TETHERED IN A ROOM WITHOUT WALLS ⟿ sharp

[smogstar]

Hunger. Hunger, leading to sleep deprivation.

Sleep deprivation, worsening his misery.

Misery, thriving in tandem with whatever maladjustment he has.

He wants to pull the nerves right from under his skin. Living in this fucking fleapit is as much of a health hazard as the rats up in Carrionplace. Never before has the tabby been so weak, so frail, so fragile, both physically and psychologically. It's reaching a point where Smogmaw is all but determined to leave ShadowClan before long. Leaf-bare has forever come as a challenge to withstand, but with these new borders in place, his own survival is now uncertain. And looking back on it, he realises that he should have considered his decision to remain in the marsh just a second longer. The ramifications of staying in the shoddiest nick of the woods have not been pleasant.

Ice barely bends before it breaks. He fears that he's already beginning to crack.

A fresh trail of pawprints leads out of camp. The imprints in the snow are cavernous and tidy, particular even, as though the stressors of time and hunger held no impact on the steps made. It's true—Smogmaw was in no rush when he left the heart of ShadowClan earlier on, nor did he set off in the pursuit of food. If anything, he has sort of accepted his wretched fate should he remain in this group any longer, so there's no justification in fretting over prey any longer. The next time he feels a hunger pang, he shall set off for ampler lands, never to look back, ne'er feeling so much as a lone regret.

Snow banks up around his rump, which is planted firmly in place. His neck is held taut. He gazes longingly into the mud pool where he'd nigh met a watery grave earlier on in the year. What a day that was. He ponders on how things'd be different had he not been found.​

 

[SHARPSHADOW]

† Her eyes fall upon pawprints, newly lain on the otherwise snow-covered ground. Not a patrol, but a singular body.

It's not like it's her business. Cats could come and go as they pleased. Warriors, anyways. And these were certainly warrior-sized prints. In a land as desolate as this one, he can't say he's never felt the pull to get away. Shadowclan was a place more unwelcome than most. Trouble invited itself upon the nearest utterance; and even if you had done nothing but what you were supposed to, trouble would be yours to take the fall for.

Sharppaw grimaces at the thought, disgust on her face as she stares at the prints. It isn't his business, and he doesn't care, but it's the lingering feeling in his gut that tells him to follow. A voice in his mind told him that if he did not investigate, he would take the blame. What if another cat went missing? And their lead warriors followed the next day, saying Shadowclan didn't try hard enough to find them, even though they themselves have done nothing since the day their power was accrued.

He sucks in a breath, and he follows. He was going to be better.

She half-expects the journey to be fruitless, a waste of time. A trap so that, when she returned with the shadow behind her all her own, and her jaws only empty, she would be scolded. Apprentices shouldn't leave camp alone. She knows, she knows.

It's a surprise for her to find anyone at all, and even more so, for it to be who it is. "Sm-Smogmaw?" she mumbles. And the tom isn't running away. He doesn't duck from her, not wanting to be found. He sits soundly in the snow, straight-laced and wretched. Sharppaw stumbles up behind him, gaze trepid. It isn't his business. "Y-you're not gonna disappear, are you?"​

 

[smogstar]

Some find beauty in snow. The way it sparkles, gleams in the sun's light. Its perfect stillness. How it covers the land in its soft, frozen shawl.

Smogmaw sees it for what it truly is: ruination, and on a significant, ecosystem-halting scale. What other force can stop the flow of rivers, or hold the wildlife under a hypnotic spell? The world changes dramatically after that first snowfall, and never for the better. It has been moons since he'd last felt a shred of comfort in his own home. And the auxiliary food shortage certainly hasn't made things better.

That sense of ambition he'd enjoyed during ShadowClan's first two seasons is no more. Ruined, by the snow. There's no motive to stay which outweighs his own intuition. He needs to survive one way or another.

Sharppaw's presence jolts him out of the stupor he'd become immersed in. Eyes, widened, lurch towards the void-toned apprentice, marking his return to the material plane. "Disappear?" he remarks, incredulous initially but accepting thereafter. "I won't disappear, no. Not so long as you're standing there, anyways."

