Together at Last [Closed]

The reunion with Finchbreeze, or Finchstar as she'd come to learn, was almost surreal. Brookclover had spent their entire time apart longing to be alongside her companion once more. And, thankfully, her persistent hope had brought him back to her once more. Life had felt incomplete without him. Sure, the she-cat was more than able to function without him by her side, but she did not desire that. They had been together since kithood. From ceremonies, which Brookclover undoubtedly received first, to the loss of their kits, almost every patrol, and the flood, they had survived it all. Together. She purred audibly from her place in the place in the leader's den. As usual, the tom was fast asleep at her side. Her green gaze studied his still form, interrupted only by soft breaths. She would be lying if she said that his promotion to leadership had not sparked pangs of jealousy to rise within her chest. Coupled with Swiftstep's position as deputy, the warrior was left with mild aggravation. But it quickly became subdued in support of her mate. Besides, even with the change in title, he was still simply the tom who had she had grown and battle with. Starclan be spited if they thought that would change. It was obvious that even with him leading the clan, the russet she-cat he loved would still be charging along ahead of him.

That thought satisfied her, enough to wash away any dragging feelings of sleep and the clinging knowledge of Brindlestar's death. With that, she stood quickly and with her limber frame prodded the snoozing leader, "The next great leader of Windclan can't sleep his day away. We've got patrols to lead, Finchstar." Without waiting for the response, she playfully brushed her tail across the bridge of his nose before padding away. It appeared that the sun was still low enough in the sky that only some cats had begun to stir and Swiftstep had not yet assigned the patrols. Certainly, he wouldn't mind if she organized a patrol herself. Besides, Finchstar himself would be accompanying the patrol. It would be efficient enough for even Grousepaw's standards. Plenty of hunting, and training along the way. Her eldest apprentice was almost ready to earn his warrior name and this would be a good way to test his skills one last time before the moment arrived. Ravenpaw would be able to learn from him, along with the most skilled hunters of Windclan, which is why Barleytuft would be joining them. The feeling of planning her morning around all the cats she cared for, along with the knowledge they still all walked among the living, was incomparable to anything else. It caused her paws to quicken ever so slightly. After quickly waking Grousepaw and asking him to gather her other apprentice, she turned to seek out Barleytuft.

"Good morning, Barleytuft. Would you care to join my hunting patrol? I'm taking the apprentices out. You can see if I turned out to be half as good a mentor as you were." The soft purr to her tone almost seemed to become a rumble as she head-butted goodnaturedly into the tom's shoulder and she pulled back to look at him with bright eyes. Even if she still held distaste for his mate, mostly due to her origins and the peculiar path to Windclan, it did not change the love she held for the cat who trained her.

A moss nest sat by the Tallrock, exposed to the sky above and yet protected from the elements. The leader's den. It was strange to sleep in a place where he had never even set foot before, yet Finchstar had slept easier than he ever had in his life. Brookclover was curled into his frame, her light breaths stirring the fur on his chest. A purr rumbled from the leader's throat. He was not quite awake yet, subconsciously rolling in bliss. The rhythmic breaths and brushing of pelts seemed to encase him in a heavenly lull. He wondered for a moment if this was how he would rest once his soul had journeyed to StarClan.

He would not be the first of his kin to reach the starry place. Finchstar's sons, Cricketkit and Ryekit were the first to pave the way. It was wrong, in every sense of the matter, that small kits should take the biggest leap. But Brookclover was beside him even then. In Finchstar's mind, she had never left, even when the flood pulled the two apart, casting them to different corners of the forest. Their meeting was as wonderful and glorious as Finchstar had imagined. It fueled his optimism, convincing him even further that the true and good things of this world would always conquer. The love he felt for her carried his paws over the moor like the breeze. Every look at her and Finchstar's heart seemed to stop. And now he was whole again, curled up with his very lifeblood, her exhale carrying him into slumber.

The breath shifted and Brookclover's voice rang through Finchstar's ears, as graceful as the breeze. "Your wish is my command, my queen." The orange and white tabby smiled widely at Brookclover, flicking her pelt playfully with his tail. He had noticed the look in her eyes when she first learned he had been crowned Finchstar, leading the very clan she had treasured for so long. But love was a strange thing, it seemed as if Brookclover's initial hesitation on the matter had now been washed over with acceptance, and her green eyes only glowed with love. Finchstar arose to stumble after her, amused as she padded away. I may be leader, but you'll always be Brookstar to me... He thought to himself, watching her russet pelt fondly. She was his advisor, his very paws and tongue. Finchstar knew he could confide in the beautiful she-cat, and knew he would follow her into the grave if she asked. Blinking the sleep away, the tom quickly joined Brookclover at her side, following her gaze to Barleytuft.

It was exciting, knowing they would soon prance amongst the moors once more. Times had threatened to strip every care-free aspect away from the forest, but those times had been conquered. No more dogs, no more beasts. Finchstar would walk beside his mate and friend once more, free from the trials and tribulations. WindClan was forever.
Finchstar gave Barleytuft a smile after Brookclover's comment. The cream tabby was a good friend, and had won Brookclover's respect, an impressive feat. Finchstar's was easier to come by, and the tom found himself often looking to Barleytuft for advice and counsel. Grousepaw and Ravenpaw would be joining the three shortly, two toms up against the world, and doing wonderfully. Finchstar was not surprised at the fact, they both shared Brookclover as their mentor, and any apprentice of hers was bound to grow into a great warrior.

Barleytuft had settled rather swiftly back into Clan life, and the rolling gold, gray, and green moors around him had sucked him in easily even despite all the muck and water that spattered the expansive surface. WindClan had always been rather separate from the other Clans simply due to geographical location, and admittedly being around them all during his time on the lake shore had felt uncomfortably unfamiliar. Leaving the companions he'd travelled with again had been sad, but there was a faint sense of relief that things were returning to normal. High up on the moor, gazing out over the rest of the forest, it was easy to focus on his own Clan. His Clanmates: Finchstar had become leader - he'd learned that up in the mountains - and Brindlestar had passed, Swiftstep had regained his position as deputy, Gingerpaw and Briarpaw had survived the flood, Aspenpaw had been possibly permanently wounded in battle with the dogs, and Graybriar, Barleytuft's mate, was expecting his kits.

