Ravenpaw's Warrior Ceremony

Finchstar circled below the Tallrock as thoughts ran through his head. Murkpaw had died, and Ravenpaw had been there. It didn't count as reconciliation, but the leader felt closer still. The black tom rested somewhere in camp, and Finchstar wished he could find some way to speak to him once more. Aspenpaw had cut his feelings deep into the leader, and now it was Ravenpaw's turn. A warrior ceremony was a dull apology, one hidden behind the ceremonial feeling of it, and yet he was ready. It would be Brookclover's final apprentice to reach warriorhood, first Grousefrost, and now him. Finchstar almost feared it, as if giving Ravenpaw his name would finally wash away the presence she still held in camp. But the orange and white tabby knew it wasn't true. Brookclover resided in him, as she did Ravenpaw. That was something the two held in common.

Leaping upon the rock, Finchstar raised his voice to say; "All cats old enough to run the moor, gather beneath the Tallrock for a clan meeting!" His clanmates had lost their wariness of him during the past few sunrises, and as Finchstar healed, so had they. But there were still things that needed addressing, one of the most important being the black tom with the white chin who now sat in front of the Tallrock. Finchstar decided he would find him afterwards to speak... wanting to finally resolve what was missing.

It was rare Ravenpaw lingered in WindClan’s camp nowadays. Before, his paws had been heavy, lagging whether he was on an errand or on a journey; now, they were as restless as they had been in the later days on the lakeshore, eager to return to the Gorge or the Thunderpath. If he’d known the way to Fourtrees (for he had missed the Gathering), he didn’t doubt he would have gone there, too. Ravenpaw was healing, but healing was awfully hard to do alone. The only comfort he’d found, he’d found across borders. So he skirted the ends of WindClan’s territory, waiting for friends and strangers alike. Somewhere in this forest were Dappleshine, Mosspaw, and Leafpaw; Ravenpaw knew RiverClan’s boundaries by heart and had learned to name the rest of their territories from atop Outlook Rock. He was still horribly lonely, but he preferred being lonely away from the moor.

Today, however, Ravenpaw lay curled tightly in his nest, observing the camp through one half-open eye. When Finchstar’s call went out, the small tom rose without complaint to join the other cats in their slow shuffle toward the Tallrock. He seated himself on a relatively empty patch of sand, chin held eye, eyes fixed on a point somewhere around Finchstar’s ears. They hadn’t spoken since Murkpaw’s death; he was less sure than ever how to talk to Finchstar, if there was a right way at all. But a meeting was just a meeting. Pulling his fluffy tail close, Ravenpaw idly wondered if he’d missed Graybriar’s kitting, or if one of his denmates was becoming a warrior, or if he’d been lied to and something catastrophic had happened at the Gathering after all.

Finchstar's clanmates gathered beneath the rock, watching him with mixed expressions. He found it easier to meet their gaze nowadays, feeling more like himself. There was still a hole in the crowd, where Brookclover had sat. She used to balance herself in such a way where it felt as if she was standing by his side, rather then looking up on him. Finchstar's heart ached, and he let out a long sigh. But there were pieces of her every where, and they flowed from his heart and bloomed in the world. Ravenpaw was a prime example, and the leader let his yellow gaze rest on his own. Guilt, maybe. The feeling that sparked in his heart.

The black tom had grown into a fine cat, distant, yes. But Finchstar had never judged, and didn't plan on starting now. That was his friend, down there, and he had abandoned him during his moment of darkness. Finchstar winced slightly, careful enough to not let the rest of the clan see it, but perhaps Brookclover's apprentice could read it on his face. He wanted to tell Ravenpaw he was sorry. He wanted to set aside his past actions and strive to be a better cat. But instead he stood, granting a name to the cat he wounded. "Ravenpaw, step forward." WindClan knew what this was. There had been few warrior ceremonies during Finchstar's time as leader, but he had grew accustomed to their frequency, and so had the clan. He needed to speak with Ravenpaw, he wanted to show him his heart, and try to fix the apprentice's. Later. Right now, there were traditions to follow.

There had been too many losses in all the forest, but Barleytuft couldn't help but feel that his Clan was suffering the worst. So many of his loved ones were hurting. Others had died in the past season. WindClan had changed in ways he had never even considered, and even the moor had changed in ways he hadn't thought possible. He'd heard of tunnel collapses before, but... he hadn't ever thought they just happened, not while hunting, not while so far away from help. He stopped the train of thought. While he had already processed what happened as best as he could, the feeling of loss for his first apprentice was still fresh. When Finchstar's voice sounded over the clearing, Barleytuft was more than willing to leave his sad thoughts to go sit before his leader.

