- Apr 21, 2023
- 100
- 35
- 28
In… Out…
Brookstorm listens to the crickets in the night. They sing a song she's heard for seasons and yet, she listens. Selfishly she wonders if the melody is for her, to lull her to sleep for what may be the final time. She might've let them, too, if not for the distant cries of youth.
Green eyes blink open, and though her sight is feathered at the edges, Brookstorm focuses her attention on the nursery. She asks not if she should conserve her own energy, for she knows by sunlight, it would be for naught. Nearly a week has gone by and she has not met the lives she helped create - and by StarClan’s grace, she will. If only for a moment, if only for a labored breath, she will.
She pushes herself to clunky, unsteady paws. Her throat burns as she ambles out of the medicine den, and for a long, prolonged moment, everything is in a feverish haze. She looks up towards the cloudless sky, peers at the stars and sees how they look at her, too. A part of her almost sees them - the lost, the unforgotten, and she presses a painful, “Wait,” into the air. Not yet, she stubbornly thinks, and her weight shifts as she lumbers forward again. Not yet.
In… Out…
She hears hushed whispers, undeniably from a mother gathering her bearings. Moonlight filters onto the mottled pelt of her lover as the other tucks a sobbing kitten back to the round of her belly, fatigue clear in her half lidded eyes. Brookstorm mourns that she has not been there as she's promised, mourns that she cannot be here much longer yet. She does not fear the end - never has, it seems. But she grows saddened by all that must be ripped away in order for her demise to be. I'm sorry, she does not say, as she squares her shoulders and lifts her head a little higher. Robinheart looks at her, and she gives a smile.
Before the other can speak, Brookstorm murmurs a hushed, “I've started to feel better.” A lie, and a cough gathers in her chest shortly after - she turns her head from the other queens and litters about, halting in her unwavering path as she waits for the fit to pass. She swallows the muck in her throat and presses on, “A little better. I thought I could stay the night here, with you.” Her usually terse tone falls softly to her lover's ears. She closes the distance and delicately places herself beside Robinheart, tucking her head on the other's shoulder and finally, finally, looking down at their children.
The little lastborn - mottled Algaekit, named after her savior, her protector, her mentor. A name flippantly offered to fill the air, but true to heart meaningful. Quite large pawsteps to fill, but surely a child of her own will grow grand and steady. If not… well, her children will start turning Lichentail gray regardless. She curls her tail around the little ones and flicks the tip at the tuft of fur atop Algaekit's head.
The middle born must be Redkit. She deciphers him by the copper tones in his pelt, unrelenting flames only calmed by the white ocean that he's waded through. He's matched his mottled mother in brilliance although their patterns are not true to one another. He's large, too - but certainly will grow softhearted like Robinheart. He will learn to be kind from her, and not rough from Brookstorm. Maybe it's better that way.
And finally, the first born; a child of white and blue. Rivuletkit, slyly named after her own dying sire. She chokes up at the thought of her kin living on without her, yet named by those who have passed. Just like she, Brookstorm - named by her father to honor her aunt, a cat that existed when she did not. At least Rivuletkit can have this feeble memory, as Brookstorm touches her nose to the kitten”s folded ears. At least they can all have this moment.
“You're doing great, Robin,” Brookstorm murmurs finally, shifting her weight as if she's trying to grow more comfortable. She rests her head on the other's shoulder, gaze lingering on their slumbering kits. “They're so lucky to have a mother like you,” she continues. The song of the crickets is growing quieter as Brookstorm holds to tendrils of life, however clutching the tortoiseshell closer as they drift off to sleep.
In… Out…
When she opens her eyes again, she is not herself. A tom with ears like hers looks at her and quirks his lips in a partial, uncertain grin. The aches in her body are gone but the pain in her chest does not wane. She sits and watches as the bodies in the nursery ebb and flow with their own steady breaths. In… Out…
As for hers - she does not move. Her body is no longer a vessel of life, and Brookstorm cannot pretend to hope that her failing heart will start beating again so soon. Her ears twitch and though Lightningstone beckons her to leave, she stays. She stays until morning light, she stays until Robinheart wakes up, and she stays once the other begins to grieve. She only leaves when Robinheart says to, and patiently waits for the sign.