He had many things to focus on, and all of them were WindClan. It was everything Barleytuft had ever wanted, and StarClan had brought it all safely back together again. Well... not everyone was undamaged, nor every hill or tunnel the same as they were before, but they were still there in some fashion. He preferred them being altered to simply being memories, as selfish as it might be - especially in Aspenpaw's case. Who knew what was in store for him?

Barleytuft had remained a morning cat, as ever, especially now that Graybriar had retired to the nursery for the remainder of her pregnancy. With so much on his mind it had been difficult even to sleep through the night, and the creamy tabby tom found himself awake quite some time before dawn. The sun had been brightening the sky for some time before he finally rose from his sleeping spot and trotted out of camp to make dirt before more of his Clanmates awoke. It was a bit harder to be stealthy with the ground so damp, but he returned before too long and peered over to where Graybriar was sleeping soundly, getting much-needed rest. The warrior's dark hazel eyes were glassy with affection and love as he gazed at her before finally turning and settling off at the edge of camp to give his coat a once-over.

He was drawing near the end of his groom when he realized some of his Clanmates had stirred. Barleytuft raised his head to see the familiar sleek russet frame of Brookclover, his first apprentice. The tom beamed up to hear, meowing a bright, "Morning, Brookclover!" Finchstar's sturdy ginger-and-white frame appeared in Barleytuft's vision and he added respectfully, "Finchstar."

"Good morning, Barleytuft. Would you care to join my hunting patrol? I'm taking the apprentices out," Brookclover purred in reply. "I'm taking the apprentices out. You can see if I turned out to be half as good a mentor as you were."

The experienced warrior laughed and rose smoothly to his paws, his tabby fur glimmering gold in the dawn sunshine. His apprentice good-naturedly butted his shoulder and he leaned back in jest. "I always love to see my favourite first apprentice in action," Barleytuft responded, and he turned his face to flash his leader and friend a grin as well. "I hope that the moor will give us enough fresh-kill for all the members on this patrol to keep their paws busy," he joked.

Grousepaw watched as Brookclover gathered up a patrol. As she padded up to the new leader... it was an odd thing. To acknowledge that this cat now lead the clan... his muzzle scrunched up as he watched her wake him. A leader should be up with the sun, but this tom was snoozing the day away. 'Of course, he's always been efficient.' The thought occurred to him briefly, making him dip his head in contemplation. Finchstar wasn't a slacker by any definition. He worked hard, and perhaps he had been hunting late the night before. Still, he padded forward. "Mother wouldn't have been caught sleeping so late." He pointed out immediately as he approached. A chastising tone in his voice as he watched Brookclover convince Barleytuft to join them.

"Why are you two like that?" He asked dryly. The comment of calling Brookclover his queen hadn't gone unnoticed as Grousepaw fixed Finchstar with a stare. "She's not a queen... unless she's kitting again?" He asked, partially out of confusion. He didn't understand the whole thing some cats did with eachother. Say nonsensical things that equated to nonsense, or doing senseless things like bringing cats useless items that for some reason had the recieving cat flustered.

"I'm sure the moor will provide just fine. It's us who has to be ready." Grousepaw meowed determindly to Barleytuft as the older tom responded. His pale chest puffed out as his tail flicked tall in the air behind him. "Every moment we're here is certainly not ready."

If there was one thing about WindClan that Ravenpaw wasn’t quite used to, it was sleeping under the open sky.

Of course, there was more than one thing. On the lake, he hadn’t dared wander past the treeline after hearing Mosspaw talk about the raccoon that had attacked her and her father; here, it was all too easy to travel across half of the territory without realizing. He had few friends within WindClan, most of them being cats he’d met on the journey home, and was lonelier still in the wake of the mountain cats' return. Worst of all, a fully-formed Clan was full of rules like don’t cross the border and don’t leave camp without telling someone, each one seeming as if it had been made specifically to contain him. There was little he wanted more than to see Mosspaw and Leafpaw, to bury himself in any life but his own, but they were on the other side of the forest, which was an impossibly long walk to make while staying unnoticed.

Someday, WindClan would be home. Today, however, was not “someday,” and he knew that from the moment he was awakened by a demand to go on a patrol. ”This early?” Ravenpaw mumbled to himself, getting to his feet. The sun had barely risen!  What was the point in having all those rules if they didn’t ban this? But he had no further complaints as he threaded his way through his Clanmates, scattered across camp in varying states of wakefulness, to join the rest of the patrol.

Every face in it was familiar: First Grousepaw, whom he’d come to appreciate since their first training session (though Ravenpaw still thought he was too focused on the boring parts of apprenticeship); then Barleytuft, leader of Ravenpaw’s first real patrol; and finally, Finchstar and Brookclover, who were simply Finchstar and Brookclover. Whatever annoyance he may have felt at being disturbed washed away. Maybe he didn't have many friends yet, but he certainly had something. For now, that was enough. ”Sorry to keep you waiting!” Ravenpaw tossed the other patrolmembers a grin, then turned his attention toward Brookclover—after, of course, giving Grousepaw a nudge and saying in an undertone, ”I think it's supposed to be a complement." Why it was a complement was beyond him; still, he couldn't imagine Finchstar using it for any other reason, so it had to mean something nice.

She stood across from Barleytuft with a broad, vibrant, grin across her maw. As they chatted easily about the patrol ahead and shared a simple moment that only the bond between mentor and apprentice could provide, cats began to gather. Her own apprentices stood around her paws as Finchstar settled in at her side. Grousepaw was ever serious in his nature and she could not help the slight trembling of her whiskers in an amused response. Although one glance at the younger tom reminded her of a face missing from the crowd--Brindlestar. And as the first sentence registered in her brain through the growing chatter, her expression faltered for a brief second. In all of the moons since kithood, the russet-pelted warrior had looked up to the former Windclan leader. The confidence and wisdom the she-cat had possessed had always inspired a young Brookclover and helped to shape her into the cat she was now. Thinking about the fact that she no walked among the living was a tough strap of rabbit fur stuck in the back of her throat. It was almost incomprehensible.

