- Apr 30, 2023
- 193
- 79
- 28
Thriftpaw doesn't notice the difference until he's placed a paw to impede the path of a beetle. He's laid flat on his belly, hindlegs stretched to their full length behind him and one of his forepaws splayed to his front. It's an idle action; his chin is pillowed on his remaining paw and his eyes are glazed over with boredom. The beetle climbs over his paw, stops at the peak as if Thriftpaw is no more threatening than the pebbles that must function as vantage points for something so small, and steps in place while clicking its serrated mouthparts together.
At once Thriftpaw shifts. It's a full body action, he's perking and leaning closer, not to look at the beetle but to look at his own paw. He's already known he's been growing, but somewhere along the way Thriftpaw has gotten into proportion with his feet. Ghostwail had called attention to Thriftpaw's feet upon his arrival, used it as evidence of his worth. He was going to be big someday, and that had meant he was going to be strong and useful. He's big now. Somehow, Thriftpaw hadn't noticed.
He turns his paw in different directions as if fascinated by the paw itself and not by what it means. The beetle spreads its matte wings and buzzes into the clear sky, forgotten under Thriftpaw's self scrutiny. Someday, Thriftpaw will blink and realize he's finished all of the growing he has left to do, and the thought dampens his interest. He curls his toes, watches as the peaks of his translucent claws emerge from where they typically remain hidden, and wonders how he could have gotten big without the benefits.
Despite the incipient toning of his leg muscles and the callouses on his moor-roughened pads, Thriftpaw has never felt particularly strong. He relaxes his paw, watches as his claws once again vanish into the sheaths of his skin, and he feels a little more right.
Sometimes Thriftpaw loves the moor without needing to remind himself. He likes standing on his hindlegs to peer over the tall grasses, yellowed under the watchful sun. He pretends he is a rabbit like that; his large white tipped ears perked and twisting each and every way, his nose twitching in time with his breath. But then Thriftpaw will catch the scent of something small and he will feel hunger like it is an action in his teeth. Against what the thump-thump-thump of his rabbit-heart tells him, Thriftpaw is not prey.
It isn't such a hard line between predator and prey. The grass that parts to allow Thriftpaw to prowl through is the very same that tangles a barrier where mice can cower.
Destruction is another form of creation. As Thriftpaw works nervous paws into his nest until the soft moss is nothing but shreds, it isn't that he is wrecking his nest, it is that he is making it into something new. He doesn't have a feather that he can play with to soothe himself anymore; Ghostwail expects Thriftpaw to keep the one she gifted him pristine. It's something he misses, running his pads against the bristly down and biting at the hard central quill until he felt calm. Now when the fear seeps up Thriftpaw's legs and into his throat, he doesn't have anywhere to put it but in his chest.
He pulls his feather – Ghostwail's, really – from the depths of his nest-pile and watches it with a passive expression. He bends it at the tip, softly enough that when the pressure is removed it bounces back into shape. Wind stirs its striped down and for a moment Thriftpaw considers the consequences of letting the wind have it. Thriftpaw would only need to make a small motion and it would be caught in the updraft, and then it would dance in a way that Thriftpaw would pretend to be joyful, and they could finally be free of each other.
Thriftpaw doesn't release the feather and he doesn't destroy it and he doesn't make it into anything new. It remains as unchanged and as unfortunately stationary as the day Thriftpaw had been burdened with it. Ghostwail had given Thriftpaw this feather, and that was explanation enough that it couldn't be ridden of. He tucks it away with the same careful motions of attempting to move an egg without cracking its fine shell, and reminds himself that a gift isn't a burden; it's better than the feather he had before. Thriftpaw had said that, and he was supposed to mean what he said. Besides, Ghostwail must have gone through a lot of effort to find Thriftpaw one so nicely patterned.
Distantly, Thriftpaw considers Ghostwail's type of creation, and wonders what she plans to make out of him.
Best behavior, his mother had said. She had looked insurmountable then, she had been a mountain. Thriftpaw is big now too; taller now than she had ever been. He still imagines he would crane his head back to look at her and that he could fold himself small beneath her belly, just as he had when last he saw her. Thriftpaw tries to remember her outside of that moment, but it has mushroomed up and up and consumed everything else about her. All he has is his mother's stern, wary eyes, and the misfortune that followed.
