- Apr 30, 2023
- 227
- 93
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There is always something to send Thriftpaw back then. The expansive blue sky fading into a honeysick amber or the way the loose sand in camp burns against his moor-roughened pads after sitting beneath the sun. A word, a sound, the acrid scent of heat on lilac: Thriftpaw somehow exists in the present while half of his mind has been left in the past.
Thriftpaw's mother had stood at the smaller side of average, but when his memory visits him, she stands massive; a mountain to Thriftpaw's hill. With the benefit of hindsight Thriftpaw thinks he should have paid more attention to her, but at the moment he's nothing more than Thrift, still a kit and still inexcusably stupid to the function of the world. The moor is colored yellow by Newleaf, full of burgeoning grasses and tufty flowers that will soon grow well over Thrift's head. It is all delightful in its newness; he cares more about red berries and whirring grasshoppers than the soft scoldings his mother offers when he strays too far.
And then it changes.
When Thrift next looks at his mother, she is lowered at her shoulders and her head is craned forward, her white-tipped ears moving opposite to one another, in every direction. Thrift catches her fear without understanding it. Even from two foxlengths away, he can see the way her whiskers tremble. He stops batting at the swaying head of some wiry grass and approaches her. In tandem, she steps sideways towards him, determined to place herself between whatever unseen danger she has sensed and Thrift.
She lifts him by his scruff — Thrift is still small enough that she can do this with little effort, and young enough that he doesn't complain — and then she places him down almost immediately. His mother nudges his flank with her nose, pushes him backwards, and Thrift needs to look up to see the overhanging gorse branches. Understanding, Thrift backs up until his rump hits the stem.
"Best behavior," His mother warns, and turns away.
It's all Thriftpaw has of her voice now. In the present, he thinks of it often; stern and wary, a familiar whisper in his ears keeping him safe. She had meant many things by it, and in the past Thrift understands this. He knows it means to be quiet and still. He knows it means to wait. His heart races; it has never settled from this.
His mother creeps away; Thrift's vision of her is obscured by the tangle of willowy new branches and harsh thorns. He can only see her larger movements: the way her tail flicks wildly and the abrupt jerk of her head. Thriftpaw had told Ghostwail once that he had seen what she did. Now, Thrift watches in uncomprehending silence: he sees what Ghostwail does. His mother makes a sound, the start of a word cut off before it could become anything more than a choked gasp. His mother makes a sound and Thrift sees what Ghostwail does to her.
What happened feels so obvious to Thriftpaw now, but in the moment Thrift hadn't known he should be mourning. He's frightened and he's confused and he's even a little curious. He leans, tries to see around the gorse's tangled branches, and then swallows a yelp when one of the thorns pierces clean through his ear. He jerks himself free, but it is already too late — when Thrift looks back to the world outside his sanctuary, he's looking directly into red eyes.
There are things Thriftpaw had wished he'd done in hindsight. He wishes he had arched his back and fluffed his fur. He wishes he'd tried to score Ghostwail's face with his kitten-sharp claws, and when she had scruffed him, he wishes he had tried to squirm his way free. He wishes he had gotten away before he'd gotten to know her, because now that Thriftpaw knows her, he doubts he can do any of those things.
Instead Thrift flattens himself as if he could still hide. He doesn't try to scratch her or get away or do anything at all. She lifts him by his scruff and Thrift is small enough that she can do this with little effort and he is young enough that he doesn't consider the possibility that he could be anything but limp. She carries him past what she had done, and Thrift's world crumbles into noncomprehension. He doesn't realize he should be mourning — he's known death only in the freshkill his mother would offer him.
Ghostwail walks him past his mother, and Thrift is incapable of seeing her as a corpse.
Thriftpaw snaps back to the present.
The corpse.
He doesn't know what sent him back. There are a countless number of things that do. He doesn't know why his memories bite him. He stretches his paws — grown so far from when he was a kitten — and his rabbit-heart doesn't slow. He isn't then. He's in camp. He's in conversation.
"Sorry," Thriftpaw says to the other apprentice, "Sorry, I—?"
He needs to go. Normally Thriftpaw would slink into his nest and hide until he is settled, but it isn't safe here. The sun shines down on his back, lighting him golden. Thriftpaw turns in a half circle. He wants to go home; it isn't safe here. How could anyone feel safe here? Thriftpaw is good at redirecting his thoughts, but when he tries he hears the start of a sound and he wonders what it could have been had it been allowed to finish. Thriftpaw turns in another circle, but camp is surrounded by gorse thorns. He's trying to avoid thorns.