Shaking her head, the she-cat's gaze focused on Ravenpaw. The young tom had become almost more than an apprentice to her, in a way that her pride would refuse to ever admit to. She trained him hard alongside Grousepaw but there was also something that had prompted an additional, dare she say motherly, type of care for the orphaned tom. The thought of kits slowing her down had been repulsive and yet their loss was one of the most devastating things her and Finchstar had faced together. While he would never replace Ryekit or Cricketkit, the black apprentice had become a welcome companion to her and her mate as well. His nudge of Grousepaw was not lost on her and a particular joy fluttered in her chest and abolished any dismal thoughts as she considered the relationship of her apprentices. With a blink, the she-cat realized how much time she had wasted in those short moments merely considering the happiness that had returned to her over the course of the past couple sunsets.

"No need to worry, Grousepaw, no more kits. And we have plenty of time to catch prey as long as we leave now." Her tail rested gently on the elder apprentice's shoulder, almost as a reminder that his attention to efficiency needed a rest at some moments. Brookclover admired his drive and desire for taking care of the clan. But there were plenty of times in which he missed out on other things due to the attention to tasks. With that, she turned to the entrance and slipped easily out into the somehow more open territory. Staring over the open fields brought a clarity unlike anything else. Even with the churned dirt in some areas and the sogginess underfoot, this was without a doubt the home they were destined to be in. Above head, the sun had rose slightly, casting early morning shadows and painting the field with an orange-yellow hue. It was as if the greater forces of nature were declaring that this was still a magnificent sight. And she had to agree.

Her paws desired to dash right out across the moorlands without a thought, but a leader instinct kicked in and she hesitated, "For the sake of safety we'll stay close. Finchstar and I will split to the left, Grousepaw and Ravenpaw in that direction. Barleytuft, stay to the center. If any prey tries to scatter, the others can help stop it in its tracks." As she spoke, the warrior's tail flicked to emphasize her directions before she shot ahead with Finchstar undoubtedly at her heels. Their patrol would start the day off well. Painted skies spoke of peace and success, despite the almost foreboding cast of shade. As the breeze tossed her coat and combed through her fur, a wild grin broke across her maw and for a brief second her eyes closed, allowing her to feel almost like she was in flight as her paws skimmed the ground. Knowing Finchstar was by her side brought a comfort that only his presence could provide. Life was in its place once more.

A scent drifted across the breeze, causing her mouth to water slightly as she considered that she hadn't eaten, none of them had. Hare would feed plenty of cats. With a silent glance at her companion, the warrior flicked her tail towards the direction in which the hare nosed lazily at the ground. It was still unaware of the creeping danger. Luckily, it did not take much effort in their position for the wind to be in their favor. Once she was certain they were on the same page, as they were every time they hunted side by side, she darted off in a wide arc to come around front of the ignorant creature. Her paws were nearly silent in their pursuit but on such open terrain there was only so much of the element of surprise to be shared. The hare registered the danger, finally, and in a panicked frenzy predictably turned right in the direction of Finchstar. Never one to underestimate a catch, Brookclover chased after it on the off chance that it would break away at any second. It almost ran right into Finchstar's waiting paws but at the last second veered off to seek out a primal freedom driven only by a sense of fear. And she was ready for it. This was the moment that Brookclover had trained so hard for. Her muscles were coiled and ready to twist and spring after the creature. But just as she was a fur's length away from the leader...

the world under her paws fell away.

Grousepaw had arrived shortly after the two had joined Barleytuft. Finchstar twitched his whiskers at the apprentice's rigid commentary, finding a small comfort in his seemingly steadfast personality. The leader remembered joining Brookclover at the gathering before the flood, while she was still pregnant with their kits. Grousepaw was just as efficient as he was now. The flood had changed a lot of things, but Brindlestar's son did not fall to their waves. Ravenpaw padded up to the group next, and Finchstar smiled at the black tom. Brookclover had fashioned a liking for him, and the tom could easily see why. Their chat on Outlook Rock was comfortable, eye-opening. Finchstar hoped one day he could learn all of his clanmate's stories, it was his duty as a leader.

"No more kits..." Brookclover mewed to her apprentice, and the orange and white tabby found himself agreeing. He would have loved his sons dearly had they survived childbirth, but had he known this life, as well as the other, the tom would have found it strange. It was good to know they carried their warrior names with them to StarClan, strong and mature. It spoke of Finchstar's relationship with Brookclover. They had been through so much together, the leader found himself in awe of where life had taken them. It was no surprise that his kits' would-be bodies were muscular, and their personalities were shaped well. Brookclover's love was capable of anything, raising offspring would have been an easy feat. But they would have been much different cats with that change of fate. No more kits were needed. Finchstar was Finchstar, and Brookclover was Brookclover. Fate carried them on a rough breeze, but a predictable one. It was naïve to think that all good things could last, but Finchstar found himself too stubborn to believe it.

The patrol of five began padding out over the open moor, the wind tangling in their fur, caressing them and kissing their noses. "I've been waiting for a hunt like this one." Finchstar mewed to his mate, walking close by her side. "It was only a few sunrises ago I was running from Sharptooth, I can't have my mate thinking I've gotten lazy." He gave Brookclover a playful nudge, listening closely as she gave patrol orders, happy to let her brilliant mind guide him through the grass. The russet she-cat shot off through the heather, running with the speed of lions. She was something of a legend in WindClan, known as one of the fastest cats in all the forest, and Finchstar couldn't help but stare in awe as she ran, weaving around tussocks and gorse bushes as if she was born to do it. Brookclover was beautiful, in every sense of the word. Her quiet grace, and sophistication that surrounded her frame struck Finchstar every time he laid eyes on her. He was truly home. Not because of WindClan's territory, not because the camp was finally taking shape, but because the tom could stand beside his mate, whole and well, feeling loved. Finchstar could wish for nothing better. Life had been generous, and kind.

