your father's eyes. [VA]

[redshiftreign]

DROWNING IN THOSE INDIGO EYES. I'M LOST IN TRANSLATION,
SOMEWHERE INBETWEEN.

cw: suicidal and self destructive thoughts, implied character death, gore.

 

birdsong, lilting and gentle, fell, unheard, on the ears of the sleuth. the drizzle of mid-morning rain gentle, albeit insistent. he'd been home- (home. what is home? what had riverclan ever done for him, when he had given it everything. he had given riverclan his whole mind and body, and acted as a swift executioner to dispatch of threats. he had acted as a dutiful hunter and brave defender. he had given riverclan everything he had. everything he was, is, will ever be. what did he get in return? no one had even looked for him. maybe that's what he deserved for ever letting himself be so foolish and so blinded as to stumble right into their clutches anyway) -for a scarce few sunrises, the exhaustion in his bones refusing to shake. but, as much as they were insisting he take it easy, he never could sit still. the inadequacies of reality always settled in like soot at the bottom of a river, heavy and sticky and suffocating. easily stirred up and re-woken. he was still in and out of the medicine den despite the lack of a medicine cat, and everyone was politely (how quaint. how pathetic. he didn't want their pity- he saw those looks. they would claw his throat out to tear that collar from him if they could. if he'd let them get close enough) ushered him to rest. and for a bit, he did. and for as ungrateful and unloving as riverclan could be, for as cold as its tides and as empty its smiles, rushwater remembered exactly why he threw himself into its claws and thrived off it's jagged edges. it was home. after everything. it was a prison, but it was his. riverclan was his, maybe not to own, but to have. riverclan belonged to rushwater in the same way it belonged to every kit born in its fields and every warrior that hunted to pay their keep. it belonged to him in the way that the world did- and, honestly, he belonged to it too. not all was equal, though. without riverclan, rushwater would be nothing. but without rushwater. . . rivers kept flowing.

suddenly, he was feeling very nauseous.

staring down at the meandering stream, slightly brackish from the rain, he caught glimpses of his not-quite-blue eyes in the reflection. warped and unfamiliar in the twisting waters. narrowing them, he dipped his head to scrutinise his reflection. each new scar on his head like a reminder of his faults. torn fur, ripped ears, clawed muzzle. all of it made him sick to his stomach at the sight of himself. he'd lived, sure, but what was left? respect? no, he had lost that having been weak and foolish enough to be trapped in the first place. honour? when had he ever had honour? when had he ever had such a thing- it was a thing for leaders and deputies and warriors, not for tattered and wind-beaten lost souls like him. warrior. as much as rushwater was a warrior, wasn't sure he could ever call himself that. not truly. because warriors had honour, and he had. . . nothing. because some fundamental piece of him was missing that caused the split between efficiency and honour. that had stolen his ability to rely on morals and replaced it with logic and reasoning. rushwater was smart, sure, and sharp, but he'd never have that same kinship that he saw in the eyes of people who laughed and loved.

rushwater wasn't sure he could love. he was too critical, too scrutinising, too harsh. he only saw faults and flaws and imperfect people needing to be improved. there was never a point where he could say he had been content with someone as they are. where he had seen them for all they were, and decided that was all they needed to be. he could never feel that for himself- contentment. he hated himself too much, saw every flaw as a hole in his armour, and needed to root it out. needed to nip it in the bud before flaws grew into weakness. weakness would destroy. weakness was worse than fire- it was like an ocean. slowly pushing back the shore until earth comes tumbling into the salt spray. slowly, so slow you might forget it were even there. then suddenly, everything is falling apart. it was for that reason that rushwater paid so much minute attention to the little things.

