The Fact of Death ~ a Shoalcry SRP

Instructions

Spintobolide was dead. Shoalcry was a cat who loved facts. But there are some facts of life that are hard to believe. Hard to take. Impossible to accept. This was one of them. There are some things that shouldn't happen. Little injustices of the world that tear apart the hearts of those who experience them—unspoken, but felt by all. This was one of those things. A parent should never have to outlive their child. Shouldn't have to face the thought that it was their fault, that they'd failed the one thing they were supposed to protect. That that wonderful, beautiful soul they'd raised from the beginning would never get to experience old age or love or find their peace, that they wouldn't be able to live through even half the life you did because they're /dead./ Dead, dead, dead. Shoalcry knew she was dead because he'd seen the body. He'd helped lower the empty shell that was once his daughter into the earth and gently kicked sand over the hole until she disappeared from view forever. In that moment Shoalcry knew three things: 1. His daughter was dead. 2. His heart hurt. Actually, everything hurt. 3. Spintobolide was dead. Shoalcry was a cat who loved facts. He repeated some to himself as he and the other two felines tasked with the burial trudged back to camp, both cats casting Shoalcry sullen, worried looks that did not escape his attention. He did not care to tell them off. He just recited his facts. The sky is blue. Bobcats are scary. Cacti have spikes unless they don't. Spintobolide is dead. Spintobolide is dead. Shoalcry stopped walking, and it took his Clanmates only a second to realize they'd lost him. They turned back, but they must have seen something on his face, because they continued on without him. As their blurry shapes grew smaller and smaller on the horizon Shoalcry remained frozen. He stayed that way until they disappeared into the dark, and somehow he was finally able to move again. He began to walk at first, aimlessly. Then he quickened to a trot. Then a run. Soon enough he was sprinting across the sandy terrain, knowing nothing and feeling everything. Later he would catch a robin. He would weave its feathers into his fur as a sort of memorial, a last, pathetic tribute to his little bird. He would revisit her grave later, too, and place the remaining feathers atop the freshly dug earth. Later. But now he ran. And ran. And ran. As he ran he remembered the words of some faraway dream. Death would take his children, and his childrens' children. It would take them all. Panickedly he stopped running, gasping for breath as his lame leg quivered beneath him. He couldn't run any longer. Running wouldn't save him from the pain, anyway. If anything it would make it worse—now as well as grieving he was exhausted, and, unfamiliar to his gentle soul, angry. Angry at the world and how it killed. Angry at StarClan for taking his daughter before her time. Angry at himself for not being good enough to stop it. Despite being nearly full the moon didn't shine tonight. Shoalcry screamed at it, a piercing caterwaul that sent several night creatures fleeing from the surrounding brush. It probably alerted every predatory creature to his location as well. He didn't care. He just hoped Spintobolide could hear it too. Thinking of his daughter and death, Shoalcry's mind made an important link between the two. ShadowClan. It was always ShadowClan. Their actions were the reason things turned out the way they did—the kidnapping, the anger. The murder. Shoalcry could feel the rage solidify in his chest. Spintobolide's death was ShadowClan's fault... And that was a fact. ---