private MAKE A BED OF THORNS AND STILL YOU CALL THEM ROSES — vulturepaw

[Thriftfeather]

Although he is loathe to admit it, Thriftfeather has traded one confinement for another. Hunger and fear had been joint tethers—how much could Thriftfeather had done, had his tired paws not pushed him further and further from DuskClan’s camp? Now, coiled in the nursery, Thriftfeather’s body aches from disuse. His thoughts have always existed in a physical space; he has always been able to turn away from them, to quiet his mind by going elsewhere. Now, Thriftfeather wonders how anyone can breath without choking on whatever new helpless worry has spilled from an indefinable point in his head and clogged the surrounding air.

Reprieve comes in the form of every face that passes by the nursery—even hostile words are welcome, even pointed at his vulnerable underbelly, if it means distraction from the otherwise rote routine.

When a shadow darkens the thin light seeping through the mouth of the den, two things happen at once in Thriftfeather. His ears perk—the entirety of him perks as if awoken by a jolt, and he steels himself against what is to come. The latter proves to be pointless this time; moments later, Thriftfeather is already relaxing his stiffened shoulders.

“I wasn’t sure if you would—I wasn’t sure it I would see you,” Thriftfeather looks down from Vulturepaw, curls his white paws into the soft moss of his nest. He hasn’t forgotten Vulturepaw’s initial reaction to his arrival, nor has he forgotten Vulturepaw’s defense of him. Thriftfeather is caught between being touched that Vulturepaw would worry after him and a gnawing guilt that Vulturepaw should never have been put in the position to need to do so.

“Bluefrost had told me—she said she asked you to keep my… involvement a secret,” It had felt like the correct thing at the time, even if Thriftfeather had been bothered by the notion of placing such a large secret on a kit, but now Thriftfeather has his doubts, “I’m not—I know you told Periwinklebreeze, and I’m not angry. It was too much to expect you to hold that by yourself.” ​

DUSKCLAN DEPUTY ✦ GOLDEN TABBY TOM ✦ 19 MOONS ✦ TAGS​

 

[Vulturepaw]

˖⁺‧₊ ☽◯☾ ₊‧⁺˖ 　Thriftfeather is allowed to stay - but confined. A prisoner, like Juncoclaw, but unbloodied. That is all he can ask for, really.

(But the notion twists like a rope of brambles within his chest, piercing his lungs. He thinks of DuskClan, of being kept prisoner there, knowing that one wrong move could get him killed. He thinks of Privetpaw, condemning Sunstar as a murderer and a liar. He feels breathless, gasping for air and finding no reprieve anywhere.)

She comes to the nursery on hesitant paws. She had been merely a kit when Thriftfeather had met her, and now she fits within the nursery's confines as awkwardly as he does. Wariness laces through their voice as they speak. "I d-d-duh - d-didn't... Um, thh-think I'd ever see you again." They sit beside him, curling a spike-tufted tail closely around their paws. Their eyes are downturned but for the occassional glance towards Thriftfeather's neck, a nervous habit they're beginning to think will last far longer than it should.

Their expression darkens at the mention of the lie. The assurance of I'm not mad is a balm to their pounding heart, but their ears press back at even the acknowledgement that he could be. "I d-didn't want to. I wanted t-t-to... let everyone know, so - so they wouldn't be scared of you anymore." It's a weak refrain, pitiful and frustrated. "Bluefrost said it wouldn't work..." She killed that hope, killed his hope of seeing him again. She toyed with his emotions - made him lie, crushes his naive hope only to go back on her own words. He does not know whether to begrudge Thriftfeather for the actions of his mate as well; distance makes it hard to tell the involvement of the golden-furred tom.

He swallows thickly. At the least, Thriftfeather understands the weight. It chokes him still. "But my d-d-dad... He - he buh-believed me. I d-d... I dunno know why no one else will." Exasperation bleeds through, a heaviness far too aching for a cat so young. His choices were judgement or secret-keeping, and he does not know which is worse.

