Firestar x Graystripe (crossposting from ao3)
Jun 17, 2024 10:11:04 GMT -5
phantomstar57, Ember34, and 1 more like this
Post by EthanTheAnnus on Jun 17, 2024 10:11:04 GMT -5
Said this on the other fic I posted, but I realised I can just crosspost these here. Enjoy !!!
Sleep doesn’t come easily to Firestar. It hasn’t for a long time, not since Graystripe was taken. The lake doesn’t quite feel like home even all these moons later.
He doesn’t regret leaving the forest. The memories trapped there will stay with all of them no matter where they go, and it had been the only way to ensure the Clans’ survival. A proud leader he was, to have led ThunderClan through such tribulations, but still his heart aches for all that was left behind.
(Sometimes, late at night, Firestar wishes Bluestar could be here to see this, with living eyes, not ones full of stars.)
Curled into his nest by Sandstorm’s side, he feels small. The world has proven to be bigger than he could imagine, both with the journey the Clans took, and the way it took Graystripe from him. He’d done his best to move on; he presses his muzzle into Sandstorm’s fur and breathes in. He loves her, doesn’t he? Of course he does — but the hollowness at the bottom of his heart whenever he thinks of Graystripe never really leaves.
Firestar at least has the decency to feel awful about it. Not like Sandstorm doesn’t know this; that she’s the second choice, that she always was and will be. He loves her, he really, truly does. But she isn’t Graystripe.
He huffs, rolling over. Moonlight filters through the leaves and hits the ground in dappled patterns across camp. From here, Firestar can see the shadowed figures of ThunderClan cats sleeping in their dens; Dustpelt was barely visible, sitting watch by the thorn tunnel. He turns his head away.
Peaceful. That’s what the night is. But turmoil grabs at his mind. The Gathering is tomorrow night; he needs to sleep, lest the other Clans wonder why he’s barely conscious on his paws. He can’t manage it, a restless itch under his pelt. He knows the feeling all too well, but the time for action has passed.
Despite Sandstorm curled at his side, Firestar feels colder than ever. The numbness that had taken hold all those moons ago has softened, given way to something that cradles him as much as it seems to drown him. Shifting in the dim moonlight, he can just about see the almost-healed wounds on his paw pads. The hard Thunderpath had torn the skin to shreds when he’d ran along it, leaving them bloodied and battered. His gaze slides to Sandstorm again. Resentment threatens to bubble up in him — after all, she was the cat to tell him it was pointless, to stop giving chase, that Graystripe was gone —
Firestar shuts his eyes, breathing in. The Gathering tomorrow. Focus on the Gathering.
It did little to ease the feeling. At the roots of the Great Oak, Brambleclaw will sit — Brambleclaw, not Graystripe. A deputy StarClan approves of, but it still makes Firestar's heart ache. Just another way he’s moved on, like Sandstorm in his nest, like the vigil, like his almost-healed wounds. He has grandkits, now. Grandkits who know of Graystripe only through stories, as Firestar’s mate who was killed by Twolegs. Like he’s as little as a passing thought.
ThunderClan is forgetting him. Firestar, for all his efforts, can’t bring himself to.
Maybe it’s better that way. He can cling to the memory of Graystripe like he does so many others from before the lake; the memories of Yellowfang, or of Snowkit’s brief life, or even of Bluestar’s death. Moments good and bad. Moments he can carry forever.
After all, he has multiple lives to do it. Time and grace to claw his way back to life and keep remembering what other cats refuse to. He will bear this like a burden, and carry it like gold.
In his memories, Graystripe shines like the sun.
(The heartache is worth it, if he gets to remember; if he can think of the sun through leaves and stolen glances and shared prey. He can think of Graystripe, of the way he’d smiled and laughed and lived, and that’s enough.
Isn’t it?)
Sleep doesn’t come easily to Firestar. It hasn’t for a long time, not since Graystripe was taken. The lake doesn’t quite feel like home even all these moons later.
He doesn’t regret leaving the forest. The memories trapped there will stay with all of them no matter where they go, and it had been the only way to ensure the Clans’ survival. A proud leader he was, to have led ThunderClan through such tribulations, but still his heart aches for all that was left behind.
(Sometimes, late at night, Firestar wishes Bluestar could be here to see this, with living eyes, not ones full of stars.)
Curled into his nest by Sandstorm’s side, he feels small. The world has proven to be bigger than he could imagine, both with the journey the Clans took, and the way it took Graystripe from him. He’d done his best to move on; he presses his muzzle into Sandstorm’s fur and breathes in. He loves her, doesn’t he? Of course he does — but the hollowness at the bottom of his heart whenever he thinks of Graystripe never really leaves.
Firestar at least has the decency to feel awful about it. Not like Sandstorm doesn’t know this; that she’s the second choice, that she always was and will be. He loves her, he really, truly does. But she isn’t Graystripe.
He huffs, rolling over. Moonlight filters through the leaves and hits the ground in dappled patterns across camp. From here, Firestar can see the shadowed figures of ThunderClan cats sleeping in their dens; Dustpelt was barely visible, sitting watch by the thorn tunnel. He turns his head away.
Peaceful. That’s what the night is. But turmoil grabs at his mind. The Gathering is tomorrow night; he needs to sleep, lest the other Clans wonder why he’s barely conscious on his paws. He can’t manage it, a restless itch under his pelt. He knows the feeling all too well, but the time for action has passed.
Despite Sandstorm curled at his side, Firestar feels colder than ever. The numbness that had taken hold all those moons ago has softened, given way to something that cradles him as much as it seems to drown him. Shifting in the dim moonlight, he can just about see the almost-healed wounds on his paw pads. The hard Thunderpath had torn the skin to shreds when he’d ran along it, leaving them bloodied and battered. His gaze slides to Sandstorm again. Resentment threatens to bubble up in him — after all, she was the cat to tell him it was pointless, to stop giving chase, that Graystripe was gone —
Firestar shuts his eyes, breathing in. The Gathering tomorrow. Focus on the Gathering.
It did little to ease the feeling. At the roots of the Great Oak, Brambleclaw will sit — Brambleclaw, not Graystripe. A deputy StarClan approves of, but it still makes Firestar's heart ache. Just another way he’s moved on, like Sandstorm in his nest, like the vigil, like his almost-healed wounds. He has grandkits, now. Grandkits who know of Graystripe only through stories, as Firestar’s mate who was killed by Twolegs. Like he’s as little as a passing thought.
ThunderClan is forgetting him. Firestar, for all his efforts, can’t bring himself to.
Maybe it’s better that way. He can cling to the memory of Graystripe like he does so many others from before the lake; the memories of Yellowfang, or of Snowkit’s brief life, or even of Bluestar’s death. Moments good and bad. Moments he can carry forever.
After all, he has multiple lives to do it. Time and grace to claw his way back to life and keep remembering what other cats refuse to. He will bear this like a burden, and carry it like gold.
In his memories, Graystripe shines like the sun.
(The heartache is worth it, if he gets to remember; if he can think of the sun through leaves and stolen glances and shared prey. He can think of Graystripe, of the way he’d smiled and laughed and lived, and that’s enough.
Isn’t it?)