but he loved eaglepaw, didn’t he? he thought, for sure, that he did. what else were the subtle smiles and canting of his head as he watched her dart across the clearing, thoughtless in his fondness. what else could he call those rare, fleeting moments where he didn’t scrutinise every small blunder? where instead of annoyance at her faults, he found only slight amusement. was that love? he never thought that he’d find something to smile- genuinely, without strings or forcedness -about. but there she was, his little eagle. no blood, but she was his kit. who else would he let so close? who else would he welcome with open paws? no one here, anyway. maybe he’d raise a brow and snort at duskshiver- (oh stars, duskshiver. where was he now? were they safe? were they still annoying and foolish as he remembered?) -or smirk at cherrysmoke as he teased her for her militant clan. but he wasn’t sure that he loved them. because he wasn’t looking for them like he had eaglepaw. because he’d be able to bury them then go to work for his clan the next morning. if eaglepaw died-

riverclan was no place, as it stood, for her. too unstable, too fragile. it wasn’t safe, nor was it good. rushwater wanted to sink his claws into thunderclan and tear them asunder for her, to rip apart every little threat. he’d never leave again. no, because he needed to be here for her. he’d do everything he can to make riverclan a safe place. not just for her, or him, but for the clan. for the sake of the clan. he’d do anything for riverclan, and he hoped that one day someone would see that.

all he wanted was to be seen.

his mother would never even look at him. everything he did for this clan. everything he did for these cats, no one spared him a passing glance.

no one looked for him.

maybe he was better off dead. maybe it’s what he deserved. the thought comes, uninvited, and he realises how easy it would be to give up. because what’s it all for if nothing means anything anymore?

maybe he should have let the dog rip his throat out, and been done with it. all of it. the work and the effort of living was a heavy weight- one he was growing tired of. ceaseless disrespect. ceaseless disregardment. he’d never be anything again. he had peaked, and he was nothing again. his five minutes of fame had come and passed, like the apex of noon.

he lifted his head, a breath escaping him as he looked critically at his own eyes. not quite blue, but just as icy. purple in the way that snow was when in shadow. just barely, just in perception.

”you have your father’s eyes.”

that felt like the only time his mother had ever looked at him. but she didn’t see rushwater. she saw his father.

rushwater liked to say that he never knew his father. and, maybe that's true. he'd never met him. never learned his name. never seen his face or heard his voice or felt the reassuring loom of his shadow or the flash of a white smile. rushwater never knew him. and he never knew rushkit.paw.water. maybe that was for the best. maybe it was good that he never felt that kinship- maybe it was what rushwater needed. to be alone. to struggle. to flail and sink and thrash, trying to keep afloat. maybe it was the hardship that made him who he is- was- needed to be.

who was he?

his mother had skirted the question with annoyance, and rushkit learnt not to ask. not to ask why her mate wasn't his father. why her kits weren't his siblings. why she could never look in his eyes. why she could never love him. after a while, the burning in his chest died away, and he was adjusted to his isolation. not content- never content -but adapted. like how he had adapted to water, after everything, after suffocating and dying (not dying. he didn’t die, but he felt like he did. rushkit died that day, he was certain. rushpaw was something entirely new. something less foolish), he had adapted. somehow.

and he had adapted to being alone. being stoic and reclusive. and honestly- (he swore. he swore. oh stars, he swore that) -he was fine with it.

the only thing rushwater ever learnt about his father was what he looked like. lillyfrost had fixed him with a stare between lostness and loathing (he hated that look. he wanted her to look at him, but not like that. never like that. it burnt. it scorched), her amber eyes scrutinising him like rotted prey.

”you have your father’s eyes,” she had said, ”you look like your father.” that was the only time she ever confirmed that she’d had an affair. that rushwater wasn’t her mate’s child. because he looked nothing like him.

rushwater was just like his father. he felt sick. he’d never met the tom, never even learnt his name, but for his mother to look at him like that, he must have been scum. worse than scum. he was wearing the pelt of scum. like father like son. if he hadn’t looked like him, maybe his mother would have been gentler. kinder. he knew better- she was a vindictive, harsh she-cat, even to her full clan-born kits. she would hate him, always, for her own decisions.

that didn’t stop him from wanting to tear off his fur. he’d rather be blood and viscera than someone else. all he wanted- all he ever wanted was to be seen as himself.

then larkwing had gotten leadership and falconfeather had become medicine cat. and where was rushwater? nothing. again. always, he was cursed, to be forgotten. overlooked. rushwater would never have anything to strive for. because he didn’t deserve it. he didn’t deserve anything but struggle and pain for the heinous sin of being born. of being half-clan. of being rushwater. he wasn’t allowed anything. not rest, not peace, not love or respect or anything. rushwater wasn’t allowed anything.

