private SLEEP WELL [♱] FLINTPAW

[SHARPSHADOW]

" Hi. "

He's been here before. Before, Sharpshadow had slinked toward this same grey - and white coat, painted the color of their father. A green eye blazes with promise, the ability to hurt, or to heal. The blue eye - an anomaly. In his own camp, Sharpshadow often seemed to wander aimlessly, but there were few he might cut straight paths too. Smogmaw, for one. Forestshade, Chilledstar. An outlier amongst those few is Flintpaw. She lacked status, the... benefit of being a peer, regardless of if Sharpshadow really cared for them are not.

Sharpshadow feels like he owes him something. A promise, an apology. He's guilty too, seeing the glint of his father in Flintpaw's eyes. ( He's smart for it, a quieter, bristling part of him insists. ShadowClan is no stranger to betrayal. It could happen again. It would happen again. If there was any suspect - and perhaps it was better to have one than it was to be clueless - it would be him. ) Something stupid about to do with duty has skewed him this way. He shouldn't think it, because it's not really fair, he knows. He tries to wear the face of a clanmate. The kind that he wanted to exist, with soft expressions that did not betray judgement and a mind that matched. ( If he ever found Flintpaw with blood lining the white of his paws, he might scream, I knew it, I knew it along with the rest of them, still )

He knows its unfair. A grey face did not mean killer. A wry tongue did not make it meant to be. Please don't see me in him, Sharpshadow had thought that day. Flintpaw probably thought the same.

Keeping that thing from happening again... it wasn't a matter of watching and waiting. It was a matter of caring. Caring at all. It would be her to do it if no one else would. " I'm really awful at this. Sorry. " Groused as if it pained him to say, but he sits for a conversation, anyways.

" Um... " What to say? Trust me before you kill anyone? No, that would suck. It would do worse than suck. He wouldn't ask for such a generous marker of friend. But just... someone, anyone, anything other than enemy. A truce. And between Clanmates — there should be more - than. But he hopes that a truce works just fine, between them. For Flintpaw's sake. ( Selfish. Fake. ) " Do you think you're ready? " he settles for then. The sort of nothing - comment any warrior might lob an apprentice there way, but hopefully in a spot where Flintpaw didn't feel the need to lie. " To be a warrior? "

// OOC: @FLINTPAW :3​

 

[FLINTWISH]

He still remembers Sharpshadow's awkward approach before, back when ShadowClan had first expelled its stone-pelted bile. The warrior walks like he's just molted, soft-bodied and uncertain without his protective shell, twitchy in the face while her mind races about... whatever it races about. Flintpaw doesn't pretend to know, though suspicion itches at the nape of his neck. It's exhausting. He feels bad for it, sometimes, but he has spent too much of his life being suspicious to suddenly stop now — and it's not like ShadowClan has exactly given him reasons to warm up to them anyway. Despite all the gabbing they'd done, and all the exchanges of oh, we don't hate you Flintpaw! and we really do care! nothing had changed. Not really. They still all hated each other; apprentices still died, though maybe not at Granitepelt's claws anymore; Flintpaw still struggles to find connection in this flytrap he is stuck to. He'll die here someday, too, he thinks. Would they mourn him if he did? Or would they callously dump his body next to Nettlepaw's, relieved to be rid of the last of Granitepelt's legacy?

But this spiraling mindset is interrupted by Sharpshadow once more. Nothing had changed — she still approaches him on gangly, unsure limbs, his fur spiked like porcupine quills. Flintpaw's dual-toned gaze flicks upwards, sharp with cautious interest. Shadepaw had been the latest victim of Flintpaw's barbed tongue when he'd strayed too close to mentioning ShadowClan's most wanted. The faux pas is still fresh on his mind when Sharpshadow struggles towards him, as if his tongue were twisting in his mouth. I'm really awful at this, the lead warrior explains. Sorry. Um.... Flintpaw's guard relaxes slightly. He remembers the black-pelted molly's words from what feels like so long ago now: I don't hate you.

That's not what she says this time. Tall, strict ears twitch as she finally finds a question to ask. Is he ready to become a warrior?

It's something a lot of his clanmates have been asking him. You would think he'd have an answer by now, but he doesn't. Flintpaw's jaw parts as words materialize like rocks on her tongue, slow and imprecise.

