premonition & † smogmaw

[SHARPSHADOW]

† Sharppaw hadn't really believed him. He hadn't.

Smogmaw had every reason to lie, didn't he? As many reasons as he had not to. Sharppaw would not pretend to know him, apprentice or no. She's never understood. She does not think she ever will. She does not think she should try. Sharppaw will follow what he can understand.

But it was not just a strange word above the rest. Pitchstar, too, fresh from the grave, harrowed carving of his own image, stepped forward to confirm what he knew. How long had Pitchstar known? How had Pitchstar known? How did either of them know anything? He could not wrap his head around it. There, he had stood. Silver eyes wide to the deadened ground. Spinning, spinning, the world in tatters around him. Defeated, or enraged. That was all any of them could manage to be. And Sharppaw can't help but feel like she'd missed something terribly important.

It hasn't been too long, now. The wind whistles between the pines. The meeting has dispersed. Turmoil is a cloud always hanging above the marsh. Why couldn't it ever leave them alone? Why could no one ever stay? A face familiar. There were less and less with each passing day.

Nerves abound, he crawls in search of someone who knew. A familiar face, still, at least. "Smog– S-smogmaw?" A wary glance is cast to her side, not wanting to be watched. Not wanting to be heard. "Is that– was that–" He swallows. Stupid, stupid. "Was Flickerfire really... like that?" It wasn't just him who had said. Their leader, too (fog-brained, empty-headed). The people all believed so easily, so why shouldn't she? He doesn't want it to be true.

[ @smogmaw ]​

 

[smogstar]

The finest of lines divides what is and what isn't. One cannot move this line, as one cannot amend the truth, and the truth is intrinsically absolute. Conversely, one might choose to walk within easy reach of the line if it assists in their ambitions. A path verging on the barrier between fact and fabrication, where a quick pawstep onto the other side will go largely unnoticed.

Self-evidently, this is the path that Smogmaw walks.

The seeds of distrust have been sown. Pitchstar, in his cognitive fragility, did not need a lot of persuasion to adopt the narrative around Flickerfire. Hell, the rosette tabby seemed to be just as enthusiastic about it as Smogmaw himself. Having his leader reinforce the manufactured facts was simply perfect, for even among those who did not believe the words, they would have to accept that it is now the clan's official stance. The scales have tipped ever-so-slightly in his favour.

A callous wind sifts through the air, tousling the dark-striped fur on his cheeks. The tom's gaze is slung low, and through half-lidded eyes he watches his clanmates' paws go separate ways from the camp entrance. Gratification festers in the back of his mind. He has finally sullied her stupid name.

Inky black emerges in his peripheral, and he turns to see his apprentice. She looks uncertain, doubtful, and the words that emerge from his maw are commensurate with the expression. Above all, however, Sharppaw is hesitant. Moving to nip the younger feline's scepticism in the bud, Smogmaw's numb glare latches onto Sharppaw's own and does not let up.

"I found her, Sharppaw," says the warrior, "shambling like a walking corpse. She wasn't thinking right. In her last moments, she thought I was Emberstar." The bewilderment in her eyes had been rather peculiar—an amalgam of both optimism and rapture, all while in the face of her own death. "She told me she loved me. She told me not to be stupid. And she told me to remember what she'd said about ShadowClan." As traitorous as a traitor can get.

He glimpses an echo of his own cynicism when he observes Sharppaw. "It's an important trait to have, being sceptical and all." mouthes Smogmaw, tilting his head downward some. Refusing to take words at face-value is a trait that he can respect. "So believe whatever you want to believe. All that's relevant now is understanding where things will go from here."​

 

[SHARPSHADOW]

† It was a gaze she hated to connect with. And she thinks that she always will. It's not like there's nothing behind those eyes, but its nothing she can read. Sharppaw's head lowers, on impulse, but his eyes are still there. Out of obligation, maybe. He winces.

