Post by Phoenix on Sept 12, 2021 18:46:31 GMT -5
make me a channel of your peace
where there's despair in life
let me bring hope
where there's despair in life
let me bring hope
where there is darkness, only light
For the first time in days, there is time to breathe.
Just as the sun had begun to climb over the mountain peaks that morning, TreeClan and StoneClan finally arrived at their refuge, as windswept and exhausted as vagabonds stumbling into a desert oasis, but there was very little rest for the weary. For most of that first day, the attempts to triage the wounded and find enough shelter and coordinate the distribution of the food and medical supplies of a single Tribe across five massive clans were, at best, a semi-organized chaos. However, as the prospect of daylight turned into a promise, so too did something of a makeshift system of messengers that ran between the various authorities, and by the time the sunlight began to fade, Gorsetail found himself trusting that tomorrow will be a little easier.
Such relief is tempered by the knowledge that now that the sun has dipped below the horizon and the pandemonium has settled to a relatively quiet level for the night, he no longer has anything to distract him from his thoughts. They invite him to rest, because he is old and because his body no longer works the way it's supposed to, but every time he closes his eyes, the sheer terror of having the valley crash down around him and everyone he loves chases away any hope of sleep. Though his aching muscles and weary bones want nothing more than to spend the night curled up with his family, pretending he's in his warm, moss-laden nest that is now likely buried under trees and stone, the TreeClan elder instead finds himself sitting alone outside, a short distance away from the crowd.
Nighttime in the mountains is far different than nighttime in the forests. The night is cooler and the mountain air sharper. No trees cast long shadows across the forest floor, and there is no symphony of chirping crickets or croaking frogs or fluttering bats. Here, his view of the sky in all its magnificence is unhindered. He is far closer to the mosaic of stars stretching from horizon to horizon than he ever was in the valley below.
Yet StarClan feels further away than ever.
In the immediate aftermath of their panicked flight from the trees to the safety of barren mountain slopes, he is unsure that any of them have entirely understood exactly what they have lost - but then, medics scrambling to staunch blood flow from a gaping wound hardly stop to consider the resulting scar. Up until now, they have all been simply trying to survive, but now that they are safe, they will have to prepare to face the lurking storm clouds, dark with the harsh realities of their future, that they have thus far ignored. They have all watched the valley collapse in on itself; home, as they know it, no longer exists.
They are refugees stranded in a foreign land, and no matter how gracious their hosts are, it is painfully obvious that they do not belong. The cave that has turned into a shelter for the aged and injured is meant to house a single Tribe, but with the arrival of all the Clans, the number of those seeking sanctuary in its depths has grown six-fold. Five Clans combined into a sea of cats, the crowd spills out into the surrounding area, and they can only pray to silent ancestors that the weather stays tolerable. Those uninjured from the earthquake accompany Tribe cats on hunting patrols (for unfamiliar prey) and search parties (across unfamiliar lands), but still food is scarce and the hope for more survivors grows scarcer still. Those who stay behind gather in groups, some with their loved ones and others with strangers, and they sit in stunned silence or pace helplessly along the perimeter or talk in low-but-slowly-rising voices that follow the same conversational circles as ever: why has this happened, are you ok, what do we do, have you seen this cat.
In the daylight hours, he has watched as the sound of approaching paw steps sends a ripple through the crowd as everyone turns, ever hopeful, only for most of them to look away when their missing loved ones are not among the new arrivals. Newcomers are greeted by a sea of wide eyes, hunched shoulders, and lost expressions. And then come the pleas for information. Where were they? Who were they with? Please, have they seen this mother or that father or brother or sister or daughter or son or aunt or uncle or friend?
The frantic questions and desperate prayers hang heavy in the air, unanswered.
But only for a moment. Compassion follows on the heels of hopelessness as the infectious joy of seeing loved ones reunited (tempered only by a quietly simmering envy, because why couldn't that cat have been their loved one instead?) momentarily drowns out the sorrow. Clan cats, he has learned, are nothing if not resilient, and their ability to pull together in times like these is unmatched. It will take a long time, but they will be okay.
