- Jan 15, 2023
- 567
- 142
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༄༄ CW for some suicidal ideation!
Her mate is dead. This is a fact as indisputable as the sun’s rising each day. Her mate is dead, and there is not a thing she can do to change this horrible reality. She is left helpless, useless in the face of death. And so, so utterly alone.
Logically, the deputy knows that she is not truly alone. She will never be truly alone, not while she holds her kin close and her clan closer. At the same time, however, she has never felt so alone as when she stalks the moorland on her own, without a soul to accompany her.
She will never again walk this territory with her mate at her side. That… is a difficult fact to bear, especially when she sees her love in each and every wind-blown leaf, every dewdrop on every blade of grass. In every wool-laden nest she sees warm golden eyes, silken-soft tabby fur—oh, she hates the wretched mossy things. Her own nest, the one she had shared with her mate, has lost Bluepool’s scent. It has no use to her now, and so it lies just outside of the gorse walls, shredded beyond repair.
She had only moved from her usual sleeping place in the tunnels because of her mate. Now, she has no reason to remain in a nest, to remain in camp at all. No reason to live. She attempts to keep her thoughts in line, to prevent her mind from straying to such dark places, but… well, Scorchstreak has only so much to give. She has bent and bent and bent, and at some point she will have to break. The losses have been piling up for some time now, but none have hit her quite so hard as this one.
They were meant to have more time. Weren’t they?
The deputy says nothing when she moves out of the clan’s camp. All that she takes with her is a small piece of home, a pristinely preserved blue flower. She remains silent and stoic as she slinks to one of the tunnels and slips into it. The tunnel’s darkness closes in around her, and she makes a once-familiar trek to where she knows she will be well and truly alone. Before, the small tunnel’s dead end had been a place of comfort, warm and secure. Secluded from a clan that has always offered little privacy. Now, it is lonely. It is cold as the grave.
If she shuts her eyes tightly, covers her ears with her paws, then she can pretend that she lies with her mate belowground. They can share this dirtbound grave, and here they can lie together for eternity, until they are just bones—and past that. They will be together even far into the future, generations from now, when their bones will be eventually exposed to the elements once more.
Here, they can be worn away together, by time and hardship and the world’s cruel ways. Here, she can rest.
Her mate is dead. This is a fact as indisputable as the sun’s rising each day. Her mate is dead, and there is not a thing she can do to change this horrible reality. She is left helpless, useless in the face of death. And so, so utterly alone.
Logically, the deputy knows that she is not truly alone. She will never be truly alone, not while she holds her kin close and her clan closer. At the same time, however, she has never felt so alone as when she stalks the moorland on her own, without a soul to accompany her.
She will never again walk this territory with her mate at her side. That… is a difficult fact to bear, especially when she sees her love in each and every wind-blown leaf, every dewdrop on every blade of grass. In every wool-laden nest she sees warm golden eyes, silken-soft tabby fur—oh, she hates the wretched mossy things. Her own nest, the one she had shared with her mate, has lost Bluepool’s scent. It has no use to her now, and so it lies just outside of the gorse walls, shredded beyond repair.
She had only moved from her usual sleeping place in the tunnels because of her mate. Now, she has no reason to remain in a nest, to remain in camp at all. No reason to live. She attempts to keep her thoughts in line, to prevent her mind from straying to such dark places, but… well, Scorchstreak has only so much to give. She has bent and bent and bent, and at some point she will have to break. The losses have been piling up for some time now, but none have hit her quite so hard as this one.
They were meant to have more time. Weren’t they?
The deputy says nothing when she moves out of the clan’s camp. All that she takes with her is a small piece of home, a pristinely preserved blue flower. She remains silent and stoic as she slinks to one of the tunnels and slips into it. The tunnel’s darkness closes in around her, and she makes a once-familiar trek to where she knows she will be well and truly alone. Before, the small tunnel’s dead end had been a place of comfort, warm and secure. Secluded from a clan that has always offered little privacy. Now, it is lonely. It is cold as the grave.
If she shuts her eyes tightly, covers her ears with her paws, then she can pretend that she lies with her mate belowground. They can share this dirtbound grave, and here they can lie together for eternity, until they are just bones—and past that. They will be together even far into the future, generations from now, when their bones will be eventually exposed to the elements once more.
Here, they can be worn away together, by time and hardship and the world’s cruel ways. Here, she can rest.
- ooc: —
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SCORCHSTREAK ❯❯ she/they, deputy (tunneler) of windclan
༄ small, slim flame-streaked calico with fiery golden eyes. cold and closed-off, ferociously protective of her clanmates. rarely seen aboveground.
༄ mate tobluepool; sibling to rattleheart & rabbitclaw
༄ mentor to pinkpaw
༄ peaceful and healing powerplay permitted
༄ penned by foxlore
