- Oct 8, 2024
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The pale light of early dawn filters through the tangled branches overhead, casting long, shifting shadows on the forest floor. Bonekit sits alone near the edge of WindClan's camp, a small figure hunched over something caught between its paws. The camp stirs quietly around it, but Bonekit pays no attention. The soft murmurs of waking warriors and the rustle of nests being shifted might as well not exist. It has found something far more interesting. A beetle, its glossy black shell cracked and dull, lies still beneath its scrutinizing gaze. Bonekit's ghostly fur ruffles slightly in the breeze, but its sharp eyes don't waver from their task. One tiny paw prods the carcass, tipping it onto its back to reveal the soft, pale underbelly.
"What were you running from, little one?" Bonekit whispers, its voice barely louder than the rustling leaves above. Its tone is not unkind, though it has a weight that feels older than a kit's moons should carry. The words are more for itself than the insect, spoken as if trying to unravel the story behind this tiny tragedy. It stares at the insect's fragile legs, motionless now, but Bonekit imagines them once clicking and twitching in frantic life. Its claws carefully flip it back over, then move to delicately peel back the beetle's carapace. The movement is careful, reverent, as though it's performing some sacred ritual rather than picking apart the remains of a bug. Beneath the shell is a tangle of translucent wings. It tilts its head, unblinking, as it studies the exposed wings. The sunlight catches on the delicate membranes, highlighting faint patterns that would have gone unnoticed by most. Bonekit's whiskers twitch, and a small smile—more a hint of one than anything full—crosses its face.
"Even when you're dead and gone, there's beauty," it murmurs, as if sharing a secret. It doesn't seem disturbed by the decay. If anything, the stillness fascinates it more. Its paw touches gently against the beetle's tiny legs, and it leans closer, examining the strange shapes of the joints, the places where they've stiffened in death. "I wonder if you knew it was coming," Bonekit says, its tone almost wistful. "Did you feel it, like a shadow brushing your wings? Or was it sudden?" It lets the silence hang, the question unanswered. It doesn't mind; the beetle's silence is part of the allure. A gentle breeze stirs the dust around its paws, and Bonekit straightens slightly, its sharp gaze flicking to the long trail of ants making their way toward the remains.
"Here they come," it observes softly, stepping back with quiet precision to allow the ants their work. Its gaze lingers, unblinking, as the tiny creatures swarm the body, beginning the work of dismantling it piece by piece. Bonekit watches for a long time, its expression unreadable. Is it imagining what it would feel like to be so small, so quickly forgotten? Or perhaps it's simply marveling at how life and death intertwine, how the ants turn the beetle's end into something new. After a moment, it whispers, almost to itself, "What will the ants do with you, I wonder? Will they make you into something better than you were?" The wind shifts, but Bonekit doesn't move. It stays there, a pale, still figure, watching the beetle's story reach its quiet conclusion.
"What were you running from, little one?" Bonekit whispers, its voice barely louder than the rustling leaves above. Its tone is not unkind, though it has a weight that feels older than a kit's moons should carry. The words are more for itself than the insect, spoken as if trying to unravel the story behind this tiny tragedy. It stares at the insect's fragile legs, motionless now, but Bonekit imagines them once clicking and twitching in frantic life. Its claws carefully flip it back over, then move to delicately peel back the beetle's carapace. The movement is careful, reverent, as though it's performing some sacred ritual rather than picking apart the remains of a bug. Beneath the shell is a tangle of translucent wings. It tilts its head, unblinking, as it studies the exposed wings. The sunlight catches on the delicate membranes, highlighting faint patterns that would have gone unnoticed by most. Bonekit's whiskers twitch, and a small smile—more a hint of one than anything full—crosses its face.
"Even when you're dead and gone, there's beauty," it murmurs, as if sharing a secret. It doesn't seem disturbed by the decay. If anything, the stillness fascinates it more. Its paw touches gently against the beetle's tiny legs, and it leans closer, examining the strange shapes of the joints, the places where they've stiffened in death. "I wonder if you knew it was coming," Bonekit says, its tone almost wistful. "Did you feel it, like a shadow brushing your wings? Or was it sudden?" It lets the silence hang, the question unanswered. It doesn't mind; the beetle's silence is part of the allure. A gentle breeze stirs the dust around its paws, and Bonekit straightens slightly, its sharp gaze flicking to the long trail of ants making their way toward the remains.
"Here they come," it observes softly, stepping back with quiet precision to allow the ants their work. Its gaze lingers, unblinking, as the tiny creatures swarm the body, beginning the work of dismantling it piece by piece. Bonekit watches for a long time, its expression unreadable. Is it imagining what it would feel like to be so small, so quickly forgotten? Or perhaps it's simply marveling at how life and death intertwine, how the ants turn the beetle's end into something new. After a moment, it whispers, almost to itself, "What will the ants do with you, I wonder? Will they make you into something better than you were?" The wind shifts, but Bonekit doesn't move. It stays there, a pale, still figure, watching the beetle's story reach its quiet conclusion.
