- Sep 11, 2024
- 22
- 7
- 3
(cw - grief, gory descriptions)
Turner is warm and full of food, and his bed is comfortable, but nonetheless, something gnaws at him. The shape of the cat-door yawns open like a mouth in the half-light of the evening. It calls to him, quietly, invitingly: come outside! He can hear his Twolegs settling down for dinner in the other room; it isn’t his turn yet, so they haven’t locked him in.
The kitten slinks towards the door as quietly as he can, slipping through it into the back garden. Come and see! There’s something glowing around the side of the house, warmer than the harsh artificial lights of Twolegplace. Turner’s fur prickles. A fire? He’s too young and sheltered to know what such a thing is, and yet, the memory of it is burned into the backs of his eyes. Fearful cries, a beloved voice screaming in pain, things he never wants to see or hear again.
As frightened as he is, he creeps towards the light anyways, unable to fight its enchantment.
He rounds the corner and comes face-to-face with a familiar stranger.
Flamefeather burns in front of him. The fur and flesh scorches off of its neck and shoulders, searing it down to the bone around its right eye, yet it remains serene as it gazes down at him. Flame bursts from its empty socket in place of an eye. Turner arches his back, his tail puffing up. He spits. Briefly, he catches a glimpse of someone at Flamefeather’s side, a large, dark shape with glowering orange eyes -
Then Wolfgrin blinks, and he’s standing at Flamefeather’s left shoulder, where he belongs, staring down at his frightened younger self.
“You were cute as a baby,” Flamefeather observes warmly.
Wolfgrin wrinkles his nose. "I was a loud, rude menace," he disagrees, "And I reeked like a dog."
His mate laughs. “You still smell like a dog,” it accuses, grinning, “Just not as much as you used to.”
"And you never minded." A memory resurfaces of overhearing young warriors tittering about Blazestar letting a dog join SkyClan, only for Flamefeather to walk up beside him and rub against his shoulder with a smug smile before he had a chance to feel offended. Whenever he needs a laugh, he remembers the comically disgusted looks on those warriors’ faces.
In front of them, Turner remains puffed up, deaf to their conversation. Wolfgrin lurches towards him and pulls a gruesome face, and the little scrap leaps backwards in fear and skitters back to his Twolegs.
“Wolfgrin,” Flamefeather sighs, watching the kitten leave.
As if nothing had happened, he turns and gives the burning specter a charming smile. "Yes, my love?"
It struggles to keep its frown. “Was that really necessary?”
Wolfgrin rolls his eyes and scoffs, "That little twerp was interrupting my time with my mate, and you ask if it was necessary?” His smirk falters, then fades. "I only get so much time with you before I wake up. I want to make the most of it." Grief strikes him once again, full-force against his stomach, weakening his legs. Flamefeather leans its shoulder against him before he can fall.
“Oh, Wolfgrin,” Flamefeather whispers, “my beloved, how long will you keep hurting like this?”
"Forever," Wolfgrin mutters, his eyes stinging with tears. ”You’re the one burning, but I’m the one who feels the pain."
The flames lick at his pelt, yearning. Flamefeather hides its face in his fur with a weary sigh that sends embers cascading through the air around them. “Then I wish I could put myself out.”
Then it moves away and lets him fall, down, down, down into a pit of fire, until his side hits moss and feathers and he jolts awake with a painful, sobbing gasp.
The next morning he can barely meet his Clanmates’ eyes. This ghost should be his burden alone, but its visits affect them nonetheless; his cries and thrashing steal their sleep. He knows he must be an oddity to them, this opinion only worsening after Flamefeather’s death; he’s the cat that smells and acts like a dog; who collects white feathers from his prey and painstakingly dyes them orange with flower petals, keeping them in his nest with wildflowers and scraps of moss, long since dried out, from his dead mate’s bed. Waking them up every other night certainly isn’t going to help their view of him.
Maybe you should try and talk to someone besides me, Flamefeather’s suggestion echoes in his head. It’s true, he’d clung to the orange tuxedo’s side like moss to a tree, not eager to change his reputation as Flamefeather’s tamed beast if it meant talking to all of these strangers. Now its gone, and he’s forced to seek companionship elsewhere. He’s made a go of it before, suddenly addressing Doeblaze as she folded into herself in fear of her past coming to find her, joining Shrewflight’s hunting competition, but not much farther.
His shoulders hunch as a cat approaches him. He doesn’t look up from his morning wash to see who it is, hoping they’ll leave him alone.
