---

It had only been a few hours since Dustypaw's ceremony, but luckily the boy seemed a bit more comfortable with the clan's attention by the end of it all than he had at the start, running around with the other apprentices and causing havoc around the great fire as the adults talked and drank elderberry wine.

There had been so many congratulations from every side... to Oakshade it felt like the attention would never end or give her a chance to breathe. She nodded and said thank you to the wishes of good luck, the offers of advice and enthusiasm, and the few well-placed works of advice from the other older warriors. But as confident as she tried to seem for them, it was still only her first apprentice -back home, it would have been seen as a monumental step in her warrior path to guide another along their own. Here, it seemed to unremarkable, as if it were just another expectation... the idea of it being that simple sat poorly with her.

---

It's been hours since that initial celebration, and an hour more since the weary, now-snoring apprentices were ushered to the apprentices den by Lilacspeck. The fire is burning low, the moon sinking down towards the horizon, and most of the revelers have since gone to bed. Only Quiverpelt was still awake, tending the ritual fire until daybreak, the crackle of popping logs occasionally punctuating the late-night-early-morning quiet.

Oakshade sighs and leans against a nearby tree, thumb rubbing the old smooth wood absently. She's so lost in her own thoughts, her own feeling of listlessness at the new chapter she's stepping foot into, that the gentle tap on her shoulder almost goes unnoticed - almost. She's far too skilled a warrior for that. She turns to see Mossyrush's familiar face, glowing red-gold with what's left of the firelight, and his familiar hands holding a small wrapped bundle in a basket.

"It was a big night for you," he starts, quietly. "You'll do well as a mentor."

He'd already offered his good luck congratulations at the end of the ceremony, but this was different. Deeper. It was from a place far beyond the willow boughs, where the heather grew between boulders and Starclan swam in crystal-clear lake pools.

"Thank you. That means a lot, from you," she says, genuinely. Mossyrush just shrugs.

"Well, it's true. Dustypaw couldn't ask for a better one, and you'll learn be an excellent guide."

The two sit in the comfortable quiet of pre-dawn with those words for a moment, breathing in the cold spring evening air. The stars shiver a little, like they can feel the last of winter's chill in the wind. Somewhere an owl makes its lonely cry, hollow through the night.

"Oakshade," Mossyrush says after a while, and Oakshade inclines her head to him in acknowledgement. "We may not be in Tarnclan anymore, but I brought a kit with me today, for your marks. If you'd still like to do them." He lifts the small basket, the bundle inside clearly stained with smudges of ink and dye.

Oakshade exhales. With the rush of things, she hadn't even thought to plan a time to do them. It wasn't their clan, after all, she had to remind herself. They did things differently here. There was no built-in time for something like a marking ceremony here like there were back home... no time for a new mentor to sit with their whole new role to the clan.

It's what she'd been missing, and Mossyrush knew it.

She smiles and nods. "I would, very much."

---

It doesn't take long to make it from the ceremony grounds to the Great Willow Tree itself - they're close together for a reason, after all. The Willow has a particularly potent connection to Starclan, which makes it the perfect place to do something like this.

Mossyrush and Oakshade don't speak much during the walk over. Oakshade tries to keep her mind on her markings, pondering what kind of design Mossyrush might do with so little time to prepare, and what kind of a mentor it makes her if she didn't even plan on having her mentor marks done in the first place.

It's funny, she thinks to herself as she steps over a particularly large root, how going to a different place with different people and different customs can make you feel so disconnected from your home, even when you wear your commitment to it like a mantle on your shoulders. Even when there were others there with the same expectations inked into theirs.

The lake under the willow was calm and serene, smooth as glass like the tarns back home. It reflected the stars almost perfectly, a whole second sky below their feet with its own tiny sliver of silvery moon suspended like magic. It was... nostalgic, save for the waving of the Great Willow's boughs overhead and the smell of bogwood instead of peat moss. Oakshade inhales deeply, and hears Mossyrush do the same.

"Feeling alright?" he says from behind her. She sighs.

"Better than most of tonight, actually."

Mossyrush hums. "Well, that's good to hear."

