private DEATH OF MOTHER NATURE SUITE | termite

[CHRYSALISWING]

There was a saying that Chrysaliswing remembered Earwigtuft telling her young brood. It had stuck with him like tree sap pulling on fur to flesh. "If you do bad, Starclan's judgment will catch up to you at death."

Chrysaliswing waited for his father to die, then. Perhaps a great flash of white from Starclan's domain would strike him down. Or a giant chasm from the Dark Forest's machinations would swallow him up. In a dichotomous youth, the vindictive Chrys wanted Dragonflywing to be punished for the words he said to him. Why is it only my father who says these things to me? I never hear any of the other kits' fathers go through this. So unfair! He thought something was wrong with the whole of him - not just the wishes of retribution, but everything. Why wasn't he and his siblings good enough for him? Earwig liked to assuage his bubbling fears with lullabies of her own, cooing that he didn't mean it like that or he was just having a bad day. Well, he must be having a bad day every day. And for that, the littler Chrys declared, he should be smitten by the spirits!

He grew older and yet could not discern his father's motivations. He never was good at the whole emotions debacle, but his father seemed especially like an unshakably rooted oak tree. The childish sentiment still remained with him, like that same sticky sap. It seemed that everything stuck with him, as he dragged its hollowed corpse forward with him. He at least waited for some sort of compensation for having to deal with his father, some cosmic reparation - what exactly that would be, he had no clue.

Just when his faith in the old adage had started to fade, Starclan's judgment had caught up to Dragonflywing. The old tom had tripped upon a knoll of a root, and the prideful beast had gone down. According to the rest of his patrol-mates, Dragonfly had been rushed to the medicine cat den. He had a broken bone, and though Chrys had only ever seen it wrapped in the careful gauze of cobwebs and leaves, he could tell it was a grievous injury. He liked to think that Dragonfly howled as his leg snapped in twain, like an old buck at the end of its life, meeting the finale that all others below it would meet. Anything to knock the greying bastard off of his pedestal, even if the fantasies were grim.

Now, Dragonfly was just another miserable face in the medicine cat den. His face sagged into the gloom of the long shadows, as though he had been crafted from it first, and now he would return to his creator. His gaze burned as the distant sun dipped into the dusk, a candlelight upon the impenetrable darkness of a pitch-colored coat, a guiding blaze floating through the tar-touched sea. What was most prominent to Chrys was his quietude, as though his lips had been woven shut by the gentle kiss of wire and web. Reluctant to raise his voice when he had none now, Chrysaliswing figured. From this angle, Dragonfly seemed less like the great force that he came to despise and more like... another cat.

Chrysalis and Termite had been the only of the family to afford the old man the mercy of their presence. Katydid had been out, somewhere, with endless excuses polluting her lips. She had to go help the dawn patrol, she had to aid with the mass battle training, she had to do something alone. Good for her. No other cat had bothered to visit Dragonfly out of concern for his well-being, and that had soured his grizzled, hoarfrost expression, as though winter had come early and stringent for him. Was this Starclan's judgment? Surely, they could act quicker... This was cruel for the both of them.

For some sick reason, Chrysaliswing wanted to stay at the den's mouth and simply observe his father, who hadn't turned his face to him either. The shadows must have made better companions than his own children if he were so keen to stare at the abyss. And yet, he waited though he did not know for what. He wanted him to get better, above all odds. He had little reason to care for the tom who had beat him down his entire life, and yet seeing him in such despondency was almost disconcerting. I wonder if that's what I'm going to look like when I die. Like him.

It was not until Termite had resurfaced from the cavern did he finally speak. "So, how long do you think it will be? Until he gets better, that is." How long do you think it will be until he dies?, was what he truly wanted to ask. But there was no grace of clarity yet, and he did not want to curse it.

@TERMITEHUM​

 

[TERMITEHUM]

( 𓆣 )　 Perhaps Earwigtuft's superstition was passed to her eldest; perhaps she'd only said what she did to scare them into behaving. If you do bad, Starclan's judgment will catch up to you at death. A watchful eye, hovering, waiting for the right moment, lingering until it could carry out its sentencing. Termitehum has never been certain what StarClan thought of it. Nothing good, certainly. It's given them nothing to look down kindly upon. What she is certain of, however, is that the stars will not look kindly upon her father.

She'd loved him, once. He was her father, and she was his child. She'd always gotten the most attention, because she was the oldest, because she looked most like him. Not that the most attention was anything good, or anything like love. Attention beget expectation, and expectations are something Termitehum has never been good at meeting. She'd wanted to impress him, long ago, wanted to take the venom that laced his words and wring it out, so he could finally talk to her -- talk to all her siblings -- like the other kits' fathers would. Bring warmth to the cold, distant gold of his eyes. Prove her mother right, affirm her crooning balm of "He doesn't really mean that, dear."

