[♛ 𝔽𝕒𝕓𝕣𝕚𝕔𝕒𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟]

Leaf-fall 22, year 7.

Hell raising, hair raising I'm ready for the worst There was a fog blanketed not just across the moor, but across his mind as well. Little Cardinalkit, his pale yellow eyes bulging in the gloomy night, attempted to creep closer to the sombre gathering beneath the open sky. He was halted by Robinflame, who nosed him sternly back towards the nursery despite his high-pitched protests. There were other sounds too, hushed against the grimacing silence. He could feel the brush of breath as cats murmured condolences close to his ear, trying to reach him through the fog. He barely acknowledged them, a twitch of an ear perhaps, or the slightest of nods he had ever managed. He didn’t want the sympathy of his clanmates. He wanted to do this right, for Gorsebelly and for Briartail. He didn’t want to snivel or cower tonight. He wanted, for once, to be brave. Even though no bodies had been recovered from the accident, the silver tom felt he could smell death on the wind. He bit back another stream of tears, cursing the storm of emotion and memory that swirled in his thoughts, refusing to allow him to gain any sort of composure. The vigil had been delayed until the following night because he was too ill to participate, and he was their only surviving kin. Or at least, so they thought. He caught Harestrike’s eye across the small accumulation of cats, and wondered if he felt any semblance of grief for the she-cat who had borne his brother’s kits in private. Harestrike’s eyes gave nothing away. Dovecloud sat close beside him, her bright white pelt nearly shining in the moonlight. Birchspots turned his attention away from them. He would stay here the whole night, awake, keeping watch over the empty space at his paws where Briartail and Gorsebelly should have been lain. How he longed to at least have the chance to bury his nose in their fur one last time, to give them a proper goodbye. He closed his eyes. Already, some Clan cats began to peel away towards their dens. Only the cats who were closest to the lost would stay the entire night. Dapplefire was the first to leave, an almost bored expression on her face. Death held no interest to the cold-hearted, and she had never shared many words with either Briartail nor Gosebelly. Birchspots felt a flash of hatred for her, and for the cats of StarClan who had watched his family die and did nothing to change it. And for what? So he would break, as uncontrollably and pathetically as his mentor always predicted? Resentment boiled in his heart as the cats around him murmured wishes of a safe journey to Silverpelt for the lost warriors. He lifted his eyes to the dazzling swathe of stars, and dug his claws into the hard dirt. A dark tom wove through the crowd to arrive at his side, but instead of the usual whispered comfort he sat down close to Birchspots and let out a breath. Birchspots had never known this tom, Desertblaze, very well, and his sudden arrival made him feel increasingly uncomfortable. Birchspots made his gaze, opening his jaws to ask him to leave him alone, when the other tom cut in before he could make a sound. “I never knew my mother.” He meowed quietly, his pale eyes moon-like in the gloom. “She died of greencough when I was very young.” Birchspots felt a flash of resentment. He did not want to talk about the death and loss that others had suffered, especially not during the vigil of his own family. Desertblaze, however, did not stop. His eyes still trained on Birchspots, he ploughed onward. “My brother was who got me through my kithood.” He confessed. “I understand how you feel. If anything happened to him-” Birchspots flattened his ears. “Lynxwhisker is still alive. You have no concept of how I feel!” He snapped, his voice uncharacteristically sharp. Seeing the shock that flashed in Desertblaze’s eyes, he bowed his head, ashamed. No matter how much pain he felt, nothing justified that kind of outburst. “I’m sorry. I just… I want to be left alone.” He murmured, golden-brown eyes dark with sorrow. “Please. I just need to be alone.” Desertblaze gave a singular, uncertain nod, retreating towards the warriors den. A moth fluttered past, a twittering flight pattern that led it in a swirling manner out across camp, above the mourning Clan’s heads. The fog refused to part until morning, when the rising sun chased it back into the sky where it belonged. Birchspots watched the steady retreat, and for a moment he almost thought he saw feline figures strolling through the mist. He blinked, his heart racing. They were gone. words: 786 BIRCHSPOTS