She stands on the edge of the water while Mossyrush lays out his tools, the gentle clatter of the bone needles and grinding of the ink pigments combined with the gentle lapping of water on her feet soothing her mind somewhat already.

Eventually she makes her way over to the spot Mossyrush has chosen by the willow - a hollow of the large roots close to the trunk, one root looped up in a high arc that makes a comfortable back rest for her to lay her head against. His tools are laid out of a woven rush mat, stained with ink from past marks he'd performed before leaving Tarnclan all those months ago.

"I'm going to apologize in advance for getting stiff hands," Mossyrush says as Oakshade lays back against the roots, letting her head lay on the rolled up bag for his kit. "I haven't done this in a few months. But if I cramp, I'll work through it, so don't worry."

Oakshade snorts. "If I'm worried about anyone with this, it's me."

When the man looks doubtful she says, "I mean it! I haven't been marked in dozens of moons, and we have nothing to smoke for the pain. Just you, me, and the elderberry wine... it'll be a wonder if I don't pass out."

That gets a laugh now. Mossyrush smiles despite himself, reaching for a small cloth to wipe down his hands as Oakshade settles in with a grin.

"Seriously though, Oakshade. You feel alright to do this? We can always wait and do it another time, if you're feeling rocky. See if Quiverpelt has anything we can use. I just wanted to offer now, since it felt the most... appropriate, I suppose."

Oakshade shakes her head. "No, no... no. I want to do it now. I... I don't think I would feel right, teaching Dustypaw without having earned my marks."

"Very true," he says, setting aside his cloth and picking up the ink bowl and a fine needle.

"In that case, how about we get started?"

---

Oakshade gets lost in her head.

Wether it's the overindulgence in elderberry wine, the lack of ceremony herbs to dull the pain, the tension she's been stewing in all day, or Starclan sending her visions from beyond, her mind goes into a state she's only been in once before.

Things feel hazy and soft, blurry like a second world has been layered on top.

She sees flickers of things out of the corner of her eye, in the lake, hears voices she doesn't recognize in between Mossyrush's prayers to Starclan and words of encouragement.

At one point she thinks she sees a pale young boy watching them in the branches of the willow, his hair full of stars and his eyes the same blue as the glaciers in the mountains back home.

Most of the hours they spend beneath that tree are a wispy memory.

By the time the sun rises early in the morning, fingers of orange and gold peeking over the horizon and bleeding through the glass-smooth sky on the lake, Oakshade's marks are complete.

Mossyrush gives a loud sigh as he leans back from making the final line. His hands are visibly shaking, like he said they might, but despite what must have been great strain he never faltered once. Oakshade can feel her own body shaking too, from the pain and adrenaline in equal measure, and can't fathom how he's keeping it together.

"...May the stars watch you and guide your path, and all the paths you guide in turn," he says, finally, after laying his tools back on their rush mat to be cleaned.

"May I do my duty to them well," she returns, and opens her eyes.

Part of her can't bear to see them yet for fear of what she might think - not that she might hate it, but that she might not be ready to become the person staring back at her. But another, louder part of her knows she already has, and she needs to see her reflection to really understand who that might be.

She tries to push herself up but stumbles, her knees and legs stiff from sitting so long without moving. Mossyrush catches her arm and helps her up instead, letting her lean on his shoulder as she steadies herself on her feet.

"...Thank you," she says, her voice hoarse from being quiet for so long.

"Take it easy," he says back, as she leans her weight back into her own two legs and keeps walking towards the water. "Don't hurt yourself."

"I'll be fine."

Oakshade raises an eyebrow, but doesn't argue - this part is for her to do, however fast or slow she wants to do it. Usually they would be in a ceremonial space, with a bowl of ritual water to cleanse her face and see her reflection in, but with the ritual so short notice they don't have anything like that right now.

Just the willow lake, it's surface growing more and more bright as the sun begins to rise.

They make their way to the lake's edge, Oakshade only hesitating a moment before letting her feet slip into the ice-cold clear water and the soft mud below. She gasps grits her teeth against the cold, clutching on to Mossyrush's tense arm as her legs try to give out again, but she won't let them. Step after step they wade deeper, until she's up to her knees in the lake and able to stand on her own.

