- Jan 22, 2023
- 187
- 55
- 28
it was an awkward affair, the preparation. there was no body to lie. but she tries to imagine that doesn’t mean he can’t rest in peace anyway ; even as gentlestorm offers she and her family the honors of setting his final rest up, the tortoiseshell isn’t sure if it mattered. no body meant nothing to layer with lavender and mint, nothing to lick clean and tuck stiffening limbs into something like sleep, nothing to cry into until the sun rose over the trees. her family doesn’t get that luxury. she doesnt get a final rest with him, nor her father, nor her siblings. there are only scraps left, and lingering glances from clanmates tell that it is a bit much, the tufted lichen before them. she supposed he, of all cats, knew that torment. wolves had ended him, every bit of him. extinguished the sun, sated the inferno that had built the kindling for her flame. every bit of her is haunted, now ; the morning bleeds over her pelt now, vibrant shades of orange ribboning cruelly up her arms, across squared features, the dark of her lower body melding her into shadows as if death had mistaken her for him and had begun to pull her into the dark. a ghost, she feels like. a ghost and it’s bedeviled, all at once.
red sullies the sky overhead in blistering sunset and the bloodied ground suddenly becomes only a dappled thing, a grey and darker grey painted light over where kittens would one day play. one day soon, too. roeflame would have her kittens and they would trample little paws over the place her father had bled his last. would she be able to visit them still? was she selfish enough for it to matter? her best friend is never far from her now, even in her state ; but freckleflame scratches her grief close to her heart, tucks it inside and circles it like a mother herself. these decisions felt too big for her, suddenly — as if she were a kit again. she wanted to go to her father, but only rabbitnose was here now, and the alabaster tom was lost enough in his grief. they’d collected the moss together, melded it into a nest to stare at until warriors began to pad away for the night, tired and traumatized into their own nests. sunfreckles lie still in the warriors den alongside them, still smelling of his life and fur more than anything else did. left for her father ( and her, selfishly ), to lie in and pretend the scent would not gradually fade, as all things did.
yet there are only flowers in this moss nest. the queens had seen that it was a beautiful thing, rosy and blooming with life. roeflame had done her best with the touches, had done everything as gently as she could ; freckleflame had sat quietly to the side as she, flamewhisker and moonwhisper had woven stems through stems. even the latter of them delicate about it, mottled paws careful with amaryllian petals — but all that red was still red. it burns in a way he did not, not anymore, and she couldn’t bare carry his light now. she is greyed, vapored but when she blinks, she is back, sitting close to where an empty nest lies cold and unused before them. the mourning doves cry ( a sign, she thinks. she hears it in his voice. newleaf is here. he did like doves, didn’t he? ) her mouth opens, closes, opens again. a sound like a long, hoarse croak comes out instead and embarrassment flattens her ears, tucking her chin down into the fluff of her chest for a beat. she’d say to compose herself, but she’d never been compared before. there was no way she’d start now.
“ my dad.. “ she starts, and it’s poor, because her voice wobbles and suddenly, she doesn’t know where to go from there. she wants to say it again — my dad. again, and again, and again until he’s tangible again. she wanted to sit and cry and mewl until her dad came back, because he always had, all her life. if her eyes ever misted, he was there. before she’d so much as opened her eyes, he’d been there. she’d never had to stamp her feet and sob the way mousenose had ( it seemed like such a long time ago now, when that had angered her. childish, competitive anger. their fathers had always loved them, though. both of them, through their own troubles and more. ) a pregnant pause is interrupted by her own wet sniff, and the stick of her mouth tells her to keep going. so she does. she’d only ever been good at running her mouth, and sunfreckle would hate to see them mopeing around like they were. so she continues through hard, rasping tones, green eyes blearily turned towards the scarlet sky, “ my dad meant everything to me. i dunno what else t’ say aside from that, he just.. was. he was like th’ sun. we always joked that his name suited him best of all, but it really did — ‘s like a big light went out, isn’t it? “ a humorless laugh, an ugly, wet sniff that tells of worn sinuses and tears long cries. her teeth grit against it, head coming to hang between her shoulders, murmuring a final, “ i pray th’ stars understand what they have.. and i hope they still let him shine th’ brightest. “
because he had to be a hero. he just had to. it’s a sharp edge in her mind, but she doesn’t hold it. her bristle deflates quick as it comes, body worn and aching from the stress they’d been under. from the running, the scavenging, the rebuilding. it hadn’t even been a full day. still, the molly forces herself into a hobble forward, towards the empty space where she should lie. the moss finds her paws and she can barely feel it, yet she finds her way to her belly anyway. it’s cold. she wonders if it would have been colder with him here, his body cooling beneath the stars, but she can’t see him that way. she could never picture him cold, “ it’s not fair. “ a whisper. a mantra. to lie awake at night and repeat, mouth over, and over, and over again. freckleflame lowers her head, presses her nose to the flowers that bloom scarlet red and pretends it’s fur, “ it’s just not fair. “ wobblier, breaking. she whispers it until the moss is damp beneath her maw, closes her eyes tight when her family inevitably comes to join her.
she doesn’t know when she falls silent but she does in time, closing her eyes against the dimming night. little wolf would guide him, she hoped, into the glazed night and she hopes he is happy. she hopes dovekit and sweetkit and softkit run about her black paws, weave their way against him in ways the living could not.. maybe even mossypaw and rainbowpaw were there, too. maybe he would be okay, even if this was never how it was supposed to be. all she could do was hope.