His dark hazel eyes settled on the face of his leader, searching to find his friend. Finchstar seemed to have recovered a little in the last few days, and it sounded as though he had made some kind of amends with Aspenpaw. The ginger-and-white tom was healing, but Barleytuft knew all wounds took time. While he longed for Finchstar to let down his walls for him again, he knew that it might not be easy. The two of them had become acquainted because of the young Finch's fondness of Brookclover (always, her name struck a pulse of sadness that he quickly pushed down); with her death, it was possible that the bond between leader and warrior - between friends - had been severed. Barleytuft didn't believe it, though. Finchstar needed time.

The purpose of the meeting was revealed in a simple command: "Ravenpaw, step forward." Another pang of sadness, but... not quite sadness. The feeling was something bittersweet as Barleytuft attentively watched the young tom who had drawn into himself so much since the disaster - since returning home really. Brookclover's final apprentice. The two had hunted together on the river, and it pained Barleytuft when he realized that he had done nothing to reach out to the young tom during the disaster either. He could do nothing, however, but listen.

”Ravenpaw, step forward.”

For a long moment, Ravenpaw didn’t react at all. A cautious confusion slowly overtook his face, and for the first time in too long, he was forced to look directly at Finchstar. There was no correction, no elaboration, nothing to suggest this was anything other than what it seemed to be. Ravenpaw had heard those words once before, at one of the few ceremonies he’d been around to see: when Grousepaw had become Grousefrost. The only difference was the name. His name. His warrior ceremony. At once, he was both more alive than he’d felt in several sunups and removed from his body entirely. No amount of urging could convince his paws to move.

When Brookclover had made him an apprentice, only the fragments of WindClan on the lake’s eastern shore had been present. Ravenpaw (Ravenkit, then) had never had so many eyes on him before in his six moons of life. Compared to this crowd, that was nothing; perhaps for that reason, the nervousness he’d felt then was nothing to what coiled inside him now. Then again, a lot of things had changed. A warrior’s freedom still interested him, but Ravenpaw had already seen most of the moor. A warrior’s responsibility… The less said, the better. Even the idea of a new name, a permanent name, didn’t entrance him like it had before. But he was tired of standing still. Something had to change. Besides, he needed to find some happy news for Dappleshine when they met again.

Ravenpaw took a deep breath and stepped forward.

Eyes, dozens of eyes. Finchstar needn't guess whether or not Brookclover was watching him. He had found her, and now held her in his heart. It filled him with joy as he watched her final apprentice step towards the rock. But Ravenpaw had been more than that to her, to both of them, really. Finchstar's kits died prematurely many moons ago, and while the loss wasn't crippling, there was an emptiness there. Ravenpaw seemed to have filled it, and Finchstar smiled as he saw the joy on his mate's face as they trained together. He wondered if the black tom still felt it as well.

A bittersweet thing, but a deed that needed to be conquered. "WindClan, today we make a new warrior. Ravenpaw, Brookclover's final apprentice. It is no surprise to see the fine cat he has grown into." Finchstar meant the tom's eyes briefly, feeling as if his words did nothing to mend the gap between them. They were only formalities, beautiful, large, but still just words. "I, Finchstar, leader of WindClan, call upon my warrior ancestors to look down on this apprentice. He has trained hard to understand the ways of your noble code, and I commend him as a warrior to you in return."

A long sigh, and a nod toward the black tom. Find me later... Finchstar wanted to speak to him. "Ravenpaw, to you promise to uphold the code, and protect and defend your clan, even at the cost of your life?"

With that, the world—the familiar beats of the ceremony, the impossibly heavy weight of WindClan's stares, his own doubts and desperate hopes that this would be it, this would be the first step toward fixing things—faded to static. A fine cat. Brookclover's final apprentice. It echoed through his head, mingling with what Dappleshine had told him. When it came to hunting and fighting, at least, his paws carried Brookclover's lessons well, and they would until he died. Becoming a warrior meant moving forward in a hundred ways ranging from boring to fascinating to downright terrifying; it also meant more opportunities to display what she had taught him—and maybe, just maybe, a chance to pass it down. He could still make her proud.

