- Apr 30, 2023
- 193
- 79
- 28
Beneath the paw-flattened snow crust is wiry blue-green grasses, waiting patiently for Newleaf. Thriftfeather could dig through the snow here, easily, and see it for himself if he wished for a reminder that this all encompassing cold is—as all things are—temporary. He considers those hidden grasses, can almost smell them, familiar and sorely missed. The sight of them would be a comfort, but one unneeded. Thriftfeather knows they are beneath his paws, even without the visual confirmation.
He knows, someday, there will be a thaw.
The world is brighter and more subdued, like this. Thriftfeather squints his way through sunhigh; his nostrils imperceptibly flare at regular intervals. The snow, crushed by the steps of countless others, is near-silent to even Thriftfeather’s listening ears. He isn’t alone out here, despite what his senses tell him; Thriftfeather’s head turns to follow the feeling and there, half-hidden by a scrub-briar, is someone.
“You’re trespassing,” Thriftfeather calls, without heat. He misses when he believed in this.
“No trouble,” The stranger—a creaking branch voice, black fur that fades pale-gray-white towards the flesh—replies.
He stares at Thriftfeather from his distance, four foxlengths away. Rather than turn away, the stranger lessens the gap. The snow doesn’t crunch under his paws. Stealth so well practiced that it’s become habit.
“You were following me,” His heart remembers that it truly belongs to a rabbit. It kicks into speed—Thriftfeather doesn’t want a fight.
“You’re Thrift,” The stranger’s voice comes so reverential, so relieved, that Thriftfeather immediately looks over his shoulder—that tone couldn’t be meant for him. It’s more exhale than expression.
A barncat, then. One that recognizes him from WindClan. Why he cares so much for Thriftfeather—he must be mistaken in something. Now that he is closer, Thriftfeather can see bits of straw that have tangled into the stranger’s fur, sticking out like lonely quills on a porcupine’s back. The wind shifts, and Thriftfeather catches the scent of wood-dust and warmth; his heart aches unexpectedly for home, wherever that may be.
“Thriftfeather,” He corrects. Dread climbs his throat, instinct rather than emotion. This conversation will not go his way.
“You’re Sadie’s boy,” The stranger continues on, brighter now. He stands directly before Thriftfeather, shorter than Thriftfeather by a whisker but still looking up to him.
Thriftfeather sputters, “That isn’t—that’s—how did you know?”
The stranger inclines his head—pointing with his chin to the space just above Thriftfeather’s own.
“I would recognize those anywhere,” He’s calm as he says it. Thriftfeather’s confusion must show on his face, because the barncat laughs, amends, “Your ears, boy. Not many walking around with ears like that—doesn’t hurt that you look like her in other ways, too.”
“And who are you?” Thriftfeather says—snaps.
The barncat sobers. Thriftfeather sees him think, the way his eyes flick in every direction; Thriftfeather takes in the age-lines etched into his face like scars.
“You wouldn’t remember me,” The barncat settles on, “You were so small when—well. Well, anyway, my name is Banjo.”
Banjo, then. Thriftfeather makes another face, and Banjo gives another laugh.
“There’s a barn near here,” Banjo continues, “I think—we have a lot to talk about. Come back with me to the barn with me. It’s where I stay in Leafbare, has plenty of space.”
“You and my—you and Sadie,” Thriftfeather says instead; the knowledge that this cannot end well for him makes his skin jump as if bitten by fleas, “You were close?”
“Very,” Banjo says, and there is a lot in his voice. He has a scar where Thriftfeather has a wound. The sincerity of it makes Thriftfeather flinch.
“Of course, that’s just what she went by ‘round here,” Banjo continues, as if Thriftfeather hasn’t reacted, “She didn’t have so much as a real name—”
“—She went by something different, everywhere she went,” Thriftfeather finishes. With his memory stirred, it feels so obvious. How could he have forgotten?
Banjo nods. He has green eyes.
Thriftfeather knows better than to think about it.
“I know about the barn. I lived near, after…” Thriftfeather clears his throat. He wants to run, “WindClan took me in.”
That gets a reaction out of Banjo. He blinks, shifts his head as if taking Thriftfeather in at a different angle. There had been stars in his eyes before—Thriftfeather only notices now in their lack.
