- May 5, 2023
- 484
- 199
- 43
CW : implied birth content / vague descriptions of contractions.
MC pings : @DAWNGLARE and @Fireflypaw
Kit pings: @hollykit & @CANDORKIT & @LIONKIT -- but anyone can post, no need to wait!
A half - remembered dream of golden fur and a husky voice is what she wakes from, heart stinging in her chest. Her mental hurt has been wont to manifest itself physically, in a roiling belly and aching head, so much so that she would nearly dismiss the pains, newly woken and trying not to cry. Dusk is bleeding its way sleepily down towards the sinking sun, and she squints into the light that washes the camp crimson, clear and glassy pain splintering staccato across her stomach. Her teeth come together with a hard click and she sucks a hard breath in through her fangs.
She should probably yell for someone to get Dawnglare, but she's been through this before, and he was about as helpful as the nearby discarded mossball last time. At least the mossball was entertaining. Heavy claws needle into her soft new nest, unkempt fur bristling as the pains continue. Bobbie grits her teeth, seizing the stick she'd waylaid by her nest in a fit of memory, and settles in for this wholly unpleasant experience.
A small clump of cats appear to be crowded into the small space—Dawnglare among them, no doubt fetched by some well - meaning cat or another. Her choice to keep the stick around had been the correct one, though the poor thing is a pile of cracked shards now. Fangs locked with willpower, the queen pulls her front half up so as to look at the three bundles of fur nestled at her white - flecked flank. The tabby leans to nose each one of them, properly washed and set at their correct place along the gentle swell of her side. In stark contrast with her first litter, two of them are so pale they're nearly white—the third is a darker brown than herself, marbled with deep pine, bearing a mask of orange on their small face that makes her heart twist.
As with her first litter, she's not quite sure which is her firstborn—as she had licked their small pelts backwards and guided them to her flank, she had paid little mind to the order in which they had appeared. The two off - white ones are practically identical besides; she can only denote one from the other by the lucky fact that one of them bears tawny coloration much like her own upon their four tiny paws. Bobbie pays little mind to whichever cats might cluster around, wholly enveloped in the tiny balls of fur kneading at her flank.
" He would be here if he could, " she whispers as she nuzzles their velvety little heads—whether to the kits or herself, she's not entirely sure. The world outside of these three small bodies fades away, a shadowed green eye glowing with adoration as she looks at them, despite the exhaustion weighing down white paws. Time has passed, some amount of time, and the stars are glowing above near a slowly - growing moon; she hopes against hope that her mate watches from them. " He would have loved you. "
Bobbie shakes away the tears that bead in her eye, swiping at it with a pale paw, her jaw setting determinedly. Names. These kits need names, and as painful as it is, as much as it hurts to do so, she must comb back through those old memories, those old conversations. She will do it for these kits, though—she would do anything for these kits, the little shapes that have in their first breaths made the long days of aches and unhappiness and sleeplessness worth it.
A jaded eye considers one of them at random—the darker - furred little scrap with its mask of crimson. Bobbie noses the little face once more, tilting their bright disguise up into the half - light of the moon. She withdraws, cocks her head, considering the vividness of their distinctive marking, so much like a smiling golden face, so much like the bittersweet memory the sharp smell of the bush outside evokes. " Hollykit, " she declares finally, to no one in particular, this name her own invention. She remembers wide eyes and shaking paws, a gentle voice and modest greeting, the greenleaf sun beating down on dry green leaves. The bracing smell of holly as they talked for the first time.
The next is as pale as their sibling, distinguished by dusky little paws. The tabby draws a sharp breath, recalling one conversation of many.
" Candorkit? " He'd suggested, the recurring smile ever - present since her news gracing his face. There'd been an aspect of permission, a gentle respect, to many of the names her mate had offered—probably, she'd imagined, since he wasn't the one carrying them. She'd tilted her head for a moment, pretending to consider it, as though she wouldn't accept any suggestion of his. She'd smiled lazily back and pressed her muzzle into his chest, listening to the sound of that great heart in the comfort of their den, and murmured back into golden fur, " Candorkit."
