- Jul 15, 2022
- 218
- 35
- 28
Betonyfrost had been young when she fell in love.
Rising smoke, a storm-black sky—uncertainty had gripped a nascent ShadowClan, but left Betonyfrost untouched. As she marched through the quickly accumulating muck, her heart sang. She had never before felt so light, so untethered from herself. Belly deep in rain-slick mud while the smell of fear mingled with that of the fire, it had been purrs and daisies for Betonyfrost; it had been the unshakable knowledge that her and Chilledgaze were so improbably, so impossibly alike. Betonyfrost would never need to eat again—the sight of Chilledgaze alone was enough to subsist her for life.
She had stumbled back into camp on fawn's legs, after the fire had guttered to embers, and then into nothing. She had drug her nest out into the open in the panic before the evacuation for a reason she cannot remember now—she remembers the want to laugh. She wouldn't have held back her laughter now; she wouldn't have let her worry over her lack of worry keep her silent. Smokescent lingered in her mind for the moons that followed. That was love, for a time. She had watched Chilledgaze, rapt in their wake, and found that she liked the way violence looked on their handsome face.
Soon after, Betonyfrost found she loved how violence folded on her own.
When a mouse makes a nest, it doesn’t always chew its way into the core of something. Sometimes, it folds together grasses and twigs, as a bird would. Betonyfrost doesn’t care for birds’ nests; they exist too high in the trees for Betonyfrost to see clearly, and those that are wind-strewn to her lowly level are too destroyed to be of any interest. When a mouse makes a nest, it makes it already on the ground.
It is undeniably animal, when a mouse makes a nest. A mouse's eyes are no less dark and unintelligent—this one makes a nest from nothing more than instinct. It's a ruddy yellow, a color uncommon but not unfamiliar to the marsh, and its belly is engorged with yet-to-be-born pups. Its paws work with a speed Betonyfrost could never replicate, gathering those grasses and twigs into its deceptively small-looking mouth, and then weaving them together halfway up a sedge stalk.
Even heavy as it looks, it is light enough that the sedge sways but doesn't bend by its weight.
Betonyfrost is young. The world is verdant for the first time—Betonyfrost has never known Newleaf before.
It is only after she kills the mouse that she looks at the nest, curious and however briefly untroubled by the thing she doesn't know. The nest is unremarkable and nondescript from every similar mouse nest Betonyfrost has seen built in such a way. Woven together as it is, Betonyfrost doesn't see that the whole of it is built around a central strand until she tries to pull some of it loose to better see the construction. It unravels easily into its parts as if it never truly wished to be together, and Betonyfrost snorts in quiet amusement.
She picks up her mouse, pleased to have killed something so fat to bring back to camp, and thinks about how wise she is to have made her nest from moss alone.
Time passes in longing. Betonyfrost waits to be noticed—waits for a sign, any sign of reciprocation, and realizes how foolish she had been to think that want alone could ever feed her. She was born hungry. She was born to eat. Her thoughts have a way of trailing back to Chilledgaze, Chilledgaze, Chilledgaze. She doesn't need to think about anything or anyone else, for a time, and it is the happiest time of her life.
Leafbare had loomed.
"All you need to do is say yes," Betonyfrost says—had said. She's still so young. Love is not yet a fever—the fire of it warms her without burning her.
The following rejection had been as sweet as it had been unacceptable. Unforgivable.
Even before the failed confession, Betonyfrost hadn't shared her nest with anyone else. The gap between herself and her peers was noticeable, the floor of the warrior's den made a thin river of paw-worn dirt between the flesh-made banks. Her connection to her peers is in accidental brushes—the tips of her fur reach into the world as she sleeps, and she moves minutely in slumbering half-disturbance when someone happens into her curled space. No one wanted to lay close enough to her as to even risk accidentally shifting into her flank—even before the failed confession, no one had liked Betonyfrost.
After, there is no balm for her loneliness. She doesn't understand the cruelty of Chilledgaze's rejection in the immediate aftermath—couldn't they see that Betonyfrost was starved?—and was instead confronted with the enormity of just how empty she was. Want feels like too small a word for what Betonyfrost feels. Want is everything at once—so hopeful and so bitter; lovingly, because love doesn't leave Betonyfrost so easily.
As old as she has grown from then—as young as she still is, impossibly, love hasn't left her.
Betonyfrost thinks she could tear Chilledstar's throat out if it meant the last thing they would ever see would be Betonyfrost. Blue eyes on her—where was the fault in wanting that? She has a chance again; despite her loss, despite Chilledstar's, Betonyfrost has a chance again. Something to seize upon, now bolstered by the knowledge that love is a fever rather than a fire. This, the frantic circling of her thoughts like a hawk gaining sky, this is love—and once more, Betonyfrost thinks, how glad she is her nest is made of tougher stuff than grass.
(When Betonyfrost is young, young enough to be curled into the crook of her mother's belly, love isn't yet a fire or a fever. She is named Betony. She is named for a pest-plant, a weed that will grow anywhere and one that, once rooted, will refuse to die. She is named for a Newleaf flower her mother found pretty. The naiveté of youth, true youth, tells Betony that love is warm enough to comfort without being cloying. Love is, in this soft world, the choice to lay her head on the pillow of her mother's gut, or to roll over and lay it upon her brother's shoulder.
In the quiet of the nursery, she had been full.)
