DONT EVER WANT TO SEE THINGS CHANGE
periwinklepaw | 06 months | demi-boy | he/they | physically easy (pacifist) | mentally easy | attack in bold #ccccff
periwinklepaw | 06 months | demi-boy | he/they | physically easy (pacifist) | mentally easy | attack in bold #ccccff
He's running.
He can no longer remember the whys or hows of the situation - only knows to run and to hide and it's coming. What 'it' is, he no longer knows. His senses are overwhelmed, and its almost as though he's drowning in the overwhelming feeling of fear. Pawsteps beat loudly upon the earth - white with frost and cold, the hard earth hidden beneath layers of snow and ice. His heartbeat pounds in time - a steady thump thump thump in the eerie silence of the wastelands before him. He is not sure where exactly here is - he must be somewhere upon the moorlands, for he sees no trees, but the landscape is unfamiliar no matter which way he turns his gaze. He does not know where to go - where is safe, is anywhere safe?
Amidst his confusion, thoughts a tangled mess, churning and crashing and swirling like waves upon a rocky shore, he can feel his pawsteps beginning to slow as weariness catches up to him. His breathes come in short bursts - chest heaving, burning pants that leave his maw gaping. He doesn't think he can make it much farther - doesn't think he can last much longer. He needs to find shelter - safety - anything. Whatever it is, is getting close, and he knows with certainty that if it catches him he will be dead.
Paws stumble upon a hidden obstacle - a root or rock or rabbit hole, whatever it is does not register until it's to late and he's tumbling bodily forwards and down a slope he hadn't known was there. He does not have the time to stand, to catch his breath, to continue his flight before he feels the heat of rancid breath upon his spine, the all encompassing smell of fox, of death upon him already. In what feels like minutes but is probably seconds his head turns to stare up at the beast - a wicked thing of narrow angles and sharp points, a creature of blood toned fur and gnashing teeth and flying drool, a wicked gleam in its amber gaze. And then, for a moment, it's not. For a moment it's sootstar, her gaze scornful, as though he is naught but dirt beneath her paws. For a moment it's wisteriapaw, a bitter frown and a spiteful glare in his eyes. For a moment he thinks - it's himself, a mocking smile upon his face as his eyes flash an almost purple hue.
He feels the moment it pounces upon him - feels the moment it sinks it's fangs into his leg, into his shoulder, into his tail. Feels fur and flesh tear from his body, feels-smells-tastes the blood as is splatters and sprays; staining the monster, staining the snow, staining his pelt. A once white world stained red, red red red. Gasping breaths and sobs slip past without his permission, a spatter of blood filling his mouth with one unfortunate cough - and he can feel as his ribcage is torn open; exposed. Clear gaze stares at the sky overhead, an inky black vastness full of glimmering stars and not a cloud in sight. It's as though it's mocking him in it's beauty for he knows this is the end.
He is dying.
It both hurts more and less than he thought it would.
As gaze slips closed, he wonders who will miss him. Will Moonshadow mourn him, will Hyacinthbreath? Will aspenpaw fall to his side as she had Wisteriapaw? Will his brother be waiting for him in the heavens above, mouth full of harsh words even in death?
His questions remain unanswered, for when he opens his eyes he is no longer in the white winter wasteland, yes, but neither is he in a place of stars. He's back in his nest - it was just a dream. A shuddering breathe slips past his lips as he shuts his eyes tightly, head shaking furiously as he tries to shake off the lingering memories of his not-real death.
Except... somethings not quite right.
It takes him a moment to realize that he's in the medicine den - and yes, his nest was tucked away within last he'd checked but it had been on the sidelines, hidden for safekeeping. He'd been sleeping out under the stars, stuck out in the cold and the damp, at the mercy of the elements ever since he'd became an apprentice. He'd abandoned his nest to protect it from the snow - to protect the things that meant so much to him, the reminders of those long gone. Fur and pressed flowers and smooth stones that meant almost as much as the people and memories they represented.
The den is eerily quiet - he can not see nor hear nor smell anyone; not dandelionwish or vulturemask or even tigerfrost who was ever present these days, watching his friend with suspicious gaze. There is still a lingering scent of herbs in the air, though one in particular overwhelms his senses - a pungent, pine like scent he cannot name the cause of. A faint, bittersweet scent lies hidden beneath that one, and if he focuses hard enough he thinks he can recognize it. Images of sharp leaves and weeping stems, of fluffy yellow and white buds - dandelions.
