- Oct 17, 2022
- 458
- 78
- 28
MAYBE I'D BE A SAINT IF I WEREN'T ————————————
The howling of the wind that cuts to the bone; the crackle of ice breaking off under the onslaught of the river’s current; the soft crunch of frost under paw pads during dawn patrol — leaf-bare is hardly a silent season. But it is a quiet one. There are no more birds departing for distant, unknown parts in a flutter of wings, no more frogs splashing into the water, few prey skittering through the underbrush; the branches swaying in the wind do not whisper with shaken leaves. What the cold doesn’t smother to stillness, it will soon muffle under a thick layer of snow.
It sounds… empty.
This is the fourth leaf-bare Snakeblink is alive to see, and he still cannot tell if that absence of sound is unnerving or relaxing.
He guesses it’s been keeping him awake, a bit. Without the rattle of cicadas filling the night, he can’t help but spend his nights with his ears pricked, waiting for the tell-tale noise of too many paws swarming their camp — more rogues, or windclan perhaps, or the physical manifestation of a dozen other anxieties coming to claw at him more tangibly. He doesn’t know what he searches for in the dark, and he doesn’t find it. Nor does he find rest, only an uneasy sort of sleep that sees him stumbling out of the warrior’s den at dawn to take his apprentice on the first patrol of the day.
Days are short in leaf-bare so they must make the most of them, fish while the river still thaws under thin sunlight and hunt what prey hasn’t gone to ground for the season. But stars, Snakeblink sometimes wish he could do the same thing as them — curl in some deep, dark burrow as his namesake does and sleep until the days are long and warm again.
Yawning, he blinks the grit from his eyes and focuses on the water before his paws again. He brought Carppaw along for some more fishing after their first hunting patrol, but he has yet to catch anything — he should check how she is faring. Are there fish who leave until the air warms, like birds do? Where would they go? He should ask Willowroot; she has lived near distant waters, he thinks, perhaps she would know…
Another blink, closing his eyes for just a second. Staring through the grey of the sky reflected on the water’s surface for the darting shadows of fish is making his eyes tired. His head nods forward, jerks back as he shakes himself. Just one fish, and then they can return to camp. It would be nice to do some weaving later, to make sure the nursery is well protected for the coming kits…
Snakeblink follows the muddled thought down, slipping into a light doze without noticing. His head nods forward again, lolling on his neck as he sits rigidly next to the water’s edge, breathing evenly — mostly asleep.
It sounds… empty.
This is the fourth leaf-bare Snakeblink is alive to see, and he still cannot tell if that absence of sound is unnerving or relaxing.
He guesses it’s been keeping him awake, a bit. Without the rattle of cicadas filling the night, he can’t help but spend his nights with his ears pricked, waiting for the tell-tale noise of too many paws swarming their camp — more rogues, or windclan perhaps, or the physical manifestation of a dozen other anxieties coming to claw at him more tangibly. He doesn’t know what he searches for in the dark, and he doesn’t find it. Nor does he find rest, only an uneasy sort of sleep that sees him stumbling out of the warrior’s den at dawn to take his apprentice on the first patrol of the day.
Days are short in leaf-bare so they must make the most of them, fish while the river still thaws under thin sunlight and hunt what prey hasn’t gone to ground for the season. But stars, Snakeblink sometimes wish he could do the same thing as them — curl in some deep, dark burrow as his namesake does and sleep until the days are long and warm again.
Yawning, he blinks the grit from his eyes and focuses on the water before his paws again. He brought Carppaw along for some more fishing after their first hunting patrol, but he has yet to catch anything — he should check how she is faring. Are there fish who leave until the air warms, like birds do? Where would they go? He should ask Willowroot; she has lived near distant waters, he thinks, perhaps she would know…
Another blink, closing his eyes for just a second. Staring through the grey of the sky reflected on the water’s surface for the darting shadows of fish is making his eyes tired. His head nods forward, jerks back as he shakes himself. Just one fish, and then they can return to camp. It would be nice to do some weaving later, to make sure the nursery is well protected for the coming kits…
Snakeblink follows the muddled thought down, slipping into a light doze without noticing. His head nods forward again, lolling on his neck as he sits rigidly next to the water’s edge, breathing evenly — mostly asleep.
——————————————————————————————————— so god damn lonely
