- May 31, 2023
- 187
- 55
- 28
She's only been an apprentice for a few days, but Scorchpaw can't forget the way her mother's posture had stiffened; the surprise on her face when her daughter had been apprenticed as a moor-runner; the bristling of her fur at the news so unexpected. Maybe they all should have seen the signs more clearly. Now that Scorchpaw has gone on an outing or two with Badgermoon, she has recognized his broad shoulders in her own, his barrel chest and heavy jaw; she may have her mother's pelt, but it is draped over her father's bones. I should have known. But she can't turn back time to be less disappointed when the announcement had come. Really, she thinks she can work through it; she thinks she can still be a good warrior, should she be allowed to try. But will she be good enough? She can't get Scorchstreak's reaction out of her mind; each time she closes her eyes she sees the image as if it were seared into the inky black behind her lids. Can she still be her mother's daughter if she doesn't slink beneath the grasses? Does being her mirror image mean anything when the reflection is only skin-deep?
Scorchpaw isn't sure. She returns from a hunting patrol empty-pawed; she still has much to master in the art of stalking, running and catching. The defeat stings more when she is obsessing over the divergence between her planned life and the one she lives now. I should have seen the signs, she thinks, over and over again, as she pads empty-eyed through camp. She isn't sure what she is looking for, and nearly finds her white-dipped paws leading her back to the nursery. She stops abruptly; turns back to the fresh-kill pile. Aimless otherwise, she supposes she'll eat. It's only once she approaches the pile that she realizes the cats around her-- her mother among them.
"Mom," Scorchpaw calls, instinctive and without thought. Remembering herself, she noses a hearty rat out of the pile. Her whiskers twitch anxiously. "Do you want to, um, share?"
@SCORCHSTREAK
Scorchpaw isn't sure. She returns from a hunting patrol empty-pawed; she still has much to master in the art of stalking, running and catching. The defeat stings more when she is obsessing over the divergence between her planned life and the one she lives now. I should have seen the signs, she thinks, over and over again, as she pads empty-eyed through camp. She isn't sure what she is looking for, and nearly finds her white-dipped paws leading her back to the nursery. She stops abruptly; turns back to the fresh-kill pile. Aimless otherwise, she supposes she'll eat. It's only once she approaches the pile that she realizes the cats around her-- her mother among them.
"Mom," Scorchpaw calls, instinctive and without thought. Remembering herself, she noses a hearty rat out of the pile. Her whiskers twitch anxiously. "Do you want to, um, share?"
@SCORCHSTREAK