He blinked, and he was in WindClan's camp. Above him, Finchstar nodded, a gesture that clearly wasn't part of the script, before delivering the final hurdle: the vow every warrior-to-be had to make. Again, the small tom hesitated. Uphold a code he barely believed in. Protect the Clan who had given him everything and taken it away just as easily. ...However badly he wanted to convince himself otherwise, Ravenpaw knew that blame was misplaced. WindClan was more than the land on which its warriors built their nests; it was Grousefrost, Barleytuft, and Finchstar. No amount of awkwardness, of isolation, of hurt could make him raise his paws against them. It wasn't what Finchstar was asking, and it certainly wasn't the level of loyalty StarClan demanded—but for Ravenpaw, it was close enough.

With a small smile he hoped was visible from atop the Tallrock, Ravenpaw bowed his head in answer to Finchstar's silent request. Maybe that, too, could change. For all his mixed feelings toward him...at the heart of it, he missed his friend. "I do."

He was proud, proud of the small black tom that had spoken those two, unfathomably important words. He stood tall with his clanmates, and a certain maturity had grown on the tom, and stuck there. Finchstar watched him with narrowed yellow eyes, letting the small moment between the oath and the vow stretch out for a lifetime. He saw Ravenpaw's smile and gave him a small one back. It wasn't perfect, but it was something. And something like Brookclover's last apprentice could usher in a new era of change. It was subtle, and careful, but Finchstar faced the wind and knew WindClan would carry on as it always had. A new warrior, a new story. The leader wanted to be there to hear them all, and he felt a wave of affection hit him then, flushing over his heart, causing his small smile to break into a large grin. Brookclover was watching, and Ravenpaw was brilliant.

"Then by the powers of StarClan, I give you your warrior name. Ravenpaw, from this moment forward, you will be known as Raventail. StarClan honors your friendliness and adventurous spirit, and I am proud to welcome you as a full warrior of WindClan." He saw himself there, in those yellow eyes, now belonging to a warrior. And perhaps it was selfish to push his identity on a cat who didn't have to be acquainted with him in the first place. But as he gazed at Ravenpaw, grinning, he felt comfort, like everything would turn out fine. Leaping down from the Tallrock, the leader padded towards his friend, weaving through the crowd that belted his name into the sky.

"Raventail. I am proud of you, friend. It is rare to find a heart such as yours, and I am ever curious as to where it will take you." Finchstar's yellow eyes twinkled, finally setting the past aside. There had been grief, and they were broken. But WindClan would journey on. With Raventail by their side.

"Raventail! Raventail! Raventail!"

As Finchstar spoke the words that heralded his entrance into warriorhood and Silverpelt, hidden in the light, waited silently above, Ravenpaw felt something shift. It could have been his imagination, a breeze, anything. Still, a kittish hope welled inside him, and he sank into it, allowing himself to wish one last time. Even a single glance would have been enough. As long as she knew.

When he raised his head, he did so a warrior. His grief wasn’t magically washed away. The desire to be anywhere that wasn’t WindClan’s camp still clung to his paws like a particularly stubborn cluster of twigs in his fur. He was still the same cat Ravenpaw had been, just under a different name. But the cheers of his Clanmates resonated deep in his chest to the pounding of his own heart; Finchstar looked at him, at him, wearing a grin so real it made him ache; and he wasn’t okay now, but he would be. It nearly swept his legs out from under him. Swallowing hard, Raventail looked around at the sea of cats chanting his name. For the first time, he noticed Barleytuft, someone else he hadn’t spoken to in far too long; he didn’t doubt he’d find more familiar faces if he looked further. But not enough. That there were members of his own Clan he didn’t know struck him suddenly. Finchstar may have shut him out, but Raventail had shut out all of WindClan in turn. Maybe…maybe some of this was his fault.

Much like it had when they’d met, Finchstar’s appearance caught him off guard. Everything he would have normally tried to disguise—guilt, confusion, surprise, relief—showed plainly on his face. Raventail decided he didn’t care. ”Forward, hopefully,” he said, pushing another tentative smile through the turmoil. After all of this, Finchstar was somehow still proud of him. Now they were well and truly on even footing in Raventail's eyes: a pair of warriors and wanderers, alike in ways both good and bad. ”Finchstar…“ There was so much he needed to say, but…honestly, he owed Finchstar more than a hasty apology made fresh off the adrenaline rush of a warrior ceremony. He shook his head, briefly overwhelmed. ”I won’t disappoint you.”

He had a warrior's name now, and, StarClan willing, a warrior's courage. Getting better wasn't something that would happen on its own; if he wanted to be okay, he would need to take steps to make it so, using every ounce of that courage. As Finchstar joined the crowd calling his new name, Raventail made a private resolution: as far as good starts were concerned, he could do worse than try to repair things with his last friend in WindClan.