Brookclover set eyes on a rabbit as Finchstar watched, flicking with her tail to send him into his position. Naturally, she took the lead while the leader spread out his paws, ready to intercept her prey once she drove it up the hill. Grass billowed with every graceful gust of wind. Even with the new scent of stagnant water, and the marshy ground, Finchstar could close his eyes and imagine the territory as it was when he was an apprentice. Soon it would fall back to normal, and the smell of dry wheatgrass and sunny gorse would drift through the territory. It made the leader smile. Brookclover was almost near him now, having startled the rabbit and sending it flying up the hill. Finchstar prepared himself, digging his hind claws into the ground, and stretching out to leap at the prey. But it turned and spun at the last moment, twisting in the grass and shooting off in the other direction. That's unfourtunate... The tom breathed, beginning to hare after it, Brookclover a few paces ahead of him. She was a quick thinker, and spun just as the prey did. It was sent carreening towards Finchstar's paws. But something was not right. The grass that had shelved the cats above the moor was now falling away, dropping into a pit in the ground. Mud swirled around Finchstar's paws, and just as his mind grasped the situation, Brookclover was no longer apart of the equation. She fell away with the earth, sinking into the very territory she commanded. Finchstar opened his maw to call out, but no sound came, only a rush of adrenaline in his heart, and he had flung himself into the dirt with her.

One second, the nearly inaudible sound of her pawsteps hitting the earth was all that could be heard. The next, it was cut short and her paws were no longer her own. Earth became as solid as the river that flowed through the territory of the neighboring clan. An unusual panic began to rise up in her chest and her gaze whipped around wildly to seek out Finchstar. He wasn't there. As the dirt, roots, and rounded pebbles began to tug at her limbs and rendering her every move as futile at the last, true fear overwhelmed the she-cat for the first time in her life. There was no control to be had, everything was out of her paws. And then... he was there. The familiar smell of his fur overwhelmed her senses, almost drowning out the peat that fought to cut off any source of air. But her mate was next her her and that was all that mattered. It didn't magically stop the crumbling of the moorlands and yet there was solace.

Soon, it began to slow and her gaze was able to focus enough in order to see the face of her beloved Finchstar. Vision was blurry, although there was a certain clarity as she studied his features. Breathing had become laborious as debris crushed down on their mortal frames, forcing the air from their lungs. Brookclover could barely make out anything else beyond the outline of the ginger-patched tom's face. The earth had stolen light too. Air and light. It was funny in those few moments she found herself considering how such simplistic things to the living were hardly ever considered. And here, as she sat in her own imminent grave, it flitted through her mind. Sucking in a primal gasp, a desperate attempt to satisfy her lungs, the warrior locked eyes with Finchstar. She was certain he had seen the fear and if it were any other cat she would have hated it. With him, things were so easy; she needn't explain anything or even say a word. Their love and companionship was as easy and effortless as a breath had once been.

Every last ray of the painted sun was slowly being choked away and leaving them in increasing darkness. Her body was pinned, virtually immobile but as sight was no longer valid, Brookclover craved the last comfort she had. Wriggling closer to Finchstar became her final mission. No longer would her thoughts be troubled with patrols, prey, or any other matters of the living. The final warrior duty was to her leader, her mate, her one true love. Her lungs inhaled dirt and dust, tearing away any chance at them being able to absorb the vital nutrients they had been created to take in. It sucked away at her conscious. All she could do was feel what was around her and even that sensation was quickly fading. Brookclover attempted one final surge forward, fighting for the last time. And it worked. Fear faded into acceptance. Her nose was pressed deeply, perhaps jarringly so, into the nape of Finchstar's neck. One more breath. All she could scent was him. Finchkit. Finchpaw. Finchbreeze. Finchstar. He'd been with her always and he was here with her now. Thoughts swam and blurred, becoming discernible and life was stripped from her frame and a cracked, nearly inaudible whisper was uttered, just loud enough for the tom to hear,

"...don't leave me."

Mud slid against mud, claws ripped at chunks of dirt, trying to get a foot hold. Finchstar had never felt real fear before, even when fate had led him to the mountains, away from his love. That was more of an inconvenience, for he knew fate would bring him right back. Not even Sharptooth or the dogs could spark a real, primal fear in his heart. But seeing Brookclover sucked beneath the muddy current, that was enough to drive him insane. Her, it was always her. The leader would die before he let a single scratch mark her pelt, but now the very earth they had grown up on had turned against them. Finchstar gasped every time the ground shifted, his mind summoning up all the adrenaline it could muster. Time seemed to slow, and the orange and white tabby, now stained brown, could witness all the chunks of mud and rocks falling below into the endless pit that had opened up before him. Brookclover tumbled below, and every snap of her body sent a jolt through Finchstar's. He needed to reach her. She was alone, hurt. It was the only thing that crossed his mind.

The only fear he felt was for their love, it was a strong panic, one that he had never seen the likes of before. Sharp gasps of shock racked his body, but Finchstar found that there was no air to meet him. Instead, he inhaled small pebbles and grainy sand, they scratched at his throat and smashed at his rib cage. Claws outstretched, he snagged at a russet pelt, and pulled himself closer. Brookclover, muddy and broken. Her beautiful face smeared with the moist ground. The state of his mate had tears falling from Finchstar's eyes. A precious thing, torn and wasted into the moor. How dare it do this to her. But fate was a kind thing, Finchstar was friends with it. The sun still shone above their heads, and Barleytuft would reach them soon, or maybe Grousepaw, or Ravenpaw. Fate would send a victor, with strong paws to dig them out of this inconvienence.

A stubborn heart throbbed against Finchstar's chest with every breath, and then even the sun hid its face. The mud swelled up and over the opening that had swallowed the two, burying them in an early grave. Fear. Fear not from himself, but from Brookclover. The speed at which it happened almost rendered it unreal, but it was there, Finchstar couldn't see his mate anymore, but he knew her scent, even as the ground closed in around them. The she-cat had never shone an ounce of fear before, not while Finchstar walked by her side. Even when their sons had perished, there was a quiet acceptance, one that Finchstar found he loved and respected. But now he feared it. The acceptance, like the acceptance of their fate. Recognizing it would be to give it a permission. To suck them deeper into the earth and steal their life force away. Finchstar was friends with fate, but he had been brutally betrayed.

