TW death and blood and whatnot but it’s moon 205 so what do you expect
…
The day had been so, so bright, and now the scent of blood nearly choked out the sun.
Flyspots felt Wormshade flinch against his side at another yowl of pain, cut off suddenly by what was surely the end. The camp was too flooded by noise and violence to know who it was for sure, but Flyspots could only hope that it wasn’t a young warrior dying before their time, that their kin didn’t have to see them go. He hoped it was fast. Not everyone had the luxury of a quick death today, he thought grimly, glancing behind him at Salmonskip.
Wormshade had managed to drag her here, into the cover the pair of mates had found at the start of the attack, after the dog that had fastened its jaws into her had let her go, apparently bored once its prey had grown too weak to fight. Even now, with the wound in his neck weeping and tears and blood splattered across his face, Salmonskip tried to stand. Wormshade was quick to return to her side, motioning for her to stay down. Flyspots followed, for once quiet.
“Well?” Salmonskip asked frantically, her breath wheezing with the effort. “Did—“
“I didn’t see Moosefall, not fighting nor on the ground.” The /injured or dead/ part of the last statement remained unspoken, though you could hear it in the roughness of Wormshade’s voice, the wetness of its eyes. “Your sibling or Brackenwing, either. And don’t even worry about Jumblepaw. I saw Rustbee leading the apprentices out before we hid, so she’s safe.” Though there was little emotion in Wormshade’s voice, anyone could see the words brought some semblance of comfort to the younger cat. He finally stopped his fruitless attempts to stand, and the tears flowed a little slower as Flyspots laid his tail on her ginger and silver back. He could feel a tear of his own slip down his cheek, and he spent one moment wondering how Wormshade could seem so calm, even now. But it’d always been that way, hadn’t it? He could remember its old mantra— Flyspots, we both know you’re dramatic enough to have enough emotions for the both of us. But he knew Wormshade always felt just as much, if not more, as he did.
“Yeah, what he said,” Flyspots said after the sounds of fighting from beyond the outcropping of stones that shielded them got too much. “Everyone’s gonna be fine.”
He jumped as Salmonskip released something resembling a laugh, his yellow eyes fluttering closed with pain and exhaustion. “Everyone but me,” she whispered, and Flyspots couldn’t quite tell if the words were bitter or not. He saw Wormshade lower his head out of the corner of his eye.
“Can you…” she paused, eyes open again, clearly struggling to speak now as her voice failed her. “Can you at least lay with me while I die?”
Flyspots could not bring themself to respond at first, too shocked and overwhelmed and devastated, but Wormshade’s reaction was quick and short. “Of course,” it rasped, and lowered itself beside the bleeding molly, only hesitating a moment before resting his head on her flank. After that, Flyspots was quick to nod, to begin to lie down in honor of her request.
His belly hadn’t even touched the ground when the dog thrust its head around the rocks and grabbed him.
The pain was so great that he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t scream, but he heard Wormshade wail as he clawed desperately at flesh, trying to do anything to stop it. But it was too late, and everything went black.
•••
When he woke up the pain was gone, the sounds of the battle muted, but he saw the blood on the ground. He was still here, in this blood-soaked camp, and yet he wasn’t truly here. He rose, feeling lighter, stronger than he had in fifty moons, and met Salmonskip‘s eyes, saw her cheeks glimmering with tears that shone as stars on her ghostly form. But her fur was clean of crimson.
He hadn’t laid beside her as she died after all.
Flyspots didn’t look down, he didn’t want to, he dreaded seeing his own body lying lifeless. Instead, he scanned his surroundings, the ceiling of the cave. In death, he could somehow see the stars through the rock that separated the clan from the stars. As he watched, he spotted a brown flecked form leaping upwards, before disappearing in a flash of light. Beefreckle, the name appeared in his thoughts, and the realization sent a sensation so strong through his chest that he thought he was dying a second time. His kit. His little boy was dead.
Salmonskip’s voice broke him from his shock, and when he looked at her once more, he found her watching him with sympathy in her eyes. “I was waiting for you, to go up there,” she said, jerking her head in the direction of the stars. “We can go now, if you’re ready.” He couldn’t go, though. Not yet.
When he found the strength to look down, avoiding looking at the body his spirit had left behind, his gaze fastened to what he’d been searching for. Wormshade. His mate was a few steps away from where he’d died, his sides rising and falling shallowly despite the wounds that decorated his sides and face and the blood that matted his dark fur. Flyspots stepped towards him, settling against his side, curling his tail around his back legs and settling his head down, listening to the faint sound of his breathing.
He didn’t hear her, but he could feel Salmonskip grow closer. “I know. He’ll be with you soon, but… it’s going to take him a while.” Flyspots knew. Somehow, he could sense it, could sense Wormshade slowly drifting. Slowly dying. The elder’s eyes were open, ever so slightly, but Flyspots couldn’t tell if it was conscious or not. Oh StarClan, he hoped not.
Flyspots curled a paw against Wormshade’s side, but he couldn’t feel his fur, or his warmth, only the pressure of something stopping his paw from going further. “Can we wait?” he asked suddenly, twisting his neck around so he was looking at Salmonskip. She was still crying stars.
He could see her hesitate, but after a heartbeat, she gave a slow nod, and sat down.
He didn’t know how long the two waited, but after a long while, Wormshade stirred.
The black tabby didn’t speak as he lifted his head, looked down at his corpse, saw the two ghosts waiting for him. It simply rose with Flyspots, pressed its head against his, gave Salmonskip a nod. Then the three leapt up through the stars.
Hours later, when the couple sat alone, still unused to the stars in their pelts as they watched the clan below them grieve, Flyspots asked his beloved a question.
“Are you sad that we’re here?”
Wormshade raised his head to meet his eyes, silent for a bit, lost in thought. Flyspots didn’t mind, of course, taking a moment to study him. The shimmer in each cats’s pelt were different colors, he’d realized. Salmonskip had glowed pale green. Flyspots sparkled with a hint of sky blue. And Wormshade, in death, was dusted with gold. It clashed a little with his amber eyes, but Flyspots thought it might have been the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. He’d never cared for things that matched, anyways.
“No,” Wormshade responded, voice even and calm. “We were old. It was going to happen regardless.”
Practical. It always was practical. But still, it wasn’t enough for Flyspots. When was it ever? “Did it hurt?”
The silence was longer this time, and Wormshade’s voice was quieter when he answered. “Yes. So much.” The tabby breathed. He closed his eyes. He lifted his face upwards. “But that’s okay.”
And then he leaned against Flyspots’s side, and— oh. He understood.
It was okay.
Anyways I will never be the same <3
Wormshade is my favorite so even though this takes place through Flyspots point of view this is really a memorial to him. I included Salmonskip as well because Moosefall is my third favorite and I figured I’d pay homage to his mate
WUGHGGHH??? AUGHHH??? OH MY. FUCKING HOD. this hurts so bad. the sentence "His little boy was dead" actually gave me a visceral reaction. YEOWCH