He'd been abandoned according to Ghostwail. Thriftpaw wishes it could be that simple.
At once Thriftpaw shifts. It's a full body action, he's perking and leaning closer, not to look at the beetle but to look at his own paw. He's already known he's been growing, but somewhere along the way Thriftpaw has gotten into proportion with his feet. Ghostwail had called attention to Thriftpaw's feet upon his arrival, used it as evidence of his worth. He was going to be big someday, and that had meant he was going to be strong and useful. He's big now. Somehow, Thriftpaw hadn't noticed.
He turns his paw in different directions as if fascinated by the paw itself and not by what it means. The beetle spreads its matte wings and buzzes into the clear sky, forgotten under Thriftpaw's self scrutiny. Someday, Thriftpaw will blink and realize he's finished all of the growing he has left to do, and the thought dampens his interest. He curls his toes, watches as the peaks of his translucent claws emerge from where they typically remain hidden, and wonders how he could have gotten big without the benefits.
Despite the incipient toning of his leg muscles and the callouses on his moor-roughened pads, Thriftpaw has never felt particularly strong. He relaxes his paw, watches as his claws once again vanish into the sheaths of his skin, and he feels a little more right.
—
Sometimes Thriftpaw loves the moor without needing to remind himself. He likes standing on his hindlegs to peer over the tall grasses, yellowed under the watchful sun. He pretends he is a rabbit like that; his large white tipped ears perked and twisting each and every way, his nose twitching in time with his breath. But then Thriftpaw will catch the scent of something small and he will feel hunger like it is an action in his teeth. Against what the thump-thump-thump of his rabbit-heart tells him, Thriftpaw is not prey.
It isn't such a hard line between predator and prey. The grass that parts to allow Thriftpaw to prowl through is the very same that tangles a barrier where mice can cower.
—
Destruction is another form of creation. As Thriftpaw works nervous paws into his nest until the soft moss is nothing but shreds, it isn't that he is wrecking his nest, it is that he is making it into something new. He doesn't have a feather that he can play with to soothe himself anymore; Ghostwail expects Thriftpaw to keep the one she gifted him pristine. It's something he misses, running his pads against the bristly down and biting at the hard central quill until he felt calm. Now when the fear seeps up Thriftpaw's legs and into his throat, he doesn't have anywhere to put it but in his chest.
He pulls his feather – Ghostwail's, really – from the depths of his nest-pile and watches it with a passive expression. He bends it at the tip, softly enough that when the pressure is removed it bounces back into shape. Wind stirs its striped down and for a moment Thriftpaw considers the consequences of letting the wind have it. Thriftpaw would only need to make a small motion and it would be caught in the updraft, and then it would dance in a way that Thriftpaw would pretend to be joyful, and they could finally be free of each other.
Thriftpaw doesn't release the feather and he doesn't destroy it and he doesn't make it into anything new. It remains as unchanged and as unfortunately stationary as the day Thriftpaw had been burdened with it. Ghostwail had given Thriftpaw this feather, and that was explanation enough that it couldn't be ridden of. He tucks it away with the same careful motions of attempting to move an egg without cracking its fine shell, and reminds himself that a gift isn't a burden; it's better than the feather he had before. Thriftpaw had said that, and he was supposed to mean what he said. Besides, Ghostwail must have gone through a lot of effort to find Thriftpaw one so nicely patterned.
Distantly, Thriftpaw considers Ghostwail's type of creation, and wonders what she plans to make out of him.
—
Best behavior, his mother had said. She had looked insurmountable then, she had been a mountain. Thriftpaw is big now too; taller now than she had ever been. He still imagines he would crane his head back to look at her and that he could fold himself small beneath her belly, just as he had when last he saw her. Thriftpaw tries to remember her outside of that moment, but it has mushroomed up and up and consumed everything else about her. All he has is his mother's stern, wary eyes, and the misfortune that followed.
He'd been abandoned according to Ghostwail. Thriftpaw wishes it could be that simple.
WINDCLAN APPRENTICE ✦ GOLDEN TABBY TOM ✦ 6 MOONS