=Of Death and Forgetting= Weaselcharm SRP Pt. 1

Instructions

Warnings: This SRP contains topics of existentialism regarding ones life, and death Weaselcharm didn't fear death, at least not in the traditional sense. When most cats pondered why they feared death, there were usually a few reasons why. Things like the traditional 'I don't want to leave my family behind.' or 'I don't know what awaits me on the other side.' were common to hear. That was all fine, understandable, really. None of this could be said for Weaselcharm though, because it wasn't the finality of death that Weaselcharm feared, it was the /forgetfulness/. That lurking fear that one day, his name would be wiped from history simply because he wasn't there to live it anymore. How cruel, how little control he had over his own memory in the mind of others. How unfortunate, really. Cursed to have your name no longer spoken among clanmates for the uncontrollable crime of /dying/. Now Weaselcharm wasn't old, but he wasn't young anymore either, per say. His life had reached that halfway point, that zenith of being where he was as close to death as he was to the beginning of existence. It was almost funny, how quickly time had passed. So quickly that the middle of his life had snuck up on him without him even noticing. Was that unfair? He would have thought it would have been more painfully obvious. A steady buildup rather than a sudden scare. He felt stuck, trapped in a situation that only the stars controlled. Was it not cruel to inflict such fear upon Weaselcharm? Was this a punishment for his earlier rivalry with Helleborestar? Was the consequence of his hatred finally catching up to him? The end of one's existence was natural. It happened to everyone, even leaders with nine times as many lives as he. It would be stupid of him to pretend like he was exempt from such a law of nature, but was it stupid to be scared? No, it couldn't be. It was a natural fear, being gone. But even still, that didn't change the fact that he was /so/ scared of the idea. He didn't want to face that fate, even if it was inevitable. A futile race that he would one day lose. The very idea felt like claws around his lungs and heart, leaving him lost. He was already painfully familiar with loss as is, having known many people who had faced what he feared so deeply due to the cruelty of the world. First was the second litter of kits Hyenahawk had brought home. His adopted siblings. Thymepaw, Goldfishpaw, and Captainpaw, all gone in the blink of an eye before they had even had the chance to get their warrior names. Forever stuck as apprentices, those three. What a shame. The fear of foxes still stuck with him because of that. Then came Stoatslumber, his older sibling... The betrayal Weaselcharm had felt when Stoatslumber, then Stoatpaw, had left for Riverclan seemed almost insignificant looking back. Ha! If he could do it all over again, maybe he would have left with them. But no, of course he didn't. Weaselpaw had just been bitter, seeing it all as leaving the family and clan that had taken them in when they had no one. But now, Stoatslumber was dead, and Weaselcharm didn't even learn about it until way after the fact, hearing it through the words of his father, then a Riverclan cat on the boats that spoke of it too casually, not knowing who Stoatslumber was to Weaselcharm. He had wanted to be angry, to shout and fight and demand why that cat had spoken of Stoatslumber so /casually/, but he didn't. That would be cruel, and he wasn't cruel. The most recent loss was Fathomcatcher, one of Weaselcharm's first friends. Heck, now that he really thought about it, one of his /only/ friends when he was young. Taken away from life without Weaselcharm even knowing how. The sheer amount of loss was only just settling in, a burden on his shoulders that he couldn't possibly be expected to carry. Even through all of this, Weaselcharm still somehow had everything. A high rank, a good dynamic with his leader, a family. He almost felt guilty for being so happy, like all of his good fortune was a pat on the back for being the one to survive while the ghosts of his past haunted him, lurking and having him always look over his shoulder. But even in those moments of joy, he couldn't help but remember the injustices of being, his anger barely noticeable in the slightest twitch of an eye. He didn't deserve /any/ of this, but Starclan was cruel and now he was halfway through his life. [cont]