- Jul 15, 2022
- 218
- 35
- 28
There is a recurrent thought in her: love is heat, love is a fever, love burns through her.
It has been burning through her since the first day she had smelled smoke, when she was still an eared and quiet thing. The power of love is that, before that fire, before the black smoke rising to meet the low-hanging storm, the burnt sycamore had been nameless. The power of love is to be named. She had seen Chilledstar back then, had caught the mingling scents of fear and smoke, always smoke, and had wondered with a small amount of worry as to how she could be so calm.
And then they had all shuffled into that space beneath the Thunderpath, loud as it was as monsters rumbled overhead, and Betonyfrost had realized the truth—she was in love. She thinks the clouds may have parted then. That smokescent would linger in the back of her mind for the moons to come.
In the world of today, ShadowClan is still green with black skies. Distant lightning arcs and flashes in the clouds, and thunder takes a breath before rumbling behind. The storm isn’t here yet and, perhaps, it will have exhausted itself before Betonyfrost sees so much as a drop of rain. That is something Betonyfrost has come to learn about storms: no matter what, they are finite. There may be gray days in ones wake, spots of sprinkles or heavy rain, but this—a night-dark sky that lights itself so frequently it might be mistaken for having a pulse—this will not last.
Cold wind blows detritus into Betonyfrost’s face. She tilts her head back and closes her eyes as if she is savoring sunlight. The storm isn’t here yet, and neither has it guttered to embers and an off-white sky. This: black skies, distant lightning, cold, claw-like winds, this is not a storm, but a warning of what’s to come.
The rain comes all at once with its own roar—the sound of it against the ground, harsh against lichen-clung wood, against the crown of Betonyfrost’s head. She recoils from it, unseasonably cold, and retreats into the relative safety of the warrior’s den. Still, she thinks, still, perhaps the storm with die before it arrives, and feels warm from the inside out.
shadowclan warrior | blue mackerel tabby | 31 moons | tags
Last edited: