- Jun 9, 2022
- 602
- 408
- 63
Dawnglare lays awake in his nest, alone. Such a thing feels blasphemous to say, or even think when he can still feel warmth pressed against his side. And if he were to look, his eyes would meet downy white. And, impossibly, he’d still think he could see the lingerings of a smile within sleep.
He doesn’t look though, not wanting to eclipse the bright, sorrowless moon. He is not alone. He is far from it. He has all he has ever wanted at his side, tucked within a hovel that was his own, surrounded by disgustingly comforting scents. Why, oh why, did the world feel so empty around him still? Nothing felt real past this den– past this nest. Things had been perfect for a split second, and then they hadn’t been.
He tries to focus on the world outside of it all. Fireflypaw nests like an overgrown beast at his side somewhere. If he does not focus on them, they meld into static before his eyes. And if he does focus, all he hears is a heartbeat that may someday stop. He knows nothing of the moon, but only of the moonlight that spills onto cream - and - black hide. Dawnglare feels more exhausted the longer he looks at them, so he returns to looking at nothing at all; blobs of scattered herb blending into green - and - gold mishmash. The world blurs further the longer he keeps his eyes open. Would he rather do this, than sleep?
The power to decide is not his, he realizes. The world is no longer foggy, but slipping into shadows as well. He feels moments away from falling through the floor.
Perhaps this is what it was, he realizes in a moment of clarity; sparks flickering precariously before the eye. Control had not been his, that day. Blazestar had not cared about what he had to say, that time. He could do nothing but watch as it all fell apart.
Dawnglare falls through the ground.
He thinks that he had imagined it, for a moment. For he remains tucked in his nest, and there is a body pressed behind him.
But the blur that had been Fireflypaw was no longer there. The sky couldn’t bear to show itself any longer, either. The setting falls away to something barely - recognizable. Leaves are littered ahead of him, but they sit on a blank floor and leave no shadow. Behind the branches that wove the shape of his den, he could no longer see a sun or moon, but rather blank, white sky.
Mallowlark is still there beside him, though; and so, he breathes. Dawnglare wonders what he would think about how the world was now. He nudges him awake.
And, nothing. It is as if Dawnglare were a specter. With his voice, he attempts to rouse him, but nothing comes out– nothing at all. There is a whisper in the wind, something that tells him that he is real and that he is trying. To the sleeping Mallowlark, it apparently does not matter. Dawnglare fails to look plainly at him. To gaze upon the mass of sooty white and think as fondly as he usually may. He looks at him and does not know what he is meant to see. He can’t say he’s sure if he’s breathing. He can’t say he’s sure.
And for some reason, Dawnglare steps out of his nest, out and onto the floor that he thinks may swallow him if he tips his toes to far in. His coat already melds too nicely with the nothing - floor. His breath is held close as if it were something sacred, only fizzling strangely between teeth when he meets ground and does not fall through it. Perhaps more unsettling, was that he could not feel Her presence.
He escapes his den, peeking less like a fox emerging from its burrow, and more like a piece of prey narrowly avoiding its tail being caught in claws. What once was camp has become nothing. He sees familiar things littered before him; stones and stumps. The trunks of what are trees stand tall in the distance, but are seemingly never ending, if he were to lift his chin. The background the trunks sat on was precisely nothing. The world around was sterile, white void. Roots twisted strangely and then stop, as if they meant to burrow beneath dirt. But that too, was nonexistant.
Dawnglare calls for his mate. His mate is snoring lightly.
He slithers to the almost - trees, and heaves himself upward in a frenzy. Velvet - and white scrapes his way up the trunk as he heaves himself. For a moment, he does not mind the loose bark caught in his pelt. He strains to make his way to the highest vantage point, but he can never find the tops of the trees. When finally, he looks down, he hardly looks that high up at all.
Dawnglare races atop the treetops, instead. More than once, he stumbles; claw catching on a stray, skinny branch or otherwise. He runs, hoping to find something. All of it is nothing.
It feels like an eternity– or perhaps it had only been a moment until he spots a familiar blur on the forest floor. Dawnglare careens toward the familiar new - moon face, jaws snapping shut on his own spit as he dips below. But– see, the blur becomes barely any more clear as he draws nearer. It is undeniably his apprentice, but some parts of him meld into smoke, as if a strong gust may suddenly blow him away. Dawnglare wants to scream for answers, but he is still dreadfully silent. His eyes plead as much as his voice might’ve. Why are you here? Where is everyone? in his mind, he shrieks.