It had felt appropriate upon reflection, given the secrets they'd both kept, the shadowy nature of many trials shared. She would like that, a kit christened by their father, bearing a name that promises honesty and clarity. That, stars will it, carries a vow of a life more open and cloudless than their parents'. Bobbie leans to press her nose to the second small head, as if imparting the names upon each one by physical touch rather than declaration, though she opts for that in this case, too. " Candorkit. "
She almost knows what name the final one will bear before she arrives at it, contemplating the pale ball of fur with eyes shining with hurt. She remembers this conversation far, far too well—far more than she'd like to, this conversation that had preceded all that great pain. Bobbie clicks her fangs together and tries with half - success to think of the conversation, only of the conversation and not of what had come after.
" Lionkit. I would like to name one Lionkit, if you're alright with that. " He'd ventured with a smile, heavy golden tail twining with her own cropped lilac one, already bristling with doe - white spots. She'd imagined a sun - masked child, a kit raised by their father's stories. They will have to be her stories to tell now, her duty to explain to this child the reason for their name. Not just the Great Clan's cats of old, with their heavy manes and glowing hearts, but for murmured conversations in the medicine den, brushing touches quickly withdrawn and nests pushed together to talk under the stars with bandages wound about them. " Lionkit, yes. " he'd said, and she'd whispered it back, thinking of an idyllic future that had died with him. " Lionkit. It's perfect. "
It hurts when she first thinks of the name, and she knows it might hurt every time she speaks it to call the kit back from play or to sleep at night. She will take this hurt, this penance, willingly—it is only appropriate, after all. Blazestar's death had been her failing. She must be strong for these children, withdrawn from the small and hurt thing that wants only to lie in her nest until it crumbles to ash. She will be strong for these children, be there as best she can—to stand by them and protect them, yes, but not to shield them from the world.
" Lionkit, " she finally says, verdant eye still fixed on the pale and wriggling bundle of fur. It flicks upwards, to where one star seems to gleam brighter than the rest, gilded and smoldering, casting its warm golden light. Tears bubble and fall, even as she swears to herself they will be the last she sheds for this, because she must be strong. But for now she can contemplate that golden star, look down to her child and whisper, " Like your father would have wanted. "
MC pings : @DAWNGLARE and @Fireflypaw
Kit pings: @hollykit & @CANDORKIT & @LIONKIT -- but anyone can post, no need to wait!
A half - remembered dream of golden fur and a husky voice is what she wakes from, heart stinging in her chest. Her mental hurt has been wont to manifest itself physically, in a roiling belly and aching head, so much so that she would nearly dismiss the pains, newly woken and trying not to cry. Dusk is bleeding its way sleepily down towards the sinking sun, and she squints into the light that washes the camp crimson, clear and glassy pain splintering staccato across her stomach. Her teeth come together with a hard click and she sucks a hard breath in through her fangs.
She should probably yell for someone to get Dawnglare, but she's been through this before, and he was about as helpful as the nearby discarded mossball last time. At least the mossball was entertaining. Heavy claws needle into her soft new nest, unkempt fur bristling as the pains continue. Bobbie grits her teeth, seizing the stick she'd waylaid by her nest in a fit of memory, and settles in for this wholly unpleasant experience.
———
A small clump of cats appear to be crowded into the small space—Dawnglare among them, no doubt fetched by some well - meaning cat or another. Her choice to keep the stick around had been the correct one, though the poor thing is a pile of cracked shards now. Fangs locked with willpower, the queen pulls her front half up so as to look at the three bundles of fur nestled at her white - flecked flank. The tabby leans to nose each one of them, properly washed and set at their correct place along the gentle swell of her side. In stark contrast with her first litter, two of them are so pale they're nearly white—the third is a darker brown than herself, marbled with deep pine, bearing a mask of orange on their small face that makes her heart twist.
As with her first litter, she's not quite sure which is her firstborn—as she had licked their small pelts backwards and guided them to her flank, she had paid little mind to the order in which they had appeared. The two off - white ones are practically identical besides; she can only denote one from the other by the lucky fact that one of them bears tawny coloration much like her own upon their four tiny paws. Bobbie pays little mind to whichever cats might cluster around, wholly enveloped in the tiny balls of fur kneading at her flank.