It's strange, unsettling even. It's not how it's supposed to be, how it should be - it's not how it was just the day before.
And his nest - it's not quite right either, he realizes as he stands, shakily, timidly. He's scared - more so than when he'd been running from the fox-not-fox he realizes, a hysterical noise squeezing its way out of him. Where his nest was made of soft moss and rabbit fur and carefully woven grass, a labor of loves and comfort and home, this one is bright and green and vibrant - the fresh tang of plants and the softer scent of flowers wafting to him even as he stares in shock and the unfamiliar blooms. Instead of moss there is ferns and leaves and clovers. He glances at one and counts one, two, three, for, five leaves upon it. Clusters of bristly blackish-purple flowers with a soft sweet smell, scentless white blooms with yellow centers, purple bell shaped blossoms, pinkish hued chains of buds and small blue-violet flowers fill the new nest as though they have always been there.
Soft paws touch even softer petals, and he feels tears welling up in his eyes - why is he crying? He is not sad - at least, he doesn't think he is. The scent of milk and home and safety is all encompassing, and as he sinks back into the foliage he simply lets the tears fall. There is no need to know why, only to give in to temptation. To feel all the things he has not allowed this past moon. To grieve, to mourn, to cry. To scream and shout and sob and choke out all the venom that has poisoned his every breathe. To let go of the anger and the anguish that fills his mind. To love and hope and wish, and pray. To want. He cries until there is nothing left, until there are no more emotions, no more thoughts. Just a quiet sort of peace, a soothing sense of emptiness. A tranquil feeling of tiredness, lids growing heavy as his breaths even out and slips under.
He sleeps better than he has in moons.
When he wakes in the morning, well rested, the dawn sky is overhead once more and his clanmates clustered around him in the camp where they belong. The dream long since fled his mind, he only feels a sense acceptance, and a newfound determination to continue on. I won't give up, he thinks, and a small smile graces his soft lips.
// wordcount: 1,309
plants mentioned: rosemary, dandelion, fern, aspen leaves, five leaf clover, mourning bride, anemone, hyacinth, wisteria, periwinkle
tw: blood, violence, death, emotional turmoil, slight implications of thoughts of self-harm/suicide read at your own risk, but the most graphic imagery is spoilered
He can no longer remember the whys or hows of the situation - only knows to run and to hide and it's coming. What 'it' is, he no longer knows. His senses are overwhelmed, and its almost as though he's drowning in the overwhelming feeling of fear. Pawsteps beat loudly upon the earth - white with frost and cold, the hard earth hidden beneath layers of snow and ice. His heartbeat pounds in time - a steady thump thump thump in the eerie silence of the wastelands before him. He is not sure where exactly here is - he must be somewhere upon the moorlands, for he sees no trees, but the landscape is unfamiliar no matter which way he turns his gaze. He does not know where to go - where is safe, is anywhere safe?
Amidst his confusion, thoughts a tangled mess, churning and crashing and swirling like waves upon a rocky shore, he can feel his pawsteps beginning to slow as weariness catches up to him. His breathes come in short bursts - chest heaving, burning pants that leave his maw gaping. He doesn't think he can make it much farther - doesn't think he can last much longer. He needs to find shelter - safety - anything. Whatever it is, is getting close, and he knows with certainty that if it catches him he will be dead.
Paws stumble upon a hidden obstacle - a root or rock or rabbit hole, whatever it is does not register until it's to late and he's tumbling bodily forwards and down a slope he hadn't known was there. He does not have the time to stand, to catch his breath, to continue his flight before he feels the heat of rancid breath upon his spine, the all encompassing smell of fox, of death upon him already. In what feels like minutes but is probably seconds his head turns to stare up at the beast - a wicked thing of narrow angles and sharp points, a creature of blood toned fur and gnashing teeth and flying drool, a wicked gleam in its amber gaze. And then, for a moment, it's not. For a moment it's sootstar, her gaze scornful, as though he is naught but dirt beneath her paws. For a moment it's wisteriapaw, a bitter frown and a spiteful glare in his eyes. For a moment he thinks - it's himself, a mocking smile upon his face as his eyes flash an almost purple hue.
