- Jun 20, 2023
- 150
- 109
- 43
[ timed during his walk after the news of little wolf's death; mild cw for self-hating talk in the later paragraphs ]
Everything feels wrong.
The undergrowth brushes his fur in a new, uncomfortable way. The sand and dirt underfoot squish with the leaf fall humidity rather than shift beneath his weight. Even the air and all of its scents are off - is she really dead?
Skypaw has experienced grief before. His first mentor died in his paws, life fading from a venomous snake bite. He had seen his grandmother pass, too, when the boars made quick work of her tabby body. But - and he supposes the difference lies in this - he watched them both join the Stars, even if only for a few moments. Little Wolf... her body is lost to turnt over snow and mountain weeds. He isn't even sure if her soul has found its way back to their stars. He looks up at the sky, its expanse obscured by leaves and clouds and too bright to spot starlight, and he wishes to see her face for one more moment.
His eyes prick with tears as his paws continue on regardless. He can't tell if he's angry, or frustrated, or saddened beyond belief. He's firmly orphaned now, for he has no father worth their dirt enough to reveal themself to him (or, if the rumors are true, he hopes to StarClan they'll never be revealed.) He still has family in Moonwhisper and Burnstorm and - oh, Duskpaw. Perhaps he should've joined his ailing brother in the medicine den and grieved there, instead, but much of him feels avoidant and uncomfortable with the idea.
His attention flicks up and he sees Sunningrocks, hardly a place of comfort. He can hear the river nearby, its rushing tones hardly anything more than nature's subtle whispers, singing with the winds. His paws carry his body closer to the edge of the territory, to the sandy riverbanks, and amber eyes fit themselves onto the opposite shore. And he stares. He stares, and stares, and stares -
What are you looking for?
She's not a what, but rather a who. A pretty who, a who of which every time he sees her, he smiles, and feels his heart stumble, yet bile rises in his chest for his own misguided emotions and efforts. He wants to see the tabby part the reeds and join him in a five minute chat just as much as he wishes to never see her again. He wants to tell her that his mother died. He wants to grieve, and yet for some reason only wants her to experience it. Disgusting. His nose wrinkles up as he turns away from the rapids, tail lashing as he does. You're disgusting, he tells himself, allowing himself one last breath of the border before slinking away.
He'll take the long way back home, though he feels no less settled than when he started this trip. Everything hurts and feels to unreal, and he can only imagine that acceptance will be a hard road to travel. Acceptance of what - he's suddenly struggling to decide.
Everything feels wrong.
The undergrowth brushes his fur in a new, uncomfortable way. The sand and dirt underfoot squish with the leaf fall humidity rather than shift beneath his weight. Even the air and all of its scents are off - is she really dead?
Skypaw has experienced grief before. His first mentor died in his paws, life fading from a venomous snake bite. He had seen his grandmother pass, too, when the boars made quick work of her tabby body. But - and he supposes the difference lies in this - he watched them both join the Stars, even if only for a few moments. Little Wolf... her body is lost to turnt over snow and mountain weeds. He isn't even sure if her soul has found its way back to their stars. He looks up at the sky, its expanse obscured by leaves and clouds and too bright to spot starlight, and he wishes to see her face for one more moment.
His eyes prick with tears as his paws continue on regardless. He can't tell if he's angry, or frustrated, or saddened beyond belief. He's firmly orphaned now, for he has no father worth their dirt enough to reveal themself to him (or, if the rumors are true, he hopes to StarClan they'll never be revealed.) He still has family in Moonwhisper and Burnstorm and - oh, Duskpaw. Perhaps he should've joined his ailing brother in the medicine den and grieved there, instead, but much of him feels avoidant and uncomfortable with the idea.
His attention flicks up and he sees Sunningrocks, hardly a place of comfort. He can hear the river nearby, its rushing tones hardly anything more than nature's subtle whispers, singing with the winds. His paws carry his body closer to the edge of the territory, to the sandy riverbanks, and amber eyes fit themselves onto the opposite shore. And he stares. He stares, and stares, and stares -
What are you looking for?
She's not a what, but rather a who. A pretty who, a who of which every time he sees her, he smiles, and feels his heart stumble, yet bile rises in his chest for his own misguided emotions and efforts. He wants to see the tabby part the reeds and join him in a five minute chat just as much as he wishes to never see her again. He wants to tell her that his mother died. He wants to grieve, and yet for some reason only wants her to experience it. Disgusting. His nose wrinkles up as he turns away from the rapids, tail lashing as he does. You're disgusting, he tells himself, allowing himself one last breath of the border before slinking away.
He'll take the long way back home, though he feels no less settled than when he started this trip. Everything hurts and feels to unreal, and he can only imagine that acceptance will be a hard road to travel. Acceptance of what - he's suddenly struggling to decide.
