- Jun 16, 2024
- 101
- 20
- 18
˖⁺‧₊ ☽◯☾ ₊‧⁺˖ Breathe in. Breathe out.
It's gotten so hard to breathe these days. He doesn't quite know when it happened - some time in between DuskClan and Yellowcough. Maybe he's always been like this, always gasping for air as he tries to keep his head above water. It's so much more noticeable now, trying to keep up with the other apprentices. They all see the way that he drags his feet on patrol, ducks out of spars, grinds his teeth at every missed catch. They all see the fear in his eye when his name is called to participate.
It all feels like too much. He wants to be a good apprentice, he does. He can see the stern upbraidings that linger on the tongues of his superiors, the way they say that his mentor is too soft on him. He knows he couldn't handle anything more.
He finds respite, where he can.
He's been gathering little pieces of it where he can. Petals and sprouts, things that soothe the swirling stormclouds in his head. It's a reminder, one he's clung to for a long time.
Vulturepaw was only a young kit when fire claimed the moors. He's watched it regrow, bit by bit. Color came back slowly to the the dusty wastes that had been left behind. Things got better. Life returned, and the moor grew with him. He tries to tell himself: maybe, with enough hope and enough time, things will get better for him too. It's a hard thing to believe, but the thought is nice nonetheless.
Waiting brings him little. The stars are cruel, and they send nothing but misery his way.
He will have to find solace himself. Every patrol from which he returns empty-mawed, he snags another blossom to bring to his nest. He plucks petals whenever they catch his eye. When it all gets too much, he tries to recall the sight of the sprawling flower-field that Milkthorn had showed him.
His nest is overflowing with flowers and leaf-buds before long.
They still cannot bring him kind dreams. Sleep brings nightmares, when he can catch it at all. He lies awake some nights, mind racing with frightful thoughts.
He stares up at the silver shape of the moon, watching it creep towards its zenith in the star-dappled sky. A single paw reaches upwards, blots out its mocking shape. He can never reach high enough - but if he could, he would tear the sky open. He would let the stars fall back down to earth so his dad wouldn't look so sad. Ask them: why do hide away when we need you down here? Maybe they would smite him for the insolence of it. It's not fair, he thinks, as he pulls his paw away.
He turns over onto his stomach, brushes that same paw against the flowers lining his nest. He's always preferred the things he can touch. There's something grounding about the soft brush of petals against his pawpads.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
He rises from his nest slowly.
Sleeping under the stars has never brought much comfort; he misses the gentle shield of the nursery. But - maybe he can bring a little bit of that respite out into camp.
He remembers - when he was only a little younger - bringing prey, flowers, and stories to cheer the queens up. He thinks of the flower patch, the way it made all his fear dissipate into wonder - even if only for a moment.
Vulturepaw leans down, and carefully grasps one of the flowers they've brought into their nest.
They work all night long, under the gentle light of moonbeams. They take every flower, every sprout that they've collected. Careful paws work in time with gently clasped teeth, plucking and placing flowers in every gnarl of a den, lining them along the gaps in the gorse wall. She works at this task as though possessed, silent and dutiful.
The soft sound of the wind is her only companion, ruffling her fur and guiding her along in the task. Petals dance in every shade, smiling upon the camp. A talisman, a ward, against the choking terror that closes in from all sides. A blessing of earth, not stars; this is the kind of faith that Vulturepaw can find solace in. There is no hope for her in nebulous promises of worship, of star-blessed protection. Instead, it is here: in the earth beneath his feet and the iridescent arrays of colors lining the walls.
He turns the camp into something bright, and it is an act of desperation. It is an act of defiance. It is a pitiful plea into the endless screaming void: I'm not giving up yet. It is hope, and it is a promise. Things will get better. They have to. He won't let himself be scared forever.
By the time that the sun is beginning to rise, the camp is abloom.
The apprentice continues his task with tired paws, blinking blearily at the distant sound of someone calling his name. "Hm...?" he murmurs softly, turning to look. He doesn't quite register who it is, standing before him. His sleep-addled brain only has room for one thing.
"What are you doing?"
They hardly comprehend the question for a moment, staring blankly at the asker. "I'm..." They sweep a paw towards the flower they were weaving into the gorse, as if it should be self explanatory. "I thought it - um." Slowly, the stupor begins to wear off. His ears pin back, feeling abashed, and he averts his gaze. "Th-thought it looked - um, a little sad, here..."
A half-hearted justification (an echo of his words to Sheeppaw in the badget sett) hardly scratching the surface of why he felt possessed to cover the camp in flowers. He himself hardly understands why, truly.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
It was worth it. His chest feels a little lighter already.
It's gotten so hard to breathe these days. He doesn't quite know when it happened - some time in between DuskClan and Yellowcough. Maybe he's always been like this, always gasping for air as he tries to keep his head above water. It's so much more noticeable now, trying to keep up with the other apprentices. They all see the way that he drags his feet on patrol, ducks out of spars, grinds his teeth at every missed catch. They all see the fear in his eye when his name is called to participate.
