Time To Say Goodbye. [OPEN for all RiverClan cats]

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For while life was painful, life was also sweet.

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I know that it’s not the end, but...

Earlier in the day, the storm clouds on the horizon had appeared benign, fluffy harmless wisps of white scattered across the azure. Unthreatening enough for the day to proceed as normal. Patrols sent out and patrols returned. Among those patrols, the leader of RiverClan went out on her customary solitary walk. A brief break from the hustle and bustle of camp. A time to be alone, to reflect with the silence of the forest. Nature had always been her retreat; it was a habit she’d built up over her long years of living. If she had known how it would end up, though, perhaps she never would have started that habit to begin with. She certainly never would have left camp that day... but maybe it was all for the best.

All appeared peaceful. Graceful breezes swirled through the thin branches of willow trees. The sun rose gradually, and with it came a gradual warmth that surrounded the forest like an embrace. Lulling it into a false sense of security. Under those conditions, Perchstar lingered on her sojourn, going further into the territory than she normally would. It was best in times like this to let her mind wander entirely. Soon enough she would have to return and think about necessary things, like her duties, or confront her lingering guilt over the consequences of the war. But not now. For now, she could spend her time in the sun.

However... it would not last. The clouds appeared from nowhere, darkening to a near-black shade of gray, coating the sky and blocking out the sun in what felt like mere moments. Then with the sudden speed of a lightning flash, a storm broke free. It crashed with the force of a tidal wave, as if it had been contained, pent-up, waiting for this very moment.

The sky wept torrents. Huge droplets fell fast and hammered the earth beneath, turning dry soil to mud and shaking small twigs and new-grown leaves from unsuspecting trees. Perchstar generally welcomed the rain, but a storm like this was another thing entirely. The howling winds swept across the territory and buffeted her frame, hurling sheets of water into her with a physical force. It was all that she could do to run and find shelter by the trunk of the largest tree she could. She pressed her frame up against its bark, huddling close so that the thick branches would take the brunt of the storm. Storms like this never lasted for very long; all she had to do was wait it out. It would pass, like everything else did. Everything passed eventually.

But by the time this storm passed, it would be too late.

The large oak tree under which she had taken shelter was the largest tree in the area, true. It offered her better shelter than one of the willows or beeches would have. However... unfortunately, the strength of the tree made it rigid. Its branches would not bend, but were instead liable to snap and break off when confronted with excessive force... force like the storm that now beat against it. One of the thicker branches, high up in the tree, had grown out at a strange angle to reach the sun better. However, that angle happened to be exactly counter to the direction from which the strong winds were blowing. It didn’t take long.

Snap.

Perchstar did not even have time to comprehend what had happened before the branch plummeted, pushed downward by the powerful storm, and landed on top of her. With a sickening crack it crushed her spine, and not even a moment later, her vision went black.

Darkness... and nothing more.

...

The storm subsided. As quickly as it had come, it departed, leaving the wreckage of tree limbs and uprooted cattails strewn in its wake. The last vestiges of rain trickled down, now a gentle shower, as if the tempest had never come. And below the sky, several minutes later, Perchstar opened her eyes. From the fuzziness in her head and the distance that she felt from her mortal frame, it was easy enough to assume that she had died. After all, she had already lost seven lives, so she found herself well acquainted with the sensation of awakening from death. But... that was where her knowledge began and ended. What had killed her? Why? And why was her mind so silent?

How odd, how strange... a dreamless sleep. Normally when she lost a life, whoever had granted it to her came to speak with her while her body recovered. But instead, Perchstar found herself slowly awakening without any recollection of hearing from the stars. If Beetlepaw had come to her, the memory had faded as quickly as it arrived. That did not bode well. Perhaps the stars had finally given up on her. If her former apprentice had any advice, she could only hope that it would come to her later--perhaps while she rested at home.

One life left... only one. Only one more. She should use it wisely.

As if her spirit were still getting used to being on this last life, it took longer to settle into her body. That had to be the explanation for why her nerves had not yet quite awoken, why everything seemed entirely numb. Perchstar indulged her frame, waiting out the last few minutes of the stormy weather. The harsh rains had already pattered to a gentle stop. Her ears felt slick with water against her head, and her front paws tingled with cold, but aside from that... she did not feel pain. She did not feel the aching of her exhausted frame. She did not feel in her back legs.