I HAD TO LEARN THAT THE HELPING HAND ⛧ CAN BE THE SAME THAT HOLDS THE KNIFE

• 
  

• 

  
  
  "SPEECH"
  ​

• 
  VULTUREPAW ⛧ he / they / she, apprentice of windclan, eight moons.
  ➳ a spiky-furred dark tabby with amber eyes.
  ➳ skittish and dour, with a superstitious sort of pessimism.
  ➳ micheal x npc, adopted by periwinklebreeze.
  ➳ sibling to dustpaw, bilberrypaw, mourningpaw and weepingpaw.
  ➳ peaceful and healing powerplay permitted / / underline and tag when attacking
  ➳ penned by SATURNID ↛ saturnids on discord, feel free to dm for plots.

​

 

[Thriftfeather]

If such a thing was ever possible, Thriftfeather feels as though his heart has broken further. He doesn't know if Bluefrost would have treated Vulturepaw with the same amount of gentleness that she has treated himself with, doesn't know if Vulturepaw knows the correct things to say to earn such a thing. Thriftfeather tries to offer up a reassuring smile, anything to show that he is alive, that he is whole, that he is here, but there is a strain that doesn't leave his face.

"Bluefrost was probably right," Other than Periwinklebreeze, was anyone swayed by Thriftfeather's involvement in Vulturepaw's return? Milkthorn, maybe, although Thriftfeather has his suspicions that Milkthorn would have come to his defense regardless of whether or not he had helped to bring Vulturepaw home or not. Quietly, Thriftfeather continues, "They—the other WindClanners, that is—they aren't wrong to mistrust me. I'm asking for a lot, even in being here."

And selfishly, Thriftfeather wants more than the scant he was offered. He switches often between the consuming desire to be allowed freedom of movement and the crushing self admonishment that what he has now should be more than enough to sate him. Thriftfeather does feel sated, for the most part.

Vulturepaw wonders why no one else believes her, and Thriftfeather moves as if to pull Vulturepaw closer before falling short; stayed by uncertainty. He allows the conversation to lapse as he gathers his thoughts, and when next he speaks it is at a hush.

"It isn't about you," His voice is as gentle as he can force it. The last time he had tried this tone, he had nothing but a rasp to offer to Vulturepaw, "If it was anyone but me—if it was anyone else who helped you, then they wouldn't have such a hard time believing it." And perhaps had they known sooner, but Thriftfeather doesn't dwell on the thought for the worry that he could have done everything the correct way and still be where he is now. "Its—I know its frustrating, but... but it isn't your burden to convince them."

Thriftfeather doesn't know if it is the correct thing to say; he doesn't know if there is a correct thing to say.

"I'm not clanborn and I fought for Sootstar when it was expected of me. I'm sure one of your father's scars was left by me." His eyes flick down, heavy with shame, "As much as I—if I was offered my place back here, I would take it, but neither of us should...it would be presumptuous to expect more than—than this." He gestures to the nursery at large and feels like the admittance is a betrayal to something. ​

DUSKCLAN DEPUTY ✦ GOLDEN TABBY TOM ✦ 19 MOONS ✦ TAGS​

 

[Vulturepaw]

˖⁺‧₊ ☽◯☾ ₊‧⁺˖ 　The smile sits awkwardly on Thriftfeather's face, and Vulturepaw makes no effort to return it. There is comfort here, in the gentle rasp of the sun-pelted tom's words, and yet they still feel on edge. They're beginning to think that the feeling will never quite leave.

Bluefrost was probably right, Thriftfeather says - and they know, of course they do. They're not naive. The lying weighed thick as tar upon his tongue, and yet he understands why it was necessary. All the truth has earned him is suspicion. "I guess so..." he mumbles half-heartedly. They are quiet as he continues. There's something specific - something terrible, it seems - that burns away any speck of trust WindClan could have for him.

He will never fully know why, and that gnaws at him. It's so easy for the older cats to talk about who he was, what he did under Sootstar's reign. Some long-gone time of secondhand memories that slip through his paws like smoke whenever he tries to grasp at them. All he knows is the Thriftfeather of the now. An aborted motion to bring them nearer is met with hesitance - and then, an awkward shuffling of paws in the silence of the den. Is it dangerous to be so close, he wonders? Is Thriftfeather just waiting for the chance to tear his throat out, like WindClan seems to believe?

A wavering gaze darts over to meet budding green eyes. He finds it hard to believe.

And still, he flinches at the mention of his dad. All those scars strewn across his pelt... Which one could Thriftfeather have caused? He supposes that Periwinklebreeze has returned the violence in kind, now. "Buh - but you... You weren't the only one, right? Sootstar - she was the leader. Everyone d-d-did what she said, right?" It's spoken of in hushed tones. Everyone acts as though they always knew what was right, as though they are above the cruelty...

