- Oct 4, 2022
- 79
- 7
- 8
The two elders that Loam is tasked with de-ticking lay in a half circle, eyes closed against a sunbeam. She’s never been around anyone so old, she thinks. Their skin seems loosened, ready to shake from their bones like autumnal leaves from a branch. The elder that Loam grooms currently is a murky-pelted and ragged looking thing. He speaks as Loam works, and she listens to the low rumble of his voice more than his actual words.
“I had a brother like you,”
Loam looks up. It hadn’t been the elder she had been grooming who spoke, but rather the one she had already groomed. Lichenjaw, she thinks his name is.
He’d interrupted Tinystride’s story. Loam’s nose wrinkles.
“Had a paw like yours,” Maybe-Lichenjaw continues, and Loam looks up at him proper. He isn’t looking back at Loam, rather he is looking, with eyes squinted against the light, skyward, “Creek, that was his name, Creek.”
Loam glances to Tinystride, seeking a mutual confusion, but finds that Tinystride is focused intently on Lichenjaw.
“I remember Creek,” Tinystride says. He glances to Loam, “Ornery, that one. You would’a liked him.”
“Dead now,” Lichenjaw adds, as if Loam couldn’t have gathered, “But it wasn’t his paw that got him. Caught a cough, or a cough caught him.”
“Damn shame,” Tinystride says at the same time that Lichenjaw asks, “Have I ever told you about Creek?”
Loam wonders if the only relevance Creek has to her is her paw. She wonders if it would be such a terrible thing to say I don’t care, can Tinystride finish his story? but settles on a simple, “No.”
Lichenjaw– Loam truly isn’t certain if that is his name– takes her response as an invitation to launch into the life story of Creek. When Loam tries to finish grooming Tinystride he tells her that she has done enough, and that she can sit and enjoy the story. Loam doesn’t sigh, but it is a near thing. Creek had lived an exciting life, it seems, but Lichenjaw tells the story with the grace of a robin's first flight. When Creek finally caught that cough, or when that cough finally caught him, Loam stands abruptly.
"That was–" Loam's nose curls, at a loss for a polite thing to say. Her mother would tell her to not speak at all in this case, but Loam forges ahead anyhow, "–certainly l-luh-long."
"You go have fun now," Tinystride dismisses her with a wave of his paw, his eyes crinkled with amusement, "Enjoy being young while you can!"
Loam bows, not wanting to be completely rude, and begins to pad away.
"What do you think of that one?"
Loam's ear twitches, but she doesn't turn. That had been Lichenjaw. Do they know she's still in earshot? Loam slows, and then sits in a way that she hopes is unsuspicious.
"She's a bright young girl and she's got'a'lot of pluck. Guar-an-teed to be trouble, but aren’t they all at that age? She’ll grow to be a fine warrior indeed,” Tinystride replies and Lichenjaw makes a noise of agreement, but Loam has stopped listening.
Nothing they had said was wrong, and yet something curls in Loam’s gut. It feels a bit like disappointment. Loam has never noticed before. She wants her mother with a sudden fierceness that nearly shakes Loam from where she sits. A compliment is a strange thing to be disappointed by. It calls to mind a future for Loam, a fine warrior, grown from a girl.
Feeling brave, seeking something, Loam looks over her shoulder. The elders aren’t looking her way, and their conversation has moved on to the clanmates they had lost before ShadowClan was even an idea. Loam doesn’t particularly care.
Oh, Loam realizes with a start what was so bothersome about that vision of the future. This, her time in ShadowClan, isn't going to be forever. This is all temporary. She isn't going to be a warrior, despite what those elders think. Her mother will find her and thank ShadowClan for tending to Loam for all these moons, and then the two of them are going to go somewhere else. That's what bothered Loam.
Still, the feeling doesn't abate, not fully. It feels, still, like disappointment.
“I had a brother like you,”
Loam looks up. It hadn’t been the elder she had been grooming who spoke, but rather the one she had already groomed. Lichenjaw, she thinks his name is.
He’d interrupted Tinystride’s story. Loam’s nose wrinkles.
“Had a paw like yours,” Maybe-Lichenjaw continues, and Loam looks up at him proper. He isn’t looking back at Loam, rather he is looking, with eyes squinted against the light, skyward, “Creek, that was his name, Creek.”
Loam glances to Tinystride, seeking a mutual confusion, but finds that Tinystride is focused intently on Lichenjaw.
“I remember Creek,” Tinystride says. He glances to Loam, “Ornery, that one. You would’a liked him.”
“Dead now,” Lichenjaw adds, as if Loam couldn’t have gathered, “But it wasn’t his paw that got him. Caught a cough, or a cough caught him.”
“Damn shame,” Tinystride says at the same time that Lichenjaw asks, “Have I ever told you about Creek?”
Loam wonders if the only relevance Creek has to her is her paw. She wonders if it would be such a terrible thing to say I don’t care, can Tinystride finish his story? but settles on a simple, “No.”
Lichenjaw– Loam truly isn’t certain if that is his name– takes her response as an invitation to launch into the life story of Creek. When Loam tries to finish grooming Tinystride he tells her that she has done enough, and that she can sit and enjoy the story. Loam doesn’t sigh, but it is a near thing. Creek had lived an exciting life, it seems, but Lichenjaw tells the story with the grace of a robin's first flight. When Creek finally caught that cough, or when that cough finally caught him, Loam stands abruptly.
"That was–" Loam's nose curls, at a loss for a polite thing to say. Her mother would tell her to not speak at all in this case, but Loam forges ahead anyhow, "–certainly l-luh-long."
"You go have fun now," Tinystride dismisses her with a wave of his paw, his eyes crinkled with amusement, "Enjoy being young while you can!"
Loam bows, not wanting to be completely rude, and begins to pad away.
"What do you think of that one?"
Loam's ear twitches, but she doesn't turn. That had been Lichenjaw. Do they know she's still in earshot? Loam slows, and then sits in a way that she hopes is unsuspicious.
"She's a bright young girl and she's got'a'lot of pluck. Guar-an-teed to be trouble, but aren’t they all at that age? She’ll grow to be a fine warrior indeed,” Tinystride replies and Lichenjaw makes a noise of agreement, but Loam has stopped listening.
Nothing they had said was wrong, and yet something curls in Loam’s gut. It feels a bit like disappointment. Loam has never noticed before. She wants her mother with a sudden fierceness that nearly shakes Loam from where she sits. A compliment is a strange thing to be disappointed by. It calls to mind a future for Loam, a fine warrior, grown from a girl.
Feeling brave, seeking something, Loam looks over her shoulder. The elders aren’t looking her way, and their conversation has moved on to the clanmates they had lost before ShadowClan was even an idea. Loam doesn’t particularly care.
Oh, Loam realizes with a start what was so bothersome about that vision of the future. This, her time in ShadowClan, isn't going to be forever. This is all temporary. She isn't going to be a warrior, despite what those elders think. Her mother will find her and thank ShadowClan for tending to Loam for all these moons, and then the two of them are going to go somewhere else. That's what bothered Loam.
Still, the feeling doesn't abate, not fully. It feels, still, like disappointment.
tags ∘ shadowclan apprentice ∘ solid black with hazel eyes ∘ curled front foot ∘ 5 moons
