- Feb 9, 2023
- 534
- 174
- 43
[ this is pre the most recent gathering ! slight cw for a dead body. rest in peace @heathermoon !! :( ]
New leaf is meant to signify new beginnings; a bright show that after all that is cold and dreary ends, a new start to life is possible. Cottonpaw and surely many others have fallen comfortable in the peace that their Clan is gifted shortly after their turmoil - kits are born, warriors are made. Too comfortable, perhaps, though no one would truly know what became of dear Heathermoon.
Cottonpaw doesn't take her stroll alone, but she has since diverted from her patrol after a shift in the wind alerted her to a nearby lavender patch. The mere idea of harvesting the purple petals makes her think of the unbecoming nature of death - but it's better to be prepared than to be surprised, she knows. White paws part tall grasses, and she sees a warm furred bundle resting in the patch of wildflowers. Peonies bow their heads to Heathermoon, who's body is curled so sweetly beneath them. Lavender remains tall, as if watching, waiting.
"Hey," she laughs, "Heathermoon, it's a little..." early for a nap, she would have said, if she hadn't noticed the tinge in the air. Her lips stay parted and her heart sinks - it's a slow descent, as panic mixes with despair, and she cannot tear her gaze away. She smells him. Granitepelt - he was here, not that long ago. She stares longer at her friend, and the wind parts petals and grasses long enough to expose his throat, how it's torn and spilled. Her head hurts and initially, she lurches back -
And so suddenly she decides that she can't look at him. She can't. Cottonpaw thinks terribly of the herbs wasted on Granitepelt when she should've let him fight infection on his own - that if he lost himself to disease then he wouldn't have terrorized all of the Clans as he has. That he wouldn't have taken Heathermoon from them (selfishly, from her.) Her chest hurts and she wants to scream but everything in her struggles against it. Cottonpaw scents the patrol pulling over the crest of the hill, and she finally looks back towards Heathermoon.
A sob - "Heathermoon, I'm... I'm so sorry," - and the peonies pray around them. She hopes he is among the stars without pain, without hunger. Cottonpaw breathes out something shaky, pressing her muzzle against the ruff of his neck for a prolongued moment. She detests that he is growing colder, perhaps only warmed by the sun now. A too-long beat passes and Cottonpaw makes the unfortunate decision that she cannot continue to grieve for him so readily. The safety of the living has just been threatened. Everything hurts.
"Check the nearest borders," her voice hiccups as it pitches up, directed towards the cats as they approach, "His scent - it's strong. The wind is throwing it around and - and I don't want another one of us blindsided by that rogue's claws," Granite they should call him. He doesn't deserve the sanctity of a warrior's name. She takes a break from her anger and returns to her grief, and it's still suffocating, but she shudders out a, "I'll need help - with his body, I mean," nonetheless.
New leaf is meant to signify new beginnings; a bright show that after all that is cold and dreary ends, a new start to life is possible. Cottonpaw and surely many others have fallen comfortable in the peace that their Clan is gifted shortly after their turmoil - kits are born, warriors are made. Too comfortable, perhaps, though no one would truly know what became of dear Heathermoon.
Cottonpaw doesn't take her stroll alone, but she has since diverted from her patrol after a shift in the wind alerted her to a nearby lavender patch. The mere idea of harvesting the purple petals makes her think of the unbecoming nature of death - but it's better to be prepared than to be surprised, she knows. White paws part tall grasses, and she sees a warm furred bundle resting in the patch of wildflowers. Peonies bow their heads to Heathermoon, who's body is curled so sweetly beneath them. Lavender remains tall, as if watching, waiting.
"Hey," she laughs, "Heathermoon, it's a little..." early for a nap, she would have said, if she hadn't noticed the tinge in the air. Her lips stay parted and her heart sinks - it's a slow descent, as panic mixes with despair, and she cannot tear her gaze away. She smells him. Granitepelt - he was here, not that long ago. She stares longer at her friend, and the wind parts petals and grasses long enough to expose his throat, how it's torn and spilled. Her head hurts and initially, she lurches back -
And so suddenly she decides that she can't look at him. She can't. Cottonpaw thinks terribly of the herbs wasted on Granitepelt when she should've let him fight infection on his own - that if he lost himself to disease then he wouldn't have terrorized all of the Clans as he has. That he wouldn't have taken Heathermoon from them (selfishly, from her.) Her chest hurts and she wants to scream but everything in her struggles against it. Cottonpaw scents the patrol pulling over the crest of the hill, and she finally looks back towards Heathermoon.
A sob - "Heathermoon, I'm... I'm so sorry," - and the peonies pray around them. She hopes he is among the stars without pain, without hunger. Cottonpaw breathes out something shaky, pressing her muzzle against the ruff of his neck for a prolongued moment. She detests that he is growing colder, perhaps only warmed by the sun now. A too-long beat passes and Cottonpaw makes the unfortunate decision that she cannot continue to grieve for him so readily. The safety of the living has just been threatened. Everything hurts.
"Check the nearest borders," her voice hiccups as it pitches up, directed towards the cats as they approach, "His scent - it's strong. The wind is throwing it around and - and I don't want another one of us blindsided by that rogue's claws," Granite they should call him. He doesn't deserve the sanctity of a warrior's name. She takes a break from her anger and returns to her grief, and it's still suffocating, but she shudders out a, "I'll need help - with his body, I mean," nonetheless.