"Sorry," Thriftpaw repeats like he is breathless. He's weaving around his peers, and whatever it is they have to say to him is lost in the rush of blood in his numb ears. He wants to go home.
A warrior stops him before he can leave. Standing guard — she steps in his path and watches him with a severe expression.
"Sorry, I just need—!" Thriftpaw tries to step around her, but she turns in time with him. He can't be around here right now, "I need out, I need out."
The warrior is speaking to him, but the words are lost to Thriftpaw. He needs out. There is only his heartbeat and fearscent; Thriftpaw needs out. He drops down until his belly is touching the sand, launches himself gracelessly between the warrior's legs, and once on the other side he runs through the gorse lined tunnel and into the world beyond.
"The corpse," Thriftpaw gasps as he jerks awake.
It's dark. Thriftpaw doesn't remember returning to camp, but he's curled in his own disheveled nest. To his left, a sleeping apprentice rolls and grumbles, but doesn't stir beyond that. The camp guard, a different warrior than the one who had been there earlier, eyes Thriftpaw with an open curiosity. Thriftpaw offers the warrior an embarrassed nod, then turns his attention to his folded paws.
He's never considered his mother's corpse before. Ghostwail certainly didn't bury it, she'd walked past it as if she hadn't even noticed, and to Thriftpaw's knowledge no one else had ever mentioned finding a body. That wouldn't be something that goes unmentioned. Where did it go?
Ghostwail had claimed to have found Thriftpaw beneath a bush. A true statement, if not completely devoid of context. But she had also claimed that Thriftpaw was abandoned — a lie. Ghostwail was lying when she said that. Thriftpaw digs his claws into his long-ruined nest and then, with a self conscious glance at the still-curious camp guard, forces himself to relax. The blind panic from earlier is gone, replaced with a wary exhaustion. There isn't any need for Thriftpaw to scratch at this line of thinking; there isn't any need to get himself worked up again.
He rests his chin back on his paws with a soft sigh. Thriftpaw knows what he saw, even if it was blocked through thin needles and thorns, and even with the distance of time to fade his other memories. It doesn't matter if Thriftpaw was the only one to notice the body: he's the only one to notice a lot of the things Ghostwail does. As he tries to dismiss the new doubts that ease there way into his mind,
Thriftpaw's mother had stood at the smaller side of average, but when his memory visits him, she stands massive; a mountain to Thriftpaw's hill. With the benefit of hindsight Thriftpaw thinks he should have paid more attention to her, but at the moment he's nothing more than Thrift, still a kit and still inexcusably stupid to the function of the world. The moor is colored yellow by Newleaf, full of burgeoning grasses and tufty flowers that will soon grow well over Thrift's head. It is all delightful in its newness; he cares more about red berries and whirring grasshoppers than the soft scoldings his mother offers when he strays too far.
And then it changes.
When Thrift next looks at his mother, she is lowered at her shoulders and her head is craned forward, her white-tipped ears moving opposite to one another, in every direction. Thrift catches her fear without understanding it. Even from two foxlengths away, he can see the way her whiskers tremble. He stops batting at the swaying head of some wiry grass and approaches her. In tandem, she steps sideways towards him, determined to place herself between whatever unseen danger she has sensed and Thrift.
She lifts him by his scruff — Thrift is still small enough that she can do this with little effort, and young enough that he doesn't complain — and then she places him down almost immediately. His mother nudges his flank with her nose, pushes him backwards, and Thrift needs to look up to see the overhanging gorse branches. Understanding, Thrift backs up until his rump hits the stem.
"Best behavior," His mother warns, and turns away.
It's all Thriftpaw has of her voice now. In the present, he thinks of it often; stern and wary, a familiar whisper in his ears keeping him safe. She had meant many things by it, and in the past Thrift understands this. He knows it means to be quiet and still. He knows it means to wait. His heart races; it has never settled from this.
His mother creeps away; Thrift's vision of her is obscured by the tangle of willowy new branches and harsh thorns. He can only see her larger movements: the way her tail flicks wildly and the abrupt jerk of her head. Thriftpaw had told Ghostwail once that he had seen what she did. Now, Thrift watches in uncomprehending silence: he sees what Ghostwail does. His mother makes a sound, the start of a word cut off before it could become anything more than a choked gasp. His mother makes a sound and Thrift sees what Ghostwail does to her.
