BLACK HOLE IN MY CHEST | cleaning the elder's den

[CHRYSALISWING]

Rhythmic motions sounded faint against the chatter of the day, as though a knell from a land afar, though not nearly as mighty nor stentorian as the great bell of war. It was merely a dull clash that would make the ears work to find it amongst rivers of undertones, an unnoticable glimmer of silver against the sun-striped waters. The scene proved inglorious, ordinary, and even wearisome in its tedium. One wad of bedding, two wads of bedding, three now. Chrysalispaw had started the count over when he reached three, but even he had lost track of how many repetitions there had been. One, two... Wait, was he even on the second one? Disgruntled rumblings spilled from the apprentice's mouth, a commonplace drone from the feline who found no solace in boring tasks such as this, like the low growls of the impending thunderstorm. It wrested upon the horizon, yet never intruded farther than the boundary scrawled upon the sky. It was the same for Chrys - he never vocalized his complaints aloud, lest he get even more assignments to do.

The harsh thwack against his head still throbbed, and the juvenile had rubbed one paw against the abrasion, with each touch sending pulses of pain through his head. He winced, though kept poking at it as if that would, somehow, make it heal faster. Chrysalispaw only hoped it would heal sooner than later. What would not dwindle so easily were the harsh words that rolled from Silversmoke's mouth, though the scalding scolds were nothing new to him, as though he had walked through the fire of adults' tongues many times before. Those who claimed to be more mature than the younger steed were always those lacking the composure to truly dignify it, he found. His father was the same way - a man with verses dripping in poison, a cat who kept his daggers closer to his hands than his jewels. He wasn't inclined to take advice from anyone who even slightly reminded him of Dragonflywing. He remembered Silver's words about how he 'disrespected Figpaw's injuries' and 'how she's trying her best.' Well, what's wrong with being honest? Better than living her life in a lie, he reasoned with futility. Just because she didn't want to hear it didn't make it untrue.

He tore at strands of old bedding, groaning as discolored strings clung to his claws, like ribbons of filth and folly. He shook it off with a frantic wave of his paw. The apprentice turned his back to the glowering sun, casting his face into the shadows of the sett, as though painting himself in the dreary colors that leaf-bare had left in its wake. As the season rippled onwards, he noticed himself growing more and more tolerant of the winter - or, at least, more apathetic to it. Chrys noted that the snowdrift had been lighter this week, as if the cruel weather had lightened its grip just a bit, and fingers once curled and cobbled now loosened itself. Well, he wouldn't even be able to enjoy it to the fullest if he were cooped up with the old coots and loons.​

 

[TWITCHBOLT]

All he had been doing the past few days was searching tirelessly for distractions. Be it conversing with those he liked, those unfortunate few, or occupying his mind with the encompassing hatred of a particularly dull chore, he would be doing it. Doing anything, for the fear of doing nothing crippled him. The anticipation of stopping- what might rise to the surface like diseased fish, stinking of death, when he stopped- was what kept him going. He would work, pick away at the skin between his warrior ceremony and today, eroding the space between until he was there and he could forget all the bad that had happened to Twitchpaw because he would be someone else. Work until sleep. Sleep, and then work- a cycle that would keep him going. He'd worry and work and sleep, and would not think about grief or the pride he would never receive.

"Do you want some... help?" he murmured, frayed voice squeaking a little as it crawled its way out of his throat. His vision trembled with the rattle of his body, and a dithering paw fumbled forward, making a weak, vague motion to the tedious work that Chrysalispaw was enduring. Help was something to do. Even if it was helping Chrysalispaw, who- he was not sure liked him much. But he never knew really who liked him much, who liked him at all. Quillpaw probably did- Butterflytuft, maybe- but he could never be certain, and to ask them again and again would be a surefire way to drive them off. ​

penned by pin ✧​

 

[GREENEYES]

Greenpaw doesn't really hold much hatred and disdain towards his clanmates, but, if he had to choose one - other than Dawnglare, who Greenpaw's disdain for is harbored by fear, rather than anger, so it doesn't count - it would have to be Chrysalispaw.