Termitehum stopped trying to prove herself to him long ago. Her reflection makes her sick, now; the image of a father whose love she could never earn, a tom so cruel that the stars would surely take him loudly, announce his sins for all to see. The same reflection that lies before her now, honey-gold eyes glassy with pain and leg twisted in divine retribution.

She's brought fresh moss for his nest. It's routine, rote. He looks so fragile like this, leg bound and gaze empty. Docile, in a way he never was. He doesn't even acknowledge it's presence... That part is nothing new.

They've traded places, now. It'd just left here, cured of its sickness, and condemned its father to a crueler fate. A sign from the stars, perhaps. Do they favor Termitehum enough to spare her, then? Or is this a warning to both of them? The child, cursed with her father's face, and the father, cursed with a child a pathetic mockery of himself. Lacking any of his bite, any of his prowess; that, he gave to her brother. Termitehum fears the stars will come for him, too, fire-tongued as the tom he despises and bearing his name like a brand.

She does not look directly at Chrysaliswing as she approaches, head hunched ground-ward. His question, callous as always, halts her breath for a moment. "How long do you think it will be?" stating it plainly. Dragonflywing can't have long left, not with the life he's lived.

But, ah, no. A misunderstanding. Chrysaliswing clarifies quickly, and Termitehum's exhale is shaky. "Ah... Mm..." she takes her time in responding, curling impossibly smaller as she thinks. "...Long," she concludes simply. "Hhh - hhis leg is, i- is fully bro- oken. 'S gonna be in he- e- ere a wh... a while." She doesn't know whether to be glad of it, doesn't dare think what will happen if he never leaves, if he dies in the same medicine den that she nearly did. The feelings that arise at the thought cling to the back of her mind like sticky spiderweb; she tries her best to shake them free.

GET TO KNOW ME 𓆣 YOU CAN TAKE IT RIGHT BACK !【 11.13.23 】

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• "SPEECH"

• ⁺　₊ 　⋆　✩ TERMITEHUM. SKYCLAN WARRIOR.　SHE / THEY / IT.
  18 MOONS & AGES ON THE 1ST.　PENNED BY SATURNID.
  
  

  

  𓆣 — A WILLOWY BLACK CAT WITH WHITE PATCHES AND INTENSE ORANGE EYES.

  
  DRAGONFLYWING xx EARWIGTUFT. SISTER TO CHRYSALISWING.
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[CHRYSALISWING]

"Good. I hope he stays in there." It was the usual sort of anathema that flowered from Chrysaliswing's mouth as if a brimstone garden blooming between granite and grim. Only watered by the same hatred it absorbed, it persisted nonetheless. If there were a sanctuary for the stinging nettles and the bitter dock, he was its host. If there were any competition for who could hold the longest onto the smoldering coals of grudge, he would surely be the champion.

It was any wonder that his blazing enmity did not eat him alive.

The tom shot another pointed, mismatched gaze at Dragonflywing's angled back, as the shadows settled to give form to a protruding spine and thinly-concealed muscle. Like a living corpse, a dead man walking, his father did not utter a word. Still, he lived. Although a mere specter of the man who allowed adder's venom to curdle his tongue, he lived. Chrysalis pondered, in a momentary wingbeat of a second, if Dragonflywing even knew that his own son wished for him to die. It seemed as though they were one in the same feline, both gardens of weeds and snags and things other cats could never learn to love.

Then, his burning gaze perched upon his sibling, as she curled inwards as though his simple question pulled her from the inside out. Always the meeker creature, always the tiny bug between the thorns and thistles of a terrible garden. Sometimes, he wished he were as inconspicuous as a beetle or ant, if only to avoid those that slighted or annoyed him. He couldn't help his anger, as if a leaf caught in its own bluster, a creature trapped within its own rib cage. He could not allow himself the privilege of concealment.

"How do you feel about him? I'm sure you think he's a shitty dad too. Don't you think the clan would be better off without him?" The next words to tumble out of his mouth were more vulnerable and wounded, exposing the skin and gums more than he usually allowed, like he had little choice in the matter. A hart struck by the hunter's arrow, a bleating yet egotistical beast, he was so clearly affronted yet did not let his blood spill for all to see. He was sure that Termite (and Katydid, not that she would be present for a conversation like this) detested their father as well. It must feel the same as him - it had to. If they weren't so weak willed, they would have turned out to be just like him. The delusion almost comforted him, that he was not a lone idiosyncrasy.
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[TERMITEHUM]

( 𓆣 )　 Chrysaliswing says the bit that they cannot. Good. Their mouth twists, eyes darting shamefully away. Termitehum does not speak in protest; her brother's anger is muted, now, and deserved. Choosing silence, like the coward she is.