He looks at Thriftfeather now, regret hanging heavy in his eyes. He thinks of everyone just standing by while Sootspot threatened his life.

"I'm not c-c-cuh-clanborn either. Why - why's everyone act like it's so b-bad?" First Celandinepaw, and now him... It shouldn't matter. Hurting others matters, but the double standard is completely nonsensical. He glares down at his paws once again."I know it's... I know it's not my - my responsibility or whatever." Half-hearted again. He wants it to be. "I just -" His teeth click together, frustrated. "I d-don't get it."

I HAD TO LEARN THAT THE HELPING HAND ⛧ CAN BE THE SAME THAT HOLDS THE KNIFE

• 
  

• 

  
  
  "SPEECH"
  ​

• 
  VULTUREPAW ⛧ he / they / she, apprentice of windclan, eight moons.
  ➳ a spiky-furred dark tabby with amber eyes.
  ➳ skittish and dour, with a superstitious sort of pessimism.
  ➳ micheal x npc, adopted by periwinklebreeze.
  ➳ sibling to dustpaw, bilberrypaw, mourningpaw and weepingpaw.
  ➳ peaceful and healing powerplay permitted / / underline and tag when attacking
  ➳ penned by SATURNID ↛ saturnids on discord, feel free to dm for plots.

​

 

[Thriftfeather]

That the conflict has been over for long enough that Vulturepaw lacks even what Thriftfeather considers the most basic of contexts for it burns over Thriftfeather's ribs. It was a conflict that felt absolute at the time—to think it could be more or less over, just like that, is nearly foreign to Thriftfeather.

"There wasn't... at first there wasn't direct disobedience. But then Sootstar presented these two kits that were from ShadowClan, said they would be raised as WindClanners instead." Thriftfeather remembers the ceremony that saw them renamed, remembers how quickly his heart had dropped into his gut, remembers being taken by the wondering of who they were before being here, "That's when everything fell apart. The kits went missing and there were patrols sent out to find them. My patrol—the patrol I was on found two ShadowClanners. Granitepelt and—and his daughter, Ghostmask."

Vulturepaw has grown from when Thriftfeather last saw her; he doesn't feel the old uncertainty on what is appropriate for Vulturepaw to hear. At Vulturepaw's age, Thriftfeather was already a warrior, or nearly so.

"They told us that a WindClanner had returned the kits to ShadowClan and that—I don't know the exact details, but I believe Granitepelt was the one to paw them over to WindClan to start with. We went back to camp and—and Sootstar ordered us to kill Sunstar. He had been Sunstride, then. She said he was the traitor that had taken her kits from her," What follows has always been more feeling than moment in Thriftfeather's mind: the events are recalled as a smear, "Everyone took sides so quickly and I just—I did as I was doing before. I followed Sootstar. Those who are in WindClan now are here because they hadn't done what Sootstar had ordered, if not in the first battle, then in the second."

And Thriftfeather had; he can never shake that. Everyone else had somehow known that loyalty to WindClan was an idea separate from loyalty to Sootstar.

Vulturepaw admits to not being clanborn as if it isn't a weight on their shoulders, asks the very same question that had followed Thriftfeather through his apprenticehood. It is new information that is incongruent with that Thriftfeather already knows about Vulturepaw—he is both Periwinklebreeze's kit and lonerborn. A familiar worry shakes through Thriftfeather, but he tensely reminds himself that Periwinklebreeze wouldn't at the same time as he wonders why he had assumed that this aspect of WindClan would have changed in his absence.

"I had thought—I assumed you were born in WindClan," Thriftfeather swallows the tremulous worries from his voice and cannot stop the wondering that flits through his mind. "And I used to wonder... I had wondered the same thing, about why all this about blood mattered," But he doesn't have a response, not one that sounds satisfactory to his own ears.

"But whether or not—even if it doesn't make sense to us, it does make sense to them." And perhaps that was further proof that birthplace really did hold weight, that Thriftfeather could be confused by something innately understood by the rest of WindClan. ​

DUSKCLAN DEPUTY ✦ GOLDEN TABBY TOM ✦ 19 MOONS ✦ TAGS​