Blackclaw in ancient RiverClan tradition carried a river shell. With one long hole through the river shell's center, he carried it to the southern banks where the silver grass grew and plucking a strand, he spent the entire sunrise tying a knot, looping it through the river shell until he was able to carry it around his neck like a kittypet collar. Convinced that it was not enough, he plucked more silver strands of grass and weaved it into his necklace until he could himself convince Starclan that it would last for the rest of his life. He checked the strands of silver grass around his neck, making sure they were secure, and then checked again, and again, and again. He checked the strands of silver grass that made up the necklace enough times that his neck began to chafe. He checked the shell, though his memory told him he had already checked it thrice. At last, Blackclaw was poised, for it was the right size and shape.
In RiverClan and in RiverClan only, one had to prove their love. You'd tie a shell around your neck, much to your mockery by the other Clans, and then find the most beautiful thing you could store in the shell. A jewel, a strange fishbone, a colorful twoleg toy, an exquisite pelt. The limit was your imagination and the size of your shell. You carried this object as if it were your life, through danger, through peril, and through sickness. You dropped it on a border patrol? You dug to pick it up at the risk of your own life. Thunderclan could be slitting your throat at the Sunningrocks, but if you died with your jewel in the dirt, Starclan would never find you.
When Blackclaw was ready, he went to the love of his life, pulled out the rainbow feather tucked in his necklace, leaned down to the she-cat he loved more than life itself, and confessed. Like something possessing my body, I leaned down with him, pulled on my own shell, handed him my gemstone in exchange for the most beautiful feather in all the Clans, and pledged eternal loyalty. The gemstone glowed waxy, translucent blue, soft and kind against his black, chiseled fur, and his feather, hued like a fresh rainbow in soft light, glittered against my breast like a sign. Like an omen.
Blackclaw carried that gemstone for his entire life: from the moment he fell in love with me, from when he sired my kits, to when he killed my brother, to when he died.
Blackclaw was built solid in the RiverClan way. Broad shoulders, powerful legs, rippling muscle that pulsed and stretched from his chest all the way to his abdomen. His tail flattened out near the end, a sign of RiverClan purity, and each toe of his was webbed. All of this made him a great swimmer. All of this made him popular. All of this made him solid and dependable and solemn. He bore this popularity like any true RiverClan warrior, carrying it against his back with rigid duty and faked grace. He was curt, stubborn, and harbored the fury of the massive weight upon his shoulders. He tolerated no nonsense, whether from his enemies, of which there were many, or from his loved ones, of which there were few. He made no friends, whether Before or After, so I didn't either. He carried this burden of being one of RiverClan's finest like he carried my gemstone, holding it against his lips every moonrise. In the light of the sun, he would carry the gemstone from one end of RiverClan's territory to the other. In battle, when it dropped onto blasphemous dirt, he'd stop, no matter how furious he was, no matter which vicious warrior he was fighting, and he'd dig to retrieve it, it having sunk obviously beneath the earth from its unbearable weight. He bore the pain, not just from having his pelt eviscerated by his enemies, but from losing the gemstone promised to him by the cat who had vowed to love him beyond life and beyond death.
He wove the nest like he wove anything, strong, solid, and like a good tom with a hint of obsession. We wove through the wetlands, bellies up in the mud, not satisfied until we found reed tree-length high and our bones began to crack from fatigue. Bones shattering within our bodies, we'd dig through the muck, uprooting the reeds from the muddy soil, and then, with teeth, we'd saw through the roots. Flank to flank, we'd carry the reeds back, through the muck and mud, through the rivers, and back to RiverClan, where we would spend the moonrise weaving. We'd patrol the entire territory, grabbing feathers, shells, and gemstones, and using the great reed lengths, we'd weave those into our den until it was solid enough to float. It was back-breaking work, but Blackclaw was built solid and I was built strong.
