private WHERE THE SHADOW ENDS / CLEARSIGHT

[CLAYFUR]

✦✦ The most surprising thing about being killed in a rogue’s ambush, Clayfur thinks, is that he’s glad that it happened. The others on the patrol—Smokestar, Mosspool, Beepaw—they all had more life to live. They all had families and friends who needed them around, a clan to take care of. He’s glad that out of all of them, it was him. Of course, he’s also glad that his hip doesn’t ache with each movement anymore, and there are no scars to be seen across his lanky frame. But most of all, he’s glad that he gets to have… this. His nose lifts from where it’s been pressed into river-blue fur, eyes shining with the same wonder he’s worn on his face since he’d first seen Clearsight again. This. He could never grow tired of this.

Maybe it’s better, in a way, that they’re both in StarClan now. They don’t have to suffer or struggle, and they have all the time that they deserve, now. Their love won’t be cut short again. But still, the fog that’s rolled in is odd. It isn’t right, but there’s nothing that can be done about it—so even if it’s bad, he’s going to spend whatever time he has left clinging to his starry-furred mate. "That fog," he begins, tail curling to intertwined with his mate’s. "What do you think of it? If I tried to eat it…" He trails off with a lopsided grin, one chocolate-furred ear flicking in amusement at his own joke.​

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[CLEARSIGHT]

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➵ "Eat it," he echoes in exasperation, chasing that chocolate ear and giving it a little nip. There's no real bite behind it, and the shake of his head is fond. Clayfur would be the one to do something like that — to get tired, maybe, of a perfect heaven without new unfortunate things to stick in his mouth — and Clearsight recalls the long seasons he'd spent here alone, watching, as his Clayfur tried to pick himself up and live again, becoming somebody new. They all did — Gillpaw and Willowroot and Smokethroat, becoming what they needed to become. Maybe that's what life is — that ache for change, that fierce pursuit of it — maybe it's just what you do when you still have something to fight for. Clearsight stayed the same, and he watched.

He ducks his chin to groom the top of Clayfur's head, a purr rumbling in his chest.

It's all blurred together since he brought Clay home to these last hunting grounds, the ache of death eased by having someone to share it with. He'd seen relief in those hazel eyes, twining starry tails together for the first time, reunited. It's all Starclan has ever promised. It's rest, and relief, and own his nose finally buried again in soft brown fur.

But there's a dread curling in his stomach when he dwells on the fog. Clayfur asked him what he thought of it — he should have an answer. He's a little abashed to admit that he doesn't.

"What do I think of it," he echoes quietly, turning the question over aloud. "I've... tried not to, if I'm honest. It's..."

It's what? How does he explain the feeling? Something about it resists exploration, some animal fear keeping curious paws away from its edge, like it's written from on high. Be afraid, and nothing else.

(And shouldn't he be the "on high" where things are written from now? He'd never dwelled too long on the stars before he joined them, devout worship in the form of passing prayer, thanks given for food or pleas for safety, always focused firmly on the living; he never imagined what it was to be among the stars — but he knows he hadn't expected this kind of helplessness, the accursed watching. Everyone mourns here.

Children born to dead parents, or — his Gillpaw was made Gillsight, and Clearsight wasn't there.)

He realizes he's stopped purring, and he pulls Clayfur against himself more firmly, and he starts purring again. Clearsight has this: his Clayfur, who calls him honey and jokes about eating ominous afterlife fog. "I know I'm not going anywhere near it," he says firmly. "Unless you do try to eat it — then I'll be marching in to drag you back, and then I'm sure I'll have to sit on you."

He pauses, then adds, a little mischief in his eyes now, "I'll bring you normal fog to eat, as consolation."

He doesn't know how he'd achieve that anymore than he knows how one might eat fog. Does Silverpelt even have normal fog? Somewhere, he's sure. Maybe they can go find some together, one day. He imagines it — hunting through endless silvery forests to find someplace no one's been yet, just the two of them. Clayfur would say unexpected things and be altogether more interesting than Clearsight, and Clearsight would laugh and do his best to play along. There'd be no danger, nothing to hide from. Nothing to watch for but exciting fog discoveries. Yes — one day, they'll do that.

They have all the time in the world now, after all.

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& we've all got battle scars ✗ ​