“We’re leaving,“ Fireflypaw tells him suddenly, and their voice is not right in a way he cannot articulate. It is undeniably them, and the shred of soul within him that knows this was his own mind believes he’s been around the pest enough to recreate him well. What was wrong with it, then? Dawnglare wonders why they had not said a word to him; why none of them had shaken Mallowlark awake. His eyes burn furiously, and Fireflypaw seems to fog up more in reaction, wisps cutting into their paws and tail.
Fireflypaw says, “ We didn’t think that you’d care. “ It’s the tone, he realizes. That’s what is wrong.
Dawnglare bares his teeth. He’d like to tell them what a fool they are. That of course he would care, when he has thrown away a life of grandeur so his friend may trance about in the forest without getting himself killed. He'd like to tell them that if any of them thought for a single moment, they would realize he cared enough to indulge in petty rivalries and have his stomach slit on the very same front.
The shape that is Fireflypaw becomes even more fuzzy. Faintly, Dawnglare can see them glance downward. “ You’re here for Blaise. “
Belatedly, Dawnglare realizes this Fireflypaw knew what he was thinking. He also knew that this Fireflypaw was not real, for he’s never known his father by that name. I’m here to do what I am supposed to. For Blaise, and for Her. Dawnglare thinks about everything that was wrong with his apprentice. How he couldn’t stand the way he never listens. The way his apprentice claims he cares about his word, and then speaks driveling nonsense to his peers. The way they refuse to let go of that parasite with green eyes, acting foolish in his name.
The Fireflypaw - shape hardly has a face anymore, but suddenly, they remind him too much of the day his apprentice been blinded. A frown etched somewhere that Dawnglare cannot see. He wonders if he’d thought wrong. If this, somehow, was indeed the real one.
“ Are you happy? “ the thing asks with something that could be sadness.
Dawnglare knows that he will not be where he is forever. Lately, he has been trying to decide when it would be time for him to move on. He hasn’t figured it out yet. He has a mate. He is fine.
“ It’s been a long time, “ the thing says suddenly. “ You never forgot about her. “
Dawnglare is silent. The empty ground cannot writhe beneath him.
And the thing dares to look sad, somehow. It tells him, “ They’ll forget about you. “ It is being blown away. “ But you’d do the same, “ it adds quietly.
This Fireflypaw was not real. And now, Dawnglare understands what this was. It was a wretched creation at the hands of that star - crossed murderer; spirit without a soul. Dawnglare would like to rip out his tongue, to watch the life leave him through a single puncture of the neck until the stars in his fur go dark. The not - Fireflypaw fades into nothing, and Dawnglare steps past what had once been them, stomping out the soot that remained. His stomach churns uncomfortably. He needs to lie down for a moment.
A moment turns into several moments. He wishes that he had his mate, but his mate is dreaming peacefully.
He doesn’t know how long it has been. He is sprawled on the groundless floor and feels that he may well never rise again. His face feels held down by a thousand invisible weights, but if he closes his eyes, unpleasant shadows swim beneath them. It is much worse than being awake; whatever kind of awake this was.
Something asks him if he needs help. He declines.
Later, a paw reaches toward him, and he pushes it away.
Later, he feels a comforting weight beside him. He looks, and is nearly pushed to agony when the pelt is silver instead of white. The thing narrowly avoids teeth in its leg. Later, something tries to make him stand. Dawnglare thinks about how much he would flay them for laying a paw on him.
He doesn’t know how long it has been. He misses so much.
A blob of something— an indiscernible face— helps him stand after a while.
Dawnglare breathes, and he says, “Thank you.”
“ Of course! “ they say, and Dawnglare can suddenly tell that they are smiling. The pelt is brown and white and orange, littered with stripes. Dawnglare fails to discern anything past that. “ Do you want to come with me? “
Dawnglare does not answer, too distracted by the voice that he suddenly had. He is staring at the floor, and when he looks up, the figure is gone.
But the forest seems more lively, he notes. underbrush has seemingly sprouted, leaving more than void between each too - tall trunk. He likes that he has something he can touch without feeling like he may slip right through it. For once, without searching for cure, he’d brush leaves and nettle. A terrifying thing– jumping cricket, springs toward him. He pales.
A paw from somewhere unseen kills it quickly. Good riddance, Dawnglare thinks; and when he looks up, there is no one there. It unsettles him. Because it did not make sense; that was why.
Perhaps when he reveled in something he could touch, it had to be clarified just what he meant. The forest is suddenly crawling with insects; all the more obvious with no sky to hide them. Dawnglare is frozen in place, relegated to as small as a width as he could take up with pale paws and a feathery tail. He is prey caught in the eyes of a predator as a shimmering pink butterfly settles atop his nose.