You'd need your nest to be built strong for after Leaf-Bare, entering Newleaf, was the most dangerous time. The rivers would thaw, the ice would break, and the camp would flood. On a bad sunrise, the water would reach a rabbit-length high. High enough to drown your kits and wash away everything you worked for but low enough to where you'd be stuck, splashing about like a dog. Dens in RiverClan were built to float, but at a rabbit-length, they'd get washed away. But, on a good sunrise, the water would rise a reed-length.
On a good sunrise, the camp flooded. The water rose higher than ever before, higher than memory, and Blackclaw's nest floated. Lifted to the treetops, the whole of RiverClan floated and was washed away by the current. The current sucked us down, suspending us in motion, and we drifted with the nests and baubles and history. When the water was that deep, we could swim freely, pulled beneath the current, and while my Clanmates struggled, trying to follow the floating nests containing all of RiverClan's hopes, dreams, and kits, I remember the moment of suspension. Blackclaw and I floated, hung in the waters, dancing like ThunderClan cats beneath the sun. Sunlight struck the water.
We cinched our necklaces between our teeth, bearing their weight like any good RiverClan cat, and then rose for air. We gasped, sucked down air, hearing the chaos above the surface as the kits screamed in their floating, crashing nests of woven reed, and then sunk back down. We sank low to blot out the noise but high enough to let the current carry us. We bore the weight of the waters, our love a lifeline, for the far greater weight was ensuring the kits made it to safety. We bore this weight carefully and gracefully and caught in the rapids, flung to and fro; we always knew we'd carry it to our graves.
When the waters receded, it scraped the nests across the rocks, scattering RiverClan like driftweed. Blackclaw's nest came crashing down as if struck down by one of Starclan's mighty paws, and in terrible vision, I saw the broken nest where our kits would one day be broken, too.
In RiverClan, there are the pursuers and the chased. I'd sit on the river shore, south of Sunningrocks, where it was peaceful, one paw in the air watching for fish. Patience was essential, control even more so. You'd sit there, nothing but your terrible thoughts for company, and control yourself. You'd control the obvious: the muscles, the eyes, the tail, and the ears until you became like stone. The tension would build, compressing down inside of you, until you'd see your trout, and all of that tension would be released in one explosive motion. Even that required control, how your paw stretched out, how it pierced the water, how you scooped your prey. You'd also control the less obvious things: your thoughts, passions, and crushes. Those things would be far more unbearable and intolerable.
In RiverClan, everyone had a crush, everyone was in love.
It was training to be the chased. You'd control yourself, never letting yourself be free until it exploded. You'd wail, shake, and vomit. The love confession from your other would send lightning through your bones. To be chased was to be controlled, measured, and to explode in great rages of grief and passion.
If you were chased, it meant the kits were yours, but that's another story.
I exploded.
It's a disaster! How will we ever recover? RiverClan is destroyed, I said, there is nothing to rebuild!
Blackclaw put a paw on a shell once a part of our nest. He simmered with that kind of quiet rage that I admired him for, waiting to see it explode and confirm my fears. He looked at me, his wrinkled face matching mine, and then all of that anger just… sank. He packed it away, like burying a fish for another sunrise, and then started searching for any pieces of reed he could keep.
He asked for my help.
I asked him if he was crazy.
Crazy?
Yeah. Crazy. Fishfaced. Full of maggots.
He grabbed a strand of reed. I knew it was one of ours because it was long, stretching across his back, across the water-logged ground and out into the distance. A tree-length in length. He flicked his ears. I joined him, flank to flank, and we began carrying it as we joined the others. It seemed like everyone knew it was time to rebuild. They were fishfaced.
Blackclaw asked me if I wanted to help him rebuild the nest. He'd need to search for more reed again, the long kind. He'd need more shells. More feathers and gemstones and fishbones. It meant trudging through the mud, breaking our bones and backs.
I said yes.
Well, you have your answer then, Mistyfoot, he spoke.
That's frog-dung.
Don't be a codfish.
