- Jan 28, 2024
- 70
- 13
- 8
ꕀꕀ It’s a conversation he’s been trying to avoid since he was first named a warrior. Carefully excusing himself from conversations and swapping around patrols with others, Sandpelt has managed to keep his parents a tail’s length away for quite a while now. Nearly two months, in fact. But all good things must come to an end, and that includes avoidance of parental figures. His parents manage to corner him as he’s heading out for his first patrol of the day, practically dragging him away from the rest of the patrol. His father's broad, burly form is all but immovable, forcing Sandpelt to follow along at his mother’s beckoning. He casts a glance back at the patrol he’d been with—do they notice he’s gone at all? Do they care?
He ends up just outside of camp, boxed in by both parents with his back to the water. He doesn’t want to make a scene, and besides, if they want to talk to him this bad then it must be important, right? He shifts in place, eye narrowed as he scans over them both. Gartooth stands strong and tall above him, with broad shoulders bristling with rich chocolate fur and struck through with smooth, clean stripes. In opposition, Sweetpath’s slighter figure is adorned in a silky drapery of warm cinnamon fur and the occasional touch of delicate white. Like a pair of swans, they are rarely apart from one another. "What do you want?" He hisses out, his gaze shifting as he attempts to glean information about whatever conversation there is to be had. Their expressions are frustratingly blank, however, and it makes Sandpelt want to turn tail and run.
He stands still, even as his father begins to speak. Gartooth’s voice is a low rumble when he talks, but instead of being comforting protection, it is rolling thunder overheard, lighting striking through the sky. “Your mother ’n’ I were tryin’ to figure out when we should tell ya. Now seems ’bout as good a time as any.” He hesitates, then, as though he isn’t sure how to properly communicate whatever it is he feels the need to say. Spit it out already, thinks Sandpelt.
“You’re going to be a brother,” blurts Sweetpath, seeming surprised by her own words. Her eyes go wide, mouth falling open. She hesitates, and then seems to steel herself. “Now that you’re a warrior, your father and I’ve been talkin’ about more kits. Just imagine how nice it’d be—we could tell stories in the nursery together, wouldn’t that be neat?” His mother looks hopeful, brows raised and tail swishing gently behind her, and the warrior’s heart drops.
The talk of siblings catches him off guard, but Sandpelt didn’t grow truly annoyed until his mother puts forth her expectation for him to join her, for some reason. "What? I’m not goin’ to the nursery," he protests, brows furrowing. First the mate thing, and now this?
Sweetpath matches his surprise, her muzzle turning into a frown. “What do ya mean?” Her voice lilts up, pitched high and confused.
He has to avert his gaze, discomfort prickling along his spine. "I’m happy for y’all, y’know, but I don’t want what you’ve got. It’s not for me." A mate is out of the question. Kits, even more so. They’re fun to care for intermittently, but being the sole caretaker for a bunch of tiny lives… that’s too much. It’s not who he is.
His mother speaks, but it isn’t to apologize for her assumption. It’s just to make another. “Well, we just want what’s best for you, sweetie. You know, we became mates as soon as we were able to, and we’re as happy as clams about it,” she explains, leaning closer to Gartooth’s shoulder. They’re in love, and that’s nice, but Sandpelt doesn’t want siblings. They’d only be another thing for his parents to compare him to, more cats who outshine him in every way.
“You’re a warrior now, why not settle down? Find someone nice, have some kits.” His father attempts to convince him that wasting his days away in the nursery—with his mother at his side, no less—is the best way to spend his life. It’s too bad, though, that Sandpelt doesn’t care about what they want. He’s spent too long trying to appease them, hasn’t he?
"’Cause I don’t want kits! I’m a warrior—I’ve got goals, plans, things outside of having kits and sitting ’round the nursery all day."
His mother chimes in, “Spending time in the nursery wouldn’t be that bad, would it? It’s not like you’re helping the clan much, with your eye…”
"Don’t talk about my eye," he growls, dust-brown tail lashing. Sharp claws flex, digging into the dirt.
His father’s glare ends the conversation, a grown cutting through the air. It’s the same roughness that had raised Sandpelt, had taught him to obediently follow every rule that’s ever been put forth. And now, it works against him. “Now, don’t go gettin’ an attitude, boy. We’re just lookin’ out for what’s best for ya.” We only want what’s best for you—what we’ve decided is best for you.
That had been days ago, and still it hasn’t faded from the back of his mind. It had taken so long to get them to accept him for him, and now it seems like they don’t even care about what he wants anymore. They want him to be a queen, to sit around useless and trapped in the nursery for months—it sounds horrible. Worse than horrible. He’s a warrior, and he’s worked his tail off day and night to get where he is.
Never mind that he doesn’t have anything to show for his accomplishments. He didn’t even get the recognition of hearing his warrior name announced at the gathering, the most basic of commendments. He didn’t even get to lead a patrol, because of course the golden siblings are more capable, or whatever reasoning Hazecloud has for her decisions. In a way, it’s to be expected; his own parents don’t even believe in him, so why should anyone else? He’s being replaced while he still lives and breathes.
