As You Wish {solo}

He remembered where they buried her, up atop that hill, where she first revealed she was carrying his kits. And now even those were gone, too. Finchstar's fur blew in the white dawn light, shifting against his frame with the wind. He lowered his head to drop strands of heather upon her grave, their pink flowers would have stood out starkly against her russet fur. But Brookclover was more beautiful than nature's flowers. She walked with more grace than the breeze, and spoke more sweetly than honey. And she was dead. How many sunrises had it been since they passed together? Finchstar had lost track. It was the sinkhole, being crushed beneath the mud. His life and hers, torn away to StarClan. But Finchstar possessed eight more lives, while Brookclover had lost her only one. They buried her the next day, up atop this hill. And then the gathering, and then the loner, Murkpaw's death, and now he stood here. It was still an emptiness that plagued him, and his emotions were still lost out there, drifting away with the wind. There were many cats that seemed to come and go, and Finchstar could only stop to gaze at them through the sadness. Even Cloud, with her wisdom, was not enough to deter the leader from his future actions. And the future was now.

He wanted to feel again, to feel something. Even tears would be welcome, but this silence he felt instead, it haunted him. Finchstar was lonely, dreadfully lonely. And the only cure for it, was to throw himself into the beyond, and let his paws graze over the territories some had never seen. He had to leave his comfort to find it, but deep down, Finchstar didn't want to know what was at the end. Looking over the moor now, and dull tears fell from his temples. The beauty he once saw in life was nothing without Brookclover. His hope, his optimism was smeared into the mud, violated and stained, and left to rot under the harsh sun. Fate had stolen her away from him, and brought him back to this wretched life. The anger felt good, he was feeling. Finchstar had been emotionless for so long, and each day he drowned in it over and over again, until he had nightmares of the emptiness, and when he awoke, it was just as real. He wanted to tear it away, to feel alright again. And it was selfish, dreadfully selfish. But some days, Finchstar awoke and cried, away from his clanmates, silent tears would fall from his eyes as he stared into the ground, wishing to feel her touch once more.

"I'm going on an adventure, my dear." Finchstar spoke silently, with a sweet tone he only used with her, and his voice cracked. He leaned into the dirt that housed her, squeezing his eyes shut as he tried to imagine her voice. Finchstar didn't want to think of the future, of WindClan. He didn't want to wonder how they'd fair after he trekked out over the moors. He didn't want to think about Aspenpaw, or Ravenpaw, or Barleytuft.

So he didn't.

"I may not be back for a while. But when I return, I'll have oh so many stories to tell you. Maybe I'll be old by then..." Finchstar let out a sad chuckle as he whispered to Brookclover, just like they used to do before sleeping. But it was dawn. It was dawn and Finchstar was alone. "I'm lonely, my dear. But I must leave soon..." He placed a shaky paw over her grave and sniffed, squeezing his yellow eyes shut, and then watching as the heather he placed there drifted with the wind. Just as I will... Finchstar turned to leave, facing the white sky, knowing the sun would peek over the hills soon, and he would be gone.

Ryecloud had been the first to take him out on the territory, and Finchstar remembered following him slowly, to account for his mentor's deformed leg. He admired him, loved his scars and old frame. And fate had taken him away as well, to the Twolegplace, they had told him. He was hurt, at first. But he had Brookclover then, and remembered telling her about the tale. She was as supportive as ever, and they had gone hunting afterwards. Finchstar smiled, walking through the long stalks of wheatgrass, closing his eyes as they brushed against his orange and white tabby pelt. He could see Highstones in the distance, yet his paws weren't sore. He wondered how far they could carry him.

He remembered using those very paws to sprint after a ThunderClan trespasser, worried that he'd hurt Brookclover. But the she-cat had surprised him then, too. Apprehending the tom with ease, and teasing Finchstar with those green eyes. His heart beat faster thinking about it. The tom was near the Thunderpath now, watching as monsters rushed past with their glowing eyes. Flintpaw, was it? He had that kind of drive, that fearlessness that Finchstar had always been envious of. An expendability. The leader smiled, thinking he could finally obtain it. He was just a lone tom, stark against the harsh realities of the forest. Starlord, too. Finchstar hadn't meant that tom until after the flood, but admired his drive, and couldn't help but root for the tom as he and Jaystar rolled together, fighting for love. Finchstar had fought like that too, shoveling against the ground that fought to take Brookclover away. But he had lost, and so had Starlord. But that loner was dead, and Finchstar still stood, in front of the Thunderpath, an exception. It hurt, to live a life so lonely. He figured he could throw himself in front of a monster and just end it, and while Finchstar seemed to take a liking to poetic justice, it would be a waste. Not of his own body, but of the commitments invested in him. He would be crushed if Aspenpaw or Ravenpaw stumbled upon his bloody form. Finchstar shivered as he remembered the way Murkpaw died, but the shock from death could no longer rendered him static. He had witnessed the worst death of all, and now he was as hard as stone.

