- Sep 29, 2023
- 94
- 22
- 8
˚₊‧ ⛧ He’d made him promise not to tell anyone before they slipped out that evening. He didn’t know why he asked or why he wanted him to come. He’d always had trouble with secrets, though. It was like his body was a narrow tunnel—everything fluttered about inside it like a claustrophobic flock of bats, flapping leathery wings and shoving mousey little bodies into stone walls more and more frantically until they burst out into the open air. Not that this was a particularly important secret, but even still, he felt twitchy with it living inside of him. The little bat was panicking and sweating its wings off.
Perhaps he should wonder instead why she said yes. This was a matter that involved another little animal that lived in his body, something that felt around for something to hold onto, that twisted around for closeness. A constrictor, it was curled in on itself now, pressing and pressing until it turned itself into little more than a ball of knots. He tried not to think too hard about it, but the constrictor only grew tighter.
He kept asking. They kept saying yes.
The Burnt Sycamore always felt farther away when they traveled in silence. They got there eventually, the darkened sky an over-ripened plum canvas for the speckles of stars to peak through. ”Cicadaflight said he’d like shells, but the only shells around here are snail shells sooo….” Ashenfall breaks the silence to settle the thin, cleaned out husks along the edges of the resting place of someone they’d never met. He hardly batted an eye at that nowadays, maintaining space for strangers was in many ways much easier than the upkeep of those he knew. ”...It’s the thought that counts, right?”
It was a kinder sort of place, Starclan. Or so he was told. Prey and peace ruled a starry forest, and he assumed it gave its residents enough space in their hearts to find grace for humble offerers of empty snail shells. Even those who, in life, were referred to as “The Mad River King”. This was optimistic, yes. Ashenfall immediately feels bad for assuming the thoughts of a dead man, and steps back once more.
And once more, his flank finds theirs. The knot tightens in on itself. He looks out toward somewhere he can’t pinpoint, just past the designation of Shadowclan territory. Granitepelt’s body laid out there, tossed into a hole to rot. Well, this was technically the case for nearly everyone, but he could swear that the hole was colder in this case, less forgiving. Would there be grace to be found in the stars for him? No one could say. He supposed they hoped the answer was 'no'. It was easier to ponder upon Starclan in simpler terms, not think about the hypothetical line between those who were worthy and those who weren't. Anyways, Shadowclanners weren’t particularly known for their piousness in the best of cases. Better to just not think about these things.
The grave was unmarked—would remain that way, so it was easier to forget. Even now Ashenfall had trouble remembering whereabouts it sat in that middling place between the shrubland and marshes. It wasn't like he cared, not really. Ashenfall was as eager to forget the monster as any other clanmate, and he wouldn’t waste his energy concerned with the honor of the place his body resided.
If Flintwish asked, he would go, though. If only to see it. This he knew. The “why” eluded him, still. Well, no, it didn’t—he was just lying to himself in his own head, like someone would hear it.
She hasn’t asked, though.
Still, the feeling tightens ever more and he can feel it pressing against his lungs, shortening his breath like they were in the depths of leafbare and not the height of greenleaf. They were close and he hasn’t said anything all this time. They were close and he was being unfair. Secrets bothered him, yet he couldn’t seem to rid himself of them completely. He opens his mouth anyways.
”You know I don’t hate you, right?” this was… a low baseline to cross, it made him cringe knowing it was necessary. ”And… I didn’t hate you.” Before. During. If that made much of a difference. ”I’m just an asshole.” Yesterday, today, tomorrow. A perpetual state of the universe.
He wasn’t a liar, not usually. He hated a lot of things, but he said he hated more. He hated the sad hopeless look on Starlingheart’s face that day, the feeling of no one to hold onto, the empty space where he knew memory should reside, the relentless punishment he received from the heavens above in the moons that followed. He didn’t hate him, though.
Perhaps he should wonder instead why she said yes. This was a matter that involved another little animal that lived in his body, something that felt around for something to hold onto, that twisted around for closeness. A constrictor, it was curled in on itself now, pressing and pressing until it turned itself into little more than a ball of knots. He tried not to think too hard about it, but the constrictor only grew tighter.
He kept asking. They kept saying yes.
The Burnt Sycamore always felt farther away when they traveled in silence. They got there eventually, the darkened sky an over-ripened plum canvas for the speckles of stars to peak through. ”Cicadaflight said he’d like shells, but the only shells around here are snail shells sooo….” Ashenfall breaks the silence to settle the thin, cleaned out husks along the edges of the resting place of someone they’d never met. He hardly batted an eye at that nowadays, maintaining space for strangers was in many ways much easier than the upkeep of those he knew. ”...It’s the thought that counts, right?”
It was a kinder sort of place, Starclan. Or so he was told. Prey and peace ruled a starry forest, and he assumed it gave its residents enough space in their hearts to find grace for humble offerers of empty snail shells. Even those who, in life, were referred to as “The Mad River King”. This was optimistic, yes. Ashenfall immediately feels bad for assuming the thoughts of a dead man, and steps back once more.
And once more, his flank finds theirs. The knot tightens in on itself. He looks out toward somewhere he can’t pinpoint, just past the designation of Shadowclan territory. Granitepelt’s body laid out there, tossed into a hole to rot. Well, this was technically the case for nearly everyone, but he could swear that the hole was colder in this case, less forgiving. Would there be grace to be found in the stars for him? No one could say. He supposed they hoped the answer was 'no'. It was easier to ponder upon Starclan in simpler terms, not think about the hypothetical line between those who were worthy and those who weren't. Anyways, Shadowclanners weren’t particularly known for their piousness in the best of cases. Better to just not think about these things.
The grave was unmarked—would remain that way, so it was easier to forget. Even now Ashenfall had trouble remembering whereabouts it sat in that middling place between the shrubland and marshes. It wasn't like he cared, not really. Ashenfall was as eager to forget the monster as any other clanmate, and he wouldn’t waste his energy concerned with the honor of the place his body resided.
If Flintwish asked, he would go, though. If only to see it. This he knew. The “why” eluded him, still. Well, no, it didn’t—he was just lying to himself in his own head, like someone would hear it.
She hasn’t asked, though.
Still, the feeling tightens ever more and he can feel it pressing against his lungs, shortening his breath like they were in the depths of leafbare and not the height of greenleaf. They were close and he hasn’t said anything all this time. They were close and he was being unfair. Secrets bothered him, yet he couldn’t seem to rid himself of them completely. He opens his mouth anyways.
”You know I don’t hate you, right?” this was… a low baseline to cross, it made him cringe knowing it was necessary. ”And… I didn’t hate you.” Before. During. If that made much of a difference. ”I’m just an asshole.” Yesterday, today, tomorrow. A perpetual state of the universe.
He wasn’t a liar, not usually. He hated a lot of things, but he said he hated more. He hated the sad hopeless look on Starlingheart’s face that day, the feeling of no one to hold onto, the empty space where he knew memory should reside, the relentless punishment he received from the heavens above in the moons that followed. He didn’t hate him, though.
- OOC:
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ashenkit.ashenpaw. ashenfall
— he/him. 16mo warrior of shadowclan. formerly mentored by smogmaw
— smogmaw xhalfshade. littermate to applejaw, swansong & garlicheart. older brother of thornpaw, halfpaw, and laurelpaw
— a stout, longhaired blue torbie w/ pale blue and amber eyes
— sarcastic, sharp-eyed, sulky, nostalgic, faithful, impulsive, candid, provocative, remorseful
— "speech", thoughts
— penned by eezy
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