A familiar muzzle was shoved desperately into the nape of his neck, and the leader curled with it, letting out a sob as he collided with Brookclover. His bones were crushed, rib cage shattered, and no light shone on the two now. He could not see her green eyes, nor her russet pelt, but the memories were still there. Finchstar wrapped in his paws around his mate as he reminisced. He remembered her first teasing him as a kit, when gorse thorns clung to his pelt. And then later, when she apprehended a ThunderClan apprentice without breaking a sweat. He loved her. He loved her when she revealed to him she was pregnant, and he loved her when their sons were birthed stillborn. Brookclover was constant, ever present, his driving force and his lifeblood. She was the only steadfast being in this forest of change. Even with the moor sticky and swollen, Brookclover was here, up against his pelt, her breath in her fur.

Silent sobs racked the leader's body. Acceptance had found him. This was very much real, and no amount of stubborn thinking could save the two. They were dying, beneath the dirt, their home. Finchstar curled into Brookclover, and closed his eyes. There was nothing to see. And perhaps this truly was the end. Perhaps they would live out their days in StarClan together, dancing amongst the ethereal grass. The fear of death itself was strong. There would be no more hunts on the moor, and no more sunsets with Aspenpaw. No more chats with Barleytuft, and no more inquiries with Ravenpaw. He had even been spared from the game of wits at the gathering. Finchstar's imagination was wide, and his acceptance stretched far. It hurt, hurt to come to the realization. But he would not die, not his soul. Brookclover was here, close to him. As long as he was with her, what was dead would never die. She was the embodiment of life in and of itself. Calm, kind, and collected. The sweetest honey to ever caress the surface of the forest. Pleading words fell from her maw, and Finchstar's heart broke in two. The end of an era, the last of love. But he had made a commitment, and vowed to act on it whenever asked. The words he spoke were more than words. They were the confession of all the love he ever possessed, now released into the dirt, never to be seen again.

"...As you wish."

Funny, almost, how easily life could be snuffed out in a matter of moments. Something that was built, and literally grown over the course of moons could succumb so easily to death. Nothing was spared in the end, not even leaders with their seemingly endless supply of lives. Everything comes to an end.

One moment she had been hunting, the next drowning in earth, then Finchstar, then... nothing. It would have likely been a blink of an eye if anything could have been seen at all underneath the dirt that quickly encased the pair of lovers. The process had been slow, forcing the precious oxygen from their lungs and rendering breathing a futile effort. But after pressing herself against her tom, breathing in his scent, everything seemed to disappear to quickly. She melted into acceptance and understanding, the fear was simply a distant memory. Anything else that had raced though her mind was long forgotten. All she heard was a soft plea of her own words, and finally...

'...as you wish.'

Black. Empty. The pressure that had once threatened to push the soul from her body was relieved, seemingly successful in its efforts. There was nothing for a moment, not even the warm embrace of the tom and she wondered if perhaps Starclan was simply a myth after all. And then she blinked. All around was a faded starry-studded landscape. Brookclover nearly cursed aloud. The very place she despised was to be where she rested. Although that thought ran through her head something more pressing caused her head to whip around out of habit. Finchstar. It had just almost occurred to her that expecting the leader here would be expecting his death as well. That was a fact that he knew almost instantly, her life was no longer meant for the russet frame that was left buried behind under earth and dirt. She swallowed, regretting for a moment her hope that the ginger-patched tom had joined her. And then her gaze met his. They were only a few taillengths apart now. Her heart leaped in her chest as she immediately leaped onto her paws and raced towards them.

She nuzzled him as if it were the first time. Never before had she imagine such joy and without hesitation she started to lap at his shoulder. Finchstar was here with her. Not even death would keep them apart. The new Starclan warrior was prepared to speak when something behind her love caught her attention. It was the faintest outline of the tom's battered frame, the one that had been crushed beneath the earth alongside her. She pulled back as her breath hitched in the back of her throat and her once parted maw shut tight. The sight was fairly jarring but worse she knew what it meant. Their time together was in short supply. Pulling back, she pressed her forehead to his and took a few long-drawn breaths. As she spoke, tears prickled at the edge of her eyes and threatened to fall. Brookclover had accepted death but this was not something that she could swallow back to easily, "You've lost your first life, Finchstar." The words were merely a whisper, just enough for his ears. Although, thankfully, it appeared that the rest of Starclan had left this moment just for them. As they should have.

For a few moments, she was still, not even her tail twitched as she sat there, pressed against the tom who had been her constant solace throughout everything they had endured together in life. Finally, she set to work lapping at his chin, the nape of his neck, maw and cheeks. Each stroke was tender, and loving. Something about it was a clear indicator of what would happen next for Finchstar. With one last shaky breath, she addressed her love for one final time, "You have a duty still... your story is not over yet. I look forward to seeing it. And I will wait until it is our time. Don't forget, I love you." Once she was done speaking, everything began to fade around them. It was time for them to go their separate ways. Brookclover wanted to yowl at the stars as he disappeared from in front of her. Her eyes fixated of the luminescent ground beneath her paws and her shoulders slumped forward. The only comfort were two sets of eyes watching from the nearby bushes. Soon, she would join them. But for now, she needed to grieve.

It was the last thing his mind registered, the final breath of words that fell from his maw. And then, nothing. Darkness, silence. Finchstar's lungs no longer screamed for air, his ribs no longer cracked with the pressure, and his ears were no longer filled with dirt. The end. The leader would fight it had his mind been able to comprehend it, but nothing was nothing. There were no more thoughts, no more pain. He had died, beneath the dirt, curled into his mate, surrounded by her love. There were worse ways to go.

Yellow eyes blinked open, and the black was whisked away. Finchstar stood in a starry field, wheatgrass brushing against his legs, twinkling with glorious shimmers and small glittery things. There was truly hope, even though it was twisted and strange, Finchstar knew not all was lost. Brookclover stood across from him, her russet pelt as beautiful as the leaves that sparkled with light. Not even death could separate the two, StarClan had been kind. His mate ran to his side and nuzzled her head in his chest, licking at his shoulder. Finchstar fell into Brookclover's embrace, eyes sealed closed with a bittersweet recognition. He hated the forest for pulling her away from life. He would have died a thousand times over to ensure she lived a happy life with the living. But he was glad not to be alone. It was a pitiful thing to admit, but as the orange and white tabby spun with his mate, he didn't want it any other way.

