- Apr 30, 2023
- 227
- 93
- 28
The walk is pleasant, in the beginning. The air feels brisk in Thriftfeather’s lungs rather than freezing, and the wind, blowing from the direction of ThunderClan, promises a day that, if not warm, then at least warmer than the last. Ghostwail is at his flank—ahead of him by a whisker—and this too, is pleasant. He understands her, he thinks, better than he has before. There isn’t anger in the tilt of her head or the slant of her shoulders. She hasn’t given him the smallest of twitches to tell him all of the ways he has misstepped.
“I tore off Mothmoon’s ear,” He’s been recounting the bits of the battle that he remembers to Ghostwail, because he fought well, because he thinks it will please her. Despite being recent, the memories are sensations rather than moments, “Or I shredded it, or… It was after she cut me.”
The scratches painfully pull when Thriftfeather steps, but they’ve closed soundly and, hopefully soon, they will ease into scars.
“And then she—” But then Thriftfeather makes his mistake. He glances to Ghostwail, seeking the shadow of approval in her placid face, and instead he sees the wisp of breath that escapes her parted mouth—
(—and hears the dawn chorus, for the very first time. He’d been content to bask in the warmth of his mother, held close to the soft fur of her milk-scented belly, but she had shifted into standing and Thrift had made a pitiful sound at the loss. Words don’t come easily to him yet, but what and why have become like well worn pebbles in his mouth. He’s always been full of questions.
“That sound?” Her voice is bird-like and aged; Thriftfeather doesn’t know how he could have ever forgotten it. No other voice could have ever belonged to her.
Thrift nods.
“It’s Newleaf,” His mother looks down to him, predawn light dances over the grooves of her face and reflects across her amber eyes, partially obscured by the fog of her breath. If relief was a motion, it would be the way her shoulders move under the weight of her exhale, “That sound, that’s Newleaf.”
“What’s—“ Thrift’s nose wrinkles at the new word, and his mother’s smile is a lullaby as she explains in low tones. A yawn takes him; he sleeps—)
—and the red of her eyes.
Thriftfeather stops in paralyzing awe at the memory: this beautiful thing that he has gained with nothing more than a glance. It melts into many things in an instant. Disbelief at what he has lost, the suffocating knowledge that he will never again have that. Grief, lake-vast and unacknowledged, rains over him for the few agonizing moments it takes to shut it out—don’t think about it stop thinking about it.
Disgust, he notes, its sharp claws turned inward. He’s disgusted that he could feel anything amicable towards someone who could so carelessly take so much from him, and ashamed that the knowledge of that does nothing to snuff the previous warmth. Time had crawled into a freeze, but it snaps back into motion now. Only a few seconds have passed, with an eternity in between them.
The change from then to now is enough to dizzy him.
“Ghostwail,” He chokes. His voice is a strangle.
Asking Ghostwail why would be akin to asking the wind why it fell a tree. Everything, everything in her wake is a consequence of her nature. Thriftfeather knows this—he’s even accepted it. His breath comes in hiccups; panic is an old friend.
“Ghostwail,” More steady, but no less strained. His mind grasps at questions—idly dismisses the ones he knows have no answers and holds tight to the one he has fixated on for so long, “There was a—there was a fucking body. Ghostwail, there was a—just, just tell me what you did.”
He isn’t angry—wide eyed, his voice comes wet. Now that he’s started talking, he can’t stop, “Just tell me that, just tell me that please. Just—I won’t ever bring it up again if you just—there was a body.”
“I tore off Mothmoon’s ear,” He’s been recounting the bits of the battle that he remembers to Ghostwail, because he fought well, because he thinks it will please her. Despite being recent, the memories are sensations rather than moments, “Or I shredded it, or… It was after she cut me.”
The scratches painfully pull when Thriftfeather steps, but they’ve closed soundly and, hopefully soon, they will ease into scars.
“And then she—” But then Thriftfeather makes his mistake. He glances to Ghostwail, seeking the shadow of approval in her placid face, and instead he sees the wisp of breath that escapes her parted mouth—
(—and hears the dawn chorus, for the very first time. He’d been content to bask in the warmth of his mother, held close to the soft fur of her milk-scented belly, but she had shifted into standing and Thrift had made a pitiful sound at the loss. Words don’t come easily to him yet, but what and why have become like well worn pebbles in his mouth. He’s always been full of questions.
“That sound?” Her voice is bird-like and aged; Thriftfeather doesn’t know how he could have ever forgotten it. No other voice could have ever belonged to her.
Thrift nods.
“It’s Newleaf,” His mother looks down to him, predawn light dances over the grooves of her face and reflects across her amber eyes, partially obscured by the fog of her breath. If relief was a motion, it would be the way her shoulders move under the weight of her exhale, “That sound, that’s Newleaf.”
“What’s—“ Thrift’s nose wrinkles at the new word, and his mother’s smile is a lullaby as she explains in low tones. A yawn takes him; he sleeps—)
—and the red of her eyes.
Thriftfeather stops in paralyzing awe at the memory: this beautiful thing that he has gained with nothing more than a glance. It melts into many things in an instant. Disbelief at what he has lost, the suffocating knowledge that he will never again have that. Grief, lake-vast and unacknowledged, rains over him for the few agonizing moments it takes to shut it out—don’t think about it stop thinking about it.
Disgust, he notes, its sharp claws turned inward. He’s disgusted that he could feel anything amicable towards someone who could so carelessly take so much from him, and ashamed that the knowledge of that does nothing to snuff the previous warmth. Time had crawled into a freeze, but it snaps back into motion now. Only a few seconds have passed, with an eternity in between them.
The change from then to now is enough to dizzy him.
“Ghostwail,” He chokes. His voice is a strangle.
Asking Ghostwail why would be akin to asking the wind why it fell a tree. Everything, everything in her wake is a consequence of her nature. Thriftfeather knows this—he’s even accepted it. His breath comes in hiccups; panic is an old friend.
“Ghostwail,” More steady, but no less strained. His mind grasps at questions—idly dismisses the ones he knows have no answers and holds tight to the one he has fixated on for so long, “There was a—there was a fucking body. Ghostwail, there was a—just, just tell me what you did.”
He isn’t angry—wide eyed, his voice comes wet. Now that he’s started talking, he can’t stop, “Just tell me that, just tell me that please. Just—I won’t ever bring it up again if you just—there was a body.”
WINDCLAN WARRIOR ✦ GOLDEN TABBY TOM ✦ 9 MOONS ✦ TAGS
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