"Don't catch a cold either, Oakshade," Mossyrush warns, stopping her from going any deeper. "Quiverpelt will have me doing gathering for a week if you catch a cold because of something I suggested." Oakshade snorts.

"I won't," she says, but her chattering teeth say otherwise. "Can you help me wash my face?"

"Only if you promise to get right back to camp afterwards," Mossyrush says, but he's already dampening a cloth to wipe across her face, hands practiced and gentle against the raw skin.

Oakshade exhales shakily as the cold water stings her new marks, but says nothing as Mossyrush pushes her hair back and pats her brows dry.

"...I can go back to the Willow, if you want to look by yourself."

"You can stay," she says, opening her eyes shakily to look at Mossyrush's worried face, "I might fall on my way back if you don't - joking, joking." She clarifies as a look of genuine concern flashes across the mans face.

And then, she looks down.

The marks on her brow are like a crown of leaves. They blend with her own apprentice marks like a mask, swirling gracefully between one and the other until it's unclear where one starts and the other begins. The color match is almost flawless, the work pristine. Despite her hair having already been peppered with silver and grey, it's like she finally looks her age... it's shocking, in the best way. In a way that she can finally feel like a mentor with.

She feels something welling up inside her, almost an indescribable fullness, before her knees try to give out again and Mossyrush catches her by the shoulders.

"Okay, normally I'd let you process this longer, but not in a lake like this. Let's get you back to camp," he whispers, not wanting to interrupt her thought, but he stops whatever he's about to say next when he sees Oakshade's expression.

She glances up at him and looks about a half a second away from crying, her green eyes big and shiny like the lake water.

"Thank you," she says. Her voice is stronger than it's been all night. "Thank you. This, you... this means a lot, Mossyrush. I don't know if you know how much, but-"

"I do," he says, and he means it. "I did this for many, many warriors back in Tarnclan, and I know. It's... important. And I didn't want you to not have that for yourself just because you were far away from home."

Oakshade sniffles - though wether from the chill from the water, or the genuine emotion, she'll probably never say.

"Thank you."

"...now. Can I get you out of this lake? It might be emotional, but you also need to be healthy to heal, and Quiverpelt'll kill me if I let you catch a cold doing this."

Oakshade blinks, her brain re-registering where they are and what time it is.

"Oh. Right, yes. We should get out of the lake. And do the things."

Mossyrush laughs. "Yes, the things. Like ointments for your face. And sleeping," he emphasizes, holding up a hand against the light and looking towards where the sun is shining from its early morning point along the horizon. "Is it alright if I carry you back up?"

---

Dustykit shuffles his feet at the edge of the ceremony grounds, trying not to cough at the acrid smell of the fire smoke mixed with the ceremonial herbs as Quiverpelt does her communing with Starclan. He's been nervous all day about this ceremony, his stomach tied up in a pile of tangles and knots like the braids Brownfur wove into his long hair just hours before. What if he's not really good enough to become an apprentice? What if Starclan rejects him? What if his new mentor hates him?! The thoughts swirl wildly into one another, blurring into a general sense of anxiety as he gazes across the ceremony grounds at all the clan members who have gathered to see him off.

They're all dressed in their fine naming shirts from the various clans they came from, an eclectic rainbow of shells and bone beads and embroidery that catch the light of the bonfire like stars. Thriftpaw and Auburnpaw watch on from the shadows by their mentors, waving excitedly at him when he catches their eyes. Soon they'll all be peers, apprentices going on patrol and training, having adventures together and becoming mighty warriors... unless he can't do it. Unless he can't become a warrior, and messes it all up, and then--

"Great Starclan!" Quiverpelt's voice booms across the clearing. Despite her older age, the medicine woman looks as formidable as any of the warriors, her dark skin glowing in the bonfire light. "We have called upon you and heard your words, and in return, we ask that you hear our own.

Dustykit feels a push on his shoulders from Brownfur, ushering him to step forwards to meet his fate. He gulps.

The walk to the bonfire from the edge of the circle feels like an eternity. Every single eye is on him, watching him, judging his worthiness... or at least it feels like that, anyway, all dressed up and the center of attention. His footfalls feel heavy as he gets closer and closer to the fire's blazing heat, stopping just short of the stones on the border of the firepit. It feels like an oven, heat radiating into his face, and as he peers across the bright light the only thing he can make out is Quiverpelt's stern face and the faint, ghostly pale shadows of Pipitstar and Lilacspeck beyond.