If you were a pursuer, it meant you took. Life and love were yours to take and hunt and pursue. To hunt was to make obsessions. It was to mark something or someone as your own, to own something, and to run prey down in the wild rivers without patience or care. And hunt they did. Loudbelly hunted down and up the creeks and streams, loud and strong and loyal. One sunrise, he caught the largest fish RiverClan had ever seen, thrice the size of Blackclaw. He scooped it out, river water raining down upon him like a shower, and then slammed it upon the rocks. It was enough to feed all of RiverClan twice over, but Loudbelly simply laughed, took one bite, and then pushed it back into the river. Like madness possessed him, he pursued the colossal bass down the riverbank, past treecutplace and further still until he lost it in the deep blue. When the hunting patrol found him later, he had caught three more fish as a replacement. He stood atop his prey proudly, a large, unbearable smile on his whiskers.
We gave him frog-dirt and fish-guts for the next three moons, but we never broke his spirit. When asked about his mysterious, colossal fish, he'd brag, exaggerate the details, saying the fish had fangs for teeth or it had scales like river-washed gemstones. He obsessed over it, not just the fish itself but the story. He'd add details every time he was asked. In the third retelling, after being scolded by Oakheart, the fish had fought back: muscles like a leopard and tail like a panther. Its eyes glowed hot red, like a spirit from The Place of No Stars, with teeth more like sharpened stone. He'd say that when he chased it, it had taunted him, hanging out just of reach as he raced across the riverbank and that he had never wanted it to end. He pursued his molly loves in the same way, though he never had much success in that venture.
When asked about that, he'd say that there would always be more fish in the river to catch.
Silverstream was a pursuer as well. She was mocked for it; she was too dainty, slim, and beautiful. They joked that she had stolen all of Crookedstar's luck and beauty. They joked that it was unfair and that a cat like Silverstream was to be pursued. Silverstream, in the RiverClan way, took it all in good spirit, but there was no shadow of doubt; she and I knew that she was a hunter. It was her own weight to bear that proudly to the consternation of all RiverClan. It meant she was a pursuer. It told them that she was off-limits.
Loudbelly tried to contest her once and Silverstream thrashed the tom. She smashed him into the ground, took his paws into the sky, and then, using his head, made a new entrance into her nest. I suspect they would've made a wild couple, but Loudbelly was too wild, too uncontrolled. He was all the power of the river but with none of the charm, and Silverstream didn't want a cat like that. She wanted to pursue a cat brave and true. She wanted a cat with all the power of the forest and all its charm. She wanted to sweep a cat from their paws and be swept up in turn. I told her she wouldn't find a cat like that in RiverClan.
She pursued Greystripe to her early grave.
In the Before, we carried the most eternal weight. Blackclaw and I would carry this weight together while eating and then afterward as well. We'd share tongues and the weight would become unbearable, falling down upon us like StarClan's divine will, until at our breaking point, it would release us. After our bellies were full and tongues shared, we'd pick up our burden and trudge on. We'd carry it on border patrols, through the wetlands, through the reeds, past twolegplace, and into our rest, where, if we were lucky, StarClan would free us from the burden. At Dawn, Blackclaw would eat his burden, flank to flank alongside mine, and the process would begin anew. We carried that thing like a wreath of stones, sitting it on our heads until, by the end of the day, it felt neck breaking.
We carried the prey. We carried our thoughts, our loves, and our passions. We carried the reeds to build and to rebuild. We carried our paws and claws and teeth on every border. We carried our tongues at every Gathering. We carried our stories and responsibilities. We carried our actions, how we acted, and how we were told to act. And if there was one thing Blackclaw knew with irrefutable faith, it was that we'd be carrying each into StarClan and beyond.
A/N: Mistyfoot's Legacy is a pre-written, completed story. A chapter will be posted every day until its completion. Pending unexpected interruptions, the journey will last a week. Mistyfoot's Legacy features graphic depictions of Tigerclaw's corpse, one insistence of unnecessary violence against apprentices, and, of course, an unreliable narrator.