- Jan 1, 2023
- 325
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His father's grave had stayed just the same as it was the day they buried him.
The winds had been silent, almost as though a still side of the water. If the rivers and streams suddenly hushed themselves and pursed their lips, it would have been an appropriate time, albeit eerie and unusual. Cicadas did not even cry out, which Chrysaliswing found quite strange for the woodlands so eager to sing its dissonant symphony. Quietude of the ground below him remained as usual, and there was a part of Chrysaliswing that expected his father to wrest from his earthly grave and rise from the dead, so to speak. Dragonflywing had never been content with anything, so it would be fair that the black-and-white tom would not be content with his death, either. Chrys could hear that nagging voice now, spouting that he should have died a more valiant death or should have at least been seen fighting off a great threat. Solemn gaze only glanced up at the heavens, then to what lie before him. Irony had its wit, and now it had had its fun. Chrys wondered if Dragonflywing had even gone to Starclan or if he were in some sort of limbo-state between the fog and the cloud. I don't want to find out, that's for sure.
The elders buried him near enough to the Twolegplace in where it would be slightly visible, beyond the boughs and boskiness. It was a peaceful little grotto, where many outsiders often wandered before realizing their feet had taken them too far for comfort. Covered by varying shades of nocturne color, there proved little disturbance for those that wished to reflect. The timberline suddenly inclined, bowed, though not out of reverence for the fallen but of consternation for the unknown. Chrysalis found it amusing how the feline that made it a point to voice his dissenting opinions on kittypets and their ilk had now been laid to rest so near to the Thunderpath. Perhaps his corpse would be soothed by the continual rumble of the monsters, like a passing thunderstorm that grazed against the mountains but never took hold on their land. Ultramarine sky mottled itself through shadowed verdants, but even then could he see waxious gibbous glare of the moon.
As much as Chrysalis hated to admit it, he saw the reason in his father's madness. As critical as he was, the chimaeric seemed to have inherited all of Dragonfly's feckless dissidence, for better or for worse (for very much the worst). Even now did he echo those sentiments, as though he spoke from his father's greying and hoarfrost muzzle, as though the old passed through the new like an endless string binding them both. There was some solidarity, though poignant and plaintive dole was not what he would describe it as.
To the tomcat, sadness could oft be described as a simmer. Sorrow stewed in him like a rotting log, of which molds and lichens took hold of what was vibrant and lively wood. Soon, the blaze of rot and ruin would swallow him whole and leave him a nothing, but he hadn't known to feel anything but the constant gnaw and numb of melancholy's hunger. He had never learned how to properly grieve, if it were ever a thing taught or bestowed, and the only coping mechanism that he employed was to let it all fester inside him. He had seen his father and his mother do it, so surely it must have meant a feat of strength if his regret hid behind hollow mask. Laments manifested as heavy thoughts and heavier words. It singed through him as anger did, released as blusters and blunders and brashness.
Hatred and grief weremuch the same beast beneath different faces. He grieved what he envied and he hated what he grieved.
Lifeless and alone in the end, that was his father. The young warrior remembered how he died so clearly, even if he hadn't been present for it. Dragonfly hit his head and died from that trauma, an ignoble and stupidly short way to go. He imagined his father crying out, bleeding from the hole in his head - or maybe not, he couldn't imagine his arrogant prick of a dad ever wanting help even in his direst hour. Though, death rarely proved the end for cats, and the solitude and fear they may have harbored in their end would be met with community and cheer from Starclan. But who would cheer on such a miserable, morrowful old man such as Dragonflywing? The senile recluse of glassy eyes and bared fang had none to welcome him with open arms. The best case scenario, in his mind, was that Dragonflywing had much kinder family and friends, though he doubted any cat would entertain the presence of one who soured the very dens he slept in.
In the glazed, amber eyes of the man he hardlt recognized, Chrysaliswing saw only his reflection. The chimaera was truly in his father's image, for they shared the same ending of their name and the same face bereft of much joy or any sort of unsightly emotion. Although Termitehum had been more similar to her father in appearance, it had been abundantly clear that Chrysaliswing inherited all of his wit and his poisons. In fate's sense of humor, perhaps the son would meet the same end as his progenitor. It would be a tragedy in full, a finale to their encircled dramatics. And Chrys was mournful, not for his father's passing but for what lie in the future. As much as he hated to admit it, the way he looked at his father and the way others looked at him proved a truly specular cycle.
