too far on that request. As stubborn as the deputy was, Ravensong would not take Smokethroat to be unintelligent. Birthing kits was no easy task—he can still remember his mother soaked in blood from her second kitting, an event that had cost her life.

His many-toed paw swept absently against the ground as he waited for Smokethroat's request. Nightly pains, aches, could he feel them kicking or not kicking perhaps? The possibilities ran through the young cat's mind but none of them could have predicted what would fall out of his mouth.

A silence falls after those first words. Ravensong lets it pass, looking expectantly up at Smokethroat as he sensed the cat would quickly explain himself. The fur along his spine ruffled, making the dark figure of the medicine cat appear more like a shadow of a thistlebush than a cat. "You don't—" He caught himself before he spoke too soon. You don't want them?

He had decided long ago since Dovepaw's rant that nothing would leave the den unless he determined it was a danger to the rest of the Clan. Expressed this extreme level of trust from Smokethroat was astonishing but Ravensong kept his head and reoriented his mind to the issue at paw.

"I do not know of anything that can stop it without causing harm to you." He admitted. That was an option he simply could not take. It was an option he felt he would lose his life over when dealing with Cicadastar's mate, but that part remained hidden.

"Are you okay?"

No, he's not, he's scared. Did you not hear him? "I don't mean it like that." He mumbled to his internal thoughts, unaware that he was speaking out loud. The decision to have kits was no easy one—or perhaps it was, and Ravensong was naive—how could this be so devastatingly overlooked? No surrogate option? Ravensong stilled his wild mind and took in a deep breath. Not your place, he reminded himself as he stood up from his loafed position. Smokethroat had trusted and respected him this much, Ravensong would treat him just the same, especially with such sensitive thoughts.

"Come in further," He beckoned. His eyes were level and calm as he glanced back at the deputy. "I apologize, this is no easy task and I do not want you to open this wound up any more than it has to be, but I need you to explain your feelings more so I can know how to help you. What about it are you afraid of?"

☾₊ ⊹ темная ночь — dark is the night

•  
• 
  RAVENSONG of RIVERCLAN
  — LH BLACK POLYDACTYL MALE (CARRYING CINNAMON, DILUTE) a tall, slender creature with pitch-black feathery fur, large ears, and a sharply angled skull held up in an aloof manner. smells of dried herb, speaks with a low and rumbly accent and walks with an elegant slinking gait.
  
  — born in twolegplace and orphaned at a young age, he joined riverclan at its inception and began training as a drypaw warrior known for a bitter temperment until beesong made him his medicine cat apprentice. after his mentor's untimely death, he had been named ravensong at the moonstone, young heart revitalized with anger and guilt. he is a somber and thorough medicine cat that guards every word spoken in the confines of his den.
  
  — secretly loves "the stars but not so much what inhabits them"
  — openly suffers from chronic migraines
  — single, but "it's complicated"

​

 

[SMOKESTAR]

"No, I...I don't....it's not that I don't want them, I just..." He falls silent, apprehensive, maybe he should not be burdening the newly made healer with this; perhaps he should have bit his tongue and managed his own feelings himself, but when Ravensong does not cast judgement or otherwise he finds himself settling down only slightly. He wished he could talk to Cicadastar over his worries, but the mottled tom has been so highstrung and stressed out lately he did not want to add more to his worries. And yet bothering Ravensong was fine? A small voice in his head asked and he shook it to clear his thoughts. He was...their medicine cat. Of course it was fine, surely. That he was not shooed out to have his panic attack elsewhere was enough indication.
The dark tom strode forward to sit, settling down as comfortably as he could further into the den; it was actually bothersome being comfortable like this, he found sitting awkward now.
The dark medicine cat confirms what he already felt he knew, there was no getting rid of them; perhaps he just felt he had to ask regardless and a small part of him was relieved in a way. Because truly he wanted the kits, there was just so much he hadn't expected or was prepared for about them and it had gotten to the point that the sensation of being overwhelmed blocked out his logical thinking entirely and replaced it with fear: pure and simple.

"I've never...I've never even seen kits born, Ravensong..." All he knew was the pain was horrific, that the chances of death high, that he may have kits who didn't make it; memory flashing to Willowroot's own losses and he finds himself prickling uneasily at the idea of sharing a similar fate. He was doing his best to remain in camp, out of the way, out of danger, eating well still, not trying to exert himself despite his restless limbs but he still felt that terror that something would go wrong. "....all I know is it can go poorly and I don't know what to expect. The fear of not knowing has been a lot.." He was a fair bit more harried than usual, of course, much more prone to temper and easily upset over even trivial things. Smokethroat had long since stopped being a hairtrigger of a cat set to burst into flames at a moment's notice like he was in his youth yet he felt it rising back up; a candle lit at both ends burning faster, brighter.
"...I'm sorry. I can't talk to Cicadastar about any of this, he's seemed very..." It was hard to figure out a proper word but he opted for the more delicate one, "...frazzled lately. I don't want to add to his worries." He had enough right now to manage, with himself out of commission he was once again leading alone as he had for so long.
​

 

[RAVENSONG]

Neither have I. Ravensong responds mentally to Smokethroat's admission. No kits had been born underneath his apprenticeship through Beesong. He was woefully unprepared. He tried to think what Clan had boasted at the Gatherings the most about new kits. He ought to pull aside their medicine cat to get the most information he could.

"I do not think I have to say it, but queens have been kitting for generations." It was a simple fact. It was also a simple fact that some queens perished during it. But it was rare—Ravensong had only known one case that was close to him. "Every time you step out on the field of battle, you face the same fate." Smokethroat lived for the thrill of the fight—perhaps this would ease his mind. "This is the queen's battle."