@robinheart
Brookstorm listens to the crickets in the night. They sing a song she's heard for seasons and yet, she listens. Selfishly she wonders if the melody is for her, to lull her to sleep for what may be the final time. She might've let them, too, if not for the distant cries of youth.
Green eyes blink open, and though her sight is feathered at the edges, Brookstorm focuses her attention on the nursery. She asks not if she should conserve her own energy, for she knows by sunlight, it would be for naught. Nearly a week has gone by and she has not met the lives she helped create - and by StarClan’s grace, she will. If only for a moment, if only for a labored breath, she will.
She pushes herself to clunky, unsteady paws. Her throat burns as she ambles out of the medicine den, and for a long, prolonged moment, everything is in a feverish haze. She looks up towards the cloudless sky, peers at the stars and sees how they look at her, too. A part of her almost sees them - the lost, the unforgotten, and she presses a painful, “Wait,” into the air. Not yet, she stubbornly thinks, and her weight shifts as she lumbers forward again. Not yet.
In… Out…
She hears hushed whispers, undeniably from a mother gathering her bearings. Moonlight filters onto the mottled pelt of her lover as the other tucks a sobbing kitten back to the round of her belly, fatigue clear in her half lidded eyes. Brookstorm mourns that she has not been there as she's promised, mourns that she cannot be here much longer yet. She does not fear the end - never has, it seems. But she grows saddened by all that must be ripped away in order for her demise to be. I'm sorry, she does not say, as she squares her shoulders and lifts her head a little higher. Robinheart looks at her, and she gives a smile.
Before the other can speak, Brookstorm murmurs a hushed, “I've started to feel better.” A lie, and a cough gathers in her chest shortly after - she turns her head from the other queens and litters about, halting in her unwavering path as she waits for the fit to pass. She swallows the muck in her throat and presses on, “A little better. I thought I could stay the night here, with you.” Her usually terse tone falls softly to her lover's ears. She closes the distance and delicately places herself beside Robinheart, tucking her head on the other's shoulder and finally, finally, looking down at their children.
The little lastborn - mottled Algaekit, named after her savior, her protector, her mentor. A name flippantly offered to fill the air, but true to heart meaningful. Quite large pawsteps to fill, but surely a child of her own will grow grand and steady. If not… well, her children will start turning Lichentail gray regardless. She curls her tail around the little ones and flicks the tip at the tuft of fur atop Algaekit's head.
The middle born must be Redkit. She deciphers him by the copper tones in his pelt, unrelenting flames only calmed by the white ocean that he's waded through. He's matched his mottled mother in brilliance although their patterns are not true to one another. He's large, too - but certainly will grow softhearted like Robinheart. He will learn to be kind from her, and not rough from Brookstorm. Maybe it's better that way.
And finally, the first born; a child of white and blue. Rivuletkit, slyly named after her own dying sire. She chokes up at the thought of her kin living on without her, yet named by those who have passed. Just like she, Brookstorm - named by her father to honor her aunt, a cat that existed when she did not. At least Rivuletkit can have this feeble memory, as Brookstorm touches her nose to the kitten”s folded ears. At least they can all have this moment.
“You're doing great, Robin,” Brookstorm murmurs finally, shifting her weight as if she's trying to grow more comfortable. She rests her head on the other's shoulder, gaze lingering on their slumbering kits. “They're so lucky to have a mother like you,” she continues. The song of the crickets is growing quieter as Brookstorm holds to tendrils of life, however clutching the tortoiseshell closer as they drift off to sleep.
In… Out…
When she opens her eyes again, she is not herself. A tom with ears like hers looks at her and quirks his lips in a partial, uncertain grin. The aches in her body are gone but the pain in her chest does not wane. She sits and watches as the bodies in the nursery ebb and flow with their own steady breaths. In… Out…
As for hers - she does not move. Her body is no longer a vessel of life, and Brookstorm cannot pretend to hope that her failing heart will start beating again so soon. Her ears twitch and though Lightningstone beckons her to leave, she stays. She stays until morning light, she stays until Robinheart wakes up, and she stays once the other begins to grieve. She only leaves when Robinheart says to, and patiently waits for the sign.
@robinheart
