Flypaw's Warrior Ceremony

Thick rivulets of silky snow curled downwards from the bleak late evening sky, rich ribbons of irrefutable cleanliness that bleached the sad and somber winter riverlands; sprawling blankets of alabaster heaped on further by the perpetually lingering dusting of snow, disrupted only by the occasional tracking of muddied ice and churned sands. The stifling stillness of the dwindling grey light was interrupted only by the insistent, yet terribly faint, collision of snow landing upon starkly frigid ice, a backdrop of virtually unknowable hissing lost to the chatter of a burdened river. Tender ears and nose aflame with the scorching brush of lingering frigid dampness, Jaystar's sharp features creased softly as he peered down from his newly-raised seat atop the ceremonial willow tree, heralded only by generations of kin and forbearers. It was strange how this seat was as though a conduit to the past, the connection to long gone ghosts more profound than the connection to his singular living kit- Flypaw, identity shared only in blood and resemblance. What would Kitefire say? Likely nothing helpful, knowing her proclivity with words.

"All cats old enough to catch their own fish, gather beneath the Willow Branch for a Clan meeting!"

Flypaw, like any respectable apprentice, did not leave camp by themself. Technically speaking, they were still following that rule now—at least, the tip of their tail was. The rest of them lay disguised by the wall of reeds, crouched and scanning the half-frozen river before them for any trace of scales. They had already spent the morning fishing alongside a pawful of warriors, with limited success; after sunhigh, they’d tried again with a different group and come back completely empty-pawed. Attempt number three was shaping up to be more of the same. They squinted at the water until their eyes stung. Nothing. Not even the scuffling of land prey on the shore.

A resounding call made their ears twitch once, then again as they brushed the reeds. Flypaw heaved themself to their feet with a dull sense of annoyance, shaking water off their paws before it could freeze, and turned to sit beneath the Willow Branch with their Clanmates. No announcement could be more important than filling the fresh-kill pile, but…tradition was tradition. Besides, they could go back to hunting later. Their stomach gnawed on itself, and they drew their forelegs closer.

Dusted with the faintest wreathing of snow and ice, enshrined within the frigid breath of the crushing jaws of a remorseless season, Jaystar's slow movements atop the weighted perch of the forked tree-limb were liquid and silky, fluent with the hot brush of discomfort and dissatisfaction that so beloved to his own state of being. It seemed as though Flypaw was unaware of what would transpire in the following heartbeats, which was apt considering all the markings of their extremely limited relationship; their mentor the only herald to his kit's name, estranged father and dead mother the secondary composition to their state of being. Pointed chin lifting in a casual, well-rehearsed invitation for all those gradually filing in with compliance to remain focused upon the current happenings, the young cat standing before hi had an expression of unknowing disinterest, their focus clearly belayed on a event of lesser importance. Grant me strength, Jaystar couldn't help but allow his claws to sink into the ancestral markings in the worn-wood he settled atop, seeking the presence of his mother and her father alike, I never know what I am meant to do for them. This will not be enough.

"Today, we have gathered here to witness the naming of yet another Warrior. Turtlefur has spoken nothing but highly of his apprentice Flypaw, and has assured me that they are ready for such a transition. Flypaw, if you believe this to be true, step forward now and your ceremony will commence."

Another warrior ceremony. Some of the light left Flypaw’s eyes. The other apprentices were strangers to them beyond the bond they shared as Clanmates—which, despite being sacred and unbreakable and the biggest thing that set warriors apart from common rogues, didn’t really figure into everyday life. At least not in any way Flypaw could feel. However much that fact stung, they couldn’t blame anyone for it. Between the war and the family they’d buried, they…hadn’t exactly made themself approachable. What it meant now was that they had no idea who Jaystar would call forward. Probably not Turtlefur’s kits, but…

Wait. Flypaw’s ears twitched upright, and they peered at the Willow Branch. They could have sworn just they’d heard their mentor’s name. Not only in their head, but in their ears. Then came their own name, and their dark eyes went wide. Slowly, the light crept back.

Though they’d imagined their ceremony countless times since kithood, it had never looked like this. They were still small and long-limbed and unscarred; the cat on the Willow Branch wasn’t Ivystar and never would be. Fortunately, a warrior’s name carried the same weight no matter the character of the one giving it. Flypaw was ready. Something stirred in their gut beside the hunger, brighter, louder than it. Maybe they were more than ready. Discarding the last of their irritation, the dark-furred apprentice stepped forward with their head held high, gaze locked onto the woven bark.

Steadily dissipating remnants of translucent white breath was quickly bleeding from liminal view, an ever-billowing current of mechanical movement streaking forward from the statue-still shape of Jaystar atop the ceremonial seat, willful dark gaze fixed upon the slight shape of his kit. It was almost too easy to find himself strung along by the clashing currents of his roaring subconscious, a vicious lashing of cross-tides that would easily drown the strongest of those who braved such treacherous rapids- to brave forward in a cataclysmic copy of his mother and never grace a glance backwards, to turn and force a rectification for wounds that existed before Flypaw's birth. Idly shifting atop the worn, smooth wood below his precariously balanced weight, Jaystar's next words were as measured and devoid of passion as one would traditionally assume with his character.

"I call to our ancestors to look down upon this Apprentice. They have trained hard to understand the ways of your code, and I commend them to you as a Warrior in return. Flypaw, do you promise to protect and defend your Clan, even at the cost of your life?"

Flypaw straightened further, holding themself so still a brush of a tail might have shattered them. Now that they knew this was their ceremony, they drank in every word. Never mind that they’d heard this what felt like a hundred times before, never mind that they’d rehearsed it once out on the territory with a warrior whose face they barely remembered; it was real this time, and it was theirs.

As he delivered the words leading into the oath, Jaystar’s voice was as level and calm as the long-frozen pools beyond camp. It made things easier, in a way. They stood not as father and kit, but as leader and warrior-to-be. And though Flypaw could promise neither love nor loyalty to the cat perched above them, they would give anything—everything—for the Clan he was meant to carry. When they died, they would die for RiverClan. Prove once and for all that they'd stamped the cowardice out of their blood. They had only needed to run once to know how awful it felt.

Their gaze flicked upward to meet Jaystar’s, just long enough to see him. For him to see them. “I do.”

Silky dark edges of wispy fur catching sharply against the wan light of the terse evening, gentle ripples of pale light heavily framed the occasional movements of Jaystar; a familiar mimicry to the dark riverwater flashing under the bright illumination of the pallid moonlight. Hard cut lines of the cheekbone ridging sharply against the delicate curve of his face, the gaunt tom continuously fronted a calloused expression, unwilling to divulge a fractional emotion while in the presence of the young cat before him- twin mirrors alike in all but vastly dissimilar experiences. Navigating the treacherously thin ices of selecting an apt new name was certainly difficult enough without the remembrance of all the strange events that had proceeded these backwards happenings; how things had changed just as much as they had remained the same.

"In that case, I shall grant you your new name. From this day forth, you will be known as Flywhisker. RiverClan honors your honesty and devotion. Tonight, you will hold a silent vigil while the rest of the Clan sleeps. Until then, we celebrate the naming of a new RiverClan Warrior." Sending forth a chilly flurry of crystalline ice and downy snows, Jaystar was quick and fluid in his movements to abandon his high-above perch and instead join the blossoming congregation thronging about the newly-named young Warrior; movements mechanical and practiced, normalcy shrouding the glaring oddities forever leaching through his family.