Things were calm now, and the realization was ever present. There was no more denial, and no more reason to fight. His love would remain her in StarClan, devoted to his lifeblood until the end of time. It was fitting, a tale that would go down in history. No one would tell it but Finchstar himself, in his mind. The love he and Brookclover shared had shaped his life, formed him into the tom he was now. It was omnipresent, like the breeze, drifting in and out of every shape and form. He watched her with glazed eyes, letting out a breathy smile as her eyes meant his. "I'm sorry..." He choked, the smile morphing into a frown. He fought the tears but water swelled up and over his temples, flowing over his cheeks. Finchstar didn't know what to feel. The emotions that swirled within him now were ones of confusion, but he was happy, ever still. "Forever. Just as it was meant to be. Let me stay by your side, we'll sleep amongst the stars, and watch our clanmates together."

Swiftstep would make a fine leader, and Barleytuft's kits would be born soon. WindClan was not lost. Finchstar and Brookclover had led them back to the promised land, and now they departed to watch their ancestors frolic in it. The more Finchstar mulled over his death, the more he found he could accept it. There were no more forests to explore, but Brookclover in and of herself was everything Finchstar could ever ask for. "Come, my dear. I have some toms I would like to introduce you to." But his mate spoke words that turned Finchstar's heart to ice. His first life. No. No. He was dead, with Brookclover. It was how it was meant to be, they were meant to stay together forever. He was dead. He was dead.

"Death isn't fair... But it's fairer than life without you." Finchstar breathed, yellow eyes fixed on his mate as if she was the very air he needed to live. "Let me die here, please. It's all I've ever wanted, to spend an eternity with you." His heart began to beat faster, thumping against his chest just as it did before he had perished. "You have a duty still..." Brookclover mewed, and Finchstar's eyes widened in horror. The acceptance in her green eyes had become something of a symbol. She had the same look when their sons perished, and even when they had died. And now, as Finchstar was pulled away from his forever-love. She was strong, for him, and Finchstar felt a swell of compassion thump in his heart. Brookclover. His everything. She was life in and of itself, and the pain of dying now wasn't because of the loss of life, but because he was going to lose her. "...I love you." She spoke, and Finchstar pressed his muzzle into hers, yellow eyes squeezed shut as silent sobs racked his frame. This wasn't supposed to happen.... This isn't how the story was supposed to end.... The starry grass around them began to fade, and Finchstar gasped. Pain. More pain then he had ever felt in his life. More pain than the dirt and rocks had caused him. This pain was emotional, and it ripped at his heartstrings mercilessly, tearing at every thread of joy he possessed, clawing at his hope and throwing it into the abyss. "Brookclover!" He yowled as StarClan faded away. "Brookclover... I..."

The ground above Finchstar began to open up, and sun pooled into the pit. Silence, darkness. And then a gasp of air. "...love you."

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The world changed in that moment in a way Barleytuft didn't understand at first. Muffled over the ridge of the hill floated the sound of earth giving way, rocks and dirt tumbling. The immediate silence that followed was unearthly and terrifying. The tall warrior's ears turned behind him and he immediately drew to a stop, turning to look back over his shoulder up the hillside. What in StarClan's name was that? he wondered. The silence continued; the birds on the moor had gone silent, the distant crickets and frogs hushed as if holding their breath. It felt as though even the wind had stopped.

A dark sense of foreboding began to wash over Barleytuft, and by some force that was not his own he turned around and began to lope up the hillside again. As he drew over the peak, the warrior's voice cried out, a sharp wail of terror that he didn't summon. The cry was wordless but profound. Barleytuft's dark eyes immediately found the source of the sound: a shifting, jagged depression of dirt and stone and mud that had formed in the moorside. Collapsed tunnels. Undoubtedly, where Finchstar and Brookclover had been. "No! No no! Grouse, Raven, help!" the warrior cried, shooting back down the hill where he had seen his dearest friends what must've been only moments before. "Tunnels! Help!"

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Barleytuft began to dig, this time a little better aimed, paws wrenching their way into the ground before hooking around dirt and stone to pull it out of the way. With both forepaws he dug, spraying mud out behind him and in every direction. Every so often the earth shifted beneath the slender warrior, and with jolts of panic he found himself half-buried, a limb or two getting trapped in the wreckage. A few desperate wriggles freed him enough to keep him on his search. His claws were getting wrenched with stones, his shoulder nad neck muscles burning with pain, but Barleytuft couldn't stop. His friends were down there. His friends needed him. He had.... he had to save them.

His throat and lungs and eyes were burning from dust and grime when he felt his paw strike gritty fur. Barleytuft sobbed, unbeknownst to himself, as he recognized the vibrant fur of his first apprentice, Brookclover, peering out of the ground. He immediately redoubled his efforts with strength he certainly didn't have, feeling as though he was fighting an uphill battle. Every time one pawful of dirt was shoved aside it seemed that three more sunk into its place, and in desperation Barleytuft at last shoved his face through the dirt and grasped onto whatever piece of fur he had found. He pulled gently but constantly, shoving dirt aside over and over as his apprentice's body slowly became unearthed. She was heavy - so heavy - and Barleytuft's body was shaking with effort when at last he had pulled Brookclover almost entirely from the dirt. "T-T-Take her - someone t-take Brookcl-clover," Barleytuft sobbed, as if he knew her fate before it had fully registered. His eyes were already on a sagging white-and-ginger tabby frame that had been unearthed and nearly pulled free with Brookclover's body.

Finchstar had been right beside Brookclover. He always had been.