Rising smoke, a storm-black sky—uncertainty had gripped a nascent ShadowClan, but left Betonyfrost untouched. As she marched through the quickly accumulating muck, her heart sang. She had never before felt so light, so untethered from herself. Belly deep in rain-slick mud while the smell of fear mingled with that of the fire, it had been purrs and daisies for Betonyfrost; it had been the unshakable knowledge that her and Chilledgaze were so improbably, so impossibly alike. Betonyfrost would never need to eat again—the sight of Chilledgaze alone was enough to subsist her for life.
She had stumbled back into camp on fawn's legs, after the fire had guttered to embers, and then into nothing. She had drug her nest out into the open in the panic before the evacuation for a reason she cannot remember now—she remembers the want to laugh. She wouldn't have held back her laughter now; she wouldn't have let her worry over her lack of worry keep her silent. Smokescent lingered in her mind for the moons that followed. That was love, for a time. She had watched Chilledgaze, rapt in their wake, and found that she liked the way violence looked on their handsome face.
Soon after, Betonyfrost found she loved how violence folded on her own.
❀❀❀
When a mouse makes a nest, it doesn’t always chew its way into the core of something. Sometimes, it folds together grasses and twigs, as a bird would. Betonyfrost doesn’t care for birds’ nests; they exist too high in the trees for Betonyfrost to see clearly, and those that are wind-strewn to her lowly level are too destroyed to be of any interest. When a mouse makes a nest, it makes it already on the ground.
It is undeniably animal, when a mouse makes a nest. A mouse's eyes are no less dark and unintelligent—this one makes a nest from nothing more than instinct. It's a ruddy yellow, a color uncommon but not unfamiliar to the marsh, and its belly is engorged with yet-to-be-born pups. Its paws work with a speed Betonyfrost could never replicate, gathering those grasses and twigs into its deceptively small-looking mouth, and then weaving them together halfway up a sedge stalk.
Even heavy as it looks, it is light enough that the sedge sways but doesn't bend by its weight.
Betonyfrost is young. The world is verdant for the first time—Betonyfrost has never known Newleaf before.
It is only after she kills the mouse that she looks at the nest, curious and however briefly untroubled by the thing she doesn't know. The nest is unremarkable and nondescript from every similar mouse nest Betonyfrost has seen built in such a way. Woven together as it is, Betonyfrost doesn't see that the whole of it is built around a central strand until she tries to pull some of it loose to better see the construction. It unravels easily into its parts as if it never truly wished to be together, and Betonyfrost snorts in quiet amusement.
She picks up her mouse, pleased to have killed something so fat to bring back to camp, and thinks about how wise she is to have made her nest from moss alone.
❀❀❀
Time passes in longing. Betonyfrost waits to be noticed—waits for a sign, any sign of reciprocation, and realizes how foolish she had been to think that want alone could ever feed her. She was born hungry. She was born to eat. Her thoughts have a way of trailing back to Chilledgaze, Chilledgaze, Chilledgaze. She doesn't need to think about anything or anyone else, for a time, and it is the happiest time of her life.
❀❀❀
Leafbare had loomed.
"All you need to do is say yes," Betonyfrost says—had said. She's still so young. Love is not yet a fever—the fire of it warms her without burning her.
The following rejection had been as sweet as it had been unacceptable. Unforgivable.
❀❀❀
Even before the failed confession, Betonyfrost hadn't shared her nest with anyone else. The gap between herself and her peers was noticeable, the floor of the warrior's den made a thin river of paw-worn dirt between the flesh-made banks. Her connection to her peers is in accidental brushes—the tips of her fur reach into the world as she sleeps, and she moves minutely in slumbering half-disturbance when someone happens into her curled space. No one wanted to lay close enough to her as to even risk accidentally shifting into her flank—even before the failed confession, no one had liked Betonyfrost.
After, there is no balm for her loneliness. She doesn't understand the cruelty of Chilledgaze's rejection in the immediate aftermath—couldn't they see that Betonyfrost was starved?—and was instead confronted with the enormity of just how empty she was. Want feels like too small a word for what Betonyfrost feels. Want is everything at once—so hopeful and so bitter; lovingly, because love doesn't leave Betonyfrost so easily.
As old as she has grown from then—as young as she still is, impossibly, love hasn't left her.
Betonyfrost thinks she could tear Chilledstar's throat out if it meant the last thing they would ever see would be Betonyfrost. Blue eyes on her—where was the fault in wanting that? She has a chance again; despite her loss, despite Chilledstar's, Betonyfrost has a chance again. Something to seize upon, now bolstered by the knowledge that love is a fever rather than a fire. This, the frantic circling of her thoughts like a hawk gaining sky, this is love—and once more, Betonyfrost thinks, how glad she is her nest is made of tougher stuff than grass.
❀❀❀
(When Betonyfrost is young, young enough to be curled into the crook of her mother's belly, love isn't yet a fire or a fever. She is named Betony. She is named for a pest-plant, a weed that will grow anywhere and one that, once rooted, will refuse to die. She is named for a Newleaf flower her mother found pretty. The naiveté of youth, true youth, tells Betony that love is warm enough to comfort without being cloying. Love is, in this soft world, the choice to lay her head on the pillow of her mother's gut, or to roll over and lay it upon her brother's shoulder.
In the quiet of the nursery, she had been full.)
shadowclan warrior | blue mackerel tabby | 28 moons | tags