What happened feels so obvious to Thriftpaw now, but in the moment Thrift hadn't known he should be mourning. He's frightened and he's confused and he's even a little curious. He leans, tries to see around the gorse's tangled branches, and then swallows a yelp when one of the thorns pierces clean through his ear. He jerks himself free, but it is already too late — when Thrift looks back to the world outside his sanctuary, he's looking directly into red eyes.
There are things Thriftpaw had wished he'd done in hindsight. He wishes he had arched his back and fluffed his fur. He wishes he'd tried to score Ghostwail's face with his kitten-sharp claws, and when she had scruffed him, he wishes he had tried to squirm his way free. He wishes he had gotten away before he'd gotten to know her, because now that Thriftpaw knows her, he doubts he can do any of those things.
Instead Thrift flattens himself as if he could still hide. He doesn't try to scratch her or get away or do anything at all. She lifts him by his scruff and Thrift is small enough that she can do this with little effort and he is young enough that he doesn't consider the possibility that he could be anything but limp. She carries him past what she had done, and Thrift's world crumbles into noncomprehension. He doesn't realize he should be mourning — he's known death only in the freshkill his mother would offer him.
Ghostwail walks him past his mother, and Thrift is incapable of seeing her as a corpse.
Thriftpaw snaps back to the present.
The corpse.
He doesn't know what sent him back. There are a countless number of things that do. He doesn't know why his memories bite him. He stretches his paws — grown so far from when he was a kitten — and his rabbit-heart doesn't slow. He isn't then. He's in camp. He's in conversation.
"Sorry," Thriftpaw says to the other apprentice, "Sorry, I—?"
He needs to go. Normally Thriftpaw would slink into his nest and hide until he is settled, but it isn't safe here. The sun shines down on his back, lighting him golden. Thriftpaw turns in a half circle. He wants to go home; it isn't safe here. How could anyone feel safe here? Thriftpaw is good at redirecting his thoughts, but when he tries he hears the start of a sound and he wonders what it could have been had it been allowed to finish. Thriftpaw turns in another circle, but camp is surrounded by gorse thorns. He's trying to avoid thorns.
"Sorry," Thriftpaw repeats like he is breathless. He's weaving around his peers, and whatever it is they have to say to him is lost in the rush of blood in his numb ears. He wants to go home.
A warrior stops him before he can leave. Standing guard — she steps in his path and watches him with a severe expression.
"Sorry, I just need—!" Thriftpaw tries to step around her, but she turns in time with him. He can't be around here right now, "I need out, I need out."
The warrior is speaking to him, but the words are lost to Thriftpaw. He needs out. There is only his heartbeat and fearscent; Thriftpaw needs out. He drops down until his belly is touching the sand, launches himself gracelessly between the warrior's legs, and once on the other side he runs through the gorse lined tunnel and into the world beyond.
— • —
"The corpse," Thriftpaw gasps as he jerks awake.
It's dark. Thriftpaw doesn't remember returning to camp, but he's curled in his own disheveled nest. To his left, a sleeping apprentice rolls and grumbles, but doesn't stir beyond that. The camp guard, a different warrior than the one who had been there earlier, eyes Thriftpaw with an open curiosity. Thriftpaw offers the warrior an embarrassed nod, then turns his attention to his folded paws.
He's never considered his mother's corpse before. Ghostwail certainly didn't bury it, she'd walked past it as if she hadn't even noticed, and to Thriftpaw's knowledge no one else had ever mentioned finding a body. That wouldn't be something that goes unmentioned. Where did it go?
Ghostwail had claimed to have found Thriftpaw beneath a bush. A true statement, if not completely devoid of context. But she had also claimed that Thriftpaw was abandoned — a lie. Ghostwail was lying when she said that. Thriftpaw digs his claws into his long-ruined nest and then, with a self conscious glance at the still-curious camp guard, forces himself to relax. The blind panic from earlier is gone, replaced with a wary exhaustion. There isn't any need for Thriftpaw to scratch at this line of thinking; there isn't any need to get himself worked up again.
He rests his chin back on his paws with a soft sigh. Thriftpaw knows what he saw, even if it was blocked through thin needles and thorns, and even with the distance of time to fade his other memories. It doesn't matter if Thriftpaw was the only one to notice the body: he's the only one to notice a lot of the things Ghostwail does. As he tries to dismiss the new doubts that ease there way into his mind,
Thriftpaw falls asleep.
WINDCLAN APPRENTICE ✦ GOLDEN TABBY TOM ✦ 6 MOONS
