private LOST IN THE FIRE || GHOSTWAIL

[Thriftfeather]

After all of that, Thriftpaw just wants to be away. He's overwrought; suddenly exhausted what he has done. It was all terrible — Thriftpaw would have been wise to have never opened his mouth. There must have been a way out of it that he had been missing, some alternative path that Thriftpaw could have seen from the sky but not his low place on the ground. He tries to do what he always does. He tries to think of something else, something better.

The sun is hot on his back, bright enough that it highlights the inner folds of his ears. The soil is dry beneath his paws and the motes of it catch in the longer furs of his toes.

"I'm sorry," Thriftpaw sputters, and that is part of the problem. Ghostwail's presence is a strange comfort, familiar in his newly upside down world. His guilt was already present before he had spoken to Periwinklebreeze. Now it's a growling thing, ready to consume him, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," He's sorry to Ghostwail for being so angry at her, he's sorry to Periwinklebreeze for cutting him out, and he's sorry to all of WindClan for not being good enough.

@GHOSTWAIL​

WINDCLAN APPRENTICE ✦ GOLDEN TABBY TOM ✦ 6 MOONS​

 

[GHOSTWAIL]

She is seething. To be called a rogue when her entire life has been dedicated to WindClan (her memories twist in on themselves, a bloodied tom beneath her leader, chain-link fences melding with heather and barley) when her entire being catered to WindClan excellence. Had she not always given herself to the moorland queen (metal roofs.... climbing stone.... rogues are clan-cats, the clan gone rogue) had she not always given her heart, body, soul, child to these pathetic followers (gold makes way to ivory, amber to red, amber on red, red on gold) was it not enough?

The child speaks, her child speaks ("get down," she hisses - her own voice is distant and quiet) and the repetition of the phrase irritates her in a way that makes her teeth grate together and her skin crawl beneath her fur. He is inane, uncoordinated, ungraceful, ungrateful for the life he had been gifted. Hand-chosen by the phoenix queen (the name is given wholly, the name is produced from Her) and yet he still chooses to cause ripples in a lake filled with fish that were ready to swallow him whole.

I'm so sorry. She forces her fur to lie flat, her tail coming to rest upon the boy's shoulders in a brief moment of solidarity. "Hush, child." She repeats, a cold monotone covering her red-hot fury. That old hunger in her belly flares up and her eyes flick between the child and the retreating forms of the cats they had just left. Saliva pools in her cheeks. She swallows it down. There would be another time to soothe her famine.

She turns her burning eyes back to her child. "Do you see now why I am so diligent in your care?" She tries for an affectionate inflection, for a modicum of concern. "Why I am so watchful? There are vultures in our midst, poised to pick apart the carcass of a kicked child at the slightest provocation." ​

 

[Thriftfeather]

"I'm sorry," Thriftpaw repeats because he doesn't know how to be soothed by her, or he's forgotten how to be soothed altogether. Thriftpaw is nodding too fast, too eager to agree with Ghostwail. He sees it now — in his short life Thriftpaw has known so many terrible things, but that experience will stand among the worst. He wants to apologize again, the guilt is still enough that Thriftpaw could shake apart from it, but he swallows those words. Ghostwail is explaining something to him and Thriftpaw should be listening. He's always been good at listening.

"I was trying to — I tried to make you happy with that. With me," He'd done it all wrong, "I just thought, I thought that I wasn't supposed to talk to Periwinklebreeze anymore and I thought I could ignore him but then—" His speech grows more rapid the longer he speaks, until Thriftpaw's so out of breath he's forced to stop with a gasp. When Thriftpaw continues, it is markedly slower but no more calm, "Who am I supposed to be friends with? Who aren't — who isn't vultures?"​

WINDCLAN APPRENTICE ✦ GOLDEN TABBY TOM ✦ 6 MOONS​

 

[GHOSTWAIL]

Annoyance prickles up her spine again. Friendship has never been a thing that the phantom of WindClan has held in high regard. There were no friends in her mind, no cats she could rely on. There were only leaders and those too weak to be seen as anything but obstacles to be overtaken. It is an impossible task to ask of her, to ask that she name cats that would be considered good to be friends with. And yet...

"Any of Sootstar's brood." Her monotoned drawl is back, dripping from her tongue like black tar. "Bluepaw, Harrierpaw, Cottonpaw -" Yes, the little medic girl especially, she would be of use should Thriftpaw ever find himself at the whims of StarClan. She doubted Wolfsong was a renowned prophet but with Sootstar's blessed blood flowing through her veins, Cottonpaw was surely meant to have a greater connection to the stars.