Suspicion narrowed her eyes, along with a prickling sensation of foreboding. She cast her mind back to when she had died. Belatedly a few memories returned. The loud sound of a crack from above, followed by a thud, a snap... then darkness. And she had woken up lying here. She could not quite turn her head back far enough to see anything behind her. But when she attempted to stand up, she could not. Her front paws would obey her, but for some reason her hindquarters remained still. Too heavy, as if weighed down by something--but if she were pinned down then why could she not feel it? What had happened?

Perchstar tried again to stand up, but to no avail. Her body would not listen. What was wrong?

She was no stranger to fear. However, the terror that gripped her now felt different from anything she had previously experienced. Alone in the forest, unable to move, unable to tell how injured she was and how much the stars had healed--if they even had healed her. What was she supposed to do?

Almost as a breath, an exhale, an afterthought, one word whispered itself from her mouth. “Help.”

Who was she calling for? The stars? Her Clanmates? Poppyshine? She did not know, but in the momentary grip of dread, heart pounding so fast she could barely breathe, no logic brought the cry from her chest. She screamed out the word uncaring of neutrality or poise.

“Help!”

Nothing. The crackle of leaves, the fluttering of a faraway bird... but no response.

Of course not. No one else would be foolish enough to have gone out in that storm. She was far from the borders of camp... too far. She often went out on her own. No one would think anything of it. It would be a long time until someone thought to go looking for her. By then, she might...

She did not know. She could not feel the entire back half of her body. For all she knew, she could be bleeding out right now. With her legs crushed, with her back broken, she could be dying. She could have minutes, even mere seconds to live, and she would not know. Should she wait here, trapped, in the hopes that someone else would come before she died? Or should she try and escape her current situation at the risk of hurting herself further?

A dilemma, where either answer could easily be the wrong choice. She felt her heart pounding faster as she thought about it, conscious of every beat and how much longer the blood in her veins could keep pumping. The real question was this. Which was worse: to die when she could have lived but die with those she loved, at home... or to die out here, alone, screaming uselessly for help that would not reach her in time?

She would not be a corpse found alone on the territory. She would not be Cloverheart.

Perchstar grit her teeth. She reached out as far as she could with her forepaws, claws unsheathed, allowing them to sink as far into the muddy earth as they could, praying that their grip would hold strong. Then, with all her might, she leaned forward.

Pulling herself out of whatever had trapped her took longer than she cared to calculate. Even when she finally wrenched her back half free, the feeling did not return. It appeared that her hind legs were completely unusable. Completely numb. Panting from effort, she looked behind her to see a massive tree branch, about half as wide as her and three times as long. The tree to which she had taken for shelter had betrayed her. Fitting. There was no time to ruminate on that now, though; she had to go.

Walking had once been the easiest thing in the world. Now, even raising one paw exhausted her. But she had to keep moving. One paw after another, she pressed down on the earth and inched forward, lifting her own unresponsive body. How far was she? How long would it take to get there? She did not know. But she would just have to go.

Her last life... and she could lose it at any moment. No warning. No bargaining with her mortality.

Here it was. She’d prayed for it--begged for it, even--and her final death had arrived. No more light waited for her. Once she closed her eyes, they would remain so. Even if the stars took her, forced more burdens upon her, she would no longer be shackled to the responsibility that had sucked her lifeblood away. She would no longer have to feel the frame-wracking agony of pressing herself against the wall of her den and writhing in her own sin and guilt. All she had to do was succumb to it. But for some reason, she fought back the darkness encroaching on her vision. She gritted her teeth through the pain, and--paw by trembling paw--crawled forward. Unsheathed claws dug deep into the earth, pulling her useless back weight along behind her. She could not fall like this, not here, not alone. Not for her last life. Not when she had been unable to make peace with leaving her kits. Not when she had been unable to say goodbye to Poppyshine.

It was monotonous work, with her hindquarters trailing behind her. Slow going. There was little to focus on; all of her physical effort was consumed by simply moving forward. With nothing else occupying the majority of her brain but the understanding of her own mortality, the acceptance of her impending death, her mind turned to existential thoughts. Her life flashing before her eyes... but slowly, painfully, not as brief as she’d once believed it would be. She had plenty of time to wallow in her past, after all.

