Mark of a Mentor
"Oakshade and Mossyrush take a late night patrol out of camp to watch the sun rise."
After Dustypaw's apprentice ceremony, Oakshade feels listless, and Mossyshade thinks he knows what might help.
---
It had only been a few hours since Dustypaw's ceremony, but luckily the boy seemed a bit more comfortable with the clan's attention by the end of it all than he had at the start, running around with the other apprentices and causing havoc around the great fire as the adults talked and drank elderberry wine.
There had been so many congratulations from every side... to Oakshade it felt like the attention would never end or give her a chance to breathe. She nodded and said thank you to the wishes of good luck, the offers of advice and enthusiasm, and the few well-placed works of advice from the other older warriors. But as confident as she tried to seem for them, it was still only her first apprentice -back home, it would have been seen as a monumental step in her warrior path to guide another along their own. Here, it seemed to unremarkable, as if it were just another expectation... the idea of it being that simple sat poorly with her.
---
It's been hours since that initial celebration, and an hour more since the weary, now-snoring apprentices were ushered to the apprentices den by Lilacspeck. The fire is burning low, the moon sinking down towards the horizon, and most of the revelers have since gone to bed. Only Quiverpelt was still awake, tending the ritual fire until daybreak, the crackle of popping logs occasionally punctuating the late-night-early-morning quiet.
Oakshade sighs and leans against a nearby tree, thumb rubbing the old smooth wood absently. She's so lost in her own thoughts, her own feeling of listlessness at the new chapter she's stepping foot into, that the gentle tap on her shoulder almost goes unnoticed - almost. She's far too skilled a warrior for that. She turns to see Mossyrush's familiar face, glowing red-gold with what's left of the firelight, and his familiar hands holding a small wrapped bundle in a basket.
"It was a big night for you," he starts, quietly. "You'll do well as a mentor."
He'd already offered his good luck congratulations at the end of the ceremony, but this was different. Deeper. It was from a place far beyond the willow boughs, where the heather grew between boulders and Starclan swam in crystal-clear lake pools.
"Thank you. That means a lot, from you," she says, genuinely. Mossyrush just shrugs.
"Well, it's true. Dustypaw couldn't ask for a better one, and you'll learn be an excellent guide."
The two sit in the comfortable quiet of pre-dawn with those words for a moment, breathing in the cold spring evening air. The stars shiver a little, like they can feel the last of winter's chill in the wind. Somewhere an owl makes its lonely cry, hollow through the night.
"Oakshade," Mossyrush says after a while, and Oakshade inclines her head to him in acknowledgement. "We may not be in Tarnclan anymore, but I brought a kit with me today, for your marks. If you'd still like to do them." He lifts the small basket, the bundle inside clearly stained with smudges of ink and dye.
Oakshade exhales. With the rush of things, she hadn't even thought to plan a time to do them. It wasn't their clan, after all, she had to remind herself. They did things differently here. There was no built-in time for something like a marking ceremony here like there were back home... no time for a new mentor to sit with their whole new role to the clan.
It's what she'd been missing, and Mossyrush knew it.
She smiles and nods. "I would, very much."
---
It doesn't take long to make it from the ceremony grounds to the Great Willow Tree itself - they're close together for a reason, after all. The Willow has a particularly potent connection to Starclan, which makes it the perfect place to do something like this.
Mossyrush and Oakshade don't speak much during the walk over. Oakshade tries to keep her mind on her markings, pondering what kind of design Mossyrush might do with so little time to prepare, and what kind of a mentor it makes her if she didn't even plan on having her mentor marks done in the first place.
It's funny, she thinks to herself as she steps over a particularly large root, how going to a different place with different people and different customs can make you feel so disconnected from your home, even when you wear your commitment to it like a mantle on your shoulders. Even when there were others there with the same expectations inked into theirs.
The lake under the willow was calm and serene, smooth as glass like the tarns back home. It reflected the stars almost perfectly, a whole second sky below their feet with its own tiny sliver of silvery moon suspended like magic. It was... nostalgic, save for the waving of the Great Willow's boughs overhead and the smell of bogwood instead of peat moss. Oakshade inhales deeply, and hears Mossyrush do the same.
"Feeling alright?" he says from behind her. She sighs.
"Better than most of tonight, actually."
Mossyrush hums. "Well, that's good to hear."
She stands on the edge of the water while Mossyrush lays out his tools, the gentle clatter of the bone needles and grinding of the ink pigments combined with the gentle lapping of water on her feet soothing her mind somewhat already.
Eventually she makes her way over to the spot Mossyrush has chosen by the willow - a hollow of the large roots close to the trunk, one root looped up in a high arc that makes a comfortable back rest for her to lay her head against. His tools are laid out of a woven rush mat, stained with ink from past marks he'd performed before leaving Tarnclan all those months ago.
"I'm going to apologize in advance for getting stiff hands," Mossyrush says as Oakshade lays back against the roots, letting her head lay on the rolled up bag for his kit. "I haven't done this in a few months. But if I cramp, I'll work through it, so don't worry."
Oakshade snorts. "If I'm worried about anyone with this, it's me."
When the man looks doubtful she says, "I mean it! I haven't been marked in dozens of moons, and we have nothing to smoke for the pain. Just you, me, and the elderberry wine... it'll be a wonder if I don't pass out."
That gets a laugh now. Mossyrush smiles despite himself, reaching for a small cloth to wipe down his hands as Oakshade settles in with a grin.
"Seriously though, Oakshade. You feel alright to do this? We can always wait and do it another time, if you're feeling rocky. See if Quiverpelt has anything we can use. I just wanted to offer now, since it felt the most... appropriate, I suppose."