The day passes with tension carried high in his shoulders, his entire body a frayed nerve just waiting to be pressed upon in the wrong way. He succeeds in hunting, catching a fish large enough for three of the elders to share. He succeeds in marking his assigned border, ensuring that he checks thoroughly for any signs of coyote activity before leaving the WindClan border behind. And then he heads back in the direction of camp…. but something stops him from leaving the privacy of the trees and brush around him. Something that’s been set to a simmer for too long finally begins to boil over, bubbles breaching the surface and splattering onto everything around him. They’re only looking out for him, Gartooth had said.
"No, you’re NOT!" He screams—to the sky, to the trees, to the water. To whatever will listen, because it seems no one else will. A paw digs into the sand, drawing up a pawful of his namesake, and for a moment he simply stares at it. Tiny crystals shine in the sunlight, and his eye goes out of focus for a moment. He blinks, but it doesn’t clear up, and instead, he feels wet warmth tracking down his cheek. He doesn’t bother to wipe the tear that’s sprung from his lone eye, because he doesn’t need to. There’s no one else around. So instead of shutting himself down, showing his emotions to the background like he would any other time, Sandpelt lunges.
His body arcs up in a leap, forepaws landing heavily on a shell that lies pristine across the sandy shore. A whisker-thin fracture splits the muddy-brown surface of the shell, exposing a glimpse of the shimmering white beneath its outer coat. Another slam of his paws, and a crack echoes through the air. It brings a smile to his face, however ragged—he’s finding ways to look at the joy that goes along with destruction. The pearlescent shine that’s exposed when the shell crumbles into three sharp pieces beneath his paws… it’s beautiful, even though it’s broken. Unlike Sandpelt. A heavy paw slake into the shell again, but it doesn’t have half the force of the first two strikes. Instead of focusing on putting more power into his blows, he draws a harsh breath and shouts, "You didn’t even want me!" They had wanted a pristine, perfect child, one who would exemplify all the traits of a model RiverClanner. A beautiful child, heir to their perfect legacy. His mediocrity must have made them stop hoping for his success, somewhere along the way.
He thought he had come to terms with his place in RiverClan before, but his talk with his parents has cleared things up at last. He will never be good enough. For his parents, for his clan, for any friends he may have made. He’ll never be anything more than average, and that thought is quicksand in his mind. Fighting against it only threatens to make him sink lower—all he can do is accept it, and float on as though it doesn’t bother him. He takes a deep breath, shuts his eye, and tries to swipe all the negative thoughts away before he finally pushes through the reeds and crosses the river to emerge within the clan’s camp. A stone sits in his stomach, a heavy anchor of anxiety that he can’t dislodge. But it doesn’t show on his face. It never shows on his face.
He ends up just outside of camp, boxed in by both parents with his back to the water. He doesn’t want to make a scene, and besides, if they want to talk to him this bad then it must be important, right? He shifts in place, eye narrowed as he scans over them both. Gartooth stands strong and tall above him, with broad shoulders bristling with rich chocolate fur and struck through with smooth, clean stripes. In opposition, Sweetpath’s slighter figure is adorned in a silky drapery of warm cinnamon fur and the occasional touch of delicate white. Like a pair of swans, they are rarely apart from one another. "What do you want?" He hisses out, his gaze shifting as he attempts to glean information about whatever conversation there is to be had. Their expressions are frustratingly blank, however, and it makes Sandpelt want to turn tail and run.
He stands still, even as his father begins to speak. Gartooth’s voice is a low rumble when he talks, but instead of being comforting protection, it is rolling thunder overheard, lighting striking through the sky. “Your mother ’n’ I were tryin’ to figure out when we should tell ya. Now seems ’bout as good a time as any.” He hesitates, then, as though he isn’t sure how to properly communicate whatever it is he feels the need to say. Spit it out already, thinks Sandpelt.
“You’re going to be a brother,” blurts Sweetpath, seeming surprised by her own words. Her eyes go wide, mouth falling open. She hesitates, and then seems to steel herself. “Now that you’re a warrior, your father and I’ve been talkin’ about more kits. Just imagine how nice it’d be—we could tell stories in the nursery together, wouldn’t that be neat?” His mother looks hopeful, brows raised and tail swishing gently behind her, and the warrior’s heart drops.
The talk of siblings catches him off guard, but Sandpelt didn’t grow truly annoyed until his mother puts forth her expectation for him to join her, for some reason. "What? I’m not goin’ to the nursery," he protests, brows furrowing. First the mate thing, and now this?
Sweetpath matches his surprise, her muzzle turning into a frown. “What do ya mean?” Her voice lilts up, pitched high and confused.
He has to avert his gaze, discomfort prickling along his spine. "I’m happy for y’all, y’know, but I don’t want what you’ve got. It’s not for me." A mate is out of the question. Kits, even more so. They’re fun to care for intermittently, but being the sole caretaker for a bunch of tiny lives… that’s too much. It’s not who he is.