There was little of her early life to contemplate. Her mythical, barely-existent kithood. Her miserable apprenticeship. It seemed sometimes that her every movement had been meant for another. Unwanted by her parents, her mentor, her peers. Neither appreciated nor understood. A young warrior who went through the motions and silently yearned for the bonds she had been unable to form. Living ghostlike, a shadow in her own home, unseen... and she had accepted the lack of perception as a blessing, to hide her deformed soul from the agonizing scrutiny of vulnerability. The position of deputy had been as faraway as the clouds. Without it she would have continued her half-life, probably worked herself to death just as she had previously, only with no extra lives to save her. Unnoticed and uncaring. But the rude awakening in the form of a murder of crows had lifted her forcibly, even violently, from her stagnation. For better or for worse. She’d never quite been sure.

How would her life have turned out, she wondered, if Jaystar had chosen another? Would she have continued to languish silently in the background, content to be a stone beneath the river? Would she ever have felt the strong emotions that threatened to break her every bone and drown her in their intensity? She may never have experienced the depths of true agony and despair and rage that caused sleepless nights with claws digging into the dirt. She might have been spared the torturous pain of loss that came with the unceasing deaths and disappearances of those she cared for. And yet... without knowing how it felt to be truly broken, truly beaten down so that she no longer believed she could even move, she might not have known the other end of those feelings. She would never have known the warm comfort that came with trust, with true friendship. The confidence inspired by loyalty, as undeserving as she still was. Every moment her heart felt that strange stutter that so many cats took for granted. Though she had rarely ever smiled, and certainly never purred, she’d felt it all the same. And that softest of sensations, the most fleeting and unreliable and yet solid as a rock upon which she had to build her entire sense of self, the singular beam of light peering down as a ray of hope to one lost in the darkest cave... She’d felt it, too, once. Love.

Had it been worth it? Sometimes... she wasn’t sure. If she hadn’t loved so dearly, then this sudden depth of loss would not torment her so.

If she hadn’t loved so dearly, she would be content to die now. But contentment was something she’d hardly ever known--something she now might never know. She couldn’t die, not now, not yet. Not without saying goodbye. Much as it pained her that she would be causing agony even as she departed from her position of leadership, she knew that the pain left in her wake would be far worse without that closure. And selfishly... she wished for that closure, too. To see the faces of those she loved one last time before the weak fluttering of her heart ceased its outpouring of affection far too great for its bearer.

If she’d remained unchosen, her mistakes would never have caused death or pain. But all the hard work she put in, all the bonds she forged, would never have existed either. She wished to know whether a world in which she did not exist would be the same--or even happier--than one in which she did. Surely the sun would have continued to rise. Perhaps those she loved would have experienced less pain without her presence. But there was little point. Little point to any of this, assuredly. Why was it now, when death faced her with such certainty, that her mind roamed in such strange paths?

At least some would rejoice in her death. Wolfstar would spit on her grave if she could. That fact, if nothing else, almost broke through her apathy and gave her some fight to desire living, but... she was tired. Tired of the weight of her Clanmates’ lives resting on her shoulders, threatening to force her into collapse at any moment. Tired of being hated or feared or even despised no matter what she did. Tired of the constant threats, from other cats or from predators or even from nature itself. Tired of the scars of her own mistakes. Tired of living with herself. Tired... of living. Not tired enough to lay down and take it, apparently, but... tired enough that the prospect of resting upon familiar ground when she finally arrived at camp sounded more welcoming than almost anything ever had.

Camp was far away, though. She could not see it from here. She could not see any discernible landmarks; only her knowledge from years of walking this territory kept her going forward in the direction she knew held all the cats she loved. But she did not know how long it would take her to get there, especially when she could die at any second. Wouldn’t that be bitter? Doing all of this, pushing herself to her limit, just to expire right before she arrived?

She couldn’t allow herself to think that would happen. Perchstar shook her head to clear out the steady burn of pain beginning to build up in her muscles and continued onward.

All those lives she had lost... Why could she not have had one more? Why could one of them not have been her final life? This seemed like the worst possible end. She had to remain lucid and be aware of what was going to happen. It would have been more merciful to end her life before she’d noticed. Where were the gifts of the stars now? None of them helped her push her useless weight through the mud. With each trembling movement of her now-exhausted paws, the lives she’d once borne appeared at the forefront of her mind.

