WE AIN'T FOUND SOME NEW SHORE — sootspot

[Thriftfeather]

There is no limit to the length of a silence. Thriftfeather has already known this: he learns it once again in the quiet of the nursery. Sometimes it is peaceful, accompanied by the filtered sounds of a bustling camp—conversation too distant to be understood by Thriftfeather's unwelcome ears, the final chorus that birds offer the sky before they travel to some unknown elsewhere. Sometimes it is a silence that feels so much like a peaceful morning that Thriftfeather can almost forget how thin a line he has walked.

More often than not it is a heavy silence.

Sootspot's place in the nursery had come as a surprise to Thriftfeather. He hadn't known the other tom was a father, not until he had seen the way Sootspot had coiled protectively around one of the kits, until later, when Thriftfeather had time to put the pieces together. He hadn't known Sootspot to be the sort to dedicate himself to a single space like this. He hadn't known Sootspot had ever had a mate—something he wisely pushes from his mind in their obvious absence.

"That kit of yours," Thriftfeather ventures. His voice sounds feeble to his own ears—too uncertain to hold up against the oppressive weight in the air, "Heatherkit...? She has a quick tongue."

His mouth twitches into a forced smile, even when the amusement he feels is real. Heatherkit really had known how to make an impression—time offers a distance that allows Thriftfeather to appreciate that. He doesn't bring up the things Sootspot had said that day, couldn't recall them with any kind of clarity even had he the desire for it.

@SOOTSPOT ​

DUSKCLAN DEPUTY ✦ GOLDEN TABBY TOM ✦ 19 MOONS ✦ TAGS​

 

[SOOTSPOT]

The nursery was a ticking timebomb, waiting only for the slightest aggression for it to explode. Sootspot can only justify Sunstar's choice to keep Thriftfeather within its walls as a test to see if he would endanger any kittens, but all the tom could see was a threat to his own, a poison that would spread not through claws but through lies. Dimmingsun's shadow had been reason enough for Sootspot to break his promise of violence - if anyone was going to sully their name to do the right thing, then it really shouldn't be himself. But fate had a funny way of testing even the most patient creatures.

Lying down within a large nest, it took a moment for the tom to realise that Thriftfeather was talking, the smile upon his muzzle well-rehearsed as he turned his said to see who the other was talking to. Eyes undeserving of basking upon him met Sootspot's. Heatherkit's name was spoken and the good will left his expression as slow as a drying puddle. He did not blink, did not speak. He could not begin to discern what the other wanted, bringing up his daughter only reminded the tom of all she would be forced to endure if Thriftfeather was allowed to stay. Perhaps it was to be a swan song from the golden tabby. Or a misguided attempt at manipulation. The little Tunneler rose to his paws, scarcely needing to crouch to avoid brushing his head atop the Nursery's roof.

He offered a mercy the other did not deserve, a chance to change the subject, but when Thriftfeather didn't take it fast enough for Sootspot's liking, he broke his vigil.

"Your kittens are damaged, sickly things. Even if they survive, combined... they will never be the half the cat Heatherkit is shaping up to be." Sootspot was not a fighter, he was a thinker. Always thinking about what to say, how to say it, whether it was worth saying it. Staring down Thriftfeather, he did not wish to fight or think. An agitated mind begged for a body, and all he could do to temper it was bury his shovel-like claws into the moss and beg the Stars that Thriftfeather would take the easy way out. "When that dappled one dies, I hope you will reconsider my offer and join her. That is the choice I am giving you. Talk about my family again, and you will not get one."


​

 

[Thriftfeather]

Whatever response Thriftfeather had expected—to be ignored, for Sootspot to take Thriftfeather's words as the tentative praise as they were—is washed away like dust beneath rain the moment Sootspot opens his mouth. Thriftfeather shifts without standing into a position more defendable as Sootspot rises, suddenly too aware of how small the space is here, too aware of how easy it would be for this to fall into a fight. Could he even allow himself to fend Sootspot off, should he decide to attack?

"These kits—my kits—are your kin," His voice isn't accusing, but is instead tinged with a genuine disbelief that Sootspot would be so flippant about the life of his niece, so insulting towards his own blood, "Whether you like it or—whatever you think of them or me or—or—or Bluefrost. Pretending that they aren't couldn't—it doesn't change that they are."

He shifts again, forces some of the growing tension from himself despite every instinct that cries out in protest. Like this, still laying, he needs to look up to Sootspot. It reminds him of being an apprentice, younger, the time before Thriftfeather had outgrown him. Thriftfeather's whiskers press flat against his cheeks while his ears turn without settling.

