private grow flowers out of bones || sabletuft

[loampelt]

It is only in the quiet of after the meeting that Loampelt thinks about Sabletuft beyond a brief annoyance. He pauses and considers Sabletuft; remembers pain as vividly as when it was first struck. Loampelt would have been better off if his final moons of apprenticeship were on his own — no mentor needed. He would have been better off if Sabletuft was allowed his own space to do whatever it is old cats do, and if Loampelt was allowed to simply exist as himself. (He would have been better off if he had been like the other apprentices: if he could receive his name and meet his mentor's proud eyes in the crowd.)

But that isn't the life Loampelt has. He could drown in what-ifs, some gold slanted dream where if only —

But that isn't the life Loampelt has. It isn't worth it to imagine, even for a moment. Sabletuft isn't worth it. Loampelt knows it like he knows a tick isn't worth it to chew at, better to go straight for the mouse-bile. He knows it like he knows he shouldn't aggravate scabs or pick his claws into the spaces between his fangs. It's like his ants are thoughts that don't walk in line anymore — or his thoughts are ants? — and the hill is a mess, and the ants have gotten under his fur, and Sabletuft isn't worth it, he isn't worth it.

"Most mentors congrat-tu-tulate their apprentices," Camp is dotted by low conversation. Loampelt feels loud in comparison, as if he may as well have been shouting. He isn't, he knows, and yet it takes a stronger will than Loampelt knew he possessed to stop himself from glancing about to see who may have eyes on his and Sabletuft's conversation, "But then again m-muh-mmm-most apprentices have more t-tuh-to suh-say tuh-to their mentors than goo-goo-good fucking riddance."

@S A B L E T U F T ​

tags ∘ shadowclan warrior ∘ solid black with hazel eyes ∘ curled front foot ∘ 13 moons

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[S A B L E T U F T]

can we leave it behind? — After Loampelt had officially been deemed as no longer his task, Sabletuft was ready to shed all his prior responsibility to him. No longer having to meet the demands (more it was the Lead's demands) of a cat who met him with equal animosity. He was ready to never force a conversation between them again, and more than happy to keep one another at a distance as far as possible. Loampelt had truly been a stain on his skills, and he could only hope whatever foolish thing he does won't follow up to him.

Sabletuft felt a little surprised that the tom would approach him so soon after getting rid of one another. It made the fur along his tail turn into spines. A low warning growl rumbled from his throat as he heard him approach closer while he kept his back to Loampelt. Refusing to entertain his little confrontation. The new warrior should know by now how little Sabletuft cared for his thoughts or opinions.

"I figured you would've realized by now. You were not like most apprentices, Loampelt." His tone was cool and level. He continued to work on his part of camp, implying the conversation was not worth his full attention. — tags​

 

[loampelt]

"I-eee-uh wasn't," Loampelt agrees, "I've had thr-three — t-tuh-two — three — I've huh-huh-had t-two mentors. Most apprentices only huh-have the one."

It's a strange thing to get confused about, the amount of mentors he's had. Three had come from his mouth so naturally, but it'd just been Halfshade and then Sabletuft, hasn't it? The twitchy-cheeked grimace that Loampelt wears as he speaks is familiar, as is the rapid blink of his eyes. The furrow above his eyes and the uncertain tilt of his ears is new. It doesn't linger, or the thought leaves him, distracted by Sabletuft's indifference.

"That's eh-eh-it? You aren't even going t-tuh-to luh-look at me? Real mature. Huh-have I-eee-uh t-tuh-told you th-thuh-that you have issues?" The impulse to shove Sabletuft is one that is tempting but ultimately dismissed. As infuriating as it would be, Sabletuft probably wouldn't even budge under Loampelt's weight, "Real issues. Yuh-you couldn't even t-tuh-teh-teh — say what your problem wuh-with me is." ​

tags ∘ shadowclan warrior ∘ solid black with hazel eyes ∘ curled front foot ∘ 13 moons​

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[S A B L E T U F T]

can we leave it behind? — The eyes of their peers kept the tom from being overtly cruel, but his dislike had hardly ever been masked. Not in the face of his fellow warriors or the apprentices. It brought a callous sense of joy to the tom hearing Loampelt agree. As if it was reasonable to deny at all.

There's a slight pause when Loampelt stammered through his sentence. He tried to determine if it was more proof of his flea-addled mind or if it was intended as a joke. The steely silence that fell after had him leaning toward the former. A taunting scoff exhaled from his maw. There was hope, though small, whatever ailment festered in his skull might claim him yet, so that he would never have to endure hearing his voice again.

That familiar burst of smoke burned the back of his throat. He wanted to spit daggers back at him. Fiery lashings that sent him away, away from him. They're snuffed before the words can ignite. "I guess I shouldn't expect you to remember when half your memory is rotted away." His tone was steel despite the heat rising in his chest. "I could retell it, but what's the point when you'll just forget it again? Oh, how great of an excuse, too." — tags​

 

[loampelt]

Excuse. It's that word above all else that bristles Loampelt's tail. An excuse — but there must be a real reason as to why Sabletuft refuses to tell him. Retell it, Sabletuft had said — had Sabletuft told him before? His body is better at remembering things than he is, a mouth that speaks truths before his mind can confuse his tongue and paws that know which way to point even when the surrounding marsh feels just as foreign as the first time it was seen. Loampelt is thinking about it too hard to know for certain, a jumble of yes-no-yes-yes-no!-yes that he dismisses as useless.

"Whatever," Loampelt sneers, "Whatever! Huh-hope I-eee-uh made dirt in yuh-yuh-your nest as a kuh-kit and you didn't notice until after yuh-you laid down. Hope you stuh-stay as mad about it wh-when you're t-tuh-too old tuh-too speak as you uh-are now, and when you finally dr-duh-drop fucking dead I-ee-uh hope eh-eh-it's alone."

His jaw hurts from the force of his words. His whole face feels tense — Loampelt tests his mouth before he starts again, not quieter, but less impassioned, "StarClan knows I-ee-uh'll be cheering." ​

tags ∘ shadowclan warrior ∘ solid black with hazel eyes ∘ curled front foot ∘ 13 moons​

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