The life of hope, from Hollyleaf. The first life received and the first life lost. The first of many lives that would be used to protect those that she loved--this time saving Poppyshine, and therefore all of her unborn kits, from a rampaging fox. And how awful that this life had been the first to abandon her. Poetic, nearly, that it came at such a prescient time; that soon after hope left her, so did her idyllic early leadership. Ashflight’s disappearance. Cloverheart’s murder. A cloud passing over the sun, never again to dissipate. If she’d had hope, would she have been able to keep more of her Clanmates alive on their trek from the poisoned forest? If she’d had hope, would she have been able to accept Beechfang’s repentance and pardon the betrayal?

Not that it mattered to think these thoughts now, when hope seemed so far away that it may as well have never existed. No light waited for her at the end of this tunnel. Only darkness. Only the black fog in the corner of her eyes that crept in when she stopped for too long, when she tried to catch her breath. There was no time. She had to keep going. If she ever stopped at all, then she would never move again. She could not expire here.

Her mind continued its relentless march through her long-distant ceremony, just as her body continued its hopeless trek through the territory.

The life of courage, from Bearspirit, lost doing perhaps the least courageous thing Perchstar had ever done: overworking herself so hard that her limbs collapsed beneath her and her heart gave out. Her wake-up call, perhaps, to the necessity of keeping balance between the responsibilities of a leader: to work, to die, and to live. To live... the most difficult responsibility. Working came naturally to her, and dying had become easier and easier the more frequently the lives stripped themselves from her trembling form, but living? Living wasn’t something she’d ever had a handle on, and it had slipped further and further away the longer she chased its distant sunrise... until all too soon, her sunset arrived. This was it. This was her last life, now, and where was the courage he’d left her with? Used up in combat against the shadows of the Dark Forest. Consumed in an awful war against a former friend. Siphoned away, day by day, with the effort it took to simply stand and speak as if she were not cracking under the pressure. Until now it was gone completely, leaving her consumed almost entirely by her fear as she hauled herself painfully back to camp.

The life of perseverance, from Stormbringer. That life taken by a monster from nowhere, and then steadily used up with her long and terrible stay in Twolegplace. Well... all things considered, not entirely terrible. Because it had given her the wonderful kits who would be the best impact she left behind her in this world. Yet that trip had taken all the perseverance she had left in her--the effort to survive in a hostile place, to walk further than she ever had before while hungry and thirsty and lonely and bearing four tiny lives inside of her. It had taken all. So that when she finally arrived back home and resumed her life, she found herself so much less able to bear the agonies that came so easily with her position. They piled up on her so much faster, now, and finally left her where she’d been the past two moons. Secluding herself inside her den, whimpering for the pain to stop. Struggling, collapsing under the weight, unable to take even another step forward. Dragging her limp frame claw-by-claw towards a home that could no longer save her. Towards those that she loved.

Love... The life of love, from Finchstream. Lost, ironically, while leading her Clan and family away from their home... Sheltered from the storm and its ravages, poetically, by Mottlestar. A name she could not quite bear to think of anymore because of its inseparable ties to the word “love.” “Beloved.” How she often wished that this life had not been given, not been received--not even found its way to her. Something she’d lived so long without, she thought, or at least so long without understanding. She may have been more effective without it. If Ashflight had chosen another. If her relationship with Poppyshine had stayed professional, stayed that of a mentor and an apprentice. If she’d rebuffed Felix’s advances and never borne any kin. But she’d welcomed it like a fool. Embraced it with open arms. It had seemed so wonderful at first... but with it had come the emptiness that haunted her every pawstep.

The first sunlit moons of her leadership seemed like a strange, half-forgotten dream. Becoming mates with Ashflight. Feeling the blessings of the stars light each pawstep. Resting in the irrepressible greenleaf, basking in warmth such as she had never known before or since, and allowing the weight on her shoulders to be truly shared. If Cloverheart had not died... if Ashflight had not disappeared... would those moons have continued? Enough disasters and catastrophes had struck RiverClan that a life of true peace seemed unobtainable, even in this mythical dream-world she constructed on her loneliest nights. But no cat would ever know true peace, not in this forest. It would have been more bearable if the sun had not set. If leaf-fall had not set in, if the colors had not turned golden before crumbling away permanently. It would have been more bearable if she had not experienced those bright days of love before they were ripped away forever.

Was there a world in which it could have lasted? Was there a world in which her love was not ripped forcibly from her and abused, time after time, until its very presence caused her grief? Was there a world in which she could have been... happy?

She did not know. She would never know. There were many things that she would never know, now.