It's almost funny to think Smogmaw could be mistaken for someone quite so bright. Delirium, truly then, to look upon such a rotten face and see the very sun. (Unkind to think, she knows.) His eyes are too dull for someone who'd seen what he had. He was barely any better than Pitchstar was. She had no reason to trust him. His gaze levels, not unkindly. "I believe you." It surprises himself. Spoken as if a question, what he says doesnt seem to match how he says it. An important trait, he says, and maybe Sharppaw is lesser for believing him. "I just..."

His jaw parts, ever slightly. It feels rude, not to look him in the eye (The one before him had taught her such). He can hardly decipher it, himself. He doesn't want to believe him. To say he liked her would not be true, but..."I might miss her..." It's a half-hearted finish. For someone always antsy about where her next meal would come from, had she done much of anything? She seemed nothing less than immature and lazy. Disaster waiting to happen, maybe. Deserved downfall– how it had been accepted so easily, but not a wanted one. Familiarity was hard to come by. Out with the old; they outed themselves. Change on the horizon. She could hardly speak.

Where things will go from here. Way of the world be shook are broken. It is an uncomfortable kind of strange. What does he even want? (She's too stupid to tell.) "Are things.... gonna keep changing?"​

 

[smogstar]

Sharppaw's uncertainty is much less of a revelation than it is a reminder. Those silver eyes hold only worry, forever doubtful of someone or something's authenticity, this he has known since the apprentice was initially placed under his charge. The kid's profound scepticism set them apart from the devil-may-care rabble of ShadowClan's youth; Smogmaw views it as an important attribute to carry, as he'd previously pointed out, for it is something he identifies with closely.

Be that as it may, he doesn't need the same scepticism biting at his heels.

His oppressive gaze is brought down onto Sharppaw's own, brows knitting by the slantest of margins as the apprentice puts forward his misgivings. He's become accustomed to the flow of apprehensions whenever the raven-furred feline speaks, and has developed a stratagem of sorts to elude it—he may affirm her fears and rationalise the mistrust she held, or he can cast it aside as irrelevant, leaving him to cope with his reservations alone.

"Of course they will," goes Smogmaw, opting for the former with prickly words. "Things always change, and people change just as much. We thought Flickerfire to be trustworthy, but she changed." An aggrieved huff splits his response. "Sharppaw," he says, "you must trust yourself more than anyone else. More than your friends. More than your leaders. More than me."

Muddy eyes depart from the kid, descending upon the rock where Pitchstar held his meetings. He frowns. "So long as you do that, change will never harm you." ​

 

[SHARPSHADOW]

† Sharppaw was not a kit anymore. And yet, he feels that it's true when he is with Smogmaw. Too easily, he speaks. Too easily, he whines. Sharppaw would not want to listen to himself, either. It's a wonder that the tom humors him at all. It's a wonder that he is not silenced. Regardless, he practically silences himself. In her mind, she shrinks. In her mind, she crawls.

Smogmaw answers easily, And she cannot tell if the roughness is for her or for Flickerfire. The truth does not surprise her, but that does not make it comfortable. The trustworthy turned to scum before your eyes. They lied and they left, they loved who they should not have. The few you could trust wholly and undeniably all dropped dead with the utterance of a word. Stripped from this place– punishment, it must be; unspoken message from the stars, and yet Starlingheart saw nothing. Knew nothing. Sharppaw holds her breath.

Her face twists into disbelief, of course. What did it mean to trust yourself? Why stay with people you could not trust?

( Because there's nothing else, right? )

Perhaps it would burden her less. Perhaps it'd be better to never be let down, because you never once believed in the first place. He tells himself he never did, but that isn't true. It isn't.

But she didn't seem all that trustworthy either. She comes home with empty jaws. Her tail catches on twigs and rubble. How long, until Sharppaw is the next one found on the thunderpath. Her tail would snag on a monster, once again. Maybe it wouldn't let go, the second time. His eyes are wide, twin-moons. Rubber-black lips seem to tremble. Quietly, then. "I don't even know what I want."​