private YOU HUNT DOWN THE GOOD IN ME ☆ SANDPELT

[CICADAFLIGHT]

For what may be the first time in his life, he actively seeks @SANDPELT out. They aren't thrown together for guard duty, or stuck on the same hunting patrol, or stumbling across each other during their daily river - bound tasks—no, he moves across camp with all the grace of an alligator, heavy steps plodding with the gunslinger shift of broad shoulders, tail dragging eelish through the earth behind him, face grimly split by visible molars. He really doesn't know why he's doing this—Sandpelt won't welcome his presence, he knows. He's spoilt things enough between them without finding new ways to make things worse.

And yet—and yet he thinks of Streamkit's bloody halo, of Graykit's choking tears, of Lichenstar's bleak voice: Keep him away from his younger denmates. He thinks of these things, and his heart bobs thickly in his throat, cold and warm all at once, sending him right back to where he'd once been—a tiny pair of frog eyes peering out from moon - and - sun gaze.

" Sandpelt, " he calls hoarsely, hoping not to startle the other warrior any more than he has to. The night is crystalline in its clarity, and when his gaze flicks awkwardly upwards, he swears he can see every single star in the sky. He wonders if his father is among them—wonders if he's proud of him, of the grown cat his awkward son, left with all that rage, has become. Sandpelt's mottled back is facing him, limned in moonlight, the other cat seated at the river's edge.

As before, he wonders what life would have been if they'd never started that spar so long ago—if he might slip into the warm water alongside the other, might have a cat to call friend. Or had they been born to this, this hatred, just as so many cats had been born to great love for another? Had the stars above damned him, so that the only closeness he ever felt was forged in hate, that the only warmth he ever felt was the fire of burning loathing? Or—worse, so much worse—if their first spar, or the one after that, or the one after that, or one in the endless sea of them, had ended the way Graykit's had? Would he have been tempered that much sooner, cooled like a newly - forged blade—or would he have melted into liquid iron?

. . . If they'd never known each other at all, would he have been worse? Has Sandpelt made him a better cat, in some inexplicable way?

" You saw what happened with Graykit, " he says as he steps closer, more a statement than a question. He says no more, heart sticking in his throat, wondering if Sandpelt's mind had fled to the same dark place as his. If, for a moment, black - and - white had replaced marbled gray, and freckled cream stood in for bloodied silver.

OOC : —

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[SANDPELT]

ꕀꕀ The night sky is clear, speckled with stars, and Sandpelt gazes up at it with a soft yellow eye. It's peaceful out here, a comforting change from the warriors' den where he can do nothing but toss and turn. He hasn't been able to cast away the sight of blood pooling beneath Streamkit's head—casting a heavy, damning crown onto Graykit's own. Horror had been his initial reaction, reflected in the faces of those around him, and his heart has yet to stop its wild hammering in his chest. Kits aren't supposed to die, and even more, they aren't supposed to die at the paws of their playmates. Of course, Graykit hadn't intended to do it. It was a simple accident, the result of a kit playing too roughly with one of their peers. Sparring accidents have happened plenty of times before. Only, they usually don't end in death. None of his own had, no matter how many times he'd fallen, pinned beneath predatory eyes and powerful white paws. He remembers the very first time he'd been knocked to his tail by the larger tom, when he'd felt like little more than a mouse in front of a wolf.

He blinks suddenly at the sound of something behind him, though not quite startled. He'd had the feeling, somehow, that he wouldn't be alone for long. His name is spoken in a familiar rasping voice, but still the cream-dappled warrior doesn't turn around. There's no acknowledgement of Cicadaflight, either, aside from a quiet hmm of recognition. He isn't… happy to see his nemesis (too harsh a word, yet at the same time not harsh enough, he thinks). Not when spilled blood and a too-small, too-still form still flash in his vision any time he closes his eye. "You saw what happened with Graykit." "Yeah," he confirms, though he knows he doesn't need to. Cicadaflight had met his gaze that day, his face taking on a haunted expression. It was clear that they had both thought of the same thing in the moment—the potential for grief that their own kithood had carried, the way it could have so easily been Cicadaflight who bore the sin of murder before even becoming an apprentice.

The lump lodged in his throat warps his words, but he manages to croak out a quiet, "That could've been us." He swallows, and his throat clicks audibly. It's offputting, explaining this to the one claage he'd never dreamed of sharing it with. "Sometimes… I thought that might be us." He doesn't say what he's thinking: I always wondered when you'd finally snap and finish me off. I never trusted ya not to, but I wouldn't've stopped ya. Couldn't've, even if I wanted to. The river's water laps at his paws, and finally he tips his head to look back over his shoulder. "Uh… Sorry."

𓇢𓆸 you get on my nerves

• ooc: —
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  SANDPELT ❯❯ he/him, warrior of riverclan
  ❀ pretty, silky-furred tan tortoiseshell with one yellow eye. calm and hardworking, but can become snappy if angered.
  ❀ peaceful and healing powerplay permitted
  ❀ penned by foxlore

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