The life of curiosity, from Mallowmist. A life she’d been confused upon the reception of, and even more confused when it abandoned her completely. A life lost to the awful illness that had incapacitated her for so long, turning her frame into a barely-breathing corpse, keeping her from acting on the consequences of that life. Had curiosity ever helped her? Was it curiosity, however stifled, however moderate, that had led her to find out about Birdstar’s treachery? If she’d dismissed Mistwalker’s concerns, or even if she had not cared enough to track down the traitor and demand answers, perhaps the past few moons of her life would not have been laced with such torment. Then again, perhaps the death of her curiosity had served her well. Better to seek out the enemies and find them before they find you. Somehow, in the cynical back of her mind--when she could hear herself over her own labored breathing--she was sure this was not what Mallowmist had meant. It had been a well-meaning life, the attempt to grant her socially stilted self a semblance of the wide-eyed wonder that so many else had experienced... but, too little, too late. None could go back and give Perchstar the gift of kithood, least of all a cat who had died while still in her youth. None could go back and force her to experience the innocence that had never been hers. Instead, she stumbled forward through her life without having ever truly lost the last vestiges of that stunted naivete, and as such, the betrayal swept her feet out from under her. Curiosity killed the cat. She would have died with or without it, but it played its part all the same. Even now, its wonderings tugged at her, causing all sorts of what-if scenarios to spring into her mind. Even now, while she lay dying, struggling to move even one pace forward at a time, she found herself consumed with irrelevant thoughts. But that was not curiosity’s flaw... simply her own.

She had plenty of flaws without being given more by the stars. She could not blame them for everything, but... there was one flaw she’d had that had been deeply worsened by one of StarClan’s “gifts.”

The life of justice, from Shellwater. Even thinking about it made her let out a tired scoff--though it turned almost into a coughing fit, one that shook her frame and frayed the already-raw nerves in her back. Perchstar gritted her teeth and continued her unbearably slow pace forward. Justice... what was justice, anyway? Justice for Cloverheart’s death. Beechfang and Birdstar dead at her feet. Mottlestar’s corpse bleeding red. Scarlet-stained paws. Yet this life had been lost before the war... the talk from Shellwater that had solidified the bloody path she’d already chosen to walk. She’d lost it before the battle. She’d lost it to the wolves, springing on her Clanmates; lost it for Cindersky, who’d nearly died for Littlesplash, and he had simply abandoned them a few moons later anyway. Pointless, all of it. She’d lost the sense of necessity long ago. And while she would make all the same decisions she’d made again, if given the same options she had been... she hated that about herself. She hated that the correct decision had caused such anguish, and that she’d been unable to shy away from making it simply out of care for those she affected. She hated the smug tom who’d killed her, who now sat safe in his position as deputy--the tom who’d paced around spouting off some self-important words about righteousness while two leaders lay tangled in the embrace of death, while a murderer’s corpse sat surrounded by the pain its very presence had caused. She hated the warrior who’d tried to kill Poppyshine, who’d snarled about Beechfang’s death even though it had been inevitable... and she hated that it had been inevitable. Hated Beechfang for coming back. Hated Briarstar for disappearing and reappearing. Hated Birdchaser for betraying her trust. Hated Mottlestar for taking the blow. Hated herself, most of all, for being unable to swallow her pride and certainty, for being incapable of humility because any emotion would be a sign of weakness.

Which led to the next life she’d lost so soon afterwards. Given by Gingerstripe... Forgiveness and mercy. Two things that had escaped her entirely, even when given directly by the stars, and that had slipped from between her paws right when she needed them the most. Right when the battle had stopped in a lull from Poppyshine’s desperation, Perchstar had listened. She’d been ready to end it. Ready for mercy. But... too late, as always. Birdchaser, her sanity far gone, her hatred overwhelming, leapt in with the chance to end it... and Mottlestar, gone forever as a result. Mercy refused. Forgiveness impossible. Useless, all of it. What had been the point? Should she have forgiven Beechfang the murder? But... that had not been the issue. She had forgiven, had forgotten, when the exile had been performed. It was not even the murder that the war was about, was it? It was the betrayal. The trust that had been extended, that had been spat upon and denied. The knowledge that if such a thing had been done surreptitiously, that it would not have been the first nor the last. The need for assurance, for safety.