She's troubled over the prospect of his own departure, and justifiably so. He sees it in her eyes, the unease, and identifies it in her tone as well. To an apprentice such as him, seeing a warrior - a role model - preparing to jump ship mustn't leave a good taste in the mouth. On top of that, the defections of Bonejaw and her ilk are still fresh on the mind, invoking deep-rooted frustration whenever they're thought about. His desertion will be no different.

"Sharppaw," begins the tabby, at the same time piecing together a valid explanation. "Surely you're aware that no future lies for us here. Even should you live to see the snow melt, prey will be scarce. And with the consequences of long-term starvation, you'll find that catching food in this marsh is impossible."

Smogmaw cannot offer her solace; she can only find that should she leave as well. "Leaf-bare was admittedly easier to endure before crossing the thunderpath was considered criminal. Now, we're stuck here, left with the short end of the stick. ShadowClan must starve, while the other clans sustain; this is by design, make no mistake." A smile contorts his pitiful face. "Go. I know you won't come with me, so go. I will not have an audience for my exit."​

 

[SHARPSHADOW]

† He doesn't expect to jostle Smogmaw the way he does. Sharppaw is only a whispering voice, a stumbling presence, easy to ignore. She'd thought Smogmaw would do just that, leaving her to ruminate on whatever was happening in that mind. It had been rhetorical... mostly, something like that. A slip of the tongue. She shouldn't be here at all.

As Smogmaw pitches toward him, so does he, but away, away, his spine curving into an instinctual coil. True to the cruelty of his name, he prickles uncomfortably, jaw set tight. He's incredulous. He blinks at her like she's done something strange. No, he would not disappear, and Sharppaw airs a heavy breath of relief; but it's only semantics, then. The logistics of disappearing when someone's right behind you. Well, she could have guessed that.

Sharppaw's eyes narrow. Not– not glaring, but... bothered, face pinched. He wills himself to relax... or something. As close as he could get, flattening of his spine even if his weary eyes remained. Did he plan on disappearing regardless, then? On another day? Another night? The next time he could leave without any nosy apprentices around to follow him. A grey gaze is unsteady, flickering between him and something else. Nothing else, really. There's nothing else to look at. Quickly, she learns. With the utterance of his name, his eyes snap forward.

It's an explanation Sharppaw wants. But not– this. The soul-weighing reality he meets him with, unprompted. The acknowledgment that, things could only ever be so good in the marsh. Faces aside, no one cared for them, not even the forest itself. All she wanted to know is if he'll leave, and, and–

He's justifying being a coward, isn't he? How deep of a sin was it to leave when things became inhospitable? What reason was there to say, when the fog and the ground and your enemies and your friends all hated you?

Why was he so sure the future was stagnant? There was no reason to believe it would be. Maybe there was no reason to believe it would. He was hardly an optimist. His ever-growing frown drops entirely. Head hung, defeat. His eyes are wide. "W-where will you go? Windclan? Riverclan?" he supplies, the spit of his last word growing bitter. Smogmaw couldn't go. She didn't know why. Maybe all she wanted was for him to suffer with her. That was about the best Shadowclan did for teamwork, anyways. It's all she's ever had. Was Smogmaw above that, too? "You w-want to start over?" It'd be worse than starving, she thinks. Worse than being mauled, dying noble (Or would he only be laughed at on her deathbed, the fool who'd thought they had a chance). He wouldn't want to start over.​

 

[smogstar]

Sharppaw's resultant line of questioning appears to be rooted in the initial stages of grief. Denial and anger homogenise in his cadence, producing a grievous tone which weighs on his words and obstructs them from cleanly leaving her jaw. He anticipates the comparison to ShadowClan's former medicine cat—Smogmaw, too, drew such an analogy whenever the topic of leaving emerged. It isn't the path he opts to take, though. This isn't a conclusion that he arrived upon on the grounds of his own clan's shortcomings, but rather a systemic failure altogether. As he'd previously pointed out, the current state of the post-colony cats is premeditated, designed so some groups prosper whereas others underachieve. He does not know whether this had been carried out with malice aforethought, but he has since found that it's a system he wants no part of.

He wants to survive, and he shouldn't have to struggle against an ideological framework to make it possible.

He does not blink through the apprentice's bargaining; his focus, unwavering. The tom's gaze is so pointedly latched onto her own, the white in his eyes can be espied amongst tones of burnt copper. Smogmaw understands Sharppaw's plight, and though he does not feel compassion toward it, he hopes the juxtaposition between his resolute expression and her look of distress can offer a nominal amount of comfort.