“I’ve met them.” Carefully neutral. Thriftfeather is struck with the thought that Banjo somehow knows—what? That Thriftfeather had a chance to do good, that his own eyes had too many stars to make the right choice, despite everything?
You weren’t with them, Banjo doesn’t need to say. Thriftfeather hadn’t been a traitor. Not in that way.
“They stayed at the barn for a time to lick their wounds. Some fight. I kept my nose out of it. Cleared away when I thought they were to stay,” Banjo falls silent, after. Thriftfeather gets a feel for his moods: happy, or the absence of it. He’s not sad, not outwardly—serious, instead, when he remembers to be, “You should come see it. The barn.”
The second time he’s asked—Thriftfeather sees the shape of a thing that he would rather blink away. Grass beneath snow: Thriftfeather knows, but now he thinks that confirmation would break him.
“You were born there,” Banjo tries.
“That isn’t—that’s not right,” Thriftfeather protests. He makes a broad gesture, “I was born—I was born just, somewhere.”
“You were born in the barn,” Banjo’s tone is that of someone trying to gently correct a kit’s mispronunciation, “I saw you so newly born that you were still wet.”
Thriftfeather shakes his head, but doesn’t protest aloud.
“You were—you were the fattest newborn any of us had ever seen. Sadie carried you by the scruff everywhere she’d walk, and I told her that she’d stretch your neck out, doing that,” The reverence is back. It curls at the edge of Banjo’s voice like a smile. Banjo’s eyes drift upwards, seeing a memory that he doesn’t share with Thriftfeather, not fully, “You’ve gotten skinnier, since.”
Thriftfeather’s torn ear flicks. Banjo’s eyes move, following.
“I’ve grown, since,” Thriftfeather corrects, but Banjo is already shaking his head.
“Skinnier,” Banjo repeats—his creaking tone leaves no room for further argument, “You’ve been eating?”
“I’ve been—?” Thriftfeather’s mouth opens and closes uselessly before he finds the rest of his words, “It’s Leafbare and the only—there isn’t anything to chew on but briars!”
Banjo nods and swivels his head, as if just now noticing his dismal surroundings. Maybe he truly hadn’t noticed, before.
“I’m just passing through,” There is something different in his voice—a changed tactic. Thriftfeather straightens himself, wary and knowing, as Banjo continues, “I cleared out of the barn, as I’ve said, but I hear it’s emptier these days. I’m just finding my way back.”
A pause—an allowance for Thriftfeather to speak. He doesn’t take it, and the silence lingers for a long, uncomfortable moment.
“You could accompany me back,” The third attempt. Thriftfeather pointedly doesn’t think about it, “We could talk when we make it to the barn. We have a lot to…”
Banjo trails off, the first sharp edges of doubt creeping into his tone. They could have a lot to talk about; Thriftfeather suspects that they could let words fall like needles from a pine, and that they would never run out.
“You were close with my mother,” Thriftfeather says, haltingly, “We could—no reason we can’t talk here.”
But he knows better. He knows here, with thin skeleton-briars and hidden, bristly grasses, is not where Banjo will speak to him. The barn is too sentimental a place—Thriftfeather suspects that Banjo will try to convince him to stay, were he to follow.
“You said you two were close,” Thriftfeather prompts again—he doesn’t want to know, but abruptly he feels the need to press Banjo, “So you should know—you should already know that she abandoned me beneath a gorse bush.”
This gets a reaction from Banjo. His whiskers press flat to his face, his mouth twitches and then thins, “She loved you, Thrift.”
“Thriftfeather,” The correction sounds meek.
“More than anything,” Banjo continues, as if he had never been interrupted, “She would move a hill by the pebbles if it was for you.”
“She trespassed,” Thriftfeather tries instead—his rabbit-heart kicks into speed, “With me along. With—she took me into danger and was killed for it. If WindClan hadn’t found me—!”
“She wouldn’t!”
“—I would have died with her then, starved or scavenged by some—!”