Gorsetail is an old cat. He has lived through wars and epidemics, famine and drought. He is no stranger to devastation and loss, but weathering those twin demons never gets easier. StarClan has always been unfathomable with who they welcome and when; he has never understood how they could be so unpredictably merciless as to steal kits away from their parents while allowing others to live to see their great grandchildren. Cats alive one day and gone the next, often without warning - and with a disaster of this magnitude...
How many cats woke up that morning expecting a safe journey to the Tribe, only to have their stories brutally and ruthlessly cut short simply because they had the misfortune of being in the wrong place at the wrong time?
Any of them could have died. Had any one thing been different, it could have been him. If the clan had sheltered any further down the slope, if they had lingered an extra day to camp, if he had not spent so long fighting to regain and maintain his mobility - every single day, they make life and death decisions without a full understanding of which choice will give them moons and which will give them moments left to live, but never has it been more obvious that while they can try to prepare for the future, they will never be able to fully predict it. No one can protect themselves against the whimsical and fleeting nature of sheer, dumb luck.
Every cat lost to the earthquake had a family and hopes and dreams of their own. Gorsetail knows - knew - most of them, if not personally, then at least by name and reputation. The vast majority were younger than him, with the promise of many more seasons stretching before them. He, like so many others, has spent the day listening to the worries and grief of loved ones left behind. Unable to hunt or search for survivors, he can help best by offering a quiet shoulder to lean on or a sympathetic audience for those stories that must be told, all while silently wishing he could do more to comfort those who have lost so much more than he. TreeClan has lost Silverfern, one of the last relics of Lionstar’s generation and a kind she-cat whom he would miss dearly, but his family, built of best friends and their kits and his former apprentices, is, thankfully, all alive and accounted for.
But not so for Minnowsplash of RainClan, who is utterly inconsolable after losing both a mate and her best friend: Bravebird, with his quiet heart of gold, and Russethawk, whose sheer passion for life made him easily recognizable even to those from other clans. Or for Sparkjaw and Ivypetal of LightningClan, whose formidable parents, Nightstep and Palescreech, both have yet to return. Or for the sharp-witted Owlfrost, who he has heard has suddenly found herself the only survivor of her family and the unexpected guardian of her sister's newly born and now newly orphaned kits. It is, however, always the youngest casualties who hurt his heart the most. As far as he can tell, this dubious honor belongs to Cavepaw of StoneClan and Peregrinepaw of TreeClan. Though he does not know either of Cavepaw's parents very well, he firmly believes that no one should ever have to bury their kit, and he has seen how much the loss of her only daughter has shattered Wildmane's heart. Both apprentices were young and healthy, ready to take on the world and earn their warrior names – and now? Now they’re simply gone.
Just like that.
How is it fair that he, who is old and weakened from moons in the elder’s den, survived when they, who were young and fit and had their entire lives ahead of them, did not?
Despite everything, Gorsetail is hopeful. He is an old cat, one who has lived through wars and epidemics, famine and drought, one who is no stranger to devastation and loss. But just as he has seen the worst of life, so, too, has he seen the best. Even here, as they all try to pick up the pieces of their fragmented lives, he sees the best of them. Compassion has a way of following on the heels of hopelessness, and clan cats, he has learned, are nothing if not resilient. Mere hours – a day, at most – after they have been chased from their homes, he has witnessed individuals from every clan pulling together to help watch over kits or aid the wounded or provide emotional support, even across clan lines. They may have arrived as five separate clans, but fundamentally, they are all cats, and in times like these, that common ground transcends clan politics.
Sitting vigil tonight, on this first night of the After Times, feels only natural. There is something comforting about facing down incomprehensible tragedy by quietly carrying on the tradition that has been passed down through generations of grieving warriors. He thinks not just of TreeClan’s losses but of every clan’s missing and dead. He hopes that the missing are soon found and that the dead have found happiness among StarClan’s ranks. He prays that the loved ones they have left behind find comfort and peace, despite no promise of closure. They may not have any bodies for tonight’s vigil, but they have memories and the stars.
Far above his head, those tiny specks of light twinkle delicately against the darkness, and perhaps because he is up higher or because there are no trees blocking his view, but they seem far more numerous than before. Brighter, too, as if those who have recently joined their ranks are reassuring everyone down below: “You are not alone. We are here. We have found peace.”
And then a promise: “So will you.”