In that moment, everything was lost. The leader had been so young, yet one of Barleytuft's dearest friends, and what had once been a sturdy ginger-and-white warrior now seemed misshapen and soft and defeated, aged beyond age. The next moment, a terrifying flicker of hope burst into flame: the battered body moved, a ghostly shuddering like a death rattle making the half-freed body shake. Inaudible words were spoken, but Barleytuft undoubtedly recognized words. Finchstar was alive, at least barely. "Finch!" He dove towards his leader again. "Get off of him!" Barleytuft screamed hoarsely, venomously, uselessly at the earth which had taken Finchstar's body as he shoved stones away with furious force and trembling paws, clearing it away as quickly as he could. A new scent was slowly beginning to accumulate in the air, breaking through the stifling dirt, and as the young WindClan leader was pulled free by his scruff Barleytuft felt his blood turn cold at the taste of death. "Oh, stars.... Oh.... Finch..." Barleytuft whimpered, inaudible through the tom's fur.

The pale warrior desperately scrambled backwards out of the earthy depressions caused by the collapsed tunnels, dragging the tom up slowly and at multiple times fearing with all his heart that he himself would be next to become swallowed by the earth. The thought to watch Grousepaw and Ravenpaw had still not occurred to him as he dragged Finchstar to "safety" beside Brookclover, laying the tom on the ground. Barleytuft stood hunched and trembling with fear and exhaustion as he stared with a shell-shocked expression at his Clanmates. Brookclover was still unmoving. Already her lips had gone pale, eyes half-closed or crushed shut never to open again, tail laying limply over the earth. Her lustrous russet fur seemed to have gone dull, too dirty to ever catch the sunlight again as if the shine had been beaten out of her fur like her life had been beaten out of her body. And Finchstar...

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Grousepaw stalked forward in the direction ordered. His gaze flickered to Ravenpaw to keep track of the other apprentice as they looked for prey. For awhile, it all seemed according to plan... until yowling cut through the air. His ears flattened as Grousepaw hissed in displeasure at the noice. His head whipping around to find the source. 'Why is Barleytuft making all that racket!?' The pale tom watched as the older tom seemed to dissappear into the grass, then reappear, only to leave again. 'Has he gone harebrained?' The idea was concerning as he pulled away from where he had been scenting for rabbits, only to spot a pile of rubble on the ground. Red and white fur among it. His blue eyes blinked in sheer confusion, before realisation sank in.

"BROOKCLOVER!?" The yowl was uncharacteristically loud for the tom. His voice a screech that sent rabbits scurrying many tail lengths away as he immediately ran to Brookclover and Finchstar's side. He nudged her, then nudged Finchstar. Loyalty warred with duty as he stared at the two cats before him... 'Finchstar has more lives... but Brookclover...' She only had one. He nudged her again, then nudged Finchstar.

Desperate, he half climbed onto Brookclover, as if the weight of his claws would wake her.
"Brookclover! Wake up!" He yowled, climbing off when it didn't work. Tears began to well in the young tom's eyes as he shook her shoulders. "D-Don't be so inefficent as to die! Don't do this to us!" He whipped around to Finchstar, shaking him in turn. "Don't you dare either! We need efficient leaders! Come on! Wake UP!"

The bodies refused to move. Grousepaw felt despair sink into him like a stone as he felt his stomach hit the ground. He had already lost his parents... now he lost his mentor... and his leader. A quiet whimper escaped the usually well-together tom. This couldn't be happening.

They weren't allowed to go.

Rather than match him with an experienced warrior who could cover for his mistakes, Brookclover assigned him to the same direction as Grousepaw—not that Grousepaw was a poor hunter or fighter, but he was just an apprentice, unlike Barleytuft, Finchstar, or Brookclover herself. Taking this as a vote of confidence regardless of his mentor’s original intent, Ravenpaw bumped his shoulder against Grousepaw once more, then took off, fueled by the opportunity to prove himself deserving of this new role. He had come far in the last few moons, and he knew it. Someday, he would gather the courage to ask Brookclover if she saw it, too.

Once he’d reached the hilltop, a movement caught his eye. He had seen Brookclover’s repertoire of hunting stances, picked up most of the tricks she’d taught him, but watching her work with Finchstar was nothing short of amazing. Their effortless communication defied words. Though the initial charge had been unsuccessful, they turned as one to chase their quarry (a rabbit!) again, seemingly without an audible or visible cue, and Ravenpaw held his breath in wonder. Grousepaw wouldn't be happy to find him dawdling, but Ravenpaw wasn't going to miss a chance to see his mentor and friend in action.

The earth itself yawned. In the time it took Ravenpaw to blink, it swallowed his mentor whole. And before she had a chance to emerge—before the dirt had finished falling—Finchstar dove in after her.

Ravenpaw had launched himself at the dogs, at the Twoleg bridge, at potential danger after potential danger, but now, when it counted, shock and horror kept his paws rooted. Thoughts whirled incomprehensibly through his head like a windstorm tearing across the moor. It couldn’t be real. He hadn’t woken up that long ago, surely he was still dreaming, surely—

A desperate cry broke through the storm. Barleytuft. This wasn’t a dream. Something stronger than terror, or perhaps terror in a different form, wrenched control back and sent Ravenpaw charging forward across cracked land, made him dig his trembling paws into the ground beside Barleytuft, cursing how small they were, how small he was. ”I—I’m here! Brookclover! Finchstar!” This couldn’t happen, not when everyone had just found each other again, not when he had barely begun to adjust, it wasn’t fair! Dirt stung the apprentice’s mouth, nose, eyes. ”We’re gonna get you out,” he said, and ”hold on,” and any number of useless phrases, ears pinning back as Barleytuft’s shouts turned to sobs.

Inexperienced as he was, Ravenpaw didn’t know all the things that could kill a cat. The weight of the earth was heavier than the weight of a dog’s jaws. The latter could be lethal; the former had to be. If the nursery stories were to be believed, a leader’s StarClan-given right was to nine lives, meant to be given for the sake of their Clan. As long as he hadn’t lost them in the mountains, Finchstar could still join Ravenpaw on Outlook Rock, still see Ravenpaw become a warrior, still be Finchstar. But Brookclover had a single life. All the world’s resolve did not make her indestructible.

No sense of triumph rose in his heart when the first hints of russet fur were unearthed. Stepping back to give Barleytuft space, Ravenpaw watched in silence as the tabby pushed dirt aside and so, so gently extracted Brookclover from the moor’s claws.