"Somewhere," meows the ashen tabby, a brief shrug accompanying his simple response. Anywhere is a viable destination, so long as there's relative safety, food, and shelter from the elements, all of which this damned clan lacked at the moment. "If I'm being frank, Sharp: no, I don't want to start over," he continues, scoffing. From his point of view, this has little to do with cowardice. It's only logical to pursue a better life for oneself. "Clan politics have been trying my patience for some time now, and I just can't handle it no more. The rules, the beliefs- the hypocrisy of it all." Even talking about it wrings his nerves taut.

"Everyone, across all clans, has contributed to the spilling of blood," Smogmaw huffs, his brows narrowed and yellowed teeth exposed. "And yet, have you noticed how it's only ever a problem when a clan like us has been accused of it? How the transgressions of SkyClan, ThunderClan, and RiverClan are forgiven, while we're treated like crowfood for acting the same way." RiverClan is the pinnacle of this issue. They sit atop stolen land, yanked out from under the paws of those who lived there before them. And yet, they have the gall to propagate their faux moralism at gatherings. Hell, Cicadastar made an effort to defame him at the most recent one. And what strengths does ShadowClan have to contend with the biases against it? Nothing. Zut. Nada. Nothing can be done to quell the stereotypes against them, because the stereotypes are all true. They are all starving, and they're all crazy because of it.

His line of vision finally departs from the coal-touched feline, whisking across the snow dunes in pursuit of the world beyond their own. "I bought into the illusion at first," he says, "but Leaf-bare has caused it to unravel." ShadowClan is unsustainable, he now sees, and it's not a place he can live in any longer. And yet, he suspects that he won't have Bonejaw's success should he go running off to another group, tail between his legs. Perhaps the age of the clans has already come to an end; for the marsh group, at least. "I just don't see a point in staying, Sharppaw. How can you?" ​

 

[SHARPSHADOW]

† Blazing, his gaze. A thing so deceptively warm; sepia burning bright, staring into starsilver pools. Undeniably serious, but how could that be so? What else was there to see? What else was there to do? Outside of the clans was only war. Though, he supposed, it's not that things were so terribly different here. Perhaps it was less of a beating to take when the difference was your life and yours alone, rather than the many behind you to mourn; to grieve.

Logically, there isn't anything he could see wrong. What bound them to this marsh aside from stubbornness? Why did they stay, if all they did was grumble about the lack of anything? Seemingly one cliff edge away from going at each other. Was it wanting to preserve what had always been theirs? Sodden, dreary place this was. It was theirs. Always has been. How had it been so easy for Soot and Cicada to wander astray? To form something entirely new, when the rest of them were still here. Still stubborn, stubborn, clinging to life. First to enact the border, for they had to protect what was theirs. How it's been. How it always would be. And change was scary.

"Somewhere?" he repeats. Anywhere? Out there? What else was there to be had, to think about, other than yourself? Anywhere better. And anywhere would be better. Sharppaw tilts his head, but he can't tear his gaze away. Strange holding of the eye; sidelong glance. A frown woven in to the ground.

And he's right. It's annoying that he's right. Always, always. Turned on by their own. (Sharppaw loathed, loathed to refer to her any such way.) But the truth was there. Briarstar had not led long, but she had been a right-paw for moons. So they said, so they said. If her kin was not to be trusted, then who was? If her kin could grow sick of it all, then who wouldn't? His ears flatten further as Smogmaw carries on. And nothing he said was... wrong, frustratingly so. Owl-eyed, no matter how hard he tried not to be. The racing of thoughts is clear on Sharppaw's face. Her stomach churns, uneasy. Ever the villain.

Merciful, he offers her respite from his burning eyes, and gratefully, she too looks away. And she almost wishes he hadn't, for his eyes only switched to gaze upon the land beyond. The land she didn't want him to traverse. She couldn't see another one of them leave. No more. (She begs.) The lowest of the low, she'd rather they wallow in their wretchedness than anything else. It was what they deserved. What was the point? There wasn't one. Not really. Sharppaw was selfish. "It– it's all there's ev-er... been," spoken with a crackle of his voice. Weak attempt. It means nothing. "...y-you wouldn't think that, though." Added belatedly. Thinking aloud, more than anything.

