- Jul 15, 2022
- 218
- 35
- 28
The marsh is an undeniably ugly place. It is stagnant, film covered waters and the insects that swarm above. There isn't anything beautiful to be found in that. It is only when the marsh is taken piecemeal that it can be appreciated. Those same stagnant waters reflect the stars in near perfect clarity when the weather allows, and among those insect swarms are vibrant and rare colors — metallic greens and rich blues.
It is details that are beautiful — that are worthy of being loved.
Betonyfrost sits and breathes as if it the only thing she knows how to do. It's heavy air dredged between her clenched and bared teeth. It's Betonyfrost searching for the details when the whole is too much to be lovable.
Foamflowers grow here in thick clusters. They are bloomless towers now, identifiable only by their thick waxy leaves. They have another moon, maybe two, without their distinctive white petals. Still, they perfume the brisk Newleaf breeze with every gust. Betonyfrost blinks and blinks. The smell is too strong, she thinks, it's stinging her eyes.
Her tail doesn't lash so much as it jitters, an excess of energy more than emotion. Strange, because Betonyfrost is exhausted enough that the whole of herself feels weighted with it. If she doesn't hold herself upright she'll surely sink beneath the soil as easily as a frog dives into a green-life covered pond.
Betonyfrost's luck has always been rotten. This feels like a positive, a consolation. It's not Betonyfrost's fault, it's her rotten luck. She looks up because her heart is clenched and she just wants to see Silverpelt, but the sky is the same sickly blue as a jay's egg and sunlight creeps growth across the ground like a catbrier vine stretching up a tree.
It'll be dawn soon, Betonyfrost thinks numbly, but dawn has already come and gone. The world has already woken. The eggs have all hatched and the nestlings are hungry.
"But what am I supposed to do?" Betonyfrost says now. There isn't an answer.
Her body wants, piecemeal. Her teeth want independent from her grimacing mouth to bite something brittle until it snaps. Her claws want to spike out of her skin like thorns blossoming from a stem so that she could cut into the world every time she turns. Her paws want nothing. Betonyfrost wants them to stop shaking.
In the end it is Betonyfrost alone with her ugly marsh. The details are this: curved-arch claws in mud, fur that is sickly-blue and a vine-creep tail, the leaf-wax shine to frost-eaten skin, and none of it is beautiful.
It is details that are beautiful — that are worthy of being loved.
Betonyfrost sits and breathes as if it the only thing she knows how to do. It's heavy air dredged between her clenched and bared teeth. It's Betonyfrost searching for the details when the whole is too much to be lovable.
(—seriously blaming me for this?" He's snarling. The both of them are snarling into one another's face: dry wood ready to ignite.
"Yes!" Betonyfrost shouts, and doesn't notice the crack in her strained voice, "You'll fix this, because it's your fault!"
"Unbelievable! You're unbelievable, you know that? What am I even supposed to—)
"Yes!" Betonyfrost shouts, and doesn't notice the crack in her strained voice, "You'll fix this, because it's your fault!"
"Unbelievable! You're unbelievable, you know that? What am I even supposed to—)
Foamflowers grow here in thick clusters. They are bloomless towers now, identifiable only by their thick waxy leaves. They have another moon, maybe two, without their distinctive white petals. Still, they perfume the brisk Newleaf breeze with every gust. Betonyfrost blinks and blinks. The smell is too strong, she thinks, it's stinging her eyes.
Her tail doesn't lash so much as it jitters, an excess of energy more than emotion. Strange, because Betonyfrost is exhausted enough that the whole of herself feels weighted with it. If she doesn't hold herself upright she'll surely sink beneath the soil as easily as a frog dives into a green-life covered pond.
(—Anyway, you're the one who—" But that's as far as he gets before he is cut off with a gasp. Betonyfrost's.
His head is sharp-angled to the right and his mouth flexes, testing the bleeding muscle of his cheek. Betonyfrost gasps again like she's drowning. When had she scratched him? Her claws flex into the mud, and she wonders with far more viciousness: why did I only scratch him once?
Then he's recovered from either the shock of it or the pain, because he rights his slacking posture and—)
His head is sharp-angled to the right and his mouth flexes, testing the bleeding muscle of his cheek. Betonyfrost gasps again like she's drowning. When had she scratched him? Her claws flex into the mud, and she wonders with far more viciousness: why did I only scratch him once?
Then he's recovered from either the shock of it or the pain, because he rights his slacking posture and—)
Betonyfrost's luck has always been rotten. This feels like a positive, a consolation. It's not Betonyfrost's fault, it's her rotten luck. She looks up because her heart is clenched and she just wants to see Silverpelt, but the sky is the same sickly blue as a jay's egg and sunlight creeps growth across the ground like a catbrier vine stretching up a tree.
It'll be dawn soon, Betonyfrost thinks numbly, but dawn has already come and gone. The world has already woken. The eggs have all hatched and the nestlings are hungry.
(—There's distance between them now. Betonyfrost keeps trying to step closer, and feels every bit as though she is hunting a skittish but injured rodent.
"You can't walk away from this," She says, she's saying, "Don't you dare walk away from this!"
At the same time he's saying, "Insane, foxhearted—!" and he continues on like that. The blood collects at the lowest point of his chin and drips from there at odd intervals.
"What am I even supposed to do?" He says again, like he foolishly expects Betonyfrost to have an answer. He'd been facing Betonyfrost as he backed away, understanding on some instinct not to show Betonyfrost his back, to not run—)
"You can't walk away from this," She says, she's saying, "Don't you dare walk away from this!"
At the same time he's saying, "Insane, foxhearted—!" and he continues on like that. The blood collects at the lowest point of his chin and drips from there at odd intervals.
"What am I even supposed to do?" He says again, like he foolishly expects Betonyfrost to have an answer. He'd been facing Betonyfrost as he backed away, understanding on some instinct not to show Betonyfrost his back, to not run—)
"But what am I supposed to do?" Betonyfrost says now. There isn't an answer.
Her body wants, piecemeal. Her teeth want independent from her grimacing mouth to bite something brittle until it snaps. Her claws want to spike out of her skin like thorns blossoming from a stem so that she could cut into the world every time she turns. Her paws want nothing. Betonyfrost wants them to stop shaking.
(—gets away eventually, and Betonyfrost is left grasping at empty space. It isn't her fault that she doesn't know how to hold something without using her claws, no one has ever shown her how to be gentle—)
(—should be a contradiction, but love and anger are both fevers. Betonyfrost has always burned—)
(—be so stupid? She should have known this—)
In the end it is Betonyfrost alone with her ugly marsh. The details are this: curved-arch claws in mud, fur that is sickly-blue and a vine-creep tail, the leaf-wax shine to frost-eaten skin, and none of it is beautiful.
shadowclan warrior | blue mackerel tabby | 18 moons | tags