The leader crossed the path quickly, hesitating for just a moment in the middle. But it wasn't meant to be. He would keep padding on. The grass on the other side of the path was slick, green and wet, much different from the wild moor grass. Finchstar tried his paws on it, blinking as the moisture soaked into his pads. He had only walked this ground twice. Once, on his moonstone journey, and the second time, returning to Brookclover, and leading WindClan home. He had done his duty, that's what Finchstar kept telling himself. Swiftstep would make a fine leader, and a new litter was on the way. But Finchstar's story had ended, it felt wrong to continue living it. Instead, he would be a breeze, a shift in the wind, a wanderer. Finchstar remembered Cloud who came to him, confessing her story and wanting to join the clan. He had asked her then what she felt as a loner, and she had told him that the burdens still haunted her. Finchstar knew it was true, even the wispiest of cats had lives, had regrets. Everybody loved somebody. But Finchstar was stubborn, and hopeful. An optimism so toxic, it would conquer all, even logic. He would escape it, escape the pain. Rename himself and walk amongst the grasses. Perhaps he could grasp some stories along the way, and tell his own. He would run far enough where grief could never find him. He could cry into the grass so that he'd never shed a tear again.

Small, little trees stuck upward from the landscape, and Finchstar padded alongside them, watching the mountains in the distance. There were small lights there, too. Little artificial ones that could only belong to Twolegs. He had walked far, and perhaps setting foot in that stony place could seal his resolve, and mark his decision. He didn't know which way he was going, and he didn't know where he was from. Who was Finchstar, really? Born in WindClan, but that meant little. His parents of his parents? Perhaps some time long ago, they had traversed the earth as he did. Clans, gatherings, they all meant nothing in the vastness of life. They were just cats, just small, specks of things, loving as fiercely as their hearts would allow it. And what did that make Finchstar? Just a speck who drifted with the wind. He would be nothing. An exception. An outlier. It was romantic, in its own way, to live forever lonely until he reunited with Brookclover. He needed someone who understood.

But he was not free. And the grief would never leave him. Finchstar stopped in his tracks, watching the Twoleg lights with a strong gaze, as if taking his eyes off of them would remove his escape. Brookclover was his grief, and his grief was for her. Each and every emotion left in his broken body was for her. His happiness, his joy, his depression, and his anger. It was her. It was always her. She was waiting for him, up in the sky, watching with patient green eyes. And he was ever so lonely. Broken. Sad. But she was waiting. Nor life nor death. Nothing could pull them apart. Finchstar bent to the ground, face twisted into one of sorrow as tears flowed from his eyes. What kind of grace was this? What kind of love traversed even death itself? Brookclover. Brookclover. I'm sorry... I'm sorry... She was waiting. Just as she did during the flood, and just as she did now. The sun hung high in the sky, lighting the long tussocks of grass a bright yellow, and Finchstar's eyes were a flame. And he ran, he ran back to where he came from, back to where his commitments lay.

The Thunderpath was a blur, and the moor was just a speck. Finchstar ran faster then he ever had in his life, his paws drumming over the earth, carrying him through the air. And she was by his side, running along with him. Not seen, nor heard, but felt. In his heart. Bittersweet tears began to fall from his eyes as he reached her grave, only gone for half a day. His frame had not aged, but his resolve had. That drive, that bravery. There was nothing left to lose. Finchstar collapsed at Brookclover's grave, the heather stalks still there. He panted hard, a smile on his face as salty tears ran down his cheeks. "I've returned, my love. And I have a story." Several moments passed as Finchstar collected himself, sitting close to the ground, whispering intimately.

"I meant a tom. And he was in love. He was lonely, so very lonely, and wanted to run from the beasts in his head. But there was a hero, a victor, who waited on him. Who meant his love with her own, one so fierce that it conquered death. And it made him strong. He was sad, but he was strong." Finchstar let out a weary smile, letting his head rest on the ground. "And he returned to the moors he grew up on. And he stayed. He stayed, and he waited. For her." Tears flowed into the grass, but they were not tears of emptiness, but tears of recognition. Finchstar was loved, and he would love in return. Over and over again until he collapsed into the dirt. There was nothing to lose, and he didn't need to be alone to see that. It was a power many would die for, and Finchstar had been so envious of it before. But it was Brookclover's last gift to him. To seal his fate, and clear his path as a leader. "I will wait for you, Brookclover. Until the moors are swept away, until the sky falls from the air. I will wait until darkness takes the land, until my bones crumble into dust." He would wait forever. "The forest can't scare me anymore, my dear. And the emptiness, I've shut it away. The only thing it can threaten me with is a life in StarClan with you. I fear nothing."