private What I Really Meant To Say | Snakeblink

[Cindershade]

The silver light of the moon cascades an eerie veil of silver across a now silent camp. Everyone is asleep, snoozing away in their dens and at peace as they succumb to the sweet caress of darkness. Some may dream, more snore or fidget—or some, may just not be asleep at all. A lively shadow forms, blended with deep shades of black and smokey silver. She is unable to snooze, yet again. She sits there, back placed against a wall of soft sedge and moss with a craned neck pointed to the sky. Mist-like clouds travel at a snail's pace to her, as if not a care in the world. The deeps hues of Indigo, a vast pelt of velvet that rolls out for her—dotted elegantly with an array of twinkling stars. She watches them, always in awe of such beauty and she briefly wonders if it is a childish thing. A child's wonder and imagination of starry Heavens, regal in their own right. She wishes she could live under the veil of the moon, to live in such a world where the sun did not exist and life around her didn't rely on it's warmth to prosper. How would the world change, then? Would it be like in the marshland, swarming with fungi? How would the creatures adapt with no sense of light? How would she adapt? Could she? Or would she merely grow mad or even succumb to death and decay? Her body would melt into the ground, fertilizing the plant life and soon would be forgotten.
Cindershade would shudder immensely at that thought, the thought of death—and she swears a scent of rotting meat and flesh permeates her nostrils that twists her stomach in knots. Her mind travels to Beesong, how their body would be no more now—how the ground would meld it into something and feed off it's nutrients. The lead hates thinking that way, hates that everytime she tries to imagine the cinnamon tabby that all she sees is a mangled body with tousled limbs and that face—that face that was usually so full of life, twisted and contorted into something akin to fear, but more. What was it like to feel such a thing, to fear the inevitable, able to do nothing but succumb to the claws of fate? Teeth clench and grind, the muscles of her cheeks working as his face lingers in the depths of her psyche. Waterlogged, drowned, broken—a feeble misstep ending in a death sentence and it rocks her to her core. Death was never something she had feared, willing to bear tooth and fang—to bleed for the sake of RiverClan and of Cicadastar. She had always assumed her death would be of battle, the thrilling sensation of adrenaline pulsing through her, unable to feel pain until the aftermath or not able to feel it at all when her body couldn't keep up.
So why had her near drowning been so different? Why did that terrify her to the point to where she was hesitant at the water's edge? She had to force herself to wade in, to hunt only with no time for leisure. Maybe it was because she felt that helplessness; being caught in Two-Leg trash as if it were a river-dwelling beast and no matter how hard she fought, how much she thrashed, that she was helpless—vulnerable. Succulent oxygen mere meters away, taunting her with such cruelty. She really thought she was going to die.

But she didn't.

StarClan's graces, a miracle of working claws and fierce determination of not onky her, but of Clayfur and Snakeblink. They risked their own lives, risked them for her to break her free eith their own dying breath. The woman didn't know what to make of it, didn't know how to process it. She had only saved herself before, or saved someone else. She fought her way through frigid waters that clutched to her with a steel grip, saving Smokethroat from his own doom when the ice broke under his weight. She yanked Snakeblink from the very edge of death, his own misstep into the mouth of the beast—the gorge. She yanked him back with such a fieriocity, her own wild heart drumming frantically. But now, she was the metaphorical damsel in distress—she was the one who had to be saved and she didn't know how to cope with it. Cindershade hadn't spoke of it, had kept it under lock and key—determined to bury it deep, but like a festering sore, it just kept revealing it's ugly head. She needed to speak of it, to rid it forever, and she supposed—the only way to do that was to offer her thanks; perhaps then, then it would leave her be.

A heavy sigh leaves her, followed by a heavy breeze as if the wetlands sighed with her. A sigh of relief. Silent paws would move, a dark apparition as she glides to the warrior's den. She needed to speak with him, not in the morning with prying ears, but now. It was her one and only chance. As the mouth if the warrior's den encroached, a rustle of bracken is heard that makes her falter with perked ears. A body of spindly limbs creep from it's shadow, cloaked in pearlescent white and chestnut tabby with illuminscent green eyes, darker than her own with a signature scar. Cindershade is taken back, the hairs along her spine bristling in a wary alarm. "Snakeblink?"

