Post by Phoenix on Aug 14, 2016 22:56:45 GMT -5
“The loneliest moment in someone’s life is when they are watching their whole world fall apart, and all they can do is stare blankly.”
— F. Scott Fitzgerald
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— F. Scott Fitzgerald
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“They’re dead, Icewhisker. Gone.”
“They’re still there. They’ve just become stars in—”
“Icewhisker, for once in your life, shut up. I don’t want to hear it. Leave me alone.”
Illuminated by the bright light of an almost-full moon, the lone figure sits silhouetted against the shadowed basin not far from camp, his white fur just as blinding as the snow banks that surround him. The silent stillness of leaf-bare blankets the moorland, yet his ears ring with the words. They echo within his skull – he can picture them there, bouncing around incessantly – and shatter the peaceful hush with a refrain only he can hear. Tonight, they are his only company.
Frostfire has always had little patience for him, and she has always had a sharp tongue and quick temper. But never has she ever transformed her words into such sharp daggers and aimed them at him. They cut deeper than he had thought she would ever let them, scoring fresh wounds into his raw and bleeding heart. He had only wanted to offer comfort in the best way he knew how. He had seen his sister hurting, and he had wanted to stop it. But he should have known better. He isn’t good with others. Moons of ridicule have taught him that much. He doesn’t understand how their minds work in such a linear fashion, not when his own thoughts frequently wander in all sorts of directions, getting lost before getting found again. His clan mates have no patience for him. They don’t like having him around.
He’s too different.
But he had thought that he could do this, that he could console his sister and soothe away some of the pain. He is – was – Dovesong’s son, after all, and that is what she is – was – best at. Others had told him that cats went to the stars when they died, as if they had expected that knowledge to ease the emptiness in his chest. It didn’t, but then he had realized that maybe those words made normal cats feel better. Frostfire is more normal than he was. He had only wanted to help. It had gone horribly, and he doesn’t quite know why.
There are a lot of things he doesn’t know. There are a lot of things everyone thinks he doesn’t know but he actually does. They think that he is oblivious, lost in his own world, but he knows what goes on behind his back. He hears the whispers when they think he’s out of earshot. He sees the looks when they think he can’t see them. But he doesn’t mind. If they want him to, he can play their fool, because then they can go around thinking, ‘at least I’m not as bad as Icewhisker.’ It makes them feel better about themselves, and normally it doesn’t hurt him, not really, because he has always had the security of knowing that there are at least two cats in the clan who will always accept him unconditionally for who he is. His parents.
But now they’re there, and he’s here. He sits here, staring at their bodies and wishing with every piece of his shattered heart that Dovesong would sit up, that she would walk over to him with the warm purr she always saved just for him, her little odd son. He closes his eyes and imagines her lovely white fur and her kind green eyes, mirror images of his own but cast in a different hue. In his mind’s eye, she is full of love and tenderness and life, and there is Windstrike, his beloved mentor, his father in all but blood. He is strong and supportive and there, always there, in a way Cloudflight has never been. The two stand side-by-side, and he opens his eyes and sees them laying there, side-by-side. Slowly the warmth of his dream fades, leaving him cold and empty.
For the first time in his life, he is alone.
An ache has planted itself in the hollow cavity where his heart used to be, and no matter what he does, he cannot make it go away. Day and night, it sits there relentlessly gnawing away at him. Sometimes he manages to forget it, but just as soon as he realizes it’s gone, it comes back, twice as painful as before. Getting up in the morning reopens all his wounds, for in that small instant between sleep and wakefulness, he always forgets. On some days, he has barely managed to crawl out of his nest. It is on these days that there is silence in his head. For once, his mind is quiet. Now, as he stares at the small, lifeless figures before him, his mind is as silent as they are.
Throughout his entire life, he has always been able to create stories and small worlds in his mind, but now, when it really matters, he can think of no reason for why this has happened. He can find no explanation for why StarClan has decided to take away his parents and his younger siblings. He wants to know – he needs to know. Why? This is the most important question he has ever asked, but he has been given no answer. There has only been that silence, so he has wracked his own brain for any possible explanation. This is the hardest he has ever searched for any rationale, the longest he has ever sought out the smallest clue, anything to justify this – this amount of pain. And then:
What if it was something he did?
He has always known that he is not a good warrior. Others have told him so. He spends too much time with his head in the clouds. He is too reluctant to unsheathe his claws, and he can’t fight anyway. He is too distracted to hunt. ‘Icewhisker,’ they say, ‘LightningClan’s burden. Careful or you’ll end up like him.’ Never has he had to pay any price for his parasitic role except to face the ridicule of his clanmates, but what if his debts have finally caught up to him? What if StarClan has decided to punish him for his oddness, for his uselessness, by taking form him those whose love he values most