- Dec 27, 2022
- 123
- 39
- 28
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SOMETIMES I CAN'T BELIEVE IT
SOMETIMES I CAN'T BELIEVE IT
Lichenpaw touches their nose to the cool surface of the Moonstone, and does not dream.
It is still, and it is quiet. Though the heat of Greenleaf lingers in the air, in the space between bodies, the stone is pleasantly cool against his skin. Not altogether uncomfortable, but for the hard surface of the rock beneath him. Certainly not the best place for sleeping, but he is supposed to dream of StarClan, supposed to commune with them.
Lichenpaw has never quite been able to believe in the starry-pelted ancestors his Clanmates speak of.
They were raised in the streets of the Twolegplace, no stranger to death, to cat-bodies left crow-eaten by the side of the Thunderpath. There was never anything holy in it. When a cat died, they were simply gone. It feels perverse, almost, revering death. But he knows it is not like that; it is a softening, a comfort. The kind of tale that kinder parents may have told their kits.
His own were not kind. They were hardened and bitter, with no want for the kits they cared for. An extra mouth to feed. No reason to spare them from the harsh truths of the world they were raised for.
The Clans are strange; despite all the moons he's spent with them, that strangeness has not left. They look out for each other, like Parker — Basilwhisker — always did for him. That, he can appreciate. That, he wants to be part of. Lichenpaw has never been a fighter, always too skittish, too flighty, too scrawny. The one time they've truly bloodied their paws, it brought nothing but nausea and guilt, deserved or not. He was always looking out for himself, always scared of the types who'd turn their claws against other cats.
He knows that he is a selfish cat, a survivalist. He does not mind it, he thinks. Even his decision to care for his clanmates is rooted in his own selfishness, in his want to not feel the shame of blood on his paws, to not feel the helplessness of panic.
(And so too, is it rooted in care, in gratitude. ThunderClan has given him a home, has shown him kindness. They want to learn this kindness, to give it back to the cats who have shown it to them. Lichenpaw has always been a kinder cat than he realized.)
But the strangeness that Lichenpaw has never been able to reconcile is that of the clans' religion; a kits' tale taken too far, a belief in something better than the cruelty of death spread throughout all who call the clans home. Medicine cats making prayer, requests, reciting ceremonies tho ears which do not listen, to bodies long-rotted. It is a kind delusion. It is not one that Lichenpaw could pledge themself to.
But there is something here, still, among these gathered cats, that he can pledge himself to. They do not need the guidance of distant stars to heal their clan, their paws can do that alone.
...Lichenpaw has been laying here for quite a while now. Sleep has always come slowly to him.
(and beyond the dark of their eyelids, within the faint moonlight that passes through, there are eyes watching. paws, reaching.)
He shifts his position a little bit; his muscles are staring to feel cramped, lying like this. A soft breath traces across the moonstone, frustration exhaled in a sigh. He can be patient. They're supposed to dream, then tell the other cats of it. Maybe that's what it all is: dreams and nothing more, blurred with reality, a collective hallucination of confirmation bias based on old stories. Maybe it'd be easier to buy into it if he didn't have so much trouble sleeping.
(and the connection is thin, too thin, even here at the moonstone, even at their strongest, hard as they try, a gap not longer than a whisker and just as fragile; if only they could feel the brush for a moment. maybe if the apprentice strained his ears hard enough he could hear the murmur.)
Would StarClan even accept him, if they were real? It's a mousebrained thing to wonder about, but half-sleeping moments are the time for such thoughts. Lichenpaw resists fidgeting.
(and the stars look down at them from above, visitors come to the dreams of all but one, and the stars whisper his name and they are too far for him to hear.)
Surely Ravenpaw will dream of his mentor. He doesn't know who the others dream of; surely they all have their losses to face. It's a nice idea, he thinks, but these ancestors are not his own. He has no faces to look to among the stars, all the deaths that mattered were of heathen hearts. Maybe there's just no one there to come for them.
(and none who could reach, eyes shut tight could not see the calling stars if they wanted to, mind shuttered too far away. no crack to slip through, no hint of doubt among clouds of disbelief.)
...Eventually, the others begin to stir. Lichenpaw is the last to rise, sleep just within reach and yet never within his grasp, tired but not restful. They do not know how long they have been lying on the cool stone. No dreams, no StarClan. They shouldn't feel disappointed, they know.
