- Jun 1, 2023
- 135
- 28
- 28
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With home so close, hardly any distance at all compared to what they've already covered, Luckypaw should feel more...something, he thinks. Excited, relieved, just plain happy - something positive and overwhelming, emotion brimming up and out of him, and yet here he is, plodding along just the same as ever. Sure, he'll be glad to be back home (the first night back in his nest will be blessed by the stars themselves, he's certain), cure in tow for those still suffering, and it's not as though he isn't relieved at the thought, it's just - not as prominent as it should be, he thinks. They'd conquered the mountains themselves, kept each other safe from danger after danger, but with everything they'd lost - everyone they'd lost, and with some of the others staying back, taking a slower route with the wounded, he can't help but turn his anxious thoughts all around, back towards where they've been and towards where they're going all at once. Are they okay? Has there been any trouble, trouble that their group could have helped with? When they all reunite, will everybody still be there? By now, he's worn the thoughts more than thin, and yet still, they prod at him, surfacing back up every time he turns to notice that there are fewer cats than usual. It sets him on edge, having fewer bodies around than he's used to, and he won't lie and say he doesn't miss the company, either, even if he's still pretty sure that's not something he's supposed to feel. One more swirl of strange emotion to add to his insides, he supposes, though missing his not-quite-clanmates doesn't seem as inherently wrong as it used to by far.
There's a buzz in the air, jumping from cat to cat and emboldening their steps as they draw ever near to home, and he's sure the WindClanners must feel it most of all, what with stumbling upon the moorlands once again, and maybe even some residual energy from the dog chase, too. Not that he had much to spare after that - everything in him had been used up in evading his pursuer, every scrap of energy and power and will sent straight to his pumping legs and beating heart and heaving lungs, sending him rocketing forward faster than he'd ever thought he could be. Honestly, Luckypaw hopes he never has to be that fast again - the feeling of flying just isn't worth everything else that comes with it, in his opinion, and he'd much rather stick to what he knows underground than anything else. Well, in theory, that is, since the thought of the tunnels back home still conjures up dark and dreary and heavy imagery that's a little much even for the tunnels he doesn't know by heart yet. The pit in his stomach is still there, rising back up no matter how hard he tries to suppress it, but it's faded a little bit by now, at least, so maybe by the time they actually do make it back things will be fine. Everything will go back to normal eventually, he's sure, even if normal looks different than how they'd left it; one cat in place of another, one spot left and then filled in one fell swoop. Everybody else will have had a chance to make it through the hard parts of Badgermoon's and Curlewnose's betrayal, surely, and so maybe it won't even feel all that prevalent; maybe there won't be eyes following them wherever they go, watching out for signs of another traitorous future.
Even though he'd been lucky (stars, he'd been lucky, just as lucky as his namesake) in escaping the dogs wholly unscathed, he still feels exhausted, no amount of sleep enough to make up for that and the moon and then some of constant travel they'd all been subjected to. He'd never been at the front of the procession in the first place, but now more than ever he takes up a position near the rear, tired muscles keeping pace and nothing more, even on the springy grass that feels like it's spurring them all onwards. Perhaps it's his location near the rear that allows him to spot it so quickly, or perhaps it's just the start of some new lucky streak; either way, something flutters in the corner of Luckypaw's vision, and as his head snaps around to face it, preparing to cringe away from some new threat that's here to delay them once and for all, he's left stuck in place for a moment, trying to reconcile what he sees before him. They'd seen fireflies on the way back, sure, but it had been warmer, then, and they'd probably been in a place that was more accommodating to the insects. These butterflies, floating as if in a small flock - for that's what the motion was, butterflies - have no excuse, no kind weather or pervasive shelter surrounding them. They shouldn't be here, he's pretty sure, and yet against all odds, here they are, delicate wings carrying them towards the weary group all the same.
