- Jun 7, 2022
- 418
- 150
- 43
To say the past few days have been terrible is an understatement. It feels like he’s not only lost his mate, but he’s lost his clan as well—or at least, he’s lost his footing within it. Everything has gone topsy-turvy, his world flipped on its head in a matter of days. The bright, beautiful coming of spring had only a few days ago been a blessing. Now it’s no better than a curse. The weather is mocking him, really. Flowers are beginning to grow once again—flowers that he would have picked, would have brought back to his love as a gift. Bluebells, forget-me-nots, honeysuckle. He hadn’t gotten the chance.
Venturing out into the territory once felt like an adventure, everything fresh and new with the turning of the seasons. Now it all feels like a reminder of what they’ve lost, the clanmates who aren’t here to see the blooming of flowers. Peachpaw, Pumpkinpaw, Clearsight; they all should have been here, should have seen all this. They didn’t deserve to die.
A brightly colored flower catches his eye as he turns, and Clayfur stops in his tracks.
Hyacinth. It’s a beautiful flower, really—all purple and pleasing to the eye. But it’s been soured recently, he thinks. The lilac-striped clanmate who shares its name has caused a lot of turmoil within the clan. He’d heard of her apology, of Smokethroat and Cindershade’s chastisements, of Gillpaw’s outburst, but hadn’t been there to witness any of it. She was allowed in by Cicada, but she’ll have to fight to prove herself worthy of belonging here, he thinks.
He has half a mind to blame her for his loss—for RiverClan’s loss. It was she who threw the first stone, who killed a WindClanner and triggered their retaliation. But he can’t blame her, doesn’t have the heart for it. He’s never been one to begrudge others for things that he would have done, were he in their position. And in the end… does it really matter? If he hates her, if he holds this against her forever and ever until the earth falls apart, what will come of it?
Nothing.
Nothing will come of hating her, of wishing she were dead. He would only have made himself miserable for the rest of his life and hers. She’s probably lost enough, as it is. She left WindClan, and surely it came at a steep cost.
So, no, he won’t blame Hyacinthbreath. He won’t look at her with disgust, with hatred, with venom that he wishes he could spit into her eyes.
Though, maybe, he just won’t look at her at all.
Venturing out into the territory once felt like an adventure, everything fresh and new with the turning of the seasons. Now it all feels like a reminder of what they’ve lost, the clanmates who aren’t here to see the blooming of flowers. Peachpaw, Pumpkinpaw, Clearsight; they all should have been here, should have seen all this. They didn’t deserve to die.
A brightly colored flower catches his eye as he turns, and Clayfur stops in his tracks.
Hyacinth. It’s a beautiful flower, really—all purple and pleasing to the eye. But it’s been soured recently, he thinks. The lilac-striped clanmate who shares its name has caused a lot of turmoil within the clan. He’d heard of her apology, of Smokethroat and Cindershade’s chastisements, of Gillpaw’s outburst, but hadn’t been there to witness any of it. She was allowed in by Cicada, but she’ll have to fight to prove herself worthy of belonging here, he thinks.
He has half a mind to blame her for his loss—for RiverClan’s loss. It was she who threw the first stone, who killed a WindClanner and triggered their retaliation. But he can’t blame her, doesn’t have the heart for it. He’s never been one to begrudge others for things that he would have done, were he in their position. And in the end… does it really matter? If he hates her, if he holds this against her forever and ever until the earth falls apart, what will come of it?
Nothing.
Nothing will come of hating her, of wishing she were dead. He would only have made himself miserable for the rest of his life and hers. She’s probably lost enough, as it is. She left WindClan, and surely it came at a steep cost.
So, no, he won’t blame Hyacinthbreath. He won’t look at her with disgust, with hatred, with venom that he wishes he could spit into her eyes.
Though, maybe, he just won’t look at her at all.
[ YOU ARE THE STARS TO ME ]
