- Sep 9, 2022
- 583
- 75
- 28
wordcount: 1366
cw/tw: breif mentions of blood, child abandonment; heavy use of symbolism on topics of death, loss, grief, and change
cw/tw: breif mentions of blood, child abandonment; heavy use of symbolism on topics of death, loss, grief, and change
Looking at the pictures I keep on my shelf —
It's been three days since the young warrior has slept. Three sunrises, three sunsets, three nights - fear lingering, the anxious beat and pound of his heart and his mind keeping him awake. Wolfsong has found been given a cure, and his friends are getting better - and yet, why does this terror linger? Sharp teeth worry cheeks and lips and claws until they bleed, his pacing becomes an endless thing, mindless and frantic. Until finally some one snaps - shuffling him off into his nest with sharp remarks, a blurred mess of words like 'useless' and 'sleep' that he already can no longer recall. He's not certain how long it takes him to finally fall asleep, blue eyes turned to the heavens as he gazes at the bottomless pool of black overhead, stars bathing him in their pale glow.
When blue eyes open once more, it is to a sight utterly unfamiliar.
If he were to give it a location, perhaps periwinklebreee would claim it to be fourtrees - or the path to it, at least. And yet, the great towering oaks are nowhere in sight, instead only birch and thorn trunks litter his path, gleaming pale in the low light. It's disorienting - this unfamiliarity, and the boy can only rock on his paws, spinning about as his breath creates clouds into the cold air. Every which way, bramble and gorse locks his path - as tangled and intertwine as though they are one and the same, except - except that's not quite right. Because there's a path underpaw, hidden by leaf litter and snow.
Curiosity gets the better of him - or perhaps it's something else that guides his small paws, possesses him to follow it as he weaves and winds his way, squeezing beneath a gap that makes its sudden appearance at the end. The otherwise id even stranger - warm, like spring, flowers abundant. Some on long stems are unfamiliar - pale white buds, a strange smell of mice. Others, he knows well - a smattering of daisies, the golden glow of marigold.
Despite the fading light, the boy feels strangely at peace here - like e doesn't want to leave. Instead, eyes only widen as shapes begin to flutter and flicker. Stars brought to life? No - just fireflies, though it's been so long since he's seen them, he'd almost forgotten their glow. A beaming grin, an innocent laugh - ink dipped paws reaching out to catch them, a childish chase, an innocent dance. Time flows strangely here - it feels like both an eternity and all too soon that he thinks he finally manages it, softly cupping one of the insects between his paws and against the ground. Whiskers quivering and eyes wide, he waits with bated breath - a slow movement, a nervous reveal.
Nothing.
Or... not nothing, but no lightning bug - instead, he finds only delicate petals, shifting softly along with the soft warmth of his gasp. Violently red flowers on soft green stems, each petal slim and slight - five, he thinks, counting them absentmindedly. A quiet hum, an excited giggle - sounds slipping out that he'd not known himself capable of making. He'd missed - he thinks, watching them dance above above, and now they're all gone, fading from his sight.
It's a pitiful noise that catches his attention, soft and wuffling - a sound he knows well. But - why would there be a kit here, in this strange place? Where is it's mother - or is she here somewhere too, hidden among the strange flowers beneath the blackened sky.
Pawsteps are light - careful cautious, filled with a tension he hadn't realized he'd ever released until it had come back full force. Is it anticipation, he wonders, or fear that makes his heart pump and his blood rush. The tall grass quivers, as easily bowled over by his delicate frame as it is the wind, and he can only stare.
Milk scent thick, so much so that it nearly drowns out the taste of his own, and an unfamiliar bundle. A pelt of fur that upon waking, the boy finds he can no longer recall - eyes closed and ears flat. To young to be here - to young to be alone, abandoned.
Like him.
His chest hurts - why does it hurt? The bundle of fur is smaller than him, but only just, and the boy can only coo and shush when it mewls, crying for a mother he's not sure will come back. ""Hush, hush, mother will be back soon," he doesn't know why he tells it that - he doesn't think she will. He's waiting for his too, he remembers - how long has he been waiting? She's gone - they're gone... not coming back. A frown twitches on his lips, tired eyes staring off into the distance as he coils around the new kid - a strange child, simply there. He thinks dust was like that too - just there in the camp one day, with no mom and no dad in sight. "You can come home with us, I think - maybe," he sounds pitiful to hos own ears, high-pitched voice weary and uncertain.
He's just - he's so tired. And thinking is hard, and it hurts - why does it hurt? He'd not noticed it at first, but his limbs feel of stone, heavy and numb, a fire searing through his pelt even as eyelids droop and head bobs. No - he can't sleep now... he's - he's waiting he thinks. But - what had he been waiting for? To tired to think anymore, he begins to slip.
Head slams forward with a thunk, a painful motion that has him jolting to his paws with a sharp gasp and a flood of dizziness. Pale dawn light, the soft sound of snores - it takes longer than he wishes to admit to realize he's back in windclans camp. It'd been a dream - only a dream. And what a strange dream it'd been - a child, and flowers, and... a forest? Already, he can feel the warmth and the pain slipping away as weary mind comes into focus.
Whatever - it'd only been a dream, it can't have possibly been important. Joints snap and limbs pop as he rolls them, stretching - he feels creaky and stiff, like a strong breeze would be enough to topple him. Despite managing to finally catch a few hours of sleep, he knows to try and do so again would be useless - and so blackened paws carry him away, out of the gorse walls and into the dew-soaked moorlands.
Pink tongue flicks, grazing sharp teeth with a wince - the taste of bitter bile and morning breath as unpleasant as ever, leaving him parched. Perhaps, before his morning hunt he'll seek out a puddle to quench his thirst - to cool his dry throat and heavy tongue.
It doesn't take long before he finds a place to rest, eyes closing as he laps at the cool water, refreshing and awakening. But when he opens them, he feels only fear - the clear water has turned red, ripples dancing across the surface until his face is obscured and all he can see is his blackened paws - no, not black, but red. Red, like blood, like death.
By the time he even gasps, flailing and floundering backwards in his shock, it's already gone - vanished in a blink of an eye, as though it was never there at all. Maybe - maybe it wasn't. Maybe he's still just tired - certainly, that must be it. A trick of his eyes, and the early morning light. But the more he stares at that puddle and it's reflection, stares at the mirrored image of the stars fading into the pale gold sky, the more he feels as though they are laughing. Mocking him once more with their strange and cryptic warnings.
He stays there, staring at that puddle until the sun rises and the stars vanish into the heavens, but still he is shaken. Limbs tremble long into the day, long after he's hunted his fill and patrolled the borders, and long after paw have carried him all the way home. Even longer still, he quakes, rabbit hearted, until at last the lull of sleep takes him once more, dragging him into the turbulent crashing waves of his nightmares.
Red - like blood, like death.
— 'Cause it's been so long since I've looked like myself