To share the cramped nursery within even foxlengths of her brother is nauseating. To see Dimmingsun's shadowed silhouette outside the den's opening makes her ill. Some well-intentioned warrior had brought her a rabbit; she'd taken a nibble from its haunch and shoved it away. Her kits never stop squirming, never stop mewling, and she begins to feel desolate in a way she never has before. No cat will meet her eyes for more than a heartbeat; no cat has come to inquire after her children, to sniff them, to revel in their growth, their health, to hear their carefully-chosen names.
Loneliness begins to gnaw at her early in her imprisonment — in her motherhood. Bluefrost neglects to groom the snarls from her fur, kicks away barebones offerings, and stares almost bleakly at the children suckling from her body. Each of them hungers for her presence, her warmth, her milk, but every wriggle against her saps what little fire burns in her belly.
She takes to singling them out, to staring at them, to sizing them up, much as her mother must have done before pushing her five needy kits onto her wetnurse. Comfreykit, Rimekit, and Foalkit are just a fraction more developed than Sootkit and Asterkit, but otherwise, they are mirrors of one another; the blood that runs between them, both similar and different, is not yet apparent.
Bluefrost lowers her nose to each kitten's head, forcing herself to share proximity. I love you, she practices saying in her head. I did this for you. I lost everything for you. Your father may die so that you may live, thrive. She tries to muster some maternal warmth, but she fails. They are needy, and she has never been needed in such a visceral way. Would my Mother have pushed us aside in disgust? Did she feed her young with pride?
Why don't I feel that? What is wrong with me?
She passes her nose over each kitten until she comes to Asterkit. One back leg protrudes, and... Am I hallucinating? She blinks, and even as her vision sidles into focus, she doubts what she sees. Her daughter — her trueborn daughter — lacks a paw. There's only a nub where one should be, where her littermates have four.
Bluefrost stares for what seems like eons. Finally, she raises her voice, hoarse: "I need Cottonsprig. Please. Something is... something is wrong with one of the kits." Doubt swims through her tired green eyes. Would Dimmingsun ignore her? Would Sootspot, would any cat passing by?
Loneliness begins to gnaw at her early in her imprisonment — in her motherhood. Bluefrost neglects to groom the snarls from her fur, kicks away barebones offerings, and stares almost bleakly at the children suckling from her body. Each of them hungers for her presence, her warmth, her milk, but every wriggle against her saps what little fire burns in her belly.
She takes to singling them out, to staring at them, to sizing them up, much as her mother must have done before pushing her five needy kits onto her wetnurse. Comfreykit, Rimekit, and Foalkit are just a fraction more developed than Sootkit and Asterkit, but otherwise, they are mirrors of one another; the blood that runs between them, both similar and different, is not yet apparent.
Bluefrost lowers her nose to each kitten's head, forcing herself to share proximity. I love you, she practices saying in her head. I did this for you. I lost everything for you. Your father may die so that you may live, thrive. She tries to muster some maternal warmth, but she fails. They are needy, and she has never been needed in such a visceral way. Would my Mother have pushed us aside in disgust? Did she feed her young with pride?
Why don't I feel that? What is wrong with me?
She passes her nose over each kitten until she comes to Asterkit. One back leg protrudes, and... Am I hallucinating? She blinks, and even as her vision sidles into focus, she doubts what she sees. Her daughter — her trueborn daughter — lacks a paw. There's only a nub where one should be, where her littermates have four.
Bluefrost stares for what seems like eons. Finally, she raises her voice, hoarse: "I need Cottonsprig. Please. Something is... something is wrong with one of the kits." Doubt swims through her tired green eyes. Would Dimmingsun ignore her? Would Sootspot, would any cat passing by?
- ooc: takes place in the nursery :] anyone in the nursery or passing by could interact! tagging @dimmingsun for guard duty and the following worms: @sootkit. @Asterkit @Comfreykit @FOALKIT @rimekit AND FOR PROSPERITY @cottonsprig
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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.