As Smokethroat continued, however, it seemed that he worried not just about his own life, but of the miscarriages that could happen. Certainly more likely than the death of the parent. "I do not know the future either, but..." His throat caught up and he blinked strangely. The words, hypocritical and vile, tangled in his voicebox. He struggled to get them out. Ravensong inclined his head to the side and coughed viciously.

"My—apologies." He wheezed. "I... I do not know the future, but StarClan... has a plan." Yes. That was right.

His stomach churned at the thought of keeping this a secret from Cicadastar. It was easy to keep Dovethroat on a short leash, because he was too meek and polite to really go through with his angered thoughts. But Smokethroat was close to Cicadastar. He had no doubt the slightest change of his circadian rhythm would set off the leader's paranoia.

"Something then, to consider telling him when he is not in such a state." Ravensong suggested lowly, using the back of his paw to wipe the phlegm from his lips. "But, until that time comes," He heaved. "You have me. What is said here is confidential, and the health of your mind is my priority. Do not bottle up these thoughts, Smokethroat. Come to me when you feel them rise again. I may not know always what to say. I may not have a silly leaf for your troubles. But I am the one guard of your sanity. And I took a vow to bear all of the Clan's pain on my shoulders."

☾₊ ⊹ темная ночь — dark is the night

•  
• 
  RAVENSONG of RIVERCLAN
  — LH BLACK POLYDACTYL MALE (CARRYING CINNAMON, DILUTE) a tall, slender creature with pitch-black feathery fur, large ears, and a sharply angled skull held up in an aloof manner. smells of dried herb, speaks with a low and rumbly accent and walks with an elegant slinking gait.
  
  — born in twolegplace and orphaned at a young age, he joined riverclan at its inception and began training as a drypaw warrior known for a bitter temperment until beesong made him his medicine cat apprentice. after his mentor's untimely death, he had been named ravensong at the moonstone, young heart revitalized with anger and guilt. he is a somber and thorough medicine cat that guards every word spoken in the confines of his den.
  
  — secretly loves "the stars but not so much what inhabits them"
  — openly suffers from chronic migraines
  — single, but "it's complicated"

​

 

[SMOKESTAR]

"...yes." A quiet affirmation, showing he'd heard and was listening as he stared down at his paws in thought. Sheathed and unsheathed his claws in memory of a battle to be had, of the blood he'd spilled in defense of the clan.
The Queen's Battle. He wonders over that, thinks of how he worried that his destiny of dying on the battlefield might be undermined by this entirely, but was there really a difference. Was there truly no honor in such a fate? It would be disingenuous to think such, it would mean the queens of the clan and even his own mother before him had died meaninglessly. No, this was another way of serving the clan and if he died it would be honorably. Somehow the thought did settle his frayed nerves, made him relax for the moment. It had, in fact, ease his mind. He knew that cats had been kitting for long before he was even born himself, that he had to be reminded was embarrassing but a necessity. It was fine. StarClan had a plan. If he could not believe in anything but them then that would suffice. RiverClan would be in good paws no matter what happened.

"I'll...talk to him soon. Suppose I can't put that off." Eventually his feelings would be sniffed out by the tom, a bloodhound tracking his emotional distress. He had no doubts Cicadastar was somewhat aware of his fluxuating mood as it was-he was somewhat more snappy than normal, quick to fight over talk; irritable at his best times. Some might joke on how that was not different from his usual disposition, ornery deputy that apprentices made effort to not cross the path of but really he was not quite so quick to anger as he once was long ago. A calm had settled, but waves had begun to crash once more inside him from this new shift in life. He wanted this, but it didn't make him feel any less out of control.
"Thank you, Ravensong...for what its worth, I think you'll make a fine medicine cat proper for the clan. I know they'd be proud of you..." Beesong's loss still stung like claws, nettled into his chest periodically as he inhaled the scent of herbs and river reeds that permeated the den. He'd once been trapped in her for moons near death. The cinnamon healer had saved him, a task he'd not made easy.
"...I'll be sure to see you more often." As insisted. As needed. A tentative, wary smile curls across his maw, "...and thank you for keeping this to yourself, I'd not admit as much but I feel...rather silly about it all now."
Plenty of cats in this clan had had kits...he wondered if any of them had overreacted their first litter like he had. This was exactly why he wasn't doing this again.
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[LIGHTNINGSTONE]

// LATE AF POST!! For anyone seeing this, this is was plotted out for him to overhear this part!

For once, he's not purposely listening in. Lichentail and Boneripple are both out on patrol with trusted warriors, and so his services are not currently needed. He can relax, perhaps work on some fishing with Meadowpaw. He's on his way to the apprentice's den to retrieve him when soft voices make him pause. As soon as he realizes they're coming from the medicine cat's den, he slinks closer and presses himself idly against the den wall, paws silent as the wind. A slight bend to his legs and curled ears pricked, the silver tom narrows his eyes and focuses.

...is there...herbs that can stop this? Stop a kitting before it happens?

His eyes widen a bit. It's Smokethroat's voice, and Cicadastar's voice echoes in his mind. He'll want to know this. More importantly, Lightningstone and his family would receive ample payment for the information. Lead warrior or not, leader's mate or not, Lightningstone has an agenda, and his priorities do not lie with the white-speckled tom talking with Ravensong.

He leans in closer, crouching within the reeds, but before he can hear more a twig's snap alerts him to nearby cats. The friendly chatter of voices draws nearer and it's with frustration that the tom decides to abandon his spying. He slinks away, unseen and unheard, on his way to the willow tree.​