he was a tool. a weapon for his leaders to use. each shift of power and change of leader was just another person to use him. to look at everything he could offer and take, and take, and take. then forget. throw him aside when he showed weakness.

everyone forgot him.

maybe they should. maybe they should forget him. because he was used to being alone- being nothing. moving from one place and time to another, shifting and restlessly moving. never stopping. always churning, shifting, growing and learning. all he ever wanted was to be better and better and better than he was before. all he ever wanted was someone to see him. anyone to see him for him. not for blood or kin. not for larkwing or falconfeather. not for his unknown father or his harsh mother or his prowess as a strategist. but as him. rushwater. the broken, jaded, lost tom that wasn’t even sure who he was.

no one was sure who rushwater was. of course they weren’t. how could they know him when he didn’t know himself? when he never let anyone close enough to help him find out.

a breath escaped him, and he turned away from the water, blinking. he wasn’t out here to have a freak out, he was here to hunt. or do something. anything but think- yet here he was thinking.

crrrrrrrack.

rushwater’s head snapped around, eyes widening, at the sound.

the fields were silent again, tall reeds and grasses swaying lazily in the wind of the gentle rain. all was still, and the world was silent.

there was a sort of stillness in rushwater’s chest. a sinking river-stones-in-silt feeling. his muscles felt heavy and tense, like he were stone. immovable. panic. stars, he panicked. rushwater was not an easily shaken cat, but between his self-reflection and the stillness, he knew- (by the stars, he knew) -that this was it.

and he was right.

it’s a flash, a streak of fur and claws, that seizes him. he goes tumbling back, feeling rocks from the riverbank dig into the shallow flesh of his back. rushwater writhes, claws and teeth, kicking and straining as his attacker goes for the throat. but instead of the flesh, fragile as it is there, their teeth hook in the metal of his collar and they tug. harsh and brutal. for a moment, rushwater almost fears that it will snap his neck, but he writes and turns until his paws are under him and his attacker is wringing his neck with the collar from behind. scrambling forward, their grip only faltered for a second before clamping around the metal again, and rushwater felt the airflow get cut off. maybe if his attacker hadn’t gone for the collar, he’d have killed them. he’d have used his brain, as clever as it is, to end them. but the pressure on his throat and the lack of air sent his mind wild. he was drowning. he was drowning. he was drowning without water. suffocating. before he knew it, he was thrashing and kicking mindlessly, as if he were fighting the water. claws rake his face, his throat, anywhere they can make purchase for leverage to tear that suffocating collar. metal. it won’t snap, it’ll never snap.

his last thoughts as the lack of air gets too him

a link of silver flashes through the air as the pressure comes to a sudden stop.


the chain snapped, finally, mercifully, but rushwater’s vision is already blurry and dark. stumbling forward, river water splashes up at his paws and he sways, stumbling to turn to fight despite the exhaustion and dizziness and the fact that his brain is not working and everything is fuzzy. but his attacker is quick, and he finds himself pinned with his head under the river’s current, coughing and sputtering and oxygenless once more. he claws, kicks, and fights. for what its worth, he nearly throws them off, even in his asphyxiation. but claws close around his throat, and his jaws part open in a wail that is smothered by water and blood gurgling in the back of his throat.

his attacker steps back- he assumes to admire their work -and rushwater’s vision is blurry as he wrenches himself onto the shore, coughing and choking through blood and water in his lungs, breaths coming in short and crimson painting the bank like fallen leaves. his body shakes as it tries to heave the water from it, but it comes up blood. his vision swims, tunnelled and fading fast. his weight collapses on the rocky riverbank despite his efforts to stay upright, and he stares, eyes glassy and far away, as his blood runs under him in a sticky mess.

when everything goes dark, rushwater does not feel peaceful. that’s a myth. he feels horror. terror. because this is a far border and no one’s coming to save him. even as his attacker leaves, he knows that there’s no mercy for him. he’s left to his thoughts for the last few seconds he has consciousness, as his blood feeds the grasses, knowing that he’s going to bleed out here. on the bank. as nothing and nobody. and if they ever find him, only handful of cats will grieve.

most of all, as the light dies, he realises that rushwater will- always -be seen for all the things he isn’t.