- Apr 30, 2023
- 224
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The memory that visits Thriftfeather's sleep isn't the one amber-preserved in his mind as it had happened in the moment. Tonight, it is a rarer memory, one liable to time-wear and the inevitable decay that recollection causes.
He's young again, curled in the thin shreds of his kithood nest, and peering upwards to the distant ceiling of the nursery. Some aspect of Thriftfeather still cognizant of the life he has lived recognizes this only dimly—he watches himself from a space outside of himself at the same time as he watches the world from his own kitten-eyes, and in the logic of his dream this doesn't strike him as anything but perfectly average. WindClan's camp still has a chaos to it that Thriftkit is too wary to want to risk; instinct tells him that his nest is safe, that as long as he curls his tiny body against it, harm will not find him.
The Ghostwail that approaches the mouth of the nursery isn't the one that Thriftfeather had killed; her red eyes are sharp with an understanding that they had lacked in death. They move to Thriftkit and he notes, perhaps strangely, that Ghostwail can see him. Thriftkit presses himself flat against his nest and feels as though something is lacking in this. When the rabbit kit thumps to the ground before him, Thriftkit startles—he hadn't realized Ghostwail was carrying anything.
This already happened, Thriftfeather thinks, but Thriftkit shakes his head, doesn't want to test his teeth against the offered rabbit's soft flesh—for the first time he has realized the significance of death. His own mother's death is still fresh in his young mind; the time he has spent in WindClan can be counted in sunrises rather than moons.
"You aren't in a position to want or not," Ghostwail says, has already said, and the familiarity of it does nothing to break Thriftkit from the spell.
"I can't eat this," Thriftkit says in reply, but he knows there isn't truth in that.
She continues to speak but the words are muddled by the time they reach Thriftkit's ears. He knows this story, knows that his only option is to cow beneath her narrowed eyes and eat. There is a warmth to the freshkill that strikes Thriftfeather as strange. Thriftkit offers weak protests all the while, explains as best as he can that he doesn't want to eat this, and yet he does. Ghostwail watches him from above, and Thriftkit finishes it to an acceptable amount of scraps for a kit to leave.
Hadn't Ghostwail called him ungrateful earlier?
Thriftfeather doesn't remember this in earnest. It exists in a space just beyond his recollection, but it exists here, in his dream. He already knows that Thriftkit will bow his face downward before he sees it happen, before his own over-large white paws come into his view. His own trembling voice leaves his mouth and Thriftkit feels the tension of it, feels each precise movement as if it was something done to him rather than something he had done.
"Thank you," Is what he says—he never wants to be mistaken for ungrateful.
Thriftfeather opens his eyes to the nursery and for a dizzying moment doesn’t remember his circumstance. He’s still back then, still grasping at an understanding that will always be just out of reach of his outstretched paws. He’s already scrambled to his shaking paws by the time he’s realized the dream for what it was. The great heave of Thriftfeather’s flank slows; he is in WindClan’s nursery, but he isn’t a young and helpless thing anymore.
Ghostwail is gone. He hasn’t purposefully thought about her for some time.
Already the start of the dream has faded from him, but the end—Thriftfeather's mouth is tracing over the words thank you as he sits back down, as he settles into what it means to be awake. That had happened, hadn't it? Thriftfeather tries to recall the memory in truth but can only find the dream, can only recall the tremulous thank you with no small amount of disgust. He had been inexcusably idiotic, had thanked her when any other kit would have doubled down upon their diswant.
And in the wake of the dream, Thriftfeather is struck with a profound sense of isolation. He could never explain why he is so struck by the memory for the fear that Ghostwail had been somehow correct. He had attempted to refuse a meal, could have spiraled into refusing countless meals if not for Ghostwail's firm disallowance for such a thing.
Ungrateful, Thriftfeather hears in a voice he hasn't known for some time and, as he flicks his sight over the nursery, as he suppresses the barely acknowledged want for elsewhere, some part of him agrees.