Another paw shoes it away, dark - furred, and for some reason, Dawnglare is grateful as he looks at the vaguely - shaped thing. Or perhaps the vagueness was temporary, for suddenly, he sees a broad maw and burning orange eyes. Dawnglare is caught off by how clearly he sees him now. He stutters on a response.
The cat looks puzzled by this, eyebrows pinched as if Dawnglare was acting strangely, and vaguely, he realizes that this cat was Slate. They shrug, and then walk away. He doesn’t know why, but Dawnglare attempts to trail them. For some reason there’s a pit in his stomach as he rounds a trunk only to see that Slate is gone.
But the birds have returned, and Dawnglare is suddenly aware of hunger gnawing at his stomach. In a flash of fur, an orange - and - white coat snags one of the sky beasts out of the sky and deposits it at his paws. Dawnglare stumbles on a thank you, and Orangeblossom nods back at him. The sounds of the forest return after that.
The place becomes livelier, then.
A tawny queen remarks on the birdsong beside him, and Bobbie smiles as he gives his own input. A red - dappled tom challenges him to see who could climb a tree trunk the quickest, and Auburnflame is unbothered when he quietly declines, realizing that he is out of practice. A tortoiseshell molly sits beside him as he ponders the clouds, and Butterflytuft grins when he sees a peculiar shape amongst them. He sees Twitchstorm and Quillstrike as they pad alongside each other. He sees a silvery tabby, their smudged face absolutely beaming, and the planes of his face became clear as Dawnglare mentally remarks that this was terribly out of character for Silversmoke.
Someway, somehow, Dawnglare has made his way back to camp, and everything is as it should be. Dawn streaks its way across the sky, birds perch on nearby branches, mumbling morning song and taunting nearby kits with the meat on its bones. Ugly little Plaguekit— (The visage of him stutters as Dawnglare thinks this)— runs to dance between his legs, and he manages not to crush him into paste despite his full - body shudder.
Mallowlark is awake, and Dawnglare watches his mate claw his way into the open like a badger ecstatic for its day of gobbling kits; but sooty paws make their way toward him and– oh, it was him, he is excited about. The tom greets him with a chirpy hi, and Dawnglare can easily reply, “ Hello. “
He doesn’t quite understand what went wrong. He doesn’t quite understand what went right.
The world is much better like this, he thinks. He sees his clanmates smiling at him.
And then he wakes, and the world is dull again.
He doesn’t look though, not wanting to eclipse the bright, sorrowless moon. He is not alone. He is far from it. He has all he has ever wanted at his side, tucked within a hovel that was his own, surrounded by disgustingly comforting scents. Why, oh why, did the world feel so empty around him still? Nothing felt real past this den– past this nest. Things had been perfect for a split second, and then they hadn’t been.
He tries to focus on the world outside of it all. Fireflypaw nests like an overgrown beast at his side somewhere. If he does not focus on them, they meld into static before his eyes. And if he does focus, all he hears is a heartbeat that may someday stop. He knows nothing of the moon, but only of the moonlight that spills onto cream - and - black hide. Dawnglare feels more exhausted the longer he looks at them, so he returns to looking at nothing at all; blobs of scattered herb blending into green - and - gold mishmash. The world blurs further the longer he keeps his eyes open. Would he rather do this, than sleep?
The power to decide is not his, he realizes. The world is no longer foggy, but slipping into shadows as well. He feels moments away from falling through the floor.
Perhaps this is what it was, he realizes in a moment of clarity; sparks flickering precariously before the eye. Control had not been his, that day. Blazestar had not cared about what he had to say, that time. He could do nothing but watch as it all fell apart.
Dawnglare falls through the ground.
[ . . . ]
He thinks that he had imagined it, for a moment. For he remains tucked in his nest, and there is a body pressed behind him.
But the blur that had been Fireflypaw was no longer there. The sky couldn’t bear to show itself any longer, either. The setting falls away to something barely - recognizable. Leaves are littered ahead of him, but they sit on a blank floor and leave no shadow. Behind the branches that wove the shape of his den, he could no longer see a sun or moon, but rather blank, white sky.
Mallowlark is still there beside him, though; and so, he breathes. Dawnglare wonders what he would think about how the world was now. He nudges him awake.
And, nothing. It is as if Dawnglare were a specter. With his voice, he attempts to rouse him, but nothing comes out– nothing at all. There is a whisper in the wind, something that tells him that he is real and that he is trying. To the sleeping Mallowlark, it apparently does not matter. Dawnglare fails to look plainly at him. To gaze upon the mass of sooty white and think as fondly as he usually may. He looks at him and does not know what he is meant to see. He can’t say he’s sure if he’s breathing. He can’t say he’s sure.