He feels the moment it pounces upon him - feels the moment it sinks it's fangs into his leg, into his shoulder, into his tail. Feels fur and flesh tear from his body, feels-smells-tastes the blood as is splatters and sprays; staining the monster, staining the snow, staining his pelt. A once white world stained red, red red red. Gasping breaths and sobs slip past without his permission, a spatter of blood filling his mouth with one unfortunate cough - and he can feel as his ribcage is torn open; exposed. Clear gaze stares at the sky overhead, an inky black vastness full of glimmering stars and not a cloud in sight. It's as though it's mocking him in it's beauty for he knows this is the end.
He is dying.
It both hurts more and less than he thought it would.
As gaze slips closed, he wonders who will miss him. Will Moonshadow mourn him, will Hyacinthbreath? Will aspenpaw fall to his side as she had Wisteriapaw? Will his brother be waiting for him in the heavens above, mouth full of harsh words even in death?
His questions remain unanswered, for when he opens his eyes he is no longer in the white winter wasteland, yes, but neither is he in a place of stars. He's back in his nest - it was just a dream. A shuddering breathe slips past his lips as he shuts his eyes tightly, head shaking furiously as he tries to shake off the lingering memories of his not-real death.
Except... somethings not quite right.
It takes him a moment to realize that he's in the medicine den - and yes, his nest was tucked away within last he'd checked but it had been on the sidelines, hidden for safekeeping. He'd been sleeping out under the stars, stuck out in the cold and the damp, at the mercy of the elements ever since he'd became an apprentice. He'd abandoned his nest to protect it from the snow - to protect the things that meant so much to him, the reminders of those long gone. Fur and pressed flowers and smooth stones that meant almost as much as the people and memories they represented.
The den is eerily quiet - he can not see nor hear nor smell anyone; not dandelionwish or vulturemask or even tigerfrost who was ever present these days, watching his friend with suspicious gaze. There is still a lingering scent of herbs in the air, though one in particular overwhelms his senses - a pungent, pine like scent he cannot name the cause of. A faint, bittersweet scent lies hidden beneath that one, and if he focuses hard enough he thinks he can recognize it. Images of sharp leaves and weeping stems, of fluffy yellow and white buds - dandelions.
It's strange, unsettling even. It's not how it's supposed to be, how it should be - it's not how it was just the day before.
And his nest - it's not quite right either, he realizes as he stands, shakily, timidly. He's scared - more so than when he'd been running from the fox-not-fox he realizes, a hysterical noise squeezing its way out of him. Where his nest was made of soft moss and rabbit fur and carefully woven grass, a labor of loves and comfort and home, this one is bright and green and vibrant - the fresh tang of plants and the softer scent of flowers wafting to him even as he stares in shock and the unfamiliar blooms. Instead of moss there is ferns and leaves and clovers. He glances at one and counts one, two, three, for, five leaves upon it. Clusters of bristly blackish-purple flowers with a soft sweet smell, scentless white blooms with yellow centers, purple bell shaped blossoms, pinkish hued chains of buds and small blue-violet flowers fill the new nest as though they have always been there.
Soft paws touch even softer petals, and he feels tears welling up in his eyes - why is he crying? He is not sad - at least, he doesn't think he is. The scent of milk and home and safety is all encompassing, and as he sinks back into the foliage he simply lets the tears fall. There is no need to know why, only to give in to temptation. To feel all the things he has not allowed this past moon. To grieve, to mourn, to cry. To scream and shout and sob and choke out all the venom that has poisoned his every breathe. To let go of the anger and the anguish that fills his mind. To love and hope and wish, and pray. To want. He cries until there is nothing left, until there are no more emotions, no more thoughts. Just a quiet sort of peace, a soothing sense of emptiness. A tranquil feeling of tiredness, lids growing heavy as his breaths even out and slips under.
He sleeps better than he has in moons.
When he wakes in the morning, well rested, the dawn sky is overhead once more and his clanmates clustered around him in the camp where they belong. The dream long since fled his mind, he only feels a sense acceptance, and a newfound determination to continue on. I won't give up, he thinks, and a small smile graces his soft lips.
// wordcount: 1,309
plants mentioned: rosemary, dandelion, fern, aspen leaves, five leaf clover, mourning bride, anemone, hyacinth, wisteria, periwinkle
tw: blood, violence, death, emotional turmoil, slight implications of thoughts of self-harm/suicide read at your own risk, but the most graphic imagery is spoilered