Chrysalispaw, who had made Figpaw cry and crushed her dreams. He thinks he's got every right to be angry with the dark-furred warrior, after that. His sister, once the best climber Greenpaw'd known, had only been trying to regain that skill once more. Who was he, to say such mean things to Figpaw, like that? Who was he to mar her spirit?

Anger towards the tom's actions had sat with him since, a fire that burned brightly for his sister's sake.

Greenpaw's glad that the fellow apprentice got punished for his words. Glad he gets to clean up the elders' den, free Greenpaw a chance of being assigned to such a task.

He pokes his head into the elders den to see patchworked fur clawing at old bedding, struggling at the punishment set before him. Good, he thinks, satisfied that Chrysalispaw would struggle doing something, would mirror Figpaw's own struggle that the apprentice's words only worsened.

"You missed a spot," he comments, settling in the den's entrance to watch the apprentice, amusement evident in his bright gaze, "Silversmoke'll make you start all over again, if you don't do it right, I bet."
​

 

[SILVERSMOKE]

Chrysalispaw's punishment had been chosen in a bout of anger from the tom, but he didn't regret it. The maine coon expected fair treatment of those who had given up everything for their homes, and if someone couldn't offer that, then he didn't want anything to do with them. Being around the elders would hopefully give the chimera some humility, though Silversmoke knew not to get his hopes up. Wordlessly, he assessed the apprentice as he carried on with his chores, a cool distance to his gaze that told of severed fondness for Chrys now that their ideals didn't align. He sat with his tail wrapped over his paws, a statue in the camp, barely blinking except for when his eyes began to dry and strain. Then, like clockwork, the warrior angled his head toward the apprentices that approached. First, it was Twitchpaw, whose offer to help caused Silversmoke's tail to briefly raise before falling back down. Then, it was Greenpaw, who spoke with less sympathy for the tortie. It was the other tabby that caused the warrior to stalk forwards, ready to intercept if a verbal fight broke out. Even still, there was a glint of good humour in his frown, as if working hard to keep the persona up.

After all, it felt like karma for the other apprentices to poke and prod Chrys for the chore. "That's exactly what I will do." He confirmed to Greenpaw, keeping his tone neutral. He didn't address Twitchpaw's offer, instead, he looked over the fidgety tom's head, casting a deterring glare toward his apprentice. 'You won't hear the end of it if you accept'. Chrys has condemned another for struggling, they'd stated that someone who couldn't climb trees might as well be their greatest enemy, even if Twitchpaw had his own reasons for reaching out, Silversmoke didn't believe it was a kindness that Chrys had earned.
​

 

[CHRYSALISWING]

A mouselike cadence made Chrysalispaw's ears twitch, a familiar rhythm that made his blood bubble, an irration taking roost in a nest of his beating heart. He'd always been annoyed with those who couldn't find the courage to speak for themselves, to stumble as if anyone would catch them. (Nobody had caught him when he fell, so why should anyone else get the privilege?) The chimaera-coated cat turned his head towards Twitchpaw who had one shivering paw extended, and he asked Chrys if he needed any help, but would only be met with the stone-cold indifference that Chrys touted around. He was tempted to swat it away, declare that he never needed help doing such a basic and menial task, before another presence would make itself known. For now, he would hold his tongue behind brazen and beared fangs, though the fire still burned regardless of if anyone was there to watch it.