red sullies the sky overhead in blistering sunset and the bloodied ground suddenly becomes only a dappled thing, a grey and darker grey painted light over where kittens would one day play. one day soon, too. roeflame would have her kittens and they would trample little paws over the place her father had bled his last. would she be able to visit them still? was she selfish enough for it to matter? her best friend is never far from her now, even in her state ; but freckleflame scratches her grief close to her heart, tucks it inside and circles it like a mother herself. these decisions felt too big for her, suddenly — as if she were a kit again. she wanted to go to her father, but only rabbitnose was here now, and the alabaster tom was lost enough in his grief. they’d collected the moss together, melded it into a nest to stare at until warriors began to pad away for the night, tired and traumatized into their own nests. sunfreckles lie still in the warriors den alongside them, still smelling of his life and fur more than anything else did. left for her father ( and her, selfishly ), to lie in and pretend the scent would not gradually fade, as all things did.
yet there are only flowers in this moss nest. the queens had seen that it was a beautiful thing, rosy and blooming with life. roeflame had done her best with the touches, had done everything as gently as she could ; freckleflame had sat quietly to the side as she, flamewhisker and moonwhisper had woven stems through stems. even the latter of them delicate about it, mottled paws careful with amaryllian petals — but all that red was still red. it burns in a way he did not, not anymore, and she couldn’t bare carry his light now. she is greyed, vapored but when she blinks, she is back, sitting close to where an empty nest lies cold and unused before them. the mourning doves cry ( a sign, she thinks. she hears it in his voice. newleaf is here. he did like doves, didn’t he? ) her mouth opens, closes, opens again. a sound like a long, hoarse croak comes out instead and embarrassment flattens her ears, tucking her chin down into the fluff of her chest for a beat. she’d say to compose herself, but she’d never been compared before. there was no way she’d start now.
“ my dad.. “ she starts, and it’s poor, because her voice wobbles and suddenly, she doesn’t know where to go from there. she wants to say it again — my dad. again, and again, and again until he’s tangible again. she wanted to sit and cry and mewl until her dad came back, because he always had, all her life. if her eyes ever misted, he was there. before she’d so much as opened her eyes, he’d been there. she’d never had to stamp her feet and sob the way mousenose had ( it seemed like such a long time ago now, when that had angered her. childish, competitive anger. their fathers had always loved them, though. both of them, through their own troubles and more. ) a pregnant pause is interrupted by her own wet sniff, and the stick of her mouth tells her to keep going. so she does. she’d only ever been good at running her mouth, and sunfreckle would hate to see them mopeing around like they were. so she continues through hard, rasping tones, green eyes blearily turned towards the scarlet sky, “ my dad meant everything to me. i dunno what else t’ say aside from that, he just.. was. he was like th’ sun. we always joked that his name suited him best of all, but it really did — ‘s like a big light went out, isn’t it? “ a humorless laugh, an ugly, wet sniff that tells of worn sinuses and tears long cries. her teeth grit against it, head coming to hang between her shoulders, murmuring a final, “ i pray th’ stars understand what they have.. and i hope they still let him shine th’ brightest. “
because he had to be a hero. he just had to. it’s a sharp edge in her mind, but she doesn’t hold it. her bristle deflates quick as it comes, body worn and aching from the stress they’d been under. from the running, the scavenging, the rebuilding. it hadn’t even been a full day. still, the molly forces herself into a hobble forward, towards the empty space where she should lie. the moss finds her paws and she can barely feel it, yet she finds her way to her belly anyway. it’s cold. she wonders if it would have been colder with him here, his body cooling beneath the stars, but she can’t see him that way. she could never picture him cold, “ it’s not fair. “ a whisper. a mantra. to lie awake at night and repeat, mouth over, and over, and over again. freckleflame lowers her head, presses her nose to the flowers that bloom scarlet red and pretends it’s fur, “ it’s just not fair. “ wobblier, breaking. she whispers it until the moss is damp beneath her maw, closes her eyes tight when her family inevitably comes to join her.
she doesn’t know when she falls silent but she does in time, closing her eyes against the dimming night. little wolf would guide him, she hoped, into the glazed night and she hopes he is happy. she hopes dovekit and sweetkit and softkit run about her black paws, weave their way against him in ways the living could not.. maybe even mossypaw and rainbowpaw were there, too. maybe he would be okay, even if this was never how it was supposed to be. all she could do was hope.
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i. tagging @Rabbitnose and @GENTLESTORM < 3 and queens @ROEFLAME . @Flamewhisker @Moonwhisper
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FRECKLEFLAME 𖦹 . LESBIAN, SINGLE. SMELLS LIKE SUN - WARMED OAK AND RICH, EARTHY MUSK. EIGHTEEN MOONS OLD. FRIEND & SISTER TO MANY! NAMED A WARRIOR OF THUNDERCLAN ON 8 / 3 / 2023. MENTORING NO ONE! PENNED BY ANTLERS--------------------------------------------she / her, eldest daughter of rabbitnose and the late sunfreckle. big, fluffy cream - ribboned tortoiseshell with seaglass eyes. larger than life! each and every part of her is broad ; wide in everything from her face to shoulders to her feathered tail, something reminiscent of her father’s kittypet heritage in the square of her chin and hulk of her figure. she appears illusionarily fluff - ridden at first, thickly pelted in shades of fire and soot, long & tangled, knotted with undergrowth — seeming soft and pudgy, and she is.. that figure curving into hard, hidden bulk along heavyset flanks and well - muscled limbs. a characteristic lack of personal space leads her to a slouching, touchy posture, often inclined to lean or bump against her peers.
grieving. all opinions are solely in - character and during these times, often untrue or said only in anger.