"Um." No. She doesn't feel ready at all; she's been on patrols, she's caught birds and frogs, she's sparred plenty of times, but the answer is resounding. "Not really." It's startlingly honest, perhaps more honest than she's been with even Starlingheart, pondering warrior names in the medicine den together. Flintpetal, she'd suggested, but now the idea of receiving a name at all bubbles uncomfortably up his esophagus.

It's more than uncomfortable, really — it's dreadful, something he can't fathom. She will be the only child of her litter to get a name, if Forestshade even deems her worthy. And to receive a name from Chilledstar... can he trust them to not brand him further after Granitepelt? They had been so... so sloppy at his apprentice ceremony, and it's not like his family had done anything to warrant a kinder ceremony now. Maybe he'd be named Flintpelt as some sort of punishment. Though, what he'd be punished for, he isn't sure.

Silence pulses between them like a heartbeat. Abruptly, Flintpaw continues, "I just — I can't...." She squints, black lips drawing into a frown. "I can't do anything. I can't hunt, or stalk, or really even fight, and I... what's the point of having a warrior like that?" His throat has constricted against his will. He hadn't meant to pull Sharpshadow into this Charybdis-ian vortex of shame and self-doubt, but... well, if she wanted to extend a preventative olive branch, then it looks like this is what she is in for.

Maybe she would look into his mirror face and see herself, too, so uncertain, so unwilling to embrace her own skill. Maybe she'd see this pathetic display and shy away from it, a piece of carrion in the fresh-kill pile. But whatever she thought, Flintpaw wouldn't know. All he'd know is that she asked about him, and that maybe meant that she cared.

𝐌𝐘 𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐋 𝐁𝐄𝐂𝐀𝐌𝐄 𝐀 𝐇𝐀𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐑 ✧ 𝐈 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐅𝐄𝐄𝐋 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑

• 

• 
  
  — flintkit . flintpaw
  — he / they / she ; apprentice of shadowclan
  — short-haired solid blue tom with low white and blue/green heterochromatic eyes
  — "speech" ; thoughts
  — chibi by sixbane, signature by dreamydoggo
  — penned by meghan

​

 

[SHARPSHADOW]

She's... okay with a not really. She thinks a not really is better than some yeses; the kind uttered with dull eyes and too - wide - to - be - real smiles. Not to mention, he'd have no idea where to go from there if that had been it. He probably... wouldn't. He'd probably go away, and hate and hate and hate that the younger him is apparently so much better. Well assured enough not to be deterred by late - warriorhood. Confident enough to rise above and declare with grinning fangs, I'm ready!

Revoltingly, he's relieved that Flintpaw isn't ready. You aren't special, and neither am I. A silver gaze leers toward empty space. A jaw clenches in something like guilt... Only for a moment, than his eyes are back on her. The silence is helped by them both. Sharpshadow is probably making the wrong face again.

They continue on – something that Sharpshadow probably wouldn't have done at their age. Just a nudge, the warrior ( and that was her ) leans forward, as if to better breathe in the smoke of Flintpaw's kindling. I can't do anything. Sharpshadow's ears twitch. He listens to all the cant's, to her, what's the point? Flintpaw was no better. And that's... bad. You want the ones younger than you to do better and have it easier. That's... bad, but it doesn't make him feel bad.

But she knows does from should; would from could. Sharpshadow stares like a frog killed with it's eyes open. The mental jolt that wakes her is from no one but herself. Herself and... Flintpaw's stupid, pathetic face that's a little too close to her own for comfort... Sharpshadow returns to the moment with a series of blinks. Words try to tumble before she's ready. " I— " His nose scrunches as if he's just smelled carrion. A light shake of his head seeks to reset the sentence. " Well... Is — Is that really true? "

Talk properly. Don't stumble. She tries to put herself in the place of Chilledstar or Smogmaw, who insist that they... believe in her, or something like that, even if she's certain that the both of them hate her. What nonsense had it been...?

" Maybe... " No, he couldn't say maybe, like there's a possibility it isn't true. There is, of course, but that'd be heart - breaking to hear, wouldn't it be? Heart - breaking, empathy - halting... The reason their claws are in another body later — "I mean, I think... You're doing better than you think you are... " he corrects, breath coming out with the elegance of a wet bird. " Or... or better than you allow yourself to be. "

...Would that make sense? Or would it sound like bullshit? Well - It does. But would it sound that way to him? " Was there ever a point that you thought... you would be ready, by now? "​