- Jun 7, 2022
- 418
- 150
- 43
[ marked with sensitive topics just bc this is full of wallowing ]
Each month, the five clans of the forest meet in the center of all of their territories, in the same place where so much blood was shed all those months ago—nearly a year, Clay thinks, since his nieces and nephews are nearly of warrior age. The gatherings are events that many hope to attend, whether it be to visit with their friends from before the time of clans, or to gloat about their accomplishments since the last gathering.
Truthfully, gatherings are of no interest to Clayfur. He has nothing to brag about, no motivation to mingle with those of other clans—he’s not the greatest fan of many of the other clans, especially since the five of them have further settled into their new territories. SkyClan comes the closest to being bearable, but Clay is content with remaining firmly in RiverClan territory, and he isn’t attached enough to anyone in SkyClan to warrant leaving for a gathering. Instead, he places himself on guard duty even if not specifically assigned to it.
He doesn’t think anyone even notices how he skips out on gatherings, how he avoids the other clans of the land. He doesn’t care much about his image—he knows that his clanmates are all his friends, and they respect him even if he doesn’t do all the things that they do. And like, he knows he isn’t the most reliable warrior, but he thinks he’s finally found his place within RiverClan.
It takes a while for the truth to reach him.
”Why doesn’t he ever go to gatherings? Does he sneak out, go somewhere else?”
It started out as whispers, faint snippets of conversations. Easy enough to ignore, mostly because until it’s said with a pointed side-eye, he doesn’t even realize the gossiping warriors are talking about him. And, like, sure, his clanmates don’t owe him trust just for living in the same territory as him, but it’s been months. He’s been working his tail off to fit in, to make a place for himself in the clan that his family chose for him. Is it not enough?
”Maybe he’s a kittypet. He is from the kittypet clan, you know. That’s why he was a drypaw for so long.”
That word. That stupid, cutting word that even his clanmates, who are supposed to care about him as he cares for them in return, still use even while it no longer applies to him.
And it stings. Even though it doesn’t apply to him any longer, drypaw is something that rattles in his ears, bounces around his skull. He’d rather never hear that wretched word again. Coming from an outsider it would be an insult, but from a clanmate it’s barbed, pointed. Intentional. Do they know that he can hear them when they talk about him? How much do they say that he doesn’t catch? He’s gotten lucky enough to happen to hear it this time, and the last; do his clanmates, his friends, say worse when he isn’t around?
Are they saying worse now?
”Well, I think he's seeing a WindClanner at the border. I haven’t heard him say anything bad about them, even after they nearly killed Smokethroat. Does he even know any WindClanners?”
They are. As if Clay would ever associate with the moor-running rabbit-brains. He hasn’t met any of them under positive circumstances—and none of them are interesting enough to keep his attention away from Clearsight, anyway. He’s not outright cruel to them, despite their black hearts, but not having anything to say about them doesn’t make him some kind of WindClan apologizer (sympathizer?).
He doesn’t actively talk about WindClanners like they are below even the dirt he trods upon, but that doesn’t make him a traitor. He just doesn’t have anything to say about a clan that shouldn’t exist. And that’s yet another good reason to stay far away from gatherings: he manages to avoid making eye contact with any stray rabbit-hearted warriors. He doesn’t want to talk to WindClanners—or ShadowClanners and ThunderClanners, for that matter. They’ve probably all got worms, so that’s just gross.
”He must go out to eat extra prey while everyone’s gone to the gathering. He’s not very good at hunting, so he probably waits ‘til we’re all gone.”
There it is again—they’re not intended to reach his ears, but the jabs get to him. Burrowing under his skin to settle somewhere beneath his ribcage, the notion that he’s not only a bad hunter but also greedily stealing away prey to eat while most of the clan is gone for a night. That he’s not useful, not worth anything to the clan. And it can’t be true, right? Clearsight likes him,
…But that’s the thing. He’s liked by some of the apprentices, sure, and his family (yes, that includes an unrelated blue-swirled tom), but does anyone else give a shit whether he’s here? Has everyone jumped to such wild conclusions over what, he thinks, is a very small thing? Does Cicada distrust him—he’s pretty sure that’s not the case, but he’s also been pretty sure up until now that his presence at gatherings was not mandatory.
Kittypet. Drypaw. Traitor. Mousefodder.
…Does everyone think so poorly of me?
He clenches his jaw, mouth set in a stubborn line as he looks out over the water. Would they all be better off if he were gone? Would RiverClan mourn him, or would he be no more than a shadow in their minds, the memory of someone who was once there and slowly slipped out of their lives, one paw at a time? Would a single soul recognize his disappearance?
He won’t lie and say the thought doesn’t bring him heartbreak. His only consolation is that he will most definitely not be going anywhere anytime soon, not for as long as he can make that choice. This is his home, these are his clanmates, and he will be here for them until the water washes him away.