“She didn’t!” The old tom growls, suddenly so close that Thriftfeather is struck with a cold fear. This could come to blows—Thriftfeather may not have another fight in him, “I know she didn’t because I’m the one who found…”
Banjo backs away, breathes out a sigh, and is once more recentered. Thriftfeather still feels jittery, ready to twitch out of his skin at the slightest noise.
“I’m not going with you,” Thriftfeather pulls the fear out of his stance the best he can—squares himself into authority. Banjo remains unmoved, “Not to the—I think it’s time you go. You’re also trespassing—or did you forget?”
“She wasn’t trespassing,” Banjo repeats, “She wasn’t on WindClan territory. I found her, she wasn’t on any claimed land. WindClan came to her.”
Ghostwail came to her—Thriftfeather’s mouth folds into a snarl, and he isn’t surprised. In another world, there could have been even a small amount of justification—but Thriftfeather had already known there wasn’t any. Not in this.
“You need to leave.” Thriftfeather shoves Banjo hard enough that they both stumble—Thriftfeather rights himself before Banjo does, “Just go—just—you need to go. I’ll defend this territory if I must.”
Banjo remains half-hunkered. He looks up to Thriftfeather, his green eyes cold. Thriftfeather expects another offer, and raises his claws in a silent threat. He misses when he believed in this—but the motions come easily enough.
“I must have been mistaken,” Banjo spits as he rights himself. He is already turning away—his head is turned just enough for Thriftfeather to see the light glint from one of his narrowed eyes, “You aren’t Sadie’s boy. You aren’t anyone I’d recognize.”
And then he is walking away. There isn’t any fear in him—there hadn’t been for the whole conversation. Thriftfeather wishes he would run, or look over his shoulders, or that the plume of his tail would bristle. Instead he plods in a familiar direction.
“Old coot!” Thriftfeather shouts, and Banjo’s ear doesn’t even twitch his way, “Lying old coot! You—!”
It’s useless.
“You…” Thriftfeather starts again, but Banjo is already too far for his speaking voice to be heard. He’ll be gone, soon, and Thriftfeather will never need to think of this strange encounter again.
It doesn’t need to change anything. Confirmation of suspicions—Thriftfeather could continue living as if he hadn’t known. His claws flex into the snow crust—the comfort of blue-green grasses below—and a laugh bubbles out of him, and fear shakes his shoulders, and he thinks maybe he should scratch a hole in the snow, just to see what is really beneath.
He knows, someday, there will be a thaw.
The world is brighter and more subdued, like this. Thriftfeather squints his way through sunhigh; his nostrils imperceptibly flare at regular intervals. The snow, crushed by the steps of countless others, is near-silent to even Thriftfeather’s listening ears. He isn’t alone out here, despite what his senses tell him; Thriftfeather’s head turns to follow the feeling and there, half-hidden by a scrub-briar, is someone.
“You’re trespassing,” Thriftfeather calls, without heat. He misses when he believed in this.
“No trouble,” The stranger—a creaking branch voice, black fur that fades pale-gray-white towards the flesh—replies.
He stares at Thriftfeather from his distance, four foxlengths away. Rather than turn away, the stranger lessens the gap. The snow doesn’t crunch under his paws. Stealth so well practiced that it’s become habit.
“You were following me,” His heart remembers that it truly belongs to a rabbit. It kicks into speed—Thriftfeather doesn’t want a fight.
“You’re Thrift,” The stranger’s voice comes so reverential, so relieved, that Thriftfeather immediately looks over his shoulder—that tone couldn’t be meant for him. It’s more exhale than expression.
A barncat, then. One that recognizes him from WindClan. Why he cares so much for Thriftfeather—he must be mistaken in something. Now that he is closer, Thriftfeather can see bits of straw that have tangled into the stranger’s fur, sticking out like lonely quills on a porcupine’s back. The wind shifts, and Thriftfeather catches the scent of wood-dust and warmth; his heart aches unexpectedly for home, wherever that may be.
“Thriftfeather,” He corrects. Dread climbs his throat, instinct rather than emotion. This conversation will not go his way.
“You’re Sadie’s boy,” The stranger continues on, brighter now. He stands directly before Thriftfeather, shorter than Thriftfeather by a whisker but still looking up to him.
Thriftfeather sputters, “That isn’t—that’s—how did you know?”