Just as the sun had begun to climb over the mountain peaks that morning, TreeClan and StoneClan finally arrived at their refuge, as windswept and exhausted as vagabonds stumbling into a desert oasis, but there was very little rest for the weary. For most of that first day, the attempts to triage the wounded and find enough shelter and coordinate the distribution of the food and medical supplies of a single Tribe across five massive clans were, at best, a semi-organized chaos. However, as the prospect of daylight turned into a promise, so too did something of a makeshift system of messengers that ran between the various authorities, and by the time the sunlight began to fade, Gorsetail found himself trusting that tomorrow will be a little easier.
Such relief is tempered by the knowledge that now that the sun has dipped below the horizon and the pandemonium has settled to a relatively quiet level for the night, he no longer has anything to distract him from his thoughts. They invite him to rest, because he is old and because his body no longer works the way it's supposed to, but every time he closes his eyes, the sheer terror of having the valley crash down around him and everyone he loves chases away any hope of sleep. Though his aching muscles and weary bones want nothing more than to spend the night curled up with his family, pretending he's in his warm, moss-laden nest that is now likely buried under trees and stone, the TreeClan elder instead finds himself sitting alone outside, a short distance away from the crowd.
Nighttime in the mountains is far different than nighttime in the forests. The night is cooler and the mountain air sharper. No trees cast long shadows across the forest floor, and there is no symphony of chirping crickets or croaking frogs or fluttering bats. Here, his view of the sky in all its magnificence is unhindered. He is far closer to the mosaic of stars stretching from horizon to horizon than he ever was in the valley below.
Yet StarClan feels further away than ever.
In the immediate aftermath of their panicked flight from the trees to the safety of barren mountain slopes, he is unsure that any of them have entirely understood exactly what they have lost - but then, medics scrambling to staunch blood flow from a gaping wound hardly stop to consider the resulting scar. Up until now, they have all been simply trying to survive, but now that they are safe, they will have to prepare to face the lurking storm clouds, dark with the harsh realities of their future, that they have thus far ignored. They have all watched the valley collapse in on itself; home, as they know it, no longer exists.
They are refugees stranded in a foreign land, and no matter how gracious their hosts are, it is painfully obvious that they do not belong. The cave that has turned into a shelter for the aged and injured is meant to house a single Tribe, but with the arrival of all the Clans, the number of those seeking sanctuary in its depths has grown six-fold. Five Clans combined into a sea of cats, the crowd spills out into the surrounding area, and they can only pray to silent ancestors that the weather stays tolerable. Those uninjured from the earthquake accompany Tribe cats on hunting patrols (for unfamiliar prey) and search parties (across unfamiliar lands), but still food is scarce and the hope for more survivors grows scarcer still. Those who stay behind gather in groups, some with their loved ones and others with strangers, and they sit in stunned silence or pace helplessly along the perimeter or talk in low-but-slowly-rising voices that follow the same conversational circles as ever: why has this happened, are you ok, what do we do, have you seen this cat.
In the daylight hours, he has watched as the sound of approaching paw steps sends a ripple through the crowd as everyone turns, ever hopeful, only for most of them to look away when their missing loved ones are not among the new arrivals. Newcomers are greeted by a sea of wide eyes, hunched shoulders, and lost expressions. And then come the pleas for information. Where were they? Who were they with? Please, have they seen this mother or that father or brother or sister or daughter or son or aunt or uncle or friend?
The frantic questions and desperate prayers hang heavy in the air, unanswered.
But only for a moment. Compassion follows on the heels of hopelessness as the infectious joy of seeing loved ones reunited (tempered only by a quietly simmering envy, because why couldn't that cat have been their loved one instead?) momentarily drowns out the sorrow. Clan cats, he has learned, are nothing if not resilient, and their ability to pull together in times like these is unmatched. It will take a long time, but they will be okay.
Gorsetail is an old cat. He has lived through wars and epidemics, famine and drought. He is no stranger to devastation and loss, but weathering those twin demons never gets easier. StarClan has always been unfathomable with who they welcome and when; he has never understood how they could be so unpredictably merciless as to steal kits away from their parents while allowing others to live to see their great grandchildren. Cats alive one day and gone the next, often without warning - and with a disaster of this magnitude...
How many cats woke up that morning expecting a safe journey to the Tribe, only to have their stories brutally and ruthlessly cut short simply because they had the misfortune of being in the wrong place at the wrong time?