He missed Dragonflywing, if only for the fact that there was a feline in Skyclan just as embittered and as lonely as him. There was a sense of understanding, in that manner, that they were both stuck in the same rapids and could not save each other.
One tear speckled at the corner of his leftmost yellow eye, and though it bloomed small and barely larger than the moon so far above, it threatened to rend him whole. Like rains that had touched an arid land, they moistened the down around it. He shook his head, as if to will it away, as if it would go away so easily. There was no cat that would grieve for him as he grieved for the man he never truly knew, like a rive had severed not only fatherly ties but held the knife just above the rest of his clan's. I understand you. He said inwardly, though it shook and quivered in its conviction, like he didn't truly believe it either. Dead or alive, his father turned a deaf ear to his son. Fervid, scalding emotions ruptured his throat and barged against ivories and gums. Speak, damn it! I told you, I understand you! Bristled hackles stood up, needle-thin and razor-sharp, though bayed themselves for just a moment. If only to breathe, to recompose his verses.
You're right. I cannot change. I don't know how to. Word for word, his father told him that. Hopeless in flight, a butterfly in repose, stuck in the stagnant air he inhaled and exhaled. Envy roiled through him like it were his own ichor-bound veins, golden and gross and ghostly. Every cat made it look so easy, to change. Even for the most forlorn and the most despondent, they changed. In a way, he felt jealous of the daylight warriors that he harped on so much, because at least they had some sort of conviction and goal to work towards? What did he have? The flame-brushed tomcat realized, quite early on, that he had been born with his wings clipped and his mouth sewn. Acerbic venom had sawed through the chains of his fangs but not of his limbs, as he wandered along the path that Dragonflywing had been gracious enough to pave for him. He had had littler victories, but the resounding rout from his peers told him everything that he needed to know of his perception in his own home. Silversmoke said it himself: "Everyone in the clan knows you're vile, you're only here because it is your birthright, not because anyone wants you around."
You made me this way! He swatted at the ground, as if that would do anything. He knew his father would not offer him the littlest forgiveness nor respite. If I weren't your son, I wouldn't be like this! That was a lie, likely, but the chimaera wanted to believe that he could be someone else, not because he chose to but because he simply had the lesser hand of the deck. He didn't change because he couldn't, not because he wouldn't. That twisted comfort gave him something, became his shield, as fragile of a folly it was. Though many had granted him rede and counsel, it had never been enough for the night-pitched cat. He didn't want their help, and he didn't need it either. There wasn't any point in saving he who had resisted redemption. He hadn't even realized that more tears, fresh and burning against the flesh behind the fur, flowed from his eyes.
He stopped once he realized that he looked like an idiot as he swiped at what seemed to be an invisible enemy. Heterochromatic gaze, frantic in how it leapt from erring shadow to shadow, scanned for any cat who might've had the chance to see him at Dragonflywing's grave. Regardless of whether grief was a universal constant, it still felt embarassingly wounding to be caught in the act of agony. Whiskers twitched, swimming in static air, as the lazy glow of the Twolegplace peered just from the ends of tall trees and basking branch. Midday, miniature suns bloomed when day had retreated, and harsh concrete trees rose as if to compete with that of the forest, though to him it would never truly replicate what he had grown up with. It crooned to him, almost, like an incandescence in the midst of midnight. He had been there quite recently, when Sharpeye saved him from a dog by the ends of his tail. The expatriate said something to him, quite prominent and promising... It was something about saving him not because he must, but because he chose to.
The smallest act of agency bewildered him, as though he were an automaton with one directive who had never strayed far from his programming. He was not a robot, but himself, but what was himself if he was not who he was now? He began to make his way back to camp, with nothing resolved and nothing gained. He only had himself to blame, and the problem became much more illuminated under the undeceiving glare of epiphany and realization. He could not escape what his own father had created, as he would no longer be himself.