"Look at that, Scorchpaw! There's butterflies!" He calls out instinctively towards his littermate, the absence of collected wings almost seeming to burn and come alive. One set left back home for safekeeping, collected along three other pairs of paws just as familiar as his own, and the other...well, he hadn't noticed it in the moment, but Luckypaw is certain that set must have been lost in the rockslide, or somewhere just after, as the wings had been suspiciously absent the next time light hit his eyes. Still a little dumbfounded that there are butterflies here at all and not especially willing to slow down their group anymore than they've already been chasing after them like a kit, he just watches for a moment, those little blazes of color winging on ahead as though there's nothing else at all in the world they should be doing. Suddenly, intensely, he misses home - he misses Rumblepaw, and Frostpaw, and Rattleheart and Rabbitclaw and Thriftpaw and Cygnetstare and everybody else and the moor grass so similar to that under his paws and the deep gouges in the dirt and the dark and chilly tunnels and -
And there's a butterfly, right there, dancing right in front of his face, startling him out of his sudden wellspring of emotion. On instinct more than anything, he gives it a swipe, quickly snagging one of the wings and bringing it down, and belatedly he realizes that it's blue - not quite the same blue as Scorchpaw's, worn proudly in contrast to the one he still had hidden away, but blue nonetheless. "It kinda looks like yours, doesn't it?" Tearing his gaze away from the limp form now laid forever-still before him, he searches out the splash of color, lingering a heartbeat or so too long on the split newly-carved across her face. Though he tries to focus on the butterflies, he can't help but wonder - why had it been Scorchpaw that had been caught by the dogs, and him by the rocks? Would it have changed anything, if they had been in each other's places? Though different, they each bear a permanent reminder of the trip, and even as he smiles pleasantly for the first time since they'd all split off and thinks of scarred faces and crooked tails, he remembers the rest of the butterflies, heading onward as though they have some sort of great purpose - kind of like them, he supposes. Maybe it was lucky to come across the butterflies, lucky to be reminded so strongly of why he has to make it home even when his reason falters, lucky to be returning home with only one outward scar apiece; maybe, just maybe, returning home at all is lucky. He thinks he could feel lucky right now, at least a little bit, to even be standing here, breathing.
Inevitably, things will go wrong again - they'll run into more trouble, things won't be the same as how they left them, something terrible will happen again and again and again into the future - but maybe things will go right again, too. They've made it this far, whether it be by the intervention of StarClan or a lot of fortunate outcomes to unfortunate situations (and really, what's the difference between those two?), and surely they'll keep on making it, even when things get bad. Just like the butterflies, they'll cling on, and as he nestles his prize into his fur for safekeeping, Luckypaw certainly feels connected to his namesake in a way that he hasn't really experienced before.
There's a buzz in the air, jumping from cat to cat and emboldening their steps as they draw ever near to home, and he's sure the WindClanners must feel it most of all, what with stumbling upon the moorlands once again, and maybe even some residual energy from the dog chase, too. Not that he had much to spare after that - everything in him had been used up in evading his pursuer, every scrap of energy and power and will sent straight to his pumping legs and beating heart and heaving lungs, sending him rocketing forward faster than he'd ever thought he could be. Honestly, Luckypaw hopes he never has to be that fast again - the feeling of flying just isn't worth everything else that comes with it, in his opinion, and he'd much rather stick to what he knows underground than anything else. Well, in theory, that is, since the thought of the tunnels back home still conjures up dark and dreary and heavy imagery that's a little much even for the tunnels he doesn't know by heart yet. The pit in his stomach is still there, rising back up no matter how hard he tries to suppress it, but it's faded a little bit by now, at least, so maybe by the time they actually do make it back things will be fine. Everything will go back to normal eventually, he's sure, even if normal looks different than how they'd left it; one cat in place of another, one spot left and then filled in one fell swoop. Everybody else will have had a chance to make it through the hard parts of Badgermoon's and Curlewnose's betrayal, surely, and so maybe it won't even feel all that prevalent; maybe there won't be eyes following them wherever they go, watching out for signs of another traitorous future.