Each month, the five clans of the forest meet in the center of all of their territories, in the same place where so much blood was shed all those months ago—nearly a year, Clay thinks, since his nieces and nephews are nearly of warrior age. The gatherings are events that many hope to attend, whether it be to visit with their friends from before the time of clans, or to gloat about their accomplishments since the last gathering.
Truthfully, gatherings are of no interest to Clayfur. He has nothing to brag about, no motivation to mingle with those of other clans—he’s not the greatest fan of many of the other clans, especially since the five of them have further settled into their new territories. SkyClan comes the closest to being bearable, but Clay is content with remaining firmly in RiverClan territory, and he isn’t attached enough to anyone in SkyClan to warrant leaving for a gathering. Instead, he places himself on guard duty even if not specifically assigned to it.
He doesn’t think anyone even notices how he skips out on gatherings, how he avoids the other clans of the land. He doesn’t care much about his image—he knows that his clanmates are all his friends, and they respect him even if he doesn’t do all the things that they do. And like, he knows he isn’t the most reliable warrior, but he thinks he’s finally found his place within RiverClan.
It takes a while for the truth to reach him.
”Why doesn’t he ever go to gatherings? Does he sneak out, go somewhere else?”
It started out as whispers, faint snippets of conversations. Easy enough to ignore, mostly because until it’s said with a pointed side-eye, he doesn’t even realize the gossiping warriors are talking about him. And, like, sure, his clanmates don’t owe him trust just for living in the same territory as him, but it’s been months. He’s been working his tail off to fit in, to make a place for himself in the clan that his family chose for him. Is it not enough?
”Maybe he’s a kittypet. He is from the kittypet clan, you know. That’s why he was a drypaw for so long.”
That word. That stupid, cutting word that even his clanmates, who are supposed to care about him as he cares for them in return, still use even while it no longer applies to him.
And it stings. Even though it doesn’t apply to him any longer, drypaw is something that rattles in his ears, bounces around his skull. He’d rather never hear that wretched word again. Coming from an outsider it would be an insult, but from a clanmate it’s barbed, pointed. Intentional. Do they know that he can hear them when they talk about him? How much do they say that he doesn’t catch? He’s gotten lucky enough to happen to hear it this time, and the last; do his clanmates, his friends, say worse when he isn’t around?
Are they saying worse now?
”Well, I think he's seeing a WindClanner at the border. I haven’t heard him say anything bad about them, even after they nearly killed Smokethroat. Does he even know any WindClanners?”
They are. As if Clay would ever associate with the moor-running rabbit-brains. He hasn’t met any of them under positive circumstances—and none of them are interesting enough to keep his attention away from Clearsight, anyway. He’s not outright cruel to them, despite their black hearts, but not having anything to say about them doesn’t make him some kind of WindClan apologizer (sympathizer?).
He doesn’t actively talk about WindClanners like they are below even the dirt he trods upon, but that doesn’t make him a traitor. He just doesn’t have anything to say about a clan that shouldn’t exist. And that’s yet another good reason to stay far away from gatherings: he manages to avoid making eye contact with any stray rabbit-hearted warriors. He doesn’t want to talk to WindClanners—or ShadowClanners and ThunderClanners, for that matter. They’ve probably all got worms, so that’s just gross.
”He must go out to eat extra prey while everyone’s gone to the gathering. He’s not very good at hunting, so he probably waits ‘til we’re all gone.”
There it is again—they’re not intended to reach his ears, but the jabs get to him. Burrowing under his skin to settle somewhere beneath his ribcage, the notion that he’s not only a bad hunter but also greedily stealing away prey to eat while most of the clan is gone for a night. That he’s not useful, not worth anything to the clan. And it can’t be true, right? Clearsight likes him,
…But that’s the thing. He’s liked by some of the apprentices, sure, and his family (yes, that includes an unrelated blue-swirled tom), but does anyone else give a shit whether he’s here? Has everyone jumped to such wild conclusions over what, he thinks, is a very small thing? Does Cicada distrust him—he’s pretty sure that’s not the case, but he’s also been pretty sure up until now that his presence at gatherings was not mandatory.
Kittypet. Drypaw. Traitor. Mousefodder.
…Does everyone think so poorly of me?
He clenches his jaw, mouth set in a stubborn line as he looks out over the water. Would they all be better off if he were gone? Would RiverClan mourn him, or would he be no more than a shadow in their minds, the memory of someone who was once there and slowly slipped out of their lives, one paw at a time? Would a single soul recognize his disappearance?
He won’t lie and say the thought doesn’t bring him heartbreak. His only consolation is that he will most definitely not be going anywhere anytime soon, not for as long as he can make that choice. This is his home, these are his clanmates, and he will be here for them until the water washes him away.
[ WHAT'S MY AGE AGAIN? ]