Well, being someone else doesn't seem half bad.
The winds had been silent, almost as though a still side of the water. If the rivers and streams suddenly hushed themselves and pursed their lips, it would have been an appropriate time, albeit eerie and unusual. Cicadas did not even cry out, which Chrysaliswing found quite strange for the woodlands so eager to sing its dissonant symphony. Quietude of the ground below him remained as usual, and there was a part of Chrysaliswing that expected his father to wrest from his earthly grave and rise from the dead, so to speak. Dragonflywing had never been content with anything, so it would be fair that the black-and-white tom would not be content with his death, either. Chrys could hear that nagging voice now, spouting that he should have died a more valiant death or should have at least been seen fighting off a great threat. Solemn gaze only glanced up at the heavens, then to what lie before him. Irony had its wit, and now it had had its fun. Chrys wondered if Dragonflywing had even gone to Starclan or if he were in some sort of limbo-state between the fog and the cloud. I don't want to find out, that's for sure.
The elders buried him near enough to the Twolegplace in where it would be slightly visible, beyond the boughs and boskiness. It was a peaceful little grotto, where many outsiders often wandered before realizing their feet had taken them too far for comfort. Covered by varying shades of nocturne color, there proved little disturbance for those that wished to reflect. The timberline suddenly inclined, bowed, though not out of reverence for the fallen but of consternation for the unknown. Chrysalis found it amusing how the feline that made it a point to voice his dissenting opinions on kittypets and their ilk had now been laid to rest so near to the Thunderpath. Perhaps his corpse would be soothed by the continual rumble of the monsters, like a passing thunderstorm that grazed against the mountains but never took hold on their land. Ultramarine sky mottled itself through shadowed verdants, but even then could he see waxious gibbous glare of the moon.
As much as Chrysalis hated to admit it, he saw the reason in his father's madness. As critical as he was, the chimaeric seemed to have inherited all of Dragonfly's feckless dissidence, for better or for worse (for very much the worst). Even now did he echo those sentiments, as though he spoke from his father's greying and hoarfrost muzzle, as though the old passed through the new like an endless string binding them both. There was some solidarity, though poignant and plaintive dole was not what he would describe it as.
To the tomcat, sadness could oft be described as a simmer. Sorrow stewed in him like a rotting log, of which molds and lichens took hold of what was vibrant and lively wood. Soon, the blaze of rot and ruin would swallow him whole and leave him a nothing, but he hadn't known to feel anything but the constant gnaw and numb of melancholy's hunger. He had never learned how to properly grieve, if it were ever a thing taught or bestowed, and the only coping mechanism that he employed was to let it all fester inside him. He had seen his father and his mother do it, so surely it must have meant a feat of strength if his regret hid behind hollow mask. Laments manifested as heavy thoughts and heavier words. It singed through him as anger did, released as blusters and blunders and brashness.
Hatred and grief weremuch the same beast beneath different faces. He grieved what he envied and he hated what he grieved.
Lifeless and alone in the end, that was his father. The young warrior remembered how he died so clearly, even if he hadn't been present for it. Dragonfly hit his head and died from that trauma, an ignoble and stupidly short way to go. He imagined his father crying out, bleeding from the hole in his head - or maybe not, he couldn't imagine his arrogant prick of a dad ever wanting help even in his direst hour. Though, death rarely proved the end for cats, and the solitude and fear they may have harbored in their end would be met with community and cheer from Starclan. But who would cheer on such a miserable, morrowful old man such as Dragonflywing? The senile recluse of glassy eyes and bared fang had none to welcome him with open arms. The best case scenario, in his mind, was that Dragonflywing had much kinder family and friends, though he doubted any cat would entertain the presence of one who soured the very dens he slept in.
In the glazed, amber eyes of the man he hardlt recognized, Chrysaliswing saw only his reflection. The chimaera was truly in his father's image, for they shared the same ending of their name and the same face bereft of much joy or any sort of unsightly emotion. Although Termitehum had been more similar to her father in appearance, it had been abundantly clear that Chrysaliswing inherited all of his wit and his poisons. In fate's sense of humor, perhaps the son would meet the same end as his progenitor. It would be a tragedy in full, a finale to their encircled dramatics. And Chrys was mournful, not for his father's passing but for what lie in the future. As much as he hated to admit it, the way he looked at his father and the way others looked at him proved a truly specular cycle.