And for some reason, Dawnglare steps out of his nest, out and onto the floor that he thinks may swallow him if he tips his toes to far in. His coat already melds too nicely with the nothing - floor. His breath is held close as if it were something sacred, only fizzling strangely between teeth when he meets ground and does not fall through it. Perhaps more unsettling, was that he could not feel Her presence.
He escapes his den, peeking less like a fox emerging from its burrow, and more like a piece of prey narrowly avoiding its tail being caught in claws. What once was camp has become nothing. He sees familiar things littered before him; stones and stumps. The trunks of what are trees stand tall in the distance, but are seemingly never ending, if he were to lift his chin. The background the trunks sat on was precisely nothing. The world around was sterile, white void. Roots twisted strangely and then stop, as if they meant to burrow beneath dirt. But that too, was nonexistant.
Dawnglare calls for his mate. His mate is snoring lightly.
He slithers to the almost - trees, and heaves himself upward in a frenzy. Velvet - and white scrapes his way up the trunk as he heaves himself. For a moment, he does not mind the loose bark caught in his pelt. He strains to make his way to the highest vantage point, but he can never find the tops of the trees. When finally, he looks down, he hardly looks that high up at all.
Dawnglare races atop the treetops, instead. More than once, he stumbles; claw catching on a stray, skinny branch or otherwise. He runs, hoping to find something. All of it is nothing.
It feels like an eternity– or perhaps it had only been a moment until he spots a familiar blur on the forest floor. Dawnglare careens toward the familiar new - moon face, jaws snapping shut on his own spit as he dips below. But– see, the blur becomes barely any more clear as he draws nearer. It is undeniably his apprentice, but some parts of him meld into smoke, as if a strong gust may suddenly blow him away. Dawnglare wants to scream for answers, but he is still dreadfully silent. His eyes plead as much as his voice might’ve. Why are you here? Where is everyone? in his mind, he shrieks.
“We’re leaving,“ Fireflypaw tells him suddenly, and their voice is not right in a way he cannot articulate. It is undeniably them, and the shred of soul within him that knows this was his own mind believes he’s been around the pest enough to recreate him well. What was wrong with it, then? Dawnglare wonders why they had not said a word to him; why none of them had shaken Mallowlark awake. His eyes burn furiously, and Fireflypaw seems to fog up more in reaction, wisps cutting into their paws and tail.
Fireflypaw says, “ We didn’t think that you’d care. “ It’s the tone, he realizes. That’s what is wrong.
Dawnglare bares his teeth. He’d like to tell them what a fool they are. That of course he would care, when he has thrown away a life of grandeur so his friend may trance about in the forest without getting himself killed. He'd like to tell them that if any of them thought for a single moment, they would realize he cared enough to indulge in petty rivalries and have his stomach slit on the very same front.
The shape that is Fireflypaw becomes even more fuzzy. Faintly, Dawnglare can see them glance downward. “ You’re here for Blaise. “
Belatedly, Dawnglare realizes this Fireflypaw knew what he was thinking. He also knew that this Fireflypaw was not real, for he’s never known his father by that name. I’m here to do what I am supposed to. For Blaise, and for Her. Dawnglare thinks about everything that was wrong with his apprentice. How he couldn’t stand the way he never listens. The way his apprentice claims he cares about his word, and then speaks driveling nonsense to his peers. The way they refuse to let go of that parasite with green eyes, acting foolish in his name.
The Fireflypaw - shape hardly has a face anymore, but suddenly, they remind him too much of the day his apprentice been blinded. A frown etched somewhere that Dawnglare cannot see. He wonders if he’d thought wrong. If this, somehow, was indeed the real one.
“ Are you happy? “ the thing asks with something that could be sadness.
Dawnglare knows that he will not be where he is forever. Lately, he has been trying to decide when it would be time for him to move on. He hasn’t figured it out yet. He has a mate. He is fine.
“ It’s been a long time, “ the thing says suddenly. “ You never forgot about her. “
Dawnglare is silent. The empty ground cannot writhe beneath him.
And the thing dares to look sad, somehow. It tells him, “ They’ll forget about you. “ It is being blown away. “ But you’d do the same, “ it adds quietly.
This Fireflypaw was not real. And now, Dawnglare understands what this was. It was a wretched creation at the hands of that star - crossed murderer; spirit without a soul. Dawnglare would like to rip out his tongue, to watch the life leave him through a single puncture of the neck until the stars in his fur go dark. The not - Fireflypaw fades into nothing, and Dawnglare steps past what had once been them, stomping out the soot that remained. His stomach churns uncomfortably. He needs to lie down for a moment.
