- May 5, 2023
- 484
- 199
- 43
The trek to SkyClan's graveyard feels long in the darkness of a morning too early for birdsong, made in a penitent sort of silence. Her pawsteps, muffled by dew - softened grass and fragrant crushed pine underpaw, are a disruption in the holy silence of the dawn, as the creak of chapel floors long untouched. Tranquility swallows the world whole, the landscaped steeped in roiling mist and amaranth just beginning to spill onto the horizon, the barest arcs of light seeping through ever - verdant branches. A corona of light bleeds around the head of the lone warrior on her reverent journey, tawny fur limned in the dying half - light of the moon and the newborn gilt of the sun, spilling into a white - gold aureole and casting a lone celadon eye into ever - contrasting shadow.
Her impromptu halo's color finds a match in the fragile blossoms caught between pearled fangs, papery pale wildflowers with their stems gathered up in her teeth, heavy - petaled heads drooping low to thump against her thin chest. Each soft impact sheds small fragments of petals, trailing in little white tangles behind her like broken rosary beads to mark her path. She flicks her head, tasting fresh green on her tongue as she resettles the stems in her tired jaws, feeling the soil grow soft with digging underpaw. It can't be much further.
Indeed, the listing rows of mounded earth, the most beloved freshly crowned with gifts, await her just ahead; the oldest of them grown over with moss and carpeted with layers of needles, the ground slowly retaking the haphazard markers as it'd taken their residents. The path below her calloused paws is velvet - soft and smooth where they are not, where she is not, worn down by the very same white - dipped paws and no doubt those of many other mourners . . . though it's hardly a stretch to say she might be the most frequent visitor.
Rotting flowers are mounded high in a slowly - disintegrating pile, an unsightly visual but one she doesn't have the heart to sweep away with one broad motion of her paw. Instead, she christens the mouldering petals with their latest addition, settling the cream - tinged blossoms gently on top of their predecessors, new perfume overtaking the undercurrent of rot. A green eye sweeps over the vacant graveyard . . . it's rare she has a companion, especially with her proclivity for timing her visits with the sun's rise, half of necessity and half of sentimentality. Not only does it ensure her privacy, it also enables her to greet the day with the soft - washed gold of the sun sweeping the landscape, a paling replacement for that long sunken beneath the earth just before her paws.
" Cherryblossom asked me if I'd ever thought about changing my name yesterday, " she murmurs to the moon - cooled grave, husky voice relatively even today . . . there have been days she's screamed to this vacant slab of earth, begged it, fallen asleep tear - streaked. The soil here is drenched in salt, but not today, though she can't help the slight dewiness at the corner of her eye, quickly swept away by one paw. " She's the deputy now, did you know that? I don't know if you can see it, from up there . . . "
The tabby trails off, head canting upwards so that a ripe green eye might seek that steadfast star, twinkling golden at the horizon's edge . . . rosy pink dawn has just begun to blot it out, but she thinks she can see its shimmering remnants. Her words are directed both to the soul - vacated body buried before her and the spirit dancing upwards on star - smeared paws. " Anyways, " she redirects with a rasping laugh, " . . . I guess I hadn't really thought about it before, you know? I've just always been Bobbie, and we never really talked about it. Silversmoke mentioned it a couple times, " she scoffs at this aside. Velvety ears twitch thoughtfully. " I wonder what warrior name you would've chosen for me. I wish I'd asked. "
All of her breath seems to leave her in a weary whoosh of a sigh as the meaning of her own words sinks a blow into her gut and settles there, but she continues on, white paw tracing nonsense shapes in the dirt. " I guess I'm thinking about it now, " she admits with another chuckle. " I mean, I just wonder, maybe it is time. I think I can count the other cats who've kept their names on one paw. "
" I guess I'd better get back before Slate bites my head off for missing patrol, " Bobbie concludes with a half - grumble, pressing her nose gently to the newest bundle of flowers crowning the grave. " But I'll think on it. Love you. "
Her impromptu halo's color finds a match in the fragile blossoms caught between pearled fangs, papery pale wildflowers with their stems gathered up in her teeth, heavy - petaled heads drooping low to thump against her thin chest. Each soft impact sheds small fragments of petals, trailing in little white tangles behind her like broken rosary beads to mark her path. She flicks her head, tasting fresh green on her tongue as she resettles the stems in her tired jaws, feeling the soil grow soft with digging underpaw. It can't be much further.
Indeed, the listing rows of mounded earth, the most beloved freshly crowned with gifts, await her just ahead; the oldest of them grown over with moss and carpeted with layers of needles, the ground slowly retaking the haphazard markers as it'd taken their residents. The path below her calloused paws is velvet - soft and smooth where they are not, where she is not, worn down by the very same white - dipped paws and no doubt those of many other mourners . . . though it's hardly a stretch to say she might be the most frequent visitor.
Rotting flowers are mounded high in a slowly - disintegrating pile, an unsightly visual but one she doesn't have the heart to sweep away with one broad motion of her paw. Instead, she christens the mouldering petals with their latest addition, settling the cream - tinged blossoms gently on top of their predecessors, new perfume overtaking the undercurrent of rot. A green eye sweeps over the vacant graveyard . . . it's rare she has a companion, especially with her proclivity for timing her visits with the sun's rise, half of necessity and half of sentimentality. Not only does it ensure her privacy, it also enables her to greet the day with the soft - washed gold of the sun sweeping the landscape, a paling replacement for that long sunken beneath the earth just before her paws.
" Cherryblossom asked me if I'd ever thought about changing my name yesterday, " she murmurs to the moon - cooled grave, husky voice relatively even today . . . there have been days she's screamed to this vacant slab of earth, begged it, fallen asleep tear - streaked. The soil here is drenched in salt, but not today, though she can't help the slight dewiness at the corner of her eye, quickly swept away by one paw. " She's the deputy now, did you know that? I don't know if you can see it, from up there . . . "
The tabby trails off, head canting upwards so that a ripe green eye might seek that steadfast star, twinkling golden at the horizon's edge . . . rosy pink dawn has just begun to blot it out, but she thinks she can see its shimmering remnants. Her words are directed both to the soul - vacated body buried before her and the spirit dancing upwards on star - smeared paws. " Anyways, " she redirects with a rasping laugh, " . . . I guess I hadn't really thought about it before, you know? I've just always been Bobbie, and we never really talked about it. Silversmoke mentioned it a couple times, " she scoffs at this aside. Velvety ears twitch thoughtfully. " I wonder what warrior name you would've chosen for me. I wish I'd asked. "
All of her breath seems to leave her in a weary whoosh of a sigh as the meaning of her own words sinks a blow into her gut and settles there, but she continues on, white paw tracing nonsense shapes in the dirt. " I guess I'm thinking about it now, " she admits with another chuckle. " I mean, I just wonder, maybe it is time. I think I can count the other cats who've kept their names on one paw. "
" I guess I'd better get back before Slate bites my head off for missing patrol, " Bobbie concludes with a half - grumble, pressing her nose gently to the newest bundle of flowers crowning the grave. " But I'll think on it. Love you. "
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