// @Snakeblink HEHEHEHEHE HAPPY 200TH
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[ SILENCE IS DEAFENING ]​

 

[Snakeblink]

MAYBE I'D BE A SAINT IF I WEREN'T ————————————​

For someone with such poor night vision, Snakeblink sure does like to take trips in complete darkness. He cannot help himself: he gets restless when idle, and there’s only so much he can do within the confine of the den during long insomniac hours without waking anyone up. He’s had much on his mind lately: his duties and habitual anxiety have not allowed him much sleep at all. There’s always one last thing to do, one more reason to push back the end of the day or to start it even earlier, and nagging thoughts to keep him up in the hours between.

That’s nothing new, though; he’s quite used to the lack of rest, the gritty feeling beneath his eyelids and the ache between his shoulder blades from over-tense shoulders. If anything it’s the few reliefs he get that are so new as to be strange: Cicadastar’s trust, Willowroot’s kindness, Ashpaw’s miraculous return and clanmates’ newfound willingness (at times) to turn to him for guidance. All of these leave him floundering, overjoyed and terrified to lose something so newly gained, but none as much — as acutely — as Cindershade’s company.

The start of his relationship with the black-furred molly was not exactly auspicious. She is not an easy she-cat to get close to in normal circumstances, and every action on his part seemed to work against him: insulting her time and time again, grating on her nerves with his simple presence… Initial indifference quickly turned into animosity, and although he knows her to care too much for her clan to unsheathe her claws on him he more than once caught the very real desire to do so in her eyes. He did not stop trying — it would take much more than that for him to give up — but he did, for a time, think his quest to redeem himself in her eyes was a lost cause.

Yet, somehow… they have grown closer. Through sheer stubbornness and occasional disregard of the clear signs that she would rather be rid of him, Snakeblink has managed to worm his way closer to Cindershade. She almost seems to enjoy his company at times, if only because his constant blunders allow her to laugh at his expanse. Ever since the incident at the bridge — his body still jolts with remembered fright at the thought of her not resurfacing, trapped beneath the surface by twoleg trash — she even seems to trust him. It’s… heartening. To know that even she could be swayed to find him palatable; to be able to count on her not just as a fellow clanmate but as a comrade she would stand up for, against even the mild threat of insults at the Gathering.

Blindly stepping between sleeping bodies, Snakeblink slips out of the den and into the cool greenleaf night. He feels the warm breath of a presence just before he hears a voice: Cindershade, as if summoned by his thoughts, whispering his name. Of the she-cat he only sees the reflected shine of her eyes in the dark, and even that is faint: all of her being blends so well with the night she might as well have been cut out of it.

”Cindershade,” he whispers back, stepping aside to allow her passage into the den. ”Quiet night?”
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——————————————————————————————————— so god damn lonely ​

ooc. information.

• HAPPY 200TH PARTNER >:]
  
• — Snakeblink • he / him. 42 ☾, riverclan warrior
  — a sleek, skinny tabby with long ears and a scar over his right eye.
  — gay, not actually evil, penned by @Kangoo
  
  
  

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[Cindershade]