Even though he'd been lucky (stars, he'd been lucky, just as lucky as his namesake) in escaping the dogs wholly unscathed, he still feels exhausted, no amount of sleep enough to make up for that and the moon and then some of constant travel they'd all been subjected to. He'd never been at the front of the procession in the first place, but now more than ever he takes up a position near the rear, tired muscles keeping pace and nothing more, even on the springy grass that feels like it's spurring them all onwards. Perhaps it's his location near the rear that allows him to spot it so quickly, or perhaps it's just the start of some new lucky streak; either way, something flutters in the corner of Luckypaw's vision, and as his head snaps around to face it, preparing to cringe away from some new threat that's here to delay them once and for all, he's left stuck in place for a moment, trying to reconcile what he sees before him. They'd seen fireflies on the way back, sure, but it had been warmer, then, and they'd probably been in a place that was more accommodating to the insects. These butterflies, floating as if in a small flock - for that's what the motion was, butterflies - have no excuse, no kind weather or pervasive shelter surrounding them. They shouldn't be here, he's pretty sure, and yet against all odds, here they are, delicate wings carrying them towards the weary group all the same.
"Look at that, Scorchpaw! There's butterflies!" He calls out instinctively towards his littermate, the absence of collected wings almost seeming to burn and come alive. One set left back home for safekeeping, collected along three other pairs of paws just as familiar as his own, and the other...well, he hadn't noticed it in the moment, but Luckypaw is certain that set must have been lost in the rockslide, or somewhere just after, as the wings had been suspiciously absent the next time light hit his eyes. Still a little dumbfounded that there are butterflies here at all and not especially willing to slow down their group anymore than they've already been chasing after them like a kit, he just watches for a moment, those little blazes of color winging on ahead as though there's nothing else at all in the world they should be doing. Suddenly, intensely, he misses home - he misses Rumblepaw, and Frostpaw, and Rattleheart and Rabbitclaw and Thriftpaw and Cygnetstare and everybody else and the moor grass so similar to that under his paws and the deep gouges in the dirt and the dark and chilly tunnels and -
And there's a butterfly, right there, dancing right in front of his face, startling him out of his sudden wellspring of emotion. On instinct more than anything, he gives it a swipe, quickly snagging one of the wings and bringing it down, and belatedly he realizes that it's blue - not quite the same blue as Scorchpaw's, worn proudly in contrast to the one he still had hidden away, but blue nonetheless. "It kinda looks like yours, doesn't it?" Tearing his gaze away from the limp form now laid forever-still before him, he searches out the splash of color, lingering a heartbeat or so too long on the split newly-carved across her face. Though he tries to focus on the butterflies, he can't help but wonder - why had it been Scorchpaw that had been caught by the dogs, and him by the rocks? Would it have changed anything, if they had been in each other's places? Though different, they each bear a permanent reminder of the trip, and even as he smiles pleasantly for the first time since they'd all split off and thinks of scarred faces and crooked tails, he remembers the rest of the butterflies, heading onward as though they have some sort of great purpose - kind of like them, he supposes. Maybe it was lucky to come across the butterflies, lucky to be reminded so strongly of why he has to make it home even when his reason falters, lucky to be returning home with only one outward scar apiece; maybe, just maybe, returning home at all is lucky. He thinks he could feel lucky right now, at least a little bit, to even be standing here, breathing.
Inevitably, things will go wrong again - they'll run into more trouble, things won't be the same as how they left them, something terrible will happen again and again and again into the future - but maybe things will go right again, too. They've made it this far, whether it be by the intervention of StarClan or a lot of fortunate outcomes to unfortunate situations (and really, what's the difference between those two?), and surely they'll keep on making it, even when things get bad. Just like the butterflies, they'll cling on, and as he nestles his prize into his fur for safekeeping, Luckypaw certainly feels connected to his namesake in a way that he hasn't really experienced before.
i'm falling into place, but still the timing's not right
(☘)
yeah that's a fire i just can't seem to light
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OOC: Please wait for @SCORCHPAW ^^
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-LuckykitLuckypaw
- He/him (AFAB)
- 6 moons (Ages on the 1st)
-KitApprentice of WindClan
- Small blue tortoiseshell with white spotting & green eyes
- Art by myself & meghan respectively! <33
- Minor powerplay allowed!
- Penned by Hijinks