"Rimekit isn't going to—you shouldn't say things like that," Frustration mixes confusingly with an older desire: the want to twist himself into whichever shape is the most acceptable to whatever angry face stands before him that day. Thriftfeather huffs against the way his chest clenches because, damn the stars, he still wants Sootspot to like him. When Thriftfeather next speaks, his voice comes subdued, "I'm sorry for—I won't talk about your kits again. But your offer is..."

There isn't space for Thriftfeather to even consider it; hasn't Thriftfeather always chosen life? The phantom taste of blood covers his tongue. His own teeth around her throat had been the kindest thing Thriftfeather could have given Ghostwail and himself. He cannot stop himself from wondering if Sootspot sees his own offer as a similar kindness.

"I don't have any reason to consider it. You seem to think—you think it's certain that StarClan will be greeting me," His green eyes flick upwards beyond his own volition, as if StarClan is watching him, even now, as if they pull apart and judge his every action as thoroughly as he has done to himself. ​

DUSKCLAN DEPUTY ✦ GOLDEN TABBY TOM ✦ 19 MOONS ✦ TAGS​

 

[SOOTSPOT]

"Kin?!" His whiskers twitched as a bark-like laughter escaped him. The word felt like acid on his tongue, it felt like just yesterday he'd be willing to do anything for them. But then the clan turned, siblings divided, and resentment he'd been able to put aside for ambition had bubbled to the surface like lava. Suddenly, their mother paying attention to them over him had not been an annoyance, it had been a purposeful slight. "Is that what you call those who would bury me alive for a chance at redemption and power? Then I suppose all DuskClanners are my kin. How tragic that my bloodline runs so thin, that I must share it with you."

The Nursery was small, with little space for a conflict. Yet, whenever his gaze settled upon Thriftfeather's kittens, he was surprised at how large the distance felt between himself and them. Nieces and Nephews, Sootstar's grandkids, and yet the little part of his heart that told him to love could not even attempt to beat with them. They were whiny and mewling, lacked any personality, couldn't even open their eyes... were they even cats? What was anyone supposed to do with them besides watching as they cried and slept? Boring, he realised. 'I cannot love anything so boring.'

His gaze re-sharpened, focusing on Thriftfeather like a hawk that had spotted its prey. "I feel sorry for her. To traverse up to the Starry plains alone... wondering why mummy and daddy are so far away and can't talk to her. A lifetime of confusion and abandonment, all because you were too selfish to lay down and die." Sootspot could not see a world where he lost. If Thriftfeather attacked, he would be seen as volatile, a breaker of good faith. If he relented, he would be a coward, clearly someone still as moldable as when Ghostwail had her claws in him. The muscles in his neck tensed as he awaited an answer, half-expecting the other to jump up from his sedentary position.

I won't talk about your kits again. Compliance.

His claws sheathed - one good deed deserved another. "Good. Keep it that way." He was sure he'd made it perfectly clear that there would be no warning next time.

The tom's ears swiveled twice and one corner of his head twitched in a fight against his confusion. "StarClan greets all manners of vagrants and mousefodder," he mewed as if it were plainly obvious, baffled enough to drop any hostile guise. Kittypets, traitors, rogues, sometimes all three. Thriftfeather had grew up in WindClan... was it not a lesson so universally shared? "You are not scared of what you will find, are you?


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[Thriftfeather]

"Kin," A previously absent harshness edges into Thriftfeather's voice, "It was you that taught me the importance of blood. Do you remember that? Or is it—do things like this only matter when they benefit you?" WindClan's first trueborn litter—Thriftfeather recalls the mix of indignation and jealousy that he had felt towards Sootspot, the way he rationalized his disbelief as a product of his own ignorance. But Sootspot had been right that day: blood in WindClan matters. Thriftfeather has seen evidence enough of that countless times over.

And then Sootspot continues; Thriftfeather's whole body needs to clench to stop himself from rising and reminding Sootspot that he is breakable.

"How can you just—how can your mind even think these things? How do you then say them?" The disbelief remains despite the way that Thriftfeather spits around his words, "It's like you want her death. She's a kit! Do you hear yourself? Could you—would you ever say this in front of someone other than me?" Thriftfeather still doesn't rise, "You are a vapid, rotten, spoiled little tom."

To Sootspot's question, Thriftfeather huffs. It is easy to remember his every doubt that StarClan watches him, that the dead would even live in Silverpelt, the indecision that crawled down his throat as he fretted over what to say to Gravelpaw, but the bitter thought takes him that Sootspot doesn't deserve to know. "It'll be a miracle—I pray that your kits grow up to be nothing like you. Denying that Rimekit—that any of these kits—are your kin makes you sound delusional to any rational ear, but you—you've—StarClan, if blood was a choice, Bluefrost would have never chosen you."​

DUSKCLAN DEPUTY ✦ GOLDEN TABBY TOM ✦ 19 MOONS ✦ TAGS​