His gaze settles on their father, looking past Termitehum, and they do not turn. They wait, in the quiet, in the dim of the den's mouth.

And then he turns the verdict to them and it's uncomfortable, deeply uncomfortable. His mismatches gaze digs into their pelt, expectant. What answer does he want? His own venom spat back to him? She doesn't think she could manage that. "Ohh no, no, hhhh- he's..." A denial burbles up from the speckled molly's throat, and peters out immediately.

What good can it say about its father? Honeygazed snake with poison pouring from his lips, only ever affording attention to his children to berate. What good has he done for the clan? Given them a cruel son and a cowardly daughter, leaving a singed trail of hurt in the wake of him. The stars have made their judgement clear.

Yet Termitehum is a coward, and so she does not condemn her father. "'S a good wa- arrior," is what they settle on, lamely, pelt prickling like it's full of lice. "Not- not a go- ood ffh- father, no... But thhuh- thhh- the clan wou- ouldn't be b- be- tter off..." They might, though. The two of them. There's an ugly, rotten thing inside of Termitehum that never wants to see his horrible face again, never wants to look at her reflection and see the face of that monster. And yet even to think it feels treasonous, feels like poison spreading through their veins, rot creeping in. They don't want to be like him, like Chrysaliswing. They want to be kinder, to be better. It's the most they can do.

GET TO KNOW ME 𓆣 YOU CAN TAKE IT RIGHT BACK !【 11.13.23 】

• //
  ​

• "SPEECH"

• ⁺　₊ 　⋆　✩ TERMITEHUM. SKYCLAN WARRIOR.　SHE / THEY / IT.
  18 MOONS & AGES ON THE 1ST.　PENNED BY SATURNID.
  
  

  

  𓆣 — A WILLOWY BLACK CAT WITH WHITE PATCHES AND INTENSE ORANGE EYES.

  
  DRAGONFLYWING xx EARWIGTUFT. SISTER TO CHRYSALISWING.
  ​

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[CHRYSALISWING]

What good was a man if his achievements were in gold but his face in rubble? 'S a good warrior. Termitehum mumbled, and though her signature stumbling and stutters were ever-present, there was a sort of contemplative, fatigued tone about it. As though his sibling didn't believe it either, as though she spat out fleece and flies instead of words - a false folly, of sorts. WIth faience figure and faltering voice, it filled Chrysaliswing with a churning disgust like a saltwater sea, though not against the black-and-white molly. Rather, it was towards the string of words that fell ungracefully from its mouth. Still, the feverish abhorrence that wracked at the tom had no discipline nor discernment. If he was angry, then it might as well be towards the whole world.

What was starkly clear to Chrysaliswing was that Termite danced around their true feelings - if it felt what he felt at all. The wildfire-and-cinder-coated warrior never felt any need to hide what emotions broiled up a tempest in himself. Rather, he found it impossibly hard to not express his anger, for that was always the strongest and most nettlesome, like a dogged cough that would never let him be. He embraced it in himself, accepting himself to be nothing but what he was now, as if a stone statue carved of chaos and asperation. Perhaps he was completely alone, in a makeshift shell of his own fury. He was a butterfly that never emerged from its cocoon.

"A good warrior, sure. He does his job. But that doesn't mean anything." Doesn't it? Tangles of hypocrisy tore at his heartstrings but never made him the wiser. It was simply the nature of his own grief that it had no clarity, no light at the end of the bramble-ridden tunnel. He had never tried to make sense of what it was, so he lived with the chaos as a neighbor.

The tom quickly glanced around for any sign of Earwigtuft and Katydid, though the two were nowhere to be found (as expected). As much as he didn't wish to see any of them at the moment, there was a certain sort of illustrious peace that could be found in shared suffering. A tension upon taut strings, but it was still peace. And his two family members could not even afford him that. Needle-like claws dug into the soft loam below, as though destroying something below him would give him more control, as the Starclanner to the ant did.

"No cat in the clan would miss him. Not even his own family, or the only two cats in the whole damn clan that bothered to visit him." Despite Termite looking more like the monstrous reflection of their father, Chrysaliswing was the true mirror. What he said of his father was true of himself as well, though he rejected what he saw in the surface of the imperishable waters of fate. Pure and poised, he refused to see how his own visage had molded into the man he hated the most. But he could never deny that inkling of fear that shivered through venom and vitriol - that he would become as Dragonflywing was now.
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