|  | Rowansong |
To say Rowansong hadn’t been expecting a patrol to return carrying Minksplash and Sootspirit’s bodies was a generous understatement.
He had been dramatic in his reaction it it. It would have been embarrassing to reflect on, had he not been numb to the whole thing. But he had shouted at them for leaving, begged someone to help them even though it must have been hours since they joined StarClan. He wasn’t sure if he cried or not; everything past the initial wailing was a fog.
The days following blurred together, too. Rowansong hardly remembered anything from them. If someone told them he had spent the weeks– had it even been weeks? days? moons? –laying in his nest and staring at the wall, he would have been inclined to believe them. He was up today, though. His eyes seemed to blur every time he turned his head, and every sound was both a muffled drone and a shrill ring, but he was up. Up, and out of the warrior’s den.
And he didn’t know what to do with himself. In the brief time between Perchstar’s disappearance, his ceremony, and now, he had taken up as much work as he could. But even just watching a small party of cats bowing out of camp made him feel dizzy enough he shakily sat down, preempting some collapse. Rowansong doubted his leaden paws would carry him far through the territory at all, and even if they had, the thought of getting too close to the river filled him with paralyzing nausea.
He was tempted to retreat back into the warrior’s den when he a familiar pelt managed to break through his hazy vision and catch his attention. Rowansong watched as his brother padded across camp, seemingly returning from a patrol. The hollow in his chest deepened just from looking at Sprucebark. He couldn’t imagine having been the one to find them, to carry them back to camp. And he had not entirely missed Sprucebark’s own grief, his quiet crying into Minkpelt’s aptly-acquired pelt.
It wasn’t an entirely conscious decision to move, but Rowansong found himself getting to his paws, making his way slowly towards Sprucebark. At a tail-length away he came to an abrupt halt, eyes darkened and tired when he looked at his brother. It was only a few moments he was quiet, but the pause stretched uncomfortably long to him. Eventually, he managed a rasping,
“Hello.” It was a pathetic excuse for a greeting, and the singular word was heavy with a hundred unspoken questions. Even just the simplest one, how are you? Could not pass his tongue. Ducking his head, Rowansong slumped again onto his haunches.
“Sit with me?” He offered eventually, softly.
