- May 5, 2023
- 484
- 199
- 43
The day had been clear, the sky a warm and ripened blue uncluttered by drifts of white clouds or one of the burgeoning summer storms that've seemed so common as of late. The night is crystalline, the heavens a dome of cut - glass obsidian smeared with scattered swathes of glittering cold - silvered stars. One of them is colored a much warmer hue, however . . . lying westward where she knows to find it, a drop of the molten sun hanging silent in the sky. It accompanies Bobbie as her patrol - sore paws cross the pine forest, following paw - worn paths made velvet smooth by the daily trek of the daylight warriors; past the Tallpine, looming blue - black in the night and casting a shadow so deep it encompasses her whole body where it blocks the moon's light; finally, through the still sun - warm paths of Twolegplace, its gilded light just touching puddles glimmering iridescent with oil.
It's not that she doesn't trust the daylight warriors . . . they had performed more than adequately when she'd tasked them with this before, but this . . . this, she cannot trust anyone but herself with. In light of recent troubles, a lonesome trek to Twolegplace seems foolish, doubly so when made under the light of the moon—but it's a journey that she must make, and must make alone. And she isn't really alone, she thinks as she casts a weary jade eye skywards once more, finding that aureate star . . . as dependable and steadfast as he had been, it glitters somber where it always has and always will, and she sighs out relief. I'm not alone.
Lilac - marbled legs lift her as easily as they ever had, pulling her over fence and wall with the same lithe motions that lift her to the thinnest branches. Her pawsteps are velvet - soft on the rough ground, unfeeling of it through layers of callouses, tangles of lilac fur whipping wraithlike in a midsummer night's breeze. Blessedly, trouble does not follow her with slavering jaws for once . . . if any of Twolegplace's myriad shifty residents wake beneath the moon, they leave her to her solemn task under its light.
Finally, after endless wandering in a blur of chipped brick and warmly lit glass . . . familiar sights, the old pain of which lessens in comparison to that ever - present weight . . . she finds what she seeks. Memory guides her to her quarry, splaying golden outwards in search of a long - sunken sun . . . how apt, she thinks with an aching smile, how fitting. Crescent - moon claws guide her up the side of a wooden box, the splintery texture not unfamiliar beneath her paws.
The sunflower spreads riotously outwards, great and golden and beautiful, its slightly - frayed petals unabashed in their gleaming splendor that seems to nearly glow under the cool light of the moon, undefeatedly brilliant against the coldness of the night. Its faith in the return of the sun is unwavering, unshakeable as it remains a rippling brand of liquid gold in the darkness . . . a watery green eye dances towards the bright and smiling star hanging westwards and then back to the matching gilded hue of the blooms.
It's perfect. It's not closure, but it's something. Something she can hang onto for the bleak days she know will fall upon her like the cool summer rain, her little spot of sun. A pale imitation, yes, but a comfort nonetheless.
A lingering reminder of a lost sun . . . what the blossom is, and what she herself longs to be, for her children, for her Clan, for herself. She thinks of Cherryblossom's questions, of Silversmoke's derisive snort, of the name that has weighed uncomfortably on her shoulders for moons now.
She thinks of these things as she cuts the flower with careful claws, and she knows in a sudden rush what she wants.
It's not that she doesn't trust the daylight warriors . . . they had performed more than adequately when she'd tasked them with this before, but this . . . this, she cannot trust anyone but herself with. In light of recent troubles, a lonesome trek to Twolegplace seems foolish, doubly so when made under the light of the moon—but it's a journey that she must make, and must make alone. And she isn't really alone, she thinks as she casts a weary jade eye skywards once more, finding that aureate star . . . as dependable and steadfast as he had been, it glitters somber where it always has and always will, and she sighs out relief. I'm not alone.
Lilac - marbled legs lift her as easily as they ever had, pulling her over fence and wall with the same lithe motions that lift her to the thinnest branches. Her pawsteps are velvet - soft on the rough ground, unfeeling of it through layers of callouses, tangles of lilac fur whipping wraithlike in a midsummer night's breeze. Blessedly, trouble does not follow her with slavering jaws for once . . . if any of Twolegplace's myriad shifty residents wake beneath the moon, they leave her to her solemn task under its light.
Finally, after endless wandering in a blur of chipped brick and warmly lit glass . . . familiar sights, the old pain of which lessens in comparison to that ever - present weight . . . she finds what she seeks. Memory guides her to her quarry, splaying golden outwards in search of a long - sunken sun . . . how apt, she thinks with an aching smile, how fitting. Crescent - moon claws guide her up the side of a wooden box, the splintery texture not unfamiliar beneath her paws.
The sunflower spreads riotously outwards, great and golden and beautiful, its slightly - frayed petals unabashed in their gleaming splendor that seems to nearly glow under the cool light of the moon, undefeatedly brilliant against the coldness of the night. Its faith in the return of the sun is unwavering, unshakeable as it remains a rippling brand of liquid gold in the darkness . . . a watery green eye dances towards the bright and smiling star hanging westwards and then back to the matching gilded hue of the blooms.
It's perfect. It's not closure, but it's something. Something she can hang onto for the bleak days she know will fall upon her like the cool summer rain, her little spot of sun. A pale imitation, yes, but a comfort nonetheless.
A lingering reminder of a lost sun . . . what the blossom is, and what she herself longs to be, for her children, for her Clan, for herself. She thinks of Cherryblossom's questions, of Silversmoke's derisive snort, of the name that has weighed uncomfortably on her shoulders for moons now.
She thinks of these things as she cuts the flower with careful claws, and she knows in a sudden rush what she wants.