"It's not fair," uselessly, Sharppaw says. Smogmaw knew this already. Sharppaw chews the inside of his mouth. Teeth against gums. "I d-don't want to... lose. We shouldn't have to." (Something should be done, shouldn't it?) It was only fair.​

 

[smogstar]

Wallowing in self-pity is done better by one's lonesome, he now realises. Doing so in front of an audience borderline defeats the purpose of it.

He should have bitten his tongue the moment Sharppaw sought his attention.

As his gaze is held aloft, focus diverted from the apprentice and onto his own conceptions, the tabby ponders the words which have left his mouth in the minutes preceding this moment.

In part, they were satisfying. These scepticisms haved knotted up in his throat for an inordinate length of time, incessantly weighing on his sentience and depriving him of the ability to see anything past them. By imparting these doubts on listening ears he has given himself a momentary release, lifting his anxieties from his shoulders and turning them into a shared burden.

The questions proposed by Sharppaw add to the validation as well—indeed, where would he go? Her arguments echo the internal back-and-forthing which has brought him out here in the first place, and rather than picking apart his words or labelling him as paranoid like others might, he corroborates his assertions.

On the other paw, the imprint he is leaving on the apprentice becomes more apparent by the moment. Sharppaw's verbal concessions mirror his own, equally as bleak and forlorn, albeit more uncertain. They sound like a defeatist's line of reasoning. Up until this moment, he has been convinced that his choices have been made from a sense of self-preservation. Suppose this is not the case, and he too has accepted his own failure? Furthermore, should he leave, what would Sharppaw tell the others? The people he has languished his ass off to impress and influence?

Smogmaw does not waver as the young one speaks once more. His dreary glare remains pointed ahead as an answer is provided to his earlier question. He hardly acknowledges the morose bargaining which follows shortly thereafter.

"I don't want to lose either," he admits, tail sweeping out behind him. "I don't want to die hungry or sick, not when other parts of the same woods have more prey 'n herbs than we do." He addresses himself as a part of ShadowClan's collective once again. His tone is more animated than before; angrier, his breath hot and words enflamed. "It's not fair, Sharppaw," the tom continues, confirming his earlier protests as he rants into the empty air before him. "It's not fair at all. But it's the way it is, and we are powerless to change it."

So he turns his head to face the kid. He sees the dismay that has washed over her features, and it's strangely fulfilling. "There's no good in running away," the warrior confesses, a sigh abetting him. "But there's no good in staying."

He exhales sharply through the nose, frowning slightly.​

 

[SHARPSHADOW]

† They're not so different, maybe. Nobody likes to be a loser.

Sharppawe watches him as he thinks. Smogmaw doesn't turn back to him, not yet. He's kept to gaze at the expanse of black-silver. Strongly-built. Did a cat like him feel fear? Or was it selfishness? A selfish desire to live. Better, to thrive. He speaks of a wish that Sharppaw agrees with. What had possessed their founders so, to settle in a place like this? (Still, it had to be theirs, always and forever. Maintain your claim, no matter how useful). Rising from the dim grumbling he had first met her wish, his words thicken with anger. Sharppaw finds that she wants to be angry along with him.

Approval, agreement. Sharppaw stands just a bit straighter. And its frustrating, just how right he is. Inevitability, always. Sharppaw's gaze falls floor-bound for the umpteenth time that night, downtrodden (and yet somehow, empowered). Maybe if she was more than nothing, she could do something. Maybe.

No use in running away. Sharppaw releases a breath from his nose, and a cool wind follows shortly thereafter. What did he feel? Relief? Disgust? He didn't even care for him, not really; but he could not lose another. He doesn't think any of them could. The apprentice blinks up to the shade-painted warrior. Smogmaw's looking back. But there's no good in staying.

"Maybe." It's the easiest thing to do. Maybe that's all.

The silence is heavy. Stagnant water. The thought of returning to a life neither of them were quite satisfied with. It wasn't quite right. Leaving would not be either. It would never be, really. What's the point? Why pick the easy out, if the results would be the same, either way? All he clings to is the worming remnants of pride in his skull. Pride, terror, and... something else.

The land beyond is frightening. Howling wind, it carries along a warning. "Can we go home?" She stands, and she waits. (And if he'd said no, what would she do, exactly?)​