Turner is warm and full of food, and his bed is comfortable, but nonetheless, something gnaws at him. The shape of the cat-door yawns open like a mouth in the half-light of the evening. It calls to him, quietly, invitingly: come outside! He can hear his Twolegs settling down for dinner in the other room; it isn’t his turn yet, so they haven’t locked him in.
The kitten slinks towards the door as quietly as he can, slipping through it into the back garden. Come and see! There’s something glowing around the side of the house, warmer than the harsh artificial lights of Twolegplace. Turner’s fur prickles. A fire? He’s too young and sheltered to know what such a thing is, and yet, the memory of it is burned into the backs of his eyes. Fearful cries, a beloved voice screaming in pain, things he never wants to see or hear again.
As frightened as he is, he creeps towards the light anyways, unable to fight its enchantment.
He rounds the corner and comes face-to-face with a familiar stranger.
Flamefeather burns in front of him. The fur and flesh scorches off of its neck and shoulders, searing it down to the bone around its right eye, yet it remains serene as it gazes down at him. Flame bursts from its empty socket in place of an eye. Turner arches his back, his tail puffing up. He spits. Briefly, he catches a glimpse of someone at Flamefeather’s side, a large, dark shape with glowering orange eyes -
Then Wolfgrin blinks, and he’s standing at Flamefeather’s left shoulder, where he belongs, staring down at his frightened younger self.
“You were cute as a baby,” Flamefeather observes warmly.
Wolfgrin wrinkles his nose. "I was a loud, rude menace," he disagrees, "And I reeked like a dog."
His mate laughs. “You still smell like a dog,” it accuses, grinning, “Just not as much as you used to.”
"And you never minded." A memory resurfaces of overhearing young warriors tittering about Blazestar letting a dog join SkyClan, only for Flamefeather to walk up beside him and rub against his shoulder with a smug smile before he had a chance to feel offended. Whenever he needs a laugh, he remembers the comically disgusted looks on those warriors’ faces.
In front of them, Turner remains puffed up, deaf to their conversation. Wolfgrin lurches towards him and pulls a gruesome face, and the little scrap leaps backwards in fear and skitters back to his Twolegs.
“Wolfgrin,” Flamefeather sighs, watching the kitten leave.
As if nothing had happened, he turns and gives the burning specter a charming smile. "Yes, my love?"
It struggles to keep its frown. “Was that really necessary?”
Wolfgrin rolls his eyes and scoffs, "That little twerp was interrupting my time with my mate, and you ask if it was necessary?” His smirk falters, then fades. "I only get so much time with you before I wake up. I want to make the most of it." Grief strikes him once again, full-force against his stomach, weakening his legs. Flamefeather leans its shoulder against him before he can fall.
“Oh, Wolfgrin,” Flamefeather whispers, “my beloved, how long will you keep hurting like this?”
"Forever," Wolfgrin mutters, his eyes stinging with tears. ”You’re the one burning, but I’m the one who feels the pain."
The flames lick at his pelt, yearning. Flamefeather hides its face in his fur with a weary sigh that sends embers cascading through the air around them. “Then I wish I could put myself out.”
Then it moves away and lets him fall, down, down, down into a pit of fire, until his side hits moss and feathers and he jolts awake with a painful, sobbing gasp.
—
The next morning he can barely meet his Clanmates’ eyes. This ghost should be his burden alone, but its visits affect them nonetheless; his cries and thrashing steal their sleep. He knows he must be an oddity to them, this opinion only worsening after Flamefeather’s death; he’s the cat that smells and acts like a dog; who collects white feathers from his prey and painstakingly dyes them orange with flower petals, keeping them in his nest with wildflowers and scraps of moss, long since dried out, from his dead mate’s bed. Waking them up every other night certainly isn’t going to help their view of him.
Maybe you should try and talk to someone besides me, Flamefeather’s suggestion echoes in his head. It’s true, he’d clung to the orange tuxedo’s side like moss to a tree, not eager to change his reputation as Flamefeather’s tamed beast if it meant talking to all of these strangers. Now its gone, and he’s forced to seek companionship elsewhere. He’s made a go of it before, suddenly addressing Doeblaze as she folded into herself in fear of her past coming to find her, joining Shrewflight’s hunting competition, but not much farther.
His shoulders hunch as a cat approaches him. He doesn’t look up from his morning wash to see who it is, hoping they’ll leave him alone.
[ EVERYTHING DESERVES TO LIVE ON ONCE IT'S GONE -- ☀ ]
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