The stranger inclines his head—pointing with his chin to the space just above Thriftfeather’s own.
“I would recognize those anywhere,” He’s calm as he says it. Thriftfeather’s confusion must show on his face, because the barncat laughs, amends, “Your ears, boy. Not many walking around with ears like that—doesn’t hurt that you look like her in other ways, too.”
“And who are you?” Thriftfeather says—snaps.
The barncat sobers. Thriftfeather sees him think, the way his eyes flick in every direction; Thriftfeather takes in the age-lines etched into his face like scars.
“You wouldn’t remember me,” The barncat settles on, “You were so small when—well. Well, anyway, my name is Banjo.”
Banjo, then. Thriftfeather makes another face, and Banjo gives another laugh.
“There’s a barn near here,” Banjo continues, “I think—we have a lot to talk about. Come back with me to the barn with me. It’s where I stay in Leafbare, has plenty of space.”
“You and my—you and Sadie,” Thriftfeather says instead; the knowledge that this cannot end well for him makes his skin jump as if bitten by fleas, “You were close?”
“Very,” Banjo says, and there is a lot in his voice. He has a scar where Thriftfeather has a wound. The sincerity of it makes Thriftfeather flinch.
“Of course, that’s just what she went by ‘round here,” Banjo continues, as if Thriftfeather hasn’t reacted, “She didn’t have so much as a real name—”
“—She went by something different, everywhere she went,” Thriftfeather finishes. With his memory stirred, it feels so obvious. How could he have forgotten?
Banjo nods. He has green eyes.
Thriftfeather knows better than to think about it.
“I know about the barn. I lived near, after…” Thriftfeather clears his throat. He wants to run, “WindClan took me in.”
That gets a reaction out of Banjo. He blinks, shifts his head as if taking Thriftfeather in at a different angle. There had been stars in his eyes before—Thriftfeather only notices now in their lack.
“I’ve met them.” Carefully neutral. Thriftfeather is struck with the thought that Banjo somehow knows—what? That Thriftfeather had a chance to do good, that his own eyes had too many stars to make the right choice, despite everything?
You weren’t with them, Banjo doesn’t need to say. Thriftfeather hadn’t been a traitor. Not in that way.
“They stayed at the barn for a time to lick their wounds. Some fight. I kept my nose out of it. Cleared away when I thought they were to stay,” Banjo falls silent, after. Thriftfeather gets a feel for his moods: happy, or the absence of it. He’s not sad, not outwardly—serious, instead, when he remembers to be, “You should come see it. The barn.”
The second time he’s asked—Thriftfeather sees the shape of a thing that he would rather blink away. Grass beneath snow: Thriftfeather knows, but now he thinks that confirmation would break him.
“You were born there,” Banjo tries.
“That isn’t—that’s not right,” Thriftfeather protests. He makes a broad gesture, “I was born—I was born just, somewhere.”
“You were born in the barn,” Banjo’s tone is that of someone trying to gently correct a kit’s mispronunciation, “I saw you so newly born that you were still wet.”
Thriftfeather shakes his head, but doesn’t protest aloud.
“You were—you were the fattest newborn any of us had ever seen. Sadie carried you by the scruff everywhere she’d walk, and I told her that she’d stretch your neck out, doing that,” The reverence is back. It curls at the edge of Banjo’s voice like a smile. Banjo’s eyes drift upwards, seeing a memory that he doesn’t share with Thriftfeather, not fully, “You’ve gotten skinnier, since.”
Thriftfeather’s torn ear flicks. Banjo’s eyes move, following.
“I’ve grown, since,” Thriftfeather corrects, but Banjo is already shaking his head.
“Skinnier,” Banjo repeats—his creaking tone leaves no room for further argument, “You’ve been eating?”
“I’ve been—?” Thriftfeather’s mouth opens and closes uselessly before he finds the rest of his words, “It’s Leafbare and the only—there isn’t anything to chew on but briars!”
Banjo nods and swivels his head, as if just now noticing his dismal surroundings. Maybe he truly hadn’t noticed, before.
“I’m just passing through,” There is something different in his voice—a changed tactic. Thriftfeather straightens himself, wary and knowing, as Banjo continues, “I cleared out of the barn, as I’ve said, but I hear it’s emptier these days. I’m just finding my way back.”
