- Oct 4, 2022
- 79
- 7
- 8
It occurs to Loam in the midst of sharing tongues that she has lived in ShadowClan for more moons than she hasn’t. She doesn’t know where the thought comes from; perhaps something Poppypaw had said. Loam had, admittedly, been listening to Poppypaw with only half an ear, instead focusing the bulk of her attention on detangling the mess of Poppypaw's pelt. Loam's part of the conversation was an occasional mm-hmm or right; today is not a talking day.
That thought must have paused her. Loam doesn't realize until she's being shaken at her shoulder, Poppypaw's voice closer than she remembered it, "HEY! Loampaw, you're spacing. Are you—?"
And that is as far as Loam listens. She loosens the clump of red fur from her tongue that she had been working on, grimaces at how little progress she had made in putting it into order. Thinks: My name is Loam, but Loam can never quite get her words in order when it isn't a talking day. They sit like a clog in her throat, chill her chest like she's eaten snow.
"No," Loam manages to Poppypaw, shakes her head in time with the scant words that follow so that the no permeates, "'M fine. Juh-juh-just."
But Loam must simply be just. She's run out of words, her fraction of a thought hangs in the air without an end. Loam jerks her head over her shoulder before she stands, the I'm leaving implied in the sharp motion and confirmed when Loam stands, marches her uneven gait through the low bramble mouth of camp. She still feels that incomplete thought, a line connecting her at the mouth to where those words must still be. Loam flexes her tongue, touches it to her nose, and presses forward.
The marsh opens for Loam, the soft ground wet enough that Loam's paws partially sink, a tiny embrace with every step. Parts of it cling to her, the mud, a briar that shakes as it combs thorns through Loam's pelt as she passes. She walks without a destination in mind, wonders if the just was that she just needed space. Over the past moons the marsh has come alive, dotted with now familiar frogsong and green in all of the spaces that it isn't dark. In Loam's incomplete memory, she knows that the marsh hasn't always been like this, but needs to reach in the depths of her mind to find it looking barren.
She passes otter tracks, turns opposite to where they lead, and follows.
The tracks are split down the middle where the otter's tail had drug, marking it distinct left-right. Two paws on each side, just as Loam has, though she leaves her tracks in sets of threes. She imagines her thoughts are her pawsteps, that the missing ones aren't gone, but that when Loam had moved to reach for them she had done so with her curled paw. Each embrace of mud, she tries to think of something new.
I've been here for more moons than I have not - step - I've been called Loam-kit-paw for more of my life than I've been Loam - step - I was wanted. I am wanted. My mother - step - is coming for me, and when she fines me she'll —
Loam's paw hangs. Words in her mouth, a line that has drug an invisible ditch in her tracks all the way back to camp, where words-in-her-mouth-words-hang. When her mother finds her, Loam will have tried the best she could to be the daughter her mother knows. When her mother finds her, Loam is near enough to an age when she would have started to set out on her own. When her mother finds her, she will not need to raise Loam. When her mother finds her, she will find her daughter grown from a kit.
Loam knows the only change she resists is the sort that comes from herself. She couldn't stop her legs from lengthening to willow branches, but she could reject a name. She couldn't stop her kitten fat from giving way to lean muscle, but she could be patient and wait on being the daughter her mother expects. Loam reaches in her mind, searching for an image of her mother, but the only thing her mind offers is the off-white of a tooth against trodden mud. A gap, Loam wishes she knew how to reach with the right paw. She tries again and finds a silhouette against a storm-dark sky.
When her mother finds her, she'll find someone who has changed regardless of whatever efforts she may have made.
The otter tracks come to an end against a sand-banked pond. At once, weighty thoughts seem impossibly simple. There is a point where the otter had emerged, where the water had dripped from it's pelt against the already soaked ground and, the ground having no want for it, let it puddle in the shallow tracks. A change isn't an end of patience — a change doesn't mean an end to waiting, but a continuation of living.