" He would be here if he could, " she whispers as she nuzzles their velvety little heads—whether to the kits or herself, she's not entirely sure. The world outside of these three small bodies fades away, a shadowed green eye glowing with adoration as she looks at them, despite the exhaustion weighing down white paws. Time has passed, some amount of time, and the stars are glowing above near a slowly - growing moon; she hopes against hope that her mate watches from them. " He would have loved you. "
Bobbie shakes away the tears that bead in her eye, swiping at it with a pale paw, her jaw setting determinedly. Names. These kits need names, and as painful as it is, as much as it hurts to do so, she must comb back through those old memories, those old conversations. She will do it for these kits, though—she would do anything for these kits, the little shapes that have in their first breaths made the long days of aches and unhappiness and sleeplessness worth it.
A jaded eye considers one of them at random—the darker - furred little scrap with its mask of crimson. Bobbie noses the little face once more, tilting their bright disguise up into the half - light of the moon. She withdraws, cocks her head, considering the vividness of their distinctive marking, so much like a smiling golden face, so much like the bittersweet memory the sharp smell of the bush outside evokes. " Hollykit, " she declares finally, to no one in particular, this name her own invention. She remembers wide eyes and shaking paws, a gentle voice and modest greeting, the greenleaf sun beating down on dry green leaves. The bracing smell of holly as they talked for the first time.
The next is as pale as their sibling, distinguished by dusky little paws. The tabby draws a sharp breath, recalling one conversation of many.
" Candorkit? " He'd suggested, the recurring smile ever - present since her news gracing his face. There'd been an aspect of permission, a gentle respect, to many of the names her mate had offered—probably, she'd imagined, since he wasn't the one carrying them. She'd tilted her head for a moment, pretending to consider it, as though she wouldn't accept any suggestion of his. She'd smiled lazily back and pressed her muzzle into his chest, listening to the sound of that great heart in the comfort of their den, and murmured back into golden fur, " Candorkit."
It had felt appropriate upon reflection, given the secrets they'd both kept, the shadowy nature of many trials shared. She would like that, a kit christened by their father, bearing a name that promises honesty and clarity. That, stars will it, carries a vow of a life more open and cloudless than their parents'. Bobbie leans to press her nose to the second small head, as if imparting the names upon each one by physical touch rather than declaration, though she opts for that in this case, too. " Candorkit. "
She almost knows what name the final one will bear before she arrives at it, contemplating the pale ball of fur with eyes shining with hurt. She remembers this conversation far, far too well—far more than she'd like to, this conversation that had preceded all that great pain. Bobbie clicks her fangs together and tries with half - success to think of the conversation, only of the conversation and not of what had come after.
" Lionkit. I would like to name one Lionkit, if you're alright with that. " He'd ventured with a smile, heavy golden tail twining with her own cropped lilac one, already bristling with doe - white spots. She'd imagined a sun - masked child, a kit raised by their father's stories. They will have to be her stories to tell now, her duty to explain to this child the reason for their name. Not just the Great Clan's cats of old, with their heavy manes and glowing hearts, but for murmured conversations in the medicine den, brushing touches quickly withdrawn and nests pushed together to talk under the stars with bandages wound about them. " Lionkit, yes. " he'd said, and she'd whispered it back, thinking of an idyllic future that had died with him. " Lionkit. It's perfect. "
It hurts when she first thinks of the name, and she knows it might hurt every time she speaks it to call the kit back from play or to sleep at night. She will take this hurt, this penance, willingly—it is only appropriate, after all. Blazestar's death had been her failing. She must be strong for these children, withdrawn from the small and hurt thing that wants only to lie in her nest until it crumbles to ash. She will be strong for these children, be there as best she can—to stand by them and protect them, yes, but not to shield them from the world.
" Lionkit, " she finally says, verdant eye still fixed on the pale and wriggling bundle of fur. It flicks upwards, to where one star seems to gleam brighter than the rest, gilded and smoldering, casting its warm golden light. Tears bubble and fall, even as she swears to herself they will be the last she sheds for this, because she must be strong. But for now she can contemplate that golden star, look down to her child and whisper, " Like your father would have wanted. "
" speech "