A sudden feeling of discomfort settles in the pit of her stomach now, as if she has swallowed a multitude of river stones. Her festering thoughts still worm their way into the back of her psyche, brief flashes of tabby fur and earthen tones in bracken water. Her lungs feel as if they were suppressed once more, her body screaming for an ounce of oxygen to breathe. Sharp features look over her, towering over her and suddenly she feels small—a miniscule insect against a looming behemoth. She hates this. She hates this and she wants to get angry and lash out, yet she does not. Inside she is cringing and wriggling like prey clasped under powerful claws with a vice grip on her throat, but on the outside she is calm as always—her only fault was the steady kneading of knuckled paws against the damp earth.
A clear of her throat is sounded and she beckons him further away from the confines of the woven dens. "Yes, quiet indeed." A lie. A blatant lie and her usual formality falters greatly, a dead giveaway of troubled thoughts and anxiety that had been plaguing her for days. She did not feel like herself right now, she felt weak—vulnerable, even. "Why are you up at these hours? Dawn isn't for quite awhile." The usual lulling noose of the cicada's song had been doused for whatever reason, a coincidence maybe or a sign? Whatever it was, she cursed it under her breath. The awkward tension that brewed between them only grew more palpable and heavy, causing the lead to inwardly squirm under her mask of steel and ice. Snakeblink—a blundering fool and yet so cunning all at once. She could not make heads or tails of him. Apart of her found him so insufferable, yet she found herself seeking his presence more and more. He was loyal, a clanmate—and a bond that begins to lace between them much like Willowroot and Smokethroat wants to flourish. She does not want it—yet it seems she lies to herself quite often. It was messy, uncharacteristic, and unplanned. Yet—here they stand together. Total opposites of the spectrum and she still holds a certain respect for him thst she has not admitted out loud nor to herself until now.
Her maw begins to open despite several attempts for her to snap it shut, she frantically searches for the words to say to him—a way to inadvertently thank him without actually doing it but she can't find the right words. Frustration builds, budding in her chest like New-Leaf flowers and she finds herself biting the inside of her lip. Just say it and be done, a voice whispers to her—a voice that is not her own. Fine. She doesn't have the energy to fight it any longer, so a part of her will come to the surface that is a rarity in itself; especially for the spindly warrior before her. "Listen—" She begins, practically choking the words. "About that day—I never, uhm. I never gave you or Clayfur my thanks." Claws dig in even more, uprooting the grass and soil beneath her kneading paws. "I owe you both a great debt."

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[ SILENCE IS DEAFENING ]​

 

[Snakeblink]

MAYBE I'D BE A SAINT IF I WEREN'T ————————————​

The air shifts, the luminescence of Cindershade’s angling away as she moves away from the den. He falls into step with her naturally: he’s starting to get a read on her, when she seeks companionship and when she’s more likely to bite his head off if he offers it.

”Oh, you know how I am,” he hums back as he carefully picks his way out in the dark. There’s an odd note in her voice that he can’t quite place, but nothing in her behavior otherwise betrays her innermost feelings. He will have to wait and see. Quirking up a slight smile, he goes on to say, ”Sleep eluded me, and I thought I might go and walk right next to the gorge again — since it worked so well for me last time.”

She curses under her breath, too low for him to make out words. Now he knows for sure that there is something on her mind: if she were cursing at him, she would make sure he could hear it. He tilts his head, curious, and waits while Cindershade works through her thoughts, silent for a moment before all but spitting out the words she’s been chewing on.

I owe you both a great debt. The sincerity, the vulnerability of the words take him aback, and it’s a moment before he can find the words to reply, his own jaw working like a fish’s. ”Please,” he says, half chuckling out of disbelief. ”You would have done the same for me. Did, in fact, do the same before.”

He rolls his shoulders, remembering the sting of her claws in his skin as she hauled him away from the edge of the gorge. ”There is no debt between us — how could there ever be? You are my clanmate, my…” There he hesitates, casting a shy look in the direction of her voice. Softer, as if she might miss the words that way, he finishes, ”My friend. I would do a great deal more for you, and never think myself owed anything on your part for a second.”

It feels odd, that word — friend. It’s not one he often allows himself to think in relation to himself and others: too subjective of a judgment, too easily disappointed. The old worry has his heart in a tight grip: she might dismiss him, or laugh incredulously, or look at him in dismay: how could you think we’re friends, Snakeblink?.

But her companionship, her mellowing behavior, her sincerity tonight have given him ground to hope. If nothing else, she is too dutiful to be outright cruel. Besides, she likes a daring attitude better than his timidity on average; the worst that can happen is her turning her heels and walking away. And him having to follow closely so as to not bump into anything on the way back to the den, but he’s not a stranger to awkward situations.

Looking away into the pure darkness, he continues, to fill the silence: ”I’m glad Clayfur and I were there that day, and that we could help. I shudder to think what would have happened otherwise.”
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——————————————————————————————————— so god damn lonely ​

ooc. information.

• 
  
• — Snakeblink • he / him. 43 ☾, riverclan warrior
  — a sleek, skinny tabby with long ears and a scar over his right eye.
  — gay, not actually evil, penned by @Kangoo
  
  
  

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