Slowly, Lichenpaw gets to his feet, turns to face the other medicine cats with a lie ready on his lips.
(and the reaching retreats.)
It is still, and it is quiet. Though the heat of Greenleaf lingers in the air, in the space between bodies, the stone is pleasantly cool against his skin. Not altogether uncomfortable, but for the hard surface of the rock beneath him. Certainly not the best place for sleeping, but he is supposed to dream of StarClan, supposed to commune with them.
Lichenpaw has never quite been able to believe in the starry-pelted ancestors his Clanmates speak of.
They were raised in the streets of the Twolegplace, no stranger to death, to cat-bodies left crow-eaten by the side of the Thunderpath. There was never anything holy in it. When a cat died, they were simply gone. It feels perverse, almost, revering death. But he knows it is not like that; it is a softening, a comfort. The kind of tale that kinder parents may have told their kits.
His own were not kind. They were hardened and bitter, with no want for the kits they cared for. An extra mouth to feed. No reason to spare them from the harsh truths of the world they were raised for.
The Clans are strange; despite all the moons he's spent with them, that strangeness has not left. They look out for each other, like Parker — Basilwhisker — always did for him. That, he can appreciate. That, he wants to be part of. Lichenpaw has never been a fighter, always too skittish, too flighty, too scrawny. The one time they've truly bloodied their paws, it brought nothing but nausea and guilt, deserved or not. He was always looking out for himself, always scared of the types who'd turn their claws against other cats.
He knows that he is a selfish cat, a survivalist. He does not mind it, he thinks. Even his decision to care for his clanmates is rooted in his own selfishness, in his want to not feel the shame of blood on his paws, to not feel the helplessness of panic.
(And so too, is it rooted in care, in gratitude. ThunderClan has given him a home, has shown him kindness. They want to learn this kindness, to give it back to the cats who have shown it to them. Lichenpaw has always been a kinder cat than he realized.)
But the strangeness that Lichenpaw has never been able to reconcile is that of the clans' religion; a kits' tale taken too far, a belief in something better than the cruelty of death spread throughout all who call the clans home. Medicine cats making prayer, requests, reciting ceremonies tho ears which do not listen, to bodies long-rotted. It is a kind delusion. It is not one that Lichenpaw could pledge themself to.
But there is something here, still, among these gathered cats, that he can pledge himself to. They do not need the guidance of distant stars to heal their clan, their paws can do that alone.
— ❁ —
...Lichenpaw has been laying here for quite a while now. Sleep has always come slowly to him.
(and beyond the dark of their eyelids, within the faint moonlight that passes through, there are eyes watching. paws, reaching.)
He shifts his position a little bit; his muscles are staring to feel cramped, lying like this. A soft breath traces across the moonstone, frustration exhaled in a sigh. He can be patient. They're supposed to dream, then tell the other cats of it. Maybe that's what it all is: dreams and nothing more, blurred with reality, a collective hallucination of confirmation bias based on old stories. Maybe it'd be easier to buy into it if he didn't have so much trouble sleeping.
(and the connection is thin, too thin, even here at the moonstone, even at their strongest, hard as they try, a gap not longer than a whisker and just as fragile; if only they could feel the brush for a moment. maybe if the apprentice strained his ears hard enough he could hear the murmur.)
Would StarClan even accept him, if they were real? It's a mousebrained thing to wonder about, but half-sleeping moments are the time for such thoughts. Lichenpaw resists fidgeting.
(and the stars look down at them from above, visitors come to the dreams of all but one, and the stars whisper his name and they are too far for him to hear.)
Surely Ravenpaw will dream of his mentor. He doesn't know who the others dream of; surely they all have their losses to face. It's a nice idea, he thinks, but these ancestors are not his own. He has no faces to look to among the stars, all the deaths that mattered were of heathen hearts. Maybe there's just no one there to come for them.
(and none who could reach, eyes shut tight could not see the calling stars if they wanted to, mind shuttered too far away. no crack to slip through, no hint of doubt among clouds of disbelief.)
...Eventually, the others begin to stir. Lichenpaw is the last to rise, sleep just within reach and yet never within his grasp, tired but not restful. They do not know how long they have been lying on the cool stone. No dreams, no StarClan. They shouldn't feel disappointed, they know.
Slowly, Lichenpaw gets to his feet, turns to face the other medicine cats with a lie ready on his lips.
(and the reaching retreats.)
I'M MOVING PAST THE FEELING !
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