- Apr 30, 2023
- 179
- 61
- 28
There exists a frequent fear in Thriftfeather that this will be the rest of his life. He will wake to the same honey-gold sky that he has seen countless times before and watch with quiet apathy as clouds crest the silent horizon. Greenleaf’s heat will never abate, the days will neither lengthen nor shorten from where they now rest. Thriftfeather will blink sleep from his exhausted eyes and not scratch at the faded memories of his dreams. DuskClan will keep him as still and struggling as a tiny thing caught in a silken web.
As he does most mornings, Thriftfeather will settle over and into himself in increments. He will once again look at the sky—he does this predictably, his fear rote—and remind himself to love this place as it is. Emptiness, in all directions, yawn around him with force enough to ache the horizon’s fringes. Absence is noted only by the surrounding: a cavity in a tooth, a hollow between hills, the frayed edges of a wound. This empty was named DuskClan upon arrival and it is given name to mark the lack of WindClan. He had thought WindClan was a lack, once.
He rises in the tired way that he always does and stretches his long body until he feels a pop between his shoulders.
A new rank, Thriftfeather recalls only after he has taken his first few plodding steps of the day—deputy of such a place and to such a group as this one. He misses when he believed in DuskClan, or misses when he believed in anything at all. Instead Thriftfeather’s mind has room only for his baser wants: a full belly, a safe place to rest his head. He wants out of DuskClan just as much as he wishes to remain; a fear that there isn’t a place where such scant wants can be met keeps him in the familiar with the same ferocity as his moral holdings.
He can’t leave the youngest of DuskClan behind and he cannot risk his familiar discomfort for the unknown future.
(Only, thinking of Vulturekit, of Bluefrost, Thriftfeather realizes that he can take that risk and that, despite himself, he already has.)
Thriftfeather settles in half-shadow, dappled by yellow dawn sun through briar, and runs his tongue over his thin flank in a familiar, mindless motion. At once, it feels like a simple choice. The choices he made for himself—killing Ghostwail, talking to Bluefrost, returning Vulturekit—they had been good choices. When allowed the space for it, Thriftfeather knows how to make a good choice. Staying for Hungerkit and Gravelpaw had been a good choice—he wouldn't be deputy otherwise.
Thriftfeather pauses his motion, long strands of fur still caught on his tongue. He had thought being deputy would be a complicating factor but now, frozen in thought, Thriftfeather realizes the ease that he has just been given.
It isn't until Thriftfeather has finished grooming his pelt that he continues the thought. Deputy, he thinks. There had been dissidence in him, before. Now his mind curls around the word with a new understanding of just what it means. Authority is a weapon as pointed as any claw or tooth as long as he learns how to wield it. Authority offers him space enough to allow his bonelike plans room to grow. DuskClan may break under Thriftfeather's actions but after one shuddering breath, after two, after half a dozen or more, Thriftfeather finds peace with the idea.
The future will come for him, whether Thriftfeather is prepared or not. Slowly, but with a certainty that Thriftfeather has rarely felt before, he rises to meet it.
As he does most mornings, Thriftfeather will settle over and into himself in increments. He will once again look at the sky—he does this predictably, his fear rote—and remind himself to love this place as it is. Emptiness, in all directions, yawn around him with force enough to ache the horizon’s fringes. Absence is noted only by the surrounding: a cavity in a tooth, a hollow between hills, the frayed edges of a wound. This empty was named DuskClan upon arrival and it is given name to mark the lack of WindClan. He had thought WindClan was a lack, once.
He rises in the tired way that he always does and stretches his long body until he feels a pop between his shoulders.
A new rank, Thriftfeather recalls only after he has taken his first few plodding steps of the day—deputy of such a place and to such a group as this one. He misses when he believed in DuskClan, or misses when he believed in anything at all. Instead Thriftfeather’s mind has room only for his baser wants: a full belly, a safe place to rest his head. He wants out of DuskClan just as much as he wishes to remain; a fear that there isn’t a place where such scant wants can be met keeps him in the familiar with the same ferocity as his moral holdings.
He can’t leave the youngest of DuskClan behind and he cannot risk his familiar discomfort for the unknown future.
(Only, thinking of Vulturekit, of Bluefrost, Thriftfeather realizes that he can take that risk and that, despite himself, he already has.)
Thriftfeather settles in half-shadow, dappled by yellow dawn sun through briar, and runs his tongue over his thin flank in a familiar, mindless motion. At once, it feels like a simple choice. The choices he made for himself—killing Ghostwail, talking to Bluefrost, returning Vulturekit—they had been good choices. When allowed the space for it, Thriftfeather knows how to make a good choice. Staying for Hungerkit and Gravelpaw had been a good choice—he wouldn't be deputy otherwise.
Thriftfeather pauses his motion, long strands of fur still caught on his tongue. He had thought being deputy would be a complicating factor but now, frozen in thought, Thriftfeather realizes the ease that he has just been given.
It isn't until Thriftfeather has finished grooming his pelt that he continues the thought. Deputy, he thinks. There had been dissidence in him, before. Now his mind curls around the word with a new understanding of just what it means. Authority is a weapon as pointed as any claw or tooth as long as he learns how to wield it. Authority offers him space enough to allow his bonelike plans room to grow. DuskClan may break under Thriftfeather's actions but after one shuddering breath, after two, after half a dozen or more, Thriftfeather finds peace with the idea.
The future will come for him, whether Thriftfeather is prepared or not. Slowly, but with a certainty that Thriftfeather has rarely felt before, he rises to meet it.
DUSKCLAN DEPUTY ✦ GOLDEN TABBY TOM ✦ 16 MOONS ✦ TAGS