To live in blissful ignorance had been denied her, and so the only reasonable path seemed to be its opposite. Had there been some kind of middle ground? To forgive... Birdchaser? Birdstar? To forgive, to understand the breach of trust? To have mercy upon the family split not by her own actions, but by someone else’s? The thought conjured a ginger tabby face before her, green eyes piercing into her own. The resignation with which Gingerstripe had regarded her while her fatal wounds healed. Yes... after it all, her weakness had been her own undoing. Not the fact that she had been weak, but that she had tried so desperately to cover it up. The fact that she had always resisted the love she felt for others after having it scorned so deeply, after the fires of warmth extended had turned back upon her with such force as to burn her alive. Her response to that aching becoming ingrained, lashing out in response after hating how she’d curled in on herself for so long.

Once again... it all came back to her early life. To her awful youth. To Ashflight’s disappearance and Cloverheart’s death, to the two things that ensured her affection would always be stunted, always warily given, always so deep that the infection spread all the way to her heart’s roots. Incapable of forgiveness, because it meant to extend trust a second time instead of writhing in the pain of its retraction. Incapable of mercy, because it meant accepting the loss. If only she’d died to the wolves. Poppyshine would’ve done better. Poppyshine was able to love fully, to love honestly, and would have done so. Even if RiverClan had been burned to the ground because of it. Even if the bloodthirsty murderers of SkyClan had razed the forest to the earth. Poppyshine would’ve loved anyway, because she knew how. Something Perchstar had never learned. Something that now, she never would. All too late to find the cause for her own actions deep within herself, after all this time. Now that death encroached upon her for the final act.

To lose two lives in such a short span of time... why had the stars inflicted this upon her? She had known her death would be soon, but... she had hoped foolishly for even a little more time to prepare. But her second-to-last life had vanished like dandelion fluff on the wind. The storm had torn it from her and left her like this, crawling desperately towards home for some last goodbye.

Vanished, gone. The life of passion, from Beetlepaw. Lost mere hours ago from the tree branch’s initial impact. Yet, it was something she’d always chased and never truly possessed. No--that was untrue. In fact, it had possessed her. The passion that screamed itself hoarse in wake of Mottlestar’s death. The passion that sent low and angry words towards a former ally. The passion that ached when she lost, that reawoke her when she received, but always took more than it gave. It had never truly been hers. A curse, not a blessing. An affliction. A malediction that possessed her stonelike self and puppetted her to spiraling acts of grief and vengeance. Gifted by the most innocent of those losses, by an apprentice who she’d never truly gotten to know. Her first apprentice. Had Beetlepaw known what this would do to her? Or had the wisdom of the stars deserted the youngest of its ranks? But, it did not matter anymore. Not when she now stared her final death in the face.

Passion would not help her return to RiverClan camp. Even if she’d had it, it would only have served to boil her blood at the injustice of it all... and so instead, she found herself numbly glad of its absence. It was better like this. Better that the single flame led her forward, without its eight brethren that had caused so much misery.

Hope. Courage. Perseverance. Love. Curiosity. Justice. Forgiveness, Mercy. Passion. Strength.

All these gifts from StarClan... had she ever really borne them? Had they ever been hers? Had they been given and then retracted, one by one, as she became unworthy? Or... had they never truly been given in the first place? Falsehoods, placebos, meant to trick her into developing those qualities for herself? But unfortunately... she had not been capable of doing so. Her hope always gave way to despair. Anxiety triumphed over courage. Exhaustion always crept into her perseverance. Her love always tainted by fear, always blackened by her self-loathing, always corrupted by even the slightest withdrawal or pushback. Sympathy slayed her justice with one hand, while stubbornness swallowed her capabilities for mercy or forgiveness with the other. The ever-present chill of ice, the impassable mask, covering up any passion she would have allowed herself to feel.

Finally, that left her with only strength. Strength, of which she had none. Strength, which had never been able to break past the firm grip of depression on her heart. Strength, which had only ever surfaced when she forced it to and always retreated in wake of the pain that came with remembrance, with sleep, with solitude. Strength.... The only strength left was that which possessed her now, one aching movement at a time, to claw through the mud in pursuit of a home that would be better off without her. Yet perhaps, it was the only thing she’d ever had. More stubbornness than anything else, but... some semblance of strength nonetheless.

Whether it was stubbornness or strength that led her on the journey back home instead of waiting to be found, she did not know. But either way... the journey was not in vain. StarClan in their infinite mockery of her did not see fit to withdraw her life before she could lay eyes on it once more... on RiverClan camp. On her home. Her home that she had protected with every ounce of her being for her entire life. Of which she had been the sole guardian for two years. Two years... so interminably long. So unbearably short.