"Dustykit," she says, less booming but no less heavy with ceremony. "You stand before us today to receive your mentor, and take your first step on the path to becoming a warrior. Do you accept this responsibility to support and defend your clan, and to learn and revere the warrior code always?"

"Y-yes," he says, but it's shaky, and he stiffens hearing his own weak voice. Quiverpelt's brow softens and she inclines her head to him.

"Try again, child," she offers, soft enough that the gathered crowd won't hear it.

"Yes, I do!" he practically shouts, jarring but better than no one being able to hear him at all, and there are a few stray cheers from the other apprentices before the warriors shush them.

Quiverpelt smiles. "Then let your mentor step forwards to accept you."

He can make out Oakshade now across the way, stepping out of the shadows where Pipitstar and Lilacspeck are standing to join Quiverpelt on the opposite side of the fire. Her naming motifs swirl like her tattoos, the tunic and belt covered in polished acorn shells and patterns of oak leaves and her headband stitched with constellations of stars that Dustykit can't recognize. She watches him cooly from across the fire, her green eyes betraying nothing of whatever she might think. Quiverpelt nods as the warrior settles into her place, and pulls out a small handful of herbs that were prepared for the ceremony.

"Ancestors in the stars above us," she calls, this time up towards the darkened night sky where a million twinkling stars shine down from overhead. "This new apprentice has sworn to learn the path of the warrior. We ask you to offer him guidance so that he may walk this path with clear eyes and a strong heart."

A thick pale smoke rises from where the herbs start to burn as she casts them into the fire, filling the air with the scent of camphor and dried leaves. Dustykit squints and holds his breath, trying not to breathe too much of it in. He desperately searches the smoke for any sign that Starclan might be mad at him, for something that says Oakshadow should abandon him as an apprentice... Quiverpelt is silent for what feels like a long time, watching the swirls of smoke disappear up into the sky, and Dustykit's heartbeat feels like a thundering drum in his chest.

But after an eternity, she speaks.

"You will face a darkness, young apprentice."

Dustykit's blood runs cold. A hush falls over the already silent crowd, drowning out everything but Dustykit's own racing thoughts. Is this it? Is this what finally does it? Is he doomed forever because of this omen? Is he--

"Darkness that lingers even when the land is covered in light. A darkness that comes from inside yourself." She points, directly at his chest. "It will try to consume you and drive you from your path, but you must not let it. You must stand up to your fears, even if it hurts at first. Even if you feel you cannot stand against it any more, you must look to the light around you instead of the darkness within."

Dustykit inhales. His hands are shaking. Everyone is still so quiet, but Quiverpelt just looks... sad.

"Starclan has spoken," she says, finally, after watching Dustykit take in the prophecy. "You will face great trials from within, but where there is darkness there must always be light. Those who walk the warrior path will always be able to guide you, should you seek their help." she pauses, letting him take in her own advice, before continuing.

"You may cross the fire and receive your name."

He bows his head to Quiverpelt, and his feet move like he's in a dream. He's surprised he doesn't fall over, given how weak his knees feel, but he manages to stumble his way to where Oakshade is standing with a small bowl and stand up to look her in the eye. She has an odd expression, as if she's finally looking at him for the first time as more than just a child.

"You must trust others, and above all trust yourself," she says, dipping two fingers into the dye in her hand and leaning down to mark his cheeks and nose. "Keep that in mind, and you'll go far, Dustypaw. I'll make sure of it."

Dustypaw nods, silently, shakily, but he can tell he's smiling now - though wether its from nerves or true excitement for the future, it's hard to say - and she smiles back at him. Quiverpelt's staff rattles, cutting through the sounds of the crackling fire and murmuring crowd.

"Let us all greet Willowclan's newest apprentice!" she shouts triumphantly, and the crowd erupts into cheers. Dustypaw turns to face the crowd, to face Pipitstar, to face everyone - they all seem so happy for him, shouting and celebrating his new name. It almost doesn't feel real.