He had never known his mentor to be afraid; in death, she did not disappoint him. She looked…calm. Accepting of her fate, rather than defiant. A chasm yawned within him, not unlike the one that had split the moor, pulling everything down into its depths. ”I got her.” The voice could not be his, yet he moved forward as if it had been, leaning down to grab the scruff of Brookclover’s neck. A cold, bitter taste, mingling with dirt and WindClan scent, flooded his mouth as he took hold; pushing through it, he dragged her away with a strength he hadn’t known of and would never find again, and laid her down as far from the earth’s maw as he could manage. Immediately, exhaustion swept over him, brought him to the ground next to Brookclover, staring downward without sight. Mud stained his paws and muzzle. A moment later, Barleytuft laid Finchstar beside her. Grousepaw's yowling, a sound Ravenpaw hadn't thought his denmate capable of making, was a distant moor-wind tearing through his ears. The fog in his head could not disguise what those words meant. Brookclover was dead, as he had known; Finchstar, as ever, had followed her.

There would be no more digging until after the vigil. They had done all they could, and it hadn’t mattered. Land and water were forces of nature; no cat, no matter how strong, how clever, how stubborn, could deny them their will. The moor stood before them, endless and golden as the sun made its ascent, pitfall upon pitfall disguised by flowers and wheatgrass; and Ravenpaw, for the first and last time, buried his face in his mentor’s dirt-smeared fur and wept.

Dirt. Dirt was in his eyes, his ears, his mouth. The more breaths Finchstar tried to suck in, the more dirt clogged this throat. Shouts could be heard through the haze, Barleytuft's cream tabby fur flashed before Finchstar's face, but he couldn't fully comprehend it. Grousepaw, Ravenpaw. Why were they shouting? A cough, and another gasp of air. It was raspy, the breath that he drew it, scratching against his throat and making his eyes water, and with the air came realization. He had died, Brookclover by his side. And for a moment, Finchstar was happy, happy in StarClan with the cat he loved. They would dance among the warm stars forever, swirling between the sparkling grass, her muzzle in his chest. But there was pain, pain in his body. Finchstar's cuts and bruises stung, his bones ached. Why did he hurt? Another breath, and more capacity for remembrance. Brookclover. Where was she? If Finchstar was here, then she should be by his side, alive, with him. It only made sense, that they should be together. His mate was something constant, like the paws on his legs, and the tail on his back, she was something that would never stray from his side, life nor death could pull them apart.

He wondered if her scruff was wrenched from the dirt as well, as Barleytuft's cream shape appeared to be struggling. Finchstar coughed again and wondered why he was crying, they had survived, hadn't they? The shock and mud that dulled his senses threw the tabby into a peaceful haze, and he watched the panic that swirled around him with quiet eyes, seeing the problem, yet not registering it. And there she was, Brookclover. Her beautiful russet pelt, stained brown with mud and dirt. Finchstar made a note to clean it later, she always liked when he did that. He was tired, very tired. A nest would be good, the hunt had taken a lot out of him.

Another cough, and another raspy inhale. Dirt rolled from his ears as his friend lowered him into the ground, he could hear their words clearly now, hear their misery. Finchstar rolled and attempted to find his paws, but found his bones ached with a fire, and remembered falling into the pit. That's right. He thought. What a story it would be later. Brookclover would tease him about it forever. Brookclover, his mate, his lifeblood. His body ached, and Finchstar felt quite cold. His half-there mind decided he would like the comfort of his mate's pelt, and he called her name. "Brookclover, dear. What an adventure that was." It was quiet, too quiet. Barely even a whisper. Why was his voice so quiet? More sobs and screams from his friends, and Finchstar wanted to tell them to settle down. They'd wake Brookclover, she was trying to sleep of course. "Please, there's no need to cry." He nodded to Barleytuft, meeting his eyes and finding tears there. Finchstar had always known Barleytuft to be steadfast, did the mud really disturb him that much? Why was he possibly crying?

Deciding to go to his mate, the leader rolled once more and got to his paws, his joints screaming, the cuts and lacerations in his pelt ripping with every movement. He was walking, slowly over the muddy grass, and watched from the corner of his eye the sinkhole that gaped in the ground. Wide, vast, lonely. A memory. Finchstar had been in there with Brookclover once, perhaps it was last moon? Was it then when she asked him to stay? And he remembered, he remembered that he said "I love you." And she smiled. After that, after that was nothing. They were here. Ravenpaw, Grousepaw, Barleytuft, and Finchstar. Brookclover was here too, sleeping. Her apprentice was curled into her fur, sobbing. Finchstar knew he should be too, the situation called for it. The issue was that he didn't necessarily know what the situation was. There was pain, confusion, and tears from his friends. StarClan, he remembered that, too. Dying. Dying. "No." Finchstar spoke casually, as if he had just declined a mouse. The relization had hit him. "No!" His voice raised, and the leader began limping toward his mate as fast as his injured legs could carry him. "NO NO NO NO NO!"

A gutteral wail, shaking across the moor as Finchstar launched himself at her. Brookclover. Ever constant. His lifeblood. Not sleeping, but dead. "Get off of her!" He yowled to Ravenpaw, swatting him aside, unaware of his own actions. "Barleytuft, get Briarpaw! Go! Now!" Finchstar's wild yellow eyes flashed to Grousepaw next, and a snarl rumbled at the back of his throat. "Go with him! We need a medicine cat!" But no one seemed to move, they all stood in place, watching Finchstar as if he had two heads. Destroyed, the tabby fell to the ground and raised Brookclover's head to his chest, cradling her like he did his stillborn sons. "It's alright, dear. Briarpaw is coming, you're alright, you're..." His voice shifted to a sob, each syllable a shaky inhale of air as he wept, he sobbed into the dirt, each exhale a yowl, raspy as tears streamed from his face, shaking his frame, shifting Brookclover's lifeless head. The sound drifted across the moor, and the territory seemed to bow with it. Like a king's call, the kingdom mourned, silencing their movements, until only Finchstar's tears shook the earth. It seemed to go on for moons, he cradled his broken mate, rocking her back and forth as his face grew moist with the tears. There was no thought to the future, as Finchstar had none. He had died here, in this very earth, and would never truly live again.