- Feb 9, 2023
- 476
- 161
- 43
Cottonpaw doesn't mean to watch the flames, but she does. The field of wildflowers that they boasted a mere week ago burns terribly - spots where they've harvested lavender, broom, lungwort, all destroyed. She wishes she had gathered more when they were plentiful. Even if they were to wither and wilt and ultimately become useless in the confines of the medicine den, then at least they would've not burned. She stares out at the fire, slowly consuming more tall grass, blooms, and weeds alike, and all she can do is wonder... how they got here.
She considers the twolegs in their quiet complacency. They must have a hand in the smoke and ash, as surely they would've been as alarmed by it as she and her Clanmates are. Yet all the same, she is seated in an untouched bushel of dandelions, watching the flames helplessly. Perhaps they're calm because they are like she, well immersed in the fact that nothing can be done about it now. The fire will eat endlessly for it will never be full. It will devour their home and only leave behind soot - something clinks in her chest and hurts as she thinks it. Would StarClan be so cruel as to deign them an eternity of reminders of their fallen founder? Must they always return to her bloodied paws, see her slinking in the shadows of their dreams?
A sudden gust of wind blows from behind Cottonpaw, into the fire. The dandelions that've changed into fluffy puffs greedily take the journey, excited to be free. She watches as one by one, seeds clutching to tufts of white are consumed by plumes of strangely controlled flames. There's a selfish thought in her mind's eye. StarClan finds Wolfsong easily, gifts him prophecy and signs time and time again. She always thought that upon graduation, StarClan would finally trust her with similar gifts. But as white, cotton-like puffs burn and leave nothing behind - she wonders if signs are meant for all. If destiny burns beyond StarClan's glittering paws, and if she perceives her future plainly in front of her.
Cottonpaw dismisses the thought in a small snort of desperation, however the pain in her chest doesn't leave her so quickly.
She finally stands when the smoke starts to hurt her throat. Her herb gathering trip is meager and pitiful, but at least this time she has a true reason to blame outside of her own inadequacy. She turns with the few bundles of moss she's found tucked under her chin, trotting back home with nothing to her name.
She considers the twolegs in their quiet complacency. They must have a hand in the smoke and ash, as surely they would've been as alarmed by it as she and her Clanmates are. Yet all the same, she is seated in an untouched bushel of dandelions, watching the flames helplessly. Perhaps they're calm because they are like she, well immersed in the fact that nothing can be done about it now. The fire will eat endlessly for it will never be full. It will devour their home and only leave behind soot - something clinks in her chest and hurts as she thinks it. Would StarClan be so cruel as to deign them an eternity of reminders of their fallen founder? Must they always return to her bloodied paws, see her slinking in the shadows of their dreams?
A sudden gust of wind blows from behind Cottonpaw, into the fire. The dandelions that've changed into fluffy puffs greedily take the journey, excited to be free. She watches as one by one, seeds clutching to tufts of white are consumed by plumes of strangely controlled flames. There's a selfish thought in her mind's eye. StarClan finds Wolfsong easily, gifts him prophecy and signs time and time again. She always thought that upon graduation, StarClan would finally trust her with similar gifts. But as white, cotton-like puffs burn and leave nothing behind - she wonders if signs are meant for all. If destiny burns beyond StarClan's glittering paws, and if she perceives her future plainly in front of her.
Cottonpaw dismisses the thought in a small snort of desperation, however the pain in her chest doesn't leave her so quickly.
She finally stands when the smoke starts to hurt her throat. Her herb gathering trip is meager and pitiful, but at least this time she has a true reason to blame outside of her own inadequacy. She turns with the few bundles of moss she's found tucked under her chin, trotting back home with nothing to her name.