His mother speaks, but it isn’t to apologize for her assumption. It’s just to make another. “Well, we just want what’s best for you, sweetie. You know, we became mates as soon as we were able to, and we’re as happy as clams about it,” she explains, leaning closer to Gartooth’s shoulder. They’re in love, and that’s nice, but Sandpelt doesn’t want siblings. They’d only be another thing for his parents to compare him to, more cats who outshine him in every way.
“You’re a warrior now, why not settle down? Find someone nice, have some kits.” His father attempts to convince him that wasting his days away in the nursery—with his mother at his side, no less—is the best way to spend his life. It’s too bad, though, that Sandpelt doesn’t care about what they want. He’s spent too long trying to appease them, hasn’t he?
"’Cause I don’t want kits! I’m a warrior—I’ve got goals, plans, things outside of having kits and sitting ’round the nursery all day."
His mother chimes in, “Spending time in the nursery wouldn’t be that bad, would it? It’s not like you’re helping the clan much, with your eye…”
"Don’t talk about my eye," he growls, dust-brown tail lashing. Sharp claws flex, digging into the dirt.
His father’s glare ends the conversation, a grown cutting through the air. It’s the same roughness that had raised Sandpelt, had taught him to obediently follow every rule that’s ever been put forth. And now, it works against him. “Now, don’t go gettin’ an attitude, boy. We’re just lookin’ out for what’s best for ya.” We only want what’s best for you—what we’ve decided is best for you.
That had been days ago, and still it hasn’t faded from the back of his mind. It had taken so long to get them to accept him for him, and now it seems like they don’t even care about what he wants anymore. They want him to be a queen, to sit around useless and trapped in the nursery for months—it sounds horrible. Worse than horrible. He’s a warrior, and he’s worked his tail off day and night to get where he is.
Never mind that he doesn’t have anything to show for his accomplishments. He didn’t even get the recognition of hearing his warrior name announced at the gathering, the most basic of commendments. He didn’t even get to lead a patrol, because of course the golden siblings are more capable, or whatever reasoning Hazecloud has for her decisions. In a way, it’s to be expected; his own parents don’t even believe in him, so why should anyone else? He’s being replaced while he still lives and breathes.
The day passes with tension carried high in his shoulders, his entire body a frayed nerve just waiting to be pressed upon in the wrong way. He succeeds in hunting, catching a fish large enough for three of the elders to share. He succeeds in marking his assigned border, ensuring that he checks thoroughly for any signs of coyote activity before leaving the WindClan border behind. And then he heads back in the direction of camp…. but something stops him from leaving the privacy of the trees and brush around him. Something that’s been set to a simmer for too long finally begins to boil over, bubbles breaching the surface and splattering onto everything around him. They’re only looking out for him, Gartooth had said.
"No, you’re NOT!" He screams—to the sky, to the trees, to the water. To whatever will listen, because it seems no one else will. A paw digs into the sand, drawing up a pawful of his namesake, and for a moment he simply stares at it. Tiny crystals shine in the sunlight, and his eye goes out of focus for a moment. He blinks, but it doesn’t clear up, and instead, he feels wet warmth tracking down his cheek. He doesn’t bother to wipe the tear that’s sprung from his lone eye, because he doesn’t need to. There’s no one else around. So instead of shutting himself down, showing his emotions to the background like he would any other time, Sandpelt lunges.
His body arcs up in a leap, forepaws landing heavily on a shell that lies pristine across the sandy shore. A whisker-thin fracture splits the muddy-brown surface of the shell, exposing a glimpse of the shimmering white beneath its outer coat. Another slam of his paws, and a crack echoes through the air. It brings a smile to his face, however ragged—he’s finding ways to look at the joy that goes along with destruction. The pearlescent shine that’s exposed when the shell crumbles into three sharp pieces beneath his paws… it’s beautiful, even though it’s broken. Unlike Sandpelt. A heavy paw slake into the shell again, but it doesn’t have half the force of the first two strikes. Instead of focusing on putting more power into his blows, he draws a harsh breath and shouts, "You didn’t even want me!" They had wanted a pristine, perfect child, one who would exemplify all the traits of a model RiverClanner. A beautiful child, heir to their perfect legacy. His mediocrity must have made them stop hoping for his success, somewhere along the way.
He thought he had come to terms with his place in RiverClan before, but his talk with his parents has cleared things up at last. He will never be good enough. For his parents, for his clan, for any friends he may have made. He’ll never be anything more than average, and that thought is quicksand in his mind. Fighting against it only threatens to make him sink lower—all he can do is accept it, and float on as though it doesn’t bother him. He takes a deep breath, shuts his eye, and tries to swipe all the negative thoughts away before he finally pushes through the reeds and crosses the river to emerge within the clan’s camp. A stone sits in his stomach, a heavy anchor of anxiety that he can’t dislodge. But it doesn’t show on his face. It never shows on his face.