There. Perchstar’s eyes seized hold of camp as if it were a drink of water on a parched throat, a poultice of herbs on a stinging open wound. Her fear, her terror soothed in a moment. She’d made it. When she died, she would die at home. Die here on the sandy banks of the river. Here with the gentle sound of running currents in the background, with the distant clamor of Clanmates safe at her behest. Safe... they were safe. She was safe.

Exhausted, she collapsed, unable to move even a step further. She could not quite drag herself past the shallow waters into camp proper, but... being this close was good enough. Somehow she did not have the voice to call out any longer. Her lungs were entirely occupied heaving for breath, seeking oxygen to rejuvenate her trembling muscles. But that was all right. If she could just set eyes on Poppyshine, just look at her kits one more time... that would be enough.

The journey had taken her the better part of the day. In the distance, the sun began to set below the treetops, the sky gradually turning a quiet shade of yellow.

It was in the sunset of her life that Perchstar returned home. Half-paralyzed, bleeding heavily, unable to feel the pain that would cut her breathing short at any moment... but home.

...When you go, it leaves a hole.

RiverClan • T5 Deputy • She/Her • #669966

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RiverClan • T5 Warrior • She/Her • #6abcde

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RiverClan • T5 Elder • he/him • #68228B

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RiverClan • T4 Warrior • they/he • #6082B6

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The day was well, bar the storm. It was one of her better days. Littlesplashes absence seemed further away, she was laughing. The patrol she was meant to go on was halted by the storm, and she took that moment with Larkspring, as she always had. More talkative, perhaps. The world felt bright despite the darkened clouds, gales of wind and lash of rain. She was foolish to consider it, maybe, that things would perk up again. That she would see everything through the brightened lens, and maybe, just maybe, things would be like before. That was a foolish thought. So stupid.

Kitesprings shout cracked through her like a bolt of lightning. Her body froze, and she could feel the need to turn gnawing at her. The shelter of the den felt like a prison. She could see Larksprings face, not the expression, fading into some kind of black and the thud of frenzied paws echo in her skull. Her mouth was dry. Foolish, that this was not something she could ever think of. Foolish, that she had perhaps thought that everything would be okay again.

When her head turned, she felt her own heart stop. The blood in her veins ran cold and she could hear her breathing stutter, stop, start quickly again. Her paws, neck, shoulders, ears. So cold. She did not see much of her, bar a tail that was too still. Poppyshine, she had just gotten even remotely close to the deputy, but she had not heard that kind of sadness from her... Ever. The speech, so broken and feeble met her ears, warbled by her own shock and the thud of her heartbeat reigniting. It was only when Rookflight, so gentle and stoic in their own right, scrambled. That was when she realised.

A strangled cry left her throat like she had been dealt a blow, and she was on her feet in seconds. Stumbling like a kit on unsteady legs, she scrambled to a halt just behind Poppyshine and Willowwisp, bumbling until her feet found Rookflight. Her breathing came in quick gasps, broken by sniffles and wet chokes as the dam of tears threatened to stop her. She nudged Rookflight with her head until she could get in, paws searching for the damp fur of Perchstar and once they found her, leaned into her with desparation.

"Perchstar," Her voice was like a plea, shaking and uncertain and muffled by her rubbing her cheek into the side of the great leader. Great mentor. Great mother. "Perchstar," She repeated, running her tongue along the fur that would not move. Her breath caught and she sniffled, turning into the breathless gasps as she fought back a sob. "Perchstar," Again, her shaky paws failing beneath her and she hid her face against the cooling form that seemed to struggle with each breath.

"Don't go," Quieter than Rookflight, easier to miss. She could not manage much more. She did not have the energy to. "I can't lose you too," Not another. Too much had been taken from her and she could not handle loosing the only cat she had ever faithfully dubbed a mother. "I love you," She whimpered. Never a lie, no matter what thought may go through either head. "Please don't. Please stay. I want you to see me get better," That felt selfish. But she did. "I need you-- Please, please... Perchstar. I can't lose you too."

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RiverClan • T5 Warrior • He/Him • #787878

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RiverClan • T5 Warrior • He/Him • #9999cc

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Riverclan • T2 Warrior • He/Him • #de0404

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Riverclan • T1 Warrior • She/Her • #1f6e55

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