He missed Dragonflywing, if only for the fact that there was a feline in Skyclan just as embittered and as lonely as him. There was a sense of understanding, in that manner, that they were both stuck in the same rapids and could not save each other.
One tear speckled at the corner of his leftmost yellow eye, and though it bloomed small and barely larger than the moon so far above, it threatened to rend him whole. Like rains that had touched an arid land, they moistened the down around it. He shook his head, as if to will it away, as if it would go away so easily. There was no cat that would grieve for him as he grieved for the man he never truly knew, like a rive had severed not only fatherly ties but held the knife just above the rest of his clan's. I understand you. He said inwardly, though it shook and quivered in its conviction, like he didn't truly believe it either. Dead or alive, his father turned a deaf ear to his son. Fervid, scalding emotions ruptured his throat and barged against ivories and gums. Speak, damn it! I told you, I understand you! Bristled hackles stood up, needle-thin and razor-sharp, though bayed themselves for just a moment. If only to breathe, to recompose his verses.
You're right. I cannot change. I don't know how to. Word for word, his father told him that. Hopeless in flight, a butterfly in repose, stuck in the stagnant air he inhaled and exhaled. Envy roiled through him like it were his own ichor-bound veins, golden and gross and ghostly. Every cat made it look so easy, to change. Even for the most forlorn and the most despondent, they changed. In a way, he felt jealous of the daylight warriors that he harped on so much, because at least they had some sort of conviction and goal to work towards? What did he have? The flame-brushed tomcat realized, quite early on, that he had been born with his wings clipped and his mouth sewn. Acerbic venom had sawed through the chains of his fangs but not of his limbs, as he wandered along the path that Dragonflywing had been gracious enough to pave for him. He had had littler victories, but the resounding rout from his peers told him everything that he needed to know of his perception in his own home. Silversmoke said it himself: "Everyone in the clan knows you're vile, you're only here because it is your birthright, not because anyone wants you around."
You made me this way! He swatted at the ground, as if that would do anything. He knew his father would not offer him the littlest forgiveness nor respite. If I weren't your son, I wouldn't be like this! That was a lie, likely, but the chimaera wanted to believe that he could be someone else, not because he chose to but because he simply had the lesser hand of the deck. He didn't change because he couldn't, not because he wouldn't. That twisted comfort gave him something, became his shield, as fragile of a folly it was. Though many had granted him rede and counsel, it had never been enough for the night-pitched cat. He didn't want their help, and he didn't need it either. There wasn't any point in saving he who had resisted redemption. He hadn't even realized that more tears, fresh and burning against the flesh behind the fur, flowed from his eyes.
He stopped once he realized that he looked like an idiot as he swiped at what seemed to be an invisible enemy. Heterochromatic gaze, frantic in how it leapt from erring shadow to shadow, scanned for any cat who might've had the chance to see him at Dragonflywing's grave. Regardless of whether grief was a universal constant, it still felt embarassingly wounding to be caught in the act of agony. Whiskers twitched, swimming in static air, as the lazy glow of the Twolegplace peered just from the ends of tall trees and basking branch. Midday, miniature suns bloomed when day had retreated, and harsh concrete trees rose as if to compete with that of the forest, though to him it would never truly replicate what he had grown up with. It crooned to him, almost, like an incandescence in the midst of midnight. He had been there quite recently, when Sharpeye saved him from a dog by the ends of his tail. The expatriate said something to him, quite prominent and promising... It was something about saving him not because he must, but because he chose to.
The smallest act of agency bewildered him, as though he were an automaton with one directive who had never strayed far from his programming. He was not a robot, but himself, but what was himself if he was not who he was now? He began to make his way back to camp, with nothing resolved and nothing gained. He only had himself to blame, and the problem became much more illuminated under the undeceiving glare of epiphany and realization. He could not escape what his own father had created, as he would no longer be himself.
Well, being someone else doesn't seem half bad.
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happy 200 everyone :3
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