It all feels like too much. He wants to be a good apprentice, he does. He can see the stern upbraidings that linger on the tongues of his superiors, the way they say that his mentor is too soft on him. He knows he couldn't handle anything more.
He finds respite, where he can.
He's been gathering little pieces of it where he can. Petals and sprouts, things that soothe the swirling stormclouds in his head. It's a reminder, one he's clung to for a long time.
Vulturepaw was only a young kit when fire claimed the moors. He's watched it regrow, bit by bit. Color came back slowly to the the dusty wastes that had been left behind. Things got better. Life returned, and the moor grew with him. He tries to tell himself: maybe, with enough hope and enough time, things will get better for him too. It's a hard thing to believe, but the thought is nice nonetheless.
Waiting brings him little. The stars are cruel, and they send nothing but misery his way.
He will have to find solace himself. Every patrol from which he returns empty-mawed, he snags another blossom to bring to his nest. He plucks petals whenever they catch his eye. When it all gets too much, he tries to recall the sight of the sprawling flower-field that Milkthorn had showed him.
His nest is overflowing with flowers and leaf-buds before long.
They still cannot bring him kind dreams. Sleep brings nightmares, when he can catch it at all. He lies awake some nights, mind racing with frightful thoughts.
He stares up at the silver shape of the moon, watching it creep towards its zenith in the star-dappled sky. A single paw reaches upwards, blots out its mocking shape. He can never reach high enough - but if he could, he would tear the sky open. He would let the stars fall back down to earth so his dad wouldn't look so sad. Ask them: why do hide away when we need you down here? Maybe they would smite him for the insolence of it. It's not fair, he thinks, as he pulls his paw away.
He turns over onto his stomach, brushes that same paw against the flowers lining his nest. He's always preferred the things he can touch. There's something grounding about the soft brush of petals against his pawpads.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
He rises from his nest slowly.
Sleeping under the stars has never brought much comfort; he misses the gentle shield of the nursery. But - maybe he can bring a little bit of that respite out into camp.
He remembers - when he was only a little younger - bringing prey, flowers, and stories to cheer the queens up. He thinks of the flower patch, the way it made all his fear dissipate into wonder - even if only for a moment.
Vulturepaw leans down, and carefully grasps one of the flowers they've brought into their nest.
They work all night long, under the gentle light of moonbeams. They take every flower, every sprout that they've collected. Careful paws work in time with gently clasped teeth, plucking and placing flowers in every gnarl of a den, lining them along the gaps in the gorse wall. She works at this task as though possessed, silent and dutiful.
The soft sound of the wind is her only companion, ruffling her fur and guiding her along in the task. Petals dance in every shade, smiling upon the camp. A talisman, a ward, against the choking terror that closes in from all sides. A blessing of earth, not stars; this is the kind of faith that Vulturepaw can find solace in. There is no hope for her in nebulous promises of worship, of star-blessed protection. Instead, it is here: in the earth beneath his feet and the iridescent arrays of colors lining the walls.
He turns the camp into something bright, and it is an act of desperation. It is an act of defiance. It is a pitiful plea into the endless screaming void: I'm not giving up yet. It is hope, and it is a promise. Things will get better. They have to. He won't let himself be scared forever.
By the time that the sun is beginning to rise, the camp is abloom.
The apprentice continues his task with tired paws, blinking blearily at the distant sound of someone calling his name. "Hm...?" he murmurs softly, turning to look. He doesn't quite register who it is, standing before him. His sleep-addled brain only has room for one thing.
"What are you doing?"
They hardly comprehend the question for a moment, staring blankly at the asker. "I'm..." They sweep a paw towards the flower they were weaving into the gorse, as if it should be self explanatory. "I thought it - um." Slowly, the stupor begins to wear off. His ears pin back, feeling abashed, and he averts his gaze. "Th-thought it looked - um, a little sad, here..."
A half-hearted justification (an echo of his words to Sheeppaw in the badget sett) hardly scratching the surface of why he felt possessed to cover the camp in flowers. He himself hardly understands why, truly.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
It was worth it. His chest feels a little lighter already.
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100th post!! anyone can be the cat talking to vulture o7
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"SPEECH"
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VULTUREPAW ⛧ he / they / she, apprentice of windclan, seven moons.
⭃ a spiky-furred dark tabby with amber eyes.
⭃ skittish and dour, with a superstitious sort of pessimism.
⭃ micheal x npc, adopted by periwinklebreeze. sibling to dustpaw and bilberrypaw.
⭃ peaceful and healing powerplay permitted / / underline and tag when attacking
⭃ penned by SATURNID ↛ saturnids on discord, feel free to dm for plots.