Any of them could have died. Had any one thing been different, it could have been him. If the clan had sheltered any further down the slope, if they had lingered an extra day to camp, if he had not spent so long fighting to regain and maintain his mobility - every single day, they make life and death decisions without a full understanding of which choice will give them moons and which will give them moments left to live, but never has it been more obvious that while they can try to prepare for the future, they will never be able to fully predict it. No one can protect themselves against the whimsical and fleeting nature of sheer, dumb luck.
Every cat lost to the earthquake had a family and hopes and dreams of their own. Gorsetail knows - knew - most of them, if not personally, then at least by name and reputation. The vast majority were younger than him, with the promise of many more seasons stretching before them. He, like so many others, has spent the day listening to the worries and grief of loved ones left behind. Unable to hunt or search for survivors, he can help best by offering a quiet shoulder to lean on or a sympathetic audience for those stories that must be told, all while silently wishing he could do more to comfort those who have lost so much more than he. TreeClan has lost Silverfern, one of the last relics of Lionstar’s generation and a kind she-cat whom he would miss dearly, but his family, built of best friends and their kits and his former apprentices, is, thankfully, all alive and accounted for.
But not so for Minnowsplash of RainClan, who is utterly inconsolable after losing both a mate and her best friend: Bravebird, with his quiet heart of gold, and Russethawk, whose sheer passion for life made him easily recognizable even to those from other clans. Or for Sparkjaw and Ivypetal of LightningClan, whose formidable parents, Nightstep and Palescreech, both have yet to return. Or for the sharp-witted Owlfrost, who he has heard has suddenly found herself the only survivor of her family and the unexpected guardian of her sister's newly born and now newly orphaned kits. It is, however, always the youngest casualties who hurt his heart the most. As far as he can tell, this dubious honor belongs to Cavepaw of StoneClan and Peregrinepaw of TreeClan. Though he does not know either of Cavepaw's parents very well, he firmly believes that no one should ever have to bury their kit, and he has seen how much the loss of her only daughter has shattered Wildmane's heart. Both apprentices were young and healthy, ready to take on the world and earn their warrior names – and now? Now they’re simply gone.
Just like that.
How is it fair that he, who is old and weakened from moons in the elder’s den, survived when they, who were young and fit and had their entire lives ahead of them, did not?
Despite everything, Gorsetail is hopeful. He is an old cat, one who has lived through wars and epidemics, famine and drought, one who is no stranger to devastation and loss. But just as he has seen the worst of life, so, too, has he seen the best. Even here, as they all try to pick up the pieces of their fragmented lives, he sees the best of them. Compassion has a way of following on the heels of hopelessness, and clan cats, he has learned, are nothing if not resilient. Mere hours – a day, at most – after they have been chased from their homes, he has witnessed individuals from every clan pulling together to help watch over kits or aid the wounded or provide emotional support, even across clan lines. They may have arrived as five separate clans, but fundamentally, they are all cats, and in times like these, that common ground transcends clan politics.
Sitting vigil tonight, on this first night of the After Times, feels only natural. There is something comforting about facing down incomprehensible tragedy by quietly carrying on the tradition that has been passed down through generations of grieving warriors. He thinks not just of TreeClan’s losses but of every clan’s missing and dead. He hopes that the missing are soon found and that the dead have found happiness among StarClan’s ranks. He prays that the loved ones they have left behind find comfort and peace, despite no promise of closure. They may not have any bodies for tonight’s vigil, but they have memories and the stars.
Far above his head, those tiny specks of light twinkle delicately against the darkness, and perhaps because he is up higher or because there are no trees blocking his view, but they seem far more numerous than before. Brighter, too, as if those who have recently joined their ranks are reassuring everyone down below: “You are not alone. We are here. We have found peace.”
And then a promise: “So will you.”
and where there's sadness, ever joy
prayer, though the lyrics in particular are from the hymn Make Me a Channel of Your Peace | background image
As far as Gorsetail is concerned, I consider this thread to be a PRP with the option of having posts from other characters reflecting on their experiences on the first night after all of the clans have arrived at the Tribe (much like the Lionstar mourning thread). In my mind, there are no official vigils happening, but Gorsetail is off by himself holding an unofficial one for those lost and missing. I doubt he'd be the only cat doing so