A pause—an allowance for Thriftfeather to speak. He doesn’t take it, and the silence lingers for a long, uncomfortable moment.
“You could accompany me back,” The third attempt. Thriftfeather pointedly doesn’t think about it, “We could talk when we make it to the barn. We have a lot to…”
Banjo trails off, the first sharp edges of doubt creeping into his tone. They could have a lot to talk about; Thriftfeather suspects that they could let words fall like needles from a pine, and that they would never run out.
“You were close with my mother,” Thriftfeather says, haltingly, “We could—no reason we can’t talk here.”
But he knows better. He knows here, with thin skeleton-briars and hidden, bristly grasses, is not where Banjo will speak to him. The barn is too sentimental a place—Thriftfeather suspects that Banjo will try to convince him to stay, were he to follow.
“You said you two were close,” Thriftfeather prompts again—he doesn’t want to know, but abruptly he feels the need to press Banjo, “So you should know—you should already know that she abandoned me beneath a gorse bush.”
This gets a reaction from Banjo. His whiskers press flat to his face, his mouth twitches and then thins, “She loved you, Thrift.”
“Thriftfeather,” The correction sounds meek.
“More than anything,” Banjo continues, as if he had never been interrupted, “She would move a hill by the pebbles if it was for you.”
“She trespassed,” Thriftfeather tries instead—his rabbit-heart kicks into speed, “With me along. With—she took me into danger and was killed for it. If WindClan hadn’t found me—!”
“She wouldn’t!”
“—I would have died with her then, starved or scavenged by some—!”
“She didn’t!” The old tom growls, suddenly so close that Thriftfeather is struck with a cold fear. This could come to blows—Thriftfeather may not have another fight in him, “I know she didn’t because I’m the one who found…”
Banjo backs away, breathes out a sigh, and is once more recentered. Thriftfeather still feels jittery, ready to twitch out of his skin at the slightest noise.
“I’m not going with you,” Thriftfeather pulls the fear out of his stance the best he can—squares himself into authority. Banjo remains unmoved, “Not to the—I think it’s time you go. You’re also trespassing—or did you forget?”
“She wasn’t trespassing,” Banjo repeats, “She wasn’t on WindClan territory. I found her, she wasn’t on any claimed land. WindClan came to her.”
Ghostwail came to her—Thriftfeather’s mouth folds into a snarl, and he isn’t surprised. In another world, there could have been even a small amount of justification—but Thriftfeather had already known there wasn’t any. Not in this.
“You need to leave.” Thriftfeather shoves Banjo hard enough that they both stumble—Thriftfeather rights himself before Banjo does, “Just go—just—you need to go. I’ll defend this territory if I must.”
Banjo remains half-hunkered. He looks up to Thriftfeather, his green eyes cold. Thriftfeather expects another offer, and raises his claws in a silent threat. He misses when he believed in this—but the motions come easily enough.
“I must have been mistaken,” Banjo spits as he rights himself. He is already turning away—his head is turned just enough for Thriftfeather to see the light glint from one of his narrowed eyes, “You aren’t Sadie’s boy. You aren’t anyone I’d recognize.”
And then he is walking away. There isn’t any fear in him—there hadn’t been for the whole conversation. Thriftfeather wishes he would run, or look over his shoulders, or that the plume of his tail would bristle. Instead he plods in a familiar direction.
“Old coot!” Thriftfeather shouts, and Banjo’s ear doesn’t even twitch his way, “Lying old coot! You—!”
It’s useless.
“You…” Thriftfeather starts again, but Banjo is already too far for his speaking voice to be heard. He’ll be gone, soon, and Thriftfeather will never need to think of this strange encounter again.
It doesn’t need to change anything. Confirmation of suspicions—Thriftfeather could continue living as if he hadn’t known. His claws flex into the snow crust—the comfort of blue-green grasses below—and a laugh bubbles out of him, and fear shakes his shoulders, and he thinks maybe he should scratch a hole in the snow, just to see what is really beneath.
DUSKCLAN WARRIOR ✦ GOLDEN TABBY TOM ✦ 11 MOONS ✦ TAGS