And here came one member of the annoying troupe of Figpaw's siblings. He hadn't kept track of them all, nor had he the decorum to befriend any of them in particular, but he had seen them around the camp and thus, recognized them well. Not that he cared enough to stay in their fickle good graces. Greenpaw only regarded him with a criticism that bordered on a caustic mockery, as though the snake-venom verses of his father, the song of the slithering and the sardonic. He bore the brunt of many a denigrator's bite, but he never let it affect him, regardless of if it came from a parent or a peer. He regarded all of it the same, anyhow. A sneer ripped quickly through Chrysalispaw's features before he threw another wad of moss down on the ground, frustration now evident in the waves of animosity that rippled from the tom, like the saltwater maw of the ocean teared at the sands of the shore.

And, to top it all off, his own mentor joined in with a hawkish gaze. Silversmoke's stare said everything that it deigned to, so the flame-brushed feline only turned his glowering eyes back to the casted gloom of the den, as though matching similarly-burning lours would wound him. "Not my fault for speaking my mind and being honest. I'm not a liar, and I'm not going to sugar-coat reality for anyone." He muttered half-loudly enough for the others to hear - he'd get some sort of shout and an indignant scolding, but he didn't care. As he said, he wasn't a coward afraid of the truth, no matter how much it hurt.​

 

[SILVERSMOKE]

Chrysalispaw may not have been a liar, but he was jaded beyond his years. It did not take much misanthropy to warp the mind and convince one of the worst. He tilted his chin upwards at their comment, feeling a similar wave of anger rush over them. This time it was cooler, accepting that the chimera was capable of thinking such depraved things about those who didn't deserve scorn, and somewhere, accepting that it was his duty as a mentor to address it. "Then I won't sugar-coat reality for you, a fair exchange, no?" He didn't move from his spot but his limbs tensed and didn't stop, as if letting go would cause him to spring towards the other like a striking adder. "You're no better than an entitled kittypet who thinks the world revolves around them because they're from 'the right family'. But you aren't so special. You let a WindClanner wound your neck in battle, you let another wound your pride at the gathering. You jeopardised the clan's image and your own life because of your incompetence, and instead of accepting that you're a damn apprentice who has lessons to learn, you instead choose to bury your head in the sand and pretend it's everyone else's fault."

He took a breath and continued. "Maybe you won't bear the same burdens as Figpaw, but you'll bear something, you don't go through life without being slowed down by injury or loss. When that day comes, your clanmates will extend a paw to help you, because that's what groups do. They don't sugarcoat, they care, and if you had an ounce of self-respect, you'd know the difference." His tail, once lashing like a pendulum, slowed to a gradual halt. Risen fur began to flatten at the end of his rant, letting those feelings of anger turn inwards the longer the other apprentices lingered in his periphery. His tongue could be as acrid as Chrys' any jab the tortie made he had no problem reciprocating with one of his own, the difference in age and experience didn't matter to the maine coon. He would happily punch down if the situation called for it, and Silversmoke felt no greater need than when it came time to defend another who'd been dealt a grievous injury. He was no champion of justice, but he did believe in veracity - there were very few injuries that would stop someone from serving their clan to the best of their ability.

​

 

[GREENEYES]

Greenpaw is still merely a child, still learning his way through life. Such anger he feels is still too new - such complexities in emotion brought forth by Figpaw's injuries, by Chrysalispaw's lack of sugar coating. Just as the curse he bares, he still has yet to learn to control it.

Though he'd only been here to tease the punished apprentice, Greenpaw is hit with the collateral damage of his words. Chrysalispaw's self-proclaimed honesty only angers the child more.

And, while the thought may be brief - a split-second flash of fury - there's a part of Greenpaw that wishes his curse would infect Chrysalispaw, wash him in green, green, green. Silence the patchworked child before him.

"My sister is the best climber I know," Greenpaw starts, stepping up to the tom, viridian gaze boring into Chrysalispaw's own mismatched gaze. Is, he emphasizes, uses present tense instead of past - because he hopes, no, he believes, that Figpaw will one day be back within the forest's branches, that she'll find her way around her injury, "One more word, and I'll make sure you never, ever, climb better than her. Injuries or not."
​