[ . . . ]
A moment turns into several moments. He wishes that he had his mate, but his mate is dreaming peacefully.
He doesn’t know how long it has been. He is sprawled on the groundless floor and feels that he may well never rise again. His face feels held down by a thousand invisible weights, but if he closes his eyes, unpleasant shadows swim beneath them. It is much worse than being awake; whatever kind of awake this was.
Something asks him if he needs help. He declines.
[ . . . ]
Later, a paw reaches toward him, and he pushes it away.
[ . . . ]
Later, he feels a comforting weight beside him. He looks, and is nearly pushed to agony when the pelt is silver instead of white. The thing narrowly avoids teeth in its leg. Later, something tries to make him stand. Dawnglare thinks about how much he would flay them for laying a paw on him.
[ . . . ]
He doesn’t know how long it has been. He misses so much.
A blob of something— an indiscernible face— helps him stand after a while.
Dawnglare breathes, and he says, “Thank you.”
“ Of course! “ they say, and Dawnglare can suddenly tell that they are smiling. The pelt is brown and white and orange, littered with stripes. Dawnglare fails to discern anything past that. “ Do you want to come with me? “
Dawnglare does not answer, too distracted by the voice that he suddenly had. He is staring at the floor, and when he looks up, the figure is gone.
But the forest seems more lively, he notes. underbrush has seemingly sprouted, leaving more than void between each too - tall trunk. He likes that he has something he can touch without feeling like he may slip right through it. For once, without searching for cure, he’d brush leaves and nettle. A terrifying thing– jumping cricket, springs toward him. He pales.
A paw from somewhere unseen kills it quickly. Good riddance, Dawnglare thinks; and when he looks up, there is no one there. It unsettles him. Because it did not make sense; that was why.
Perhaps when he reveled in something he could touch, it had to be clarified just what he meant. The forest is suddenly crawling with insects; all the more obvious with no sky to hide them. Dawnglare is frozen in place, relegated to as small as a width as he could take up with pale paws and a feathery tail. He is prey caught in the eyes of a predator as a shimmering pink butterfly settles atop his nose.
Another paw shoes it away, dark - furred, and for some reason, Dawnglare is grateful as he looks at the vaguely - shaped thing. Or perhaps the vagueness was temporary, for suddenly, he sees a broad maw and burning orange eyes. Dawnglare is caught off by how clearly he sees him now. He stutters on a response.
The cat looks puzzled by this, eyebrows pinched as if Dawnglare was acting strangely, and vaguely, he realizes that this cat was Slate. They shrug, and then walk away. He doesn’t know why, but Dawnglare attempts to trail them. For some reason there’s a pit in his stomach as he rounds a trunk only to see that Slate is gone.
But the birds have returned, and Dawnglare is suddenly aware of hunger gnawing at his stomach. In a flash of fur, an orange - and - white coat snags one of the sky beasts out of the sky and deposits it at his paws. Dawnglare stumbles on a thank you, and Orangeblossom nods back at him. The sounds of the forest return after that.
The place becomes livelier, then.
A tawny queen remarks on the birdsong beside him, and Bobbie smiles as he gives his own input. A red - dappled tom challenges him to see who could climb a tree trunk the quickest, and Auburnflame is unbothered when he quietly declines, realizing that he is out of practice. A tortoiseshell molly sits beside him as he ponders the clouds, and Butterflytuft grins when he sees a peculiar shape amongst them. He sees Twitchstorm and Quillstrike as they pad alongside each other. He sees a silvery tabby, their smudged face absolutely beaming, and the planes of his face became clear as Dawnglare mentally remarks that this was terribly out of character for Silversmoke.
Someway, somehow, Dawnglare has made his way back to camp, and everything is as it should be. Dawn streaks its way across the sky, birds perch on nearby branches, mumbling morning song and taunting nearby kits with the meat on its bones. Ugly little Plaguekit— (The visage of him stutters as Dawnglare thinks this)— runs to dance between his legs, and he manages not to crush him into paste despite his full - body shudder.
Mallowlark is awake, and Dawnglare watches his mate claw his way into the open like a badger ecstatic for its day of gobbling kits; but sooty paws make their way toward him and– oh, it was him, he is excited about. The tom greets him with a chirpy hi, and Dawnglare can easily reply, “ Hello. “
He doesn’t quite understand what went wrong. He doesn’t quite understand what went right.
The world is much better like this, he thinks. He sees his clanmates smiling at him.
And then he wakes, and the world is dull again.
