- Jan 27, 2023
- 460
- 126
- 43
It is easy to forget what had drawn her to Thriftfeather in the first place now. They are tucked into the same cramped nest with writhing, biting kittens; there is never a moment of peace between them, never air to breathe where the others scent isn't clouded, implicated. Where is youth, when Bluefrost spends her days clearing away her children's messes, when Thriftfeather keeps them entertained so their mother has even a moment to groom her pelt? Where was yearning, where was pleasure — had it been Sunstar's nefarious, underlying plan, to deny that from them before he'd left the forest?
But tonight, the children slumber. They are full — she does not know how long that will be for now, as leafbare encroaches on their territory, as DuskClan circles their borders, as the last of yellowcough slithers from their clearing. She watches through half-lidded green eyes, the rise and fall of their plump little flanks, smeared with smoke, flecked with gold, and something tender flowers in her heart.
She leaves her space and the place where her kits crowd the moss. She goes to Thriftfeather, and she tentatively lays her head across his chest — the way she had, before, when they were fools crossing borders, when they were afraid to say what could change everything between them.
Bluefrost has never said it to anyone. Not once. Never to Sootstar, to Weaselclaw, to the parents who ran their brood like a small army. If she has said it to Cottonsprig, it had been where her sister could not hear it, just out of reach. She feels it now, though, she thinks, listening to the tenderness of Thriftfeather's heartbeat. The sweetened wheat-gold of his fur blends with her gray. Perhaps he is thinking of something else entirely — perhaps he is wishing, in some ways, that he'd never been imprisoned here with her and their children — but she cannot know this.
She lets herself relax. The tension melts from her body and she uses Thriftfeather for support. Moonlight glows pale through the roof of the nursery; Sootspot is tucked away in his corner, asleep with his stolen brood. There is no one awake to hear her, and so she says, delicately, "I love you." It's experimental at best. Still, the admission leaves her quite breathless.
Perhaps their timelines were wrong. Their very relationship now is that of two prisoners learning to savor what little freedom lays between them. But what Bluefrost feels for him — him, who helped her carry their kittens home; him, who curls around their tiny bodies to keep them warm; him, who plays with them, who lets them crawl across his back and shoulders, who listens to their tiny voices with serious intent — it is real, she thinks.
"I hope they do not take you away from me." It's a quietly spoken fear, hushed in the darkness. Scorchstar's ascension has left her afraid. Still... even the taciturn calico warrior should see how Thriftfeather's children regard him, how they bury their faces in his fur, how they sing to him, "Papa!"
Bluefrost exhales; it billows some of the fur on Thriftfeather's chest.
But tonight, the children slumber. They are full — she does not know how long that will be for now, as leafbare encroaches on their territory, as DuskClan circles their borders, as the last of yellowcough slithers from their clearing. She watches through half-lidded green eyes, the rise and fall of their plump little flanks, smeared with smoke, flecked with gold, and something tender flowers in her heart.
She leaves her space and the place where her kits crowd the moss. She goes to Thriftfeather, and she tentatively lays her head across his chest — the way she had, before, when they were fools crossing borders, when they were afraid to say what could change everything between them.
Bluefrost has never said it to anyone. Not once. Never to Sootstar, to Weaselclaw, to the parents who ran their brood like a small army. If she has said it to Cottonsprig, it had been where her sister could not hear it, just out of reach. She feels it now, though, she thinks, listening to the tenderness of Thriftfeather's heartbeat. The sweetened wheat-gold of his fur blends with her gray. Perhaps he is thinking of something else entirely — perhaps he is wishing, in some ways, that he'd never been imprisoned here with her and their children — but she cannot know this.
She lets herself relax. The tension melts from her body and she uses Thriftfeather for support. Moonlight glows pale through the roof of the nursery; Sootspot is tucked away in his corner, asleep with his stolen brood. There is no one awake to hear her, and so she says, delicately, "I love you." It's experimental at best. Still, the admission leaves her quite breathless.
Perhaps their timelines were wrong. Their very relationship now is that of two prisoners learning to savor what little freedom lays between them. But what Bluefrost feels for him — him, who helped her carry their kittens home; him, who curls around their tiny bodies to keep them warm; him, who plays with them, who lets them crawl across his back and shoulders, who listens to their tiny voices with serious intent — it is real, she thinks.
"I hope they do not take you away from me." It's a quietly spoken fear, hushed in the darkness. Scorchstar's ascension has left her afraid. Still... even the taciturn calico warrior should see how Thriftfeather's children regard him, how they bury their faces in his fur, how they sing to him, "Papa!"
Bluefrost exhales; it billows some of the fur on Thriftfeather's chest.
- ooc: —
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Bluekit.Bluepaw. Bluefrost, she/her w/ feminine terms.
— “speech”, thoughts, attack
— 18 moons old, ages realistically on the 14th.
— mentored by Sootstar ; mentoring Brackenpaw ; previously mentored n/a.
— windclan queen.sootstarxweaselclaw, gen 2.
— penned by Marquette.
lh blue smoke she-cat with white and emerald eyes. aloof, dignified, poised, haughty, composed, distant.