He's young again, curled in the thin shreds of his kithood nest, and peering upwards to the distant ceiling of the nursery. Some aspect of Thriftfeather still cognizant of the life he has lived recognizes this only dimly—he watches himself from a space outside of himself at the same time as he watches the world from his own kitten-eyes, and in the logic of his dream this doesn't strike him as anything but perfectly average. WindClan's camp still has a chaos to it that Thriftkit is too wary to want to risk; instinct tells him that his nest is safe, that as long as he curls his tiny body against it, harm will not find him.
The Ghostwail that approaches the mouth of the nursery isn't the one that Thriftfeather had killed; her red eyes are sharp with an understanding that they had lacked in death. They move to Thriftkit and he notes, perhaps strangely, that Ghostwail can see him. Thriftkit presses himself flat against his nest and feels as though something is lacking in this. When the rabbit kit thumps to the ground before him, Thriftkit startles—he hadn't realized Ghostwail was carrying anything.
This already happened, Thriftfeather thinks, but Thriftkit shakes his head, doesn't want to test his teeth against the offered rabbit's soft flesh—for the first time he has realized the significance of death. His own mother's death is still fresh in his young mind; the time he has spent in WindClan can be counted in sunrises rather than moons.
"You aren't in a position to want or not," Ghostwail says, has already said, and the familiarity of it does nothing to break Thriftkit from the spell.
"I can't eat this," Thriftkit says in reply, but he knows there isn't truth in that.
She continues to speak but the words are muddled by the time they reach Thriftkit's ears. He knows this story, knows that his only option is to cow beneath her narrowed eyes and eat. There is a warmth to the freshkill that strikes Thriftfeather as strange. Thriftkit offers weak protests all the while, explains as best as he can that he doesn't want to eat this, and yet he does. Ghostwail watches him from above, and Thriftkit finishes it to an acceptable amount of scraps for a kit to leave.
Hadn't Ghostwail called him ungrateful earlier?
Thriftfeather doesn't remember this in earnest. It exists in a space just beyond his recollection, but it exists here, in his dream. He already knows that Thriftkit will bow his face downward before he sees it happen, before his own over-large white paws come into his view. His own trembling voice leaves his mouth and Thriftkit feels the tension of it, feels each precise movement as if it was something done to him rather than something he had done.
"Thank you," Is what he says—he never wants to be mistaken for ungrateful.
— —
Thriftfeather opens his eyes to the nursery and for a dizzying moment doesn’t remember his circumstance. He’s still back then, still grasping at an understanding that will always be just out of reach of his outstretched paws. He’s already scrambled to his shaking paws by the time he’s realized the dream for what it was. The great heave of Thriftfeather’s flank slows; he is in WindClan’s nursery, but he isn’t a young and helpless thing anymore.
Ghostwail is gone. He hasn’t purposefully thought about her for some time.
Already the start of the dream has faded from him, but the end—Thriftfeather's mouth is tracing over the words thank you as he sits back down, as he settles into what it means to be awake. That had happened, hadn't it? Thriftfeather tries to recall the memory in truth but can only find the dream, can only recall the tremulous thank you with no small amount of disgust. He had been inexcusably idiotic, had thanked her when any other kit would have doubled down upon their diswant.
And in the wake of the dream, Thriftfeather is struck with a profound sense of isolation. He could never explain why he is so struck by the memory for the fear that Ghostwail had been somehow correct. He had attempted to refuse a meal, could have spiraled into refusing countless meals if not for Ghostwail's firm disallowance for such a thing.
Ungrateful, Thriftfeather hears in a voice he hasn't known for some time and, as he flicks his sight over the nursery, as he suppresses the barely acknowledged want for elsewhere, some part of him agrees.
DUSKCLAN DEPUTY ✦ GOLDEN TABBY TOM ✦ 19 MOONS ✦ TAGS