Today isn't a talking day. A sigh instead, relieved and at last permissed, and then it is Loampaw that smiles. Today isn't a talking day, but for the first time Loampaw has time in ShadowClan. He turns his face homeward, and resolves to tell them tomorrow.
That thought must have paused her. Loam doesn't realize until she's being shaken at her shoulder, Poppypaw's voice closer than she remembered it, "HEY! Loampaw, you're spacing. Are you—?"
And that is as far as Loam listens. She loosens the clump of red fur from her tongue that she had been working on, grimaces at how little progress she had made in putting it into order. Thinks: My name is Loam, but Loam can never quite get her words in order when it isn't a talking day. They sit like a clog in her throat, chill her chest like she's eaten snow.
"No," Loam manages to Poppypaw, shakes her head in time with the scant words that follow so that the no permeates, "'M fine. Juh-juh-just."
But Loam must simply be just. She's run out of words, her fraction of a thought hangs in the air without an end. Loam jerks her head over her shoulder before she stands, the I'm leaving implied in the sharp motion and confirmed when Loam stands, marches her uneven gait through the low bramble mouth of camp. She still feels that incomplete thought, a line connecting her at the mouth to where those words must still be. Loam flexes her tongue, touches it to her nose, and presses forward.
The marsh opens for Loam, the soft ground wet enough that Loam's paws partially sink, a tiny embrace with every step. Parts of it cling to her, the mud, a briar that shakes as it combs thorns through Loam's pelt as she passes. She walks without a destination in mind, wonders if the just was that she just needed space. Over the past moons the marsh has come alive, dotted with now familiar frogsong and green in all of the spaces that it isn't dark. In Loam's incomplete memory, she knows that the marsh hasn't always been like this, but needs to reach in the depths of her mind to find it looking barren.
She passes otter tracks, turns opposite to where they lead, and follows.
The tracks are split down the middle where the otter's tail had drug, marking it distinct left-right. Two paws on each side, just as Loam has, though she leaves her tracks in sets of threes. She imagines her thoughts are her pawsteps, that the missing ones aren't gone, but that when Loam had moved to reach for them she had done so with her curled paw. Each embrace of mud, she tries to think of something new.
I've been here for more moons than I have not - step - I've been called Loam-kit-paw for more of my life than I've been Loam - step - I was wanted. I am wanted. My mother - step - is coming for me, and when she fines me she'll —
Loam's paw hangs. Words in her mouth, a line that has drug an invisible ditch in her tracks all the way back to camp, where words-in-her-mouth-words-hang. When her mother finds her, Loam will have tried the best she could to be the daughter her mother knows. When her mother finds her, Loam is near enough to an age when she would have started to set out on her own. When her mother finds her, she will not need to raise Loam. When her mother finds her, she will find her daughter grown from a kit.
Loam knows the only change she resists is the sort that comes from herself. She couldn't stop her legs from lengthening to willow branches, but she could reject a name. She couldn't stop her kitten fat from giving way to lean muscle, but she could be patient and wait on being the daughter her mother expects. Loam reaches in her mind, searching for an image of her mother, but the only thing her mind offers is the off-white of a tooth against trodden mud. A gap, Loam wishes she knew how to reach with the right paw. She tries again and finds a silhouette against a storm-dark sky.
When her mother finds her, she'll find someone who has changed regardless of whatever efforts she may have made.
The otter tracks come to an end against a sand-banked pond. At once, weighty thoughts seem impossibly simple. There is a point where the otter had emerged, where the water had dripped from it's pelt against the already soaked ground and, the ground having no want for it, let it puddle in the shallow tracks. A change isn't an end of patience — a change doesn't mean an end to waiting, but a continuation of living.
Today isn't a talking day. A sigh instead, relieved and at last permissed, and then it is Loampaw that smiles. Today isn't a talking day, but for the first time Loampaw has time in ShadowClan. He turns his face homeward, and resolves to tell them tomorrow.
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