Oakshade shakes her head. "No, no... no. I want to do it now. I... I don't think I would feel right, teaching Dustypaw without having earned my marks."
"Very true," he says, setting aside his cloth and picking up the ink bowl and a fine needle.
"In that case, how about we get started?"
---
Oakshade gets lost in her head.
Wether it's the overindulgence in elderberry wine, the lack of ceremony herbs to dull the pain, the tension she's been stewing in all day, or Starclan sending her visions from beyond, her mind goes into a state she's only been in once before.
Things feel hazy and soft, blurry like a second world has been layered on top.
She sees flickers of things out of the corner of her eye, in the lake, hears voices she doesn't recognize in between Mossyrush's prayers to Starclan and words of encouragement.
At one point she thinks she sees a pale young boy watching them in the branches of the willow, his hair full of stars and his eyes the same blue as the glaciers in the mountains back home.
Most of the hours they spend beneath that tree are a wispy memory.
By the time the sun rises early in the morning, fingers of orange and gold peeking over the horizon and bleeding through the glass-smooth sky on the lake, Oakshade's marks are complete.
Mossyrush gives a loud sigh as he leans back from making the final line. His hands are visibly shaking, like he said they might, but despite what must have been great strain he never faltered once. Oakshade can feel her own body shaking too, from the pain and adrenaline in equal measure, and can't fathom how he's keeping it together.
"...May the stars watch you and guide your path, and all the paths you guide in turn," he says, finally, after laying his tools back on their rush mat to be cleaned.
"May I do my duty to them well," she returns, and opens her eyes.
Part of her can't bear to see them yet for fear of what she might think - not that she might hate it, but that she might not be ready to become the person staring back at her. But another, louder part of her knows she already has, and she needs to see her reflection to really understand who that might be.
She tries to push herself up but stumbles, her knees and legs stiff from sitting so long without moving. Mossyrush catches her arm and helps her up instead, letting her lean on his shoulder as she steadies herself on her feet.
"...Thank you," she says, her voice hoarse from being quiet for so long.
"Take it easy," he says back, as she leans her weight back into her own two legs and keeps walking towards the water. "Don't hurt yourself."
"I'll be fine."
Oakshade raises an eyebrow, but doesn't argue - this part is for her to do, however fast or slow she wants to do it. Usually they would be in a ceremonial space, with a bowl of ritual water to cleanse her face and see her reflection in, but with the ritual so short notice they don't have anything like that right now.
Just the willow lake, it's surface growing more and more bright as the sun begins to rise.
They make their way to the lake's edge, Oakshade only hesitating a moment before letting her feet slip into the ice-cold clear water and the soft mud below. She gasps grits her teeth against the cold, clutching on to Mossyrush's tense arm as her legs try to give out again, but she won't let them. Step after step they wade deeper, until she's up to her knees in the lake and able to stand on her own.
"Don't catch a cold either, Oakshade," Mossyrush warns, stopping her from going any deeper. "Quiverpelt will have me doing gathering for a week if you catch a cold because of something I suggested." Oakshade snorts.
"I won't," she says, but her chattering teeth say otherwise. "Can you help me wash my face?"
"Only if you promise to get right back to camp afterwards," Mossyrush says, but he's already dampening a cloth to wipe across her face, hands practiced and gentle against the raw skin.
Oakshade exhales shakily as the cold water stings her new marks, but says nothing as Mossyrush pushes her hair back and pats her brows dry.
"...I can go back to the Willow, if you want to look by yourself."
"You can stay," she says, opening her eyes shakily to look at Mossyrush's worried face, "I might fall on my way back if you don't - joking, joking." She clarifies as a look of genuine concern flashes across the mans face.
And then, she looks down.
The marks on her brow are like a crown of leaves. They blend with her own apprentice marks like a mask, swirling gracefully between one and the other until it's unclear where one starts and the other begins. The color match is almost flawless, the work pristine. Despite her hair having already been peppered with silver and grey, it's like she finally looks her age... it's shocking, in the best way. In a way that she can finally feel like a mentor with.
She feels something welling up inside her, almost an indescribable fullness, before her knees try to give out again and Mossyrush catches her by the shoulders.
"Okay, normally I'd let you process this longer, but not in a lake like this. Let's get you back to camp," he whispers, not wanting to interrupt her thought, but he stops whatever he's about to say next when he sees Oakshade's expression.
She glances up at him and looks about a half a second away from crying, her green eyes big and shiny like the lake water.
"Thank you," she says. Her voice is stronger than it's been all night. "Thank you. This, you... this means a lot, Mossyrush. I don't know if you know how much, but-"
"I do," he says, and he means it. "I did this for many, many warriors back in Tarnclan, and I know. It's... important. And I didn't want you to not have that for yourself just because you were far away from home."
Oakshade sniffles - though wether from the chill from the water, or the genuine emotion, she'll probably never say.
"Thank you."
"...now. Can I get you out of this lake? It might be emotional, but you also need to be healthy to heal, and Quiverpelt'll kill me if I let you catch a cold doing this."
Oakshade blinks, her brain re-registering where they are and what time it is.
"Oh. Right, yes. We should get out of the lake. And do the things."
Mossyrush laughs. "Yes, the things. Like ointments for your face. And sleeping," he emphasizes, holding up a hand against the light and looking towards where the sun is shining from its early morning point along the horizon. "Is it alright if I carry you back up?"
"Oh, my hero," Oakshade says sarcastically, looping her arm over Mossyrush's shoulder and letting Mossyrush scoop her up - which, to be fair, is nothing for someone his height - and wade through the water, back to shore and the waiting, watchful boughs of the Great Willow as Starclan's watchful eyes fade away into the pale blue of the early morning sky.