"You will find, with time, that you can sense who is and is not worthy of your attention - and who is and is not worthy of your respect." Traitors, soft-hearts, disbelievers, none of these cats would survive Sootstar's empire in the long run. They would crumble and fall and the cats that remained would feast on their ashes. Soon, Thriftpaw would be able to consider himself among the remainder, should he be able to rid himself of the ties to undesirables like Gravelsnap and Periwinklebreeze.... one down.... perhaps the plague would take the other.

"Do you regret your words to the traitor's son?" ​

 

[Thriftfeather]

Ghostwail is being so kind. Thriftpaw had been expecting a scolding — instead she explains things in the same monotone she uses to rip him down, but this time Thriftpaw can imagine gentleness behind it rather than scorn. The hope he feels that maybe this could be the rest of his life, that if he is careful enough and that if he tries hard enough he may be allowed rest, is enough to make Thriftpaw dizzy with want. He doesn’t smile or relax or sway; the conversation isn’t over and there is still time for Thriftpaw to ruin this.

Ghostwail asks him a question.

“Of course,” Thriftpaw answers with all of the honest emotion he can muster; he truly does regret his words for all the reasons Ghostwail wants him to and more, “I’ve never regretted — I’ve never regretted anything more than this!”

But something is bothering Thriftpaw. His torn ear flicks. Ghostwail had called him son and it wasn’t taken as a revelation from anyone other than him. When she had first said it Thriftpaw had been so enraged he thought he might even be able to hate her, but then the feeling had passed and now in the quiet after, Thriftpaw remembers its bite. Thriftpaw doesn’t look away from Ghostwail until he begins to speak, too cowardly to see whatever minute shifts of disapproval, either real or imagined, on Ghostwail’s face.

“What you said back there, when you called me —” Thriftpaw’s voice hitches as if it is the sound itself and not what it means that bothers him, “Son.” Exhale, eyes closed, Thriftpaw presses on, “When you called me that — when you — Ghostwail, when you first brought me here, I saw. I saw what you did.” The why for so many things hangs heavy in Thriftpaw’s throat. He looks at Ghostwail properly, his own version of bravery, and prays in equal measure that Ghostwail can see that why in the green of his eyes and that she would have somehow no idea what Thriftpaw is talking about.​

WINDCLAN APPRENTICE ✦ GOLDEN TABBY TOM ✦ 6 MOONS​

 

[GHOSTWAIL]

Again, quietly, masked, she seethes. Oh, how weak he is. How foolish he is! He does not understand... refuses to understand... the depth of disease he has allowed into his mind by associating with the turn-cloak's brood. Even now, even after public humiliation, even after being bombarded by those the traitor's son had swindled into loyalty, he still regrets. She almost opens her mouth to snap at him, she almost snarls at him for his stupidity, but another statement is made.

The phantom blinks at him slowly in response.

"Of course you did. I found you. I brought you to WindClan. I have given you a life that few cats will ever be able to fathom. I would not expect you to forget that." The oversimplification flows from tongue as if it were water - clear, obvious; it is a bubbling lie of omission that she speaks without recourse. His implications would not be responded to (red melts into amber), to divulge in his odd accusation (gold to crimson, fur to blood, blood to fur, fur into leaves) would be to encourage such disrespect and folly and the skeletal she-cat was never one to wish for such reactions.

She stares back at him for a long moment, settling into the quiet, even as the boy's eyes plead for something more. Two heartbeats pass. Something flashes in her mind: the same golden fur of the child in front of her stained crimson. The flank is still. It is wrong, somehow. The eyes are wrong. Amber to crimson to red to -

Suddenly, abruptly, unbotheredly, she breaks eye contact and moves, her wiry muscles rippling under translucent fur. Underneath the dingy pelt, her skin is red and irritated, cracking and flaking as she stretches, a burn created by a different sort of heat than a fiery hunger in her belly for retaliation. "You have not eaten yet." A statement. Immutable fact. "I will hunt for you today. Conduct yourself appropriately while I am away."

It feels sufficient enough. Burning eyes turn away, her brow smoothing ever so slightly. She is bored of this, bored of him. She doesn't spare another glance at the child as she stalks back into the tall grass. For some reason, she finds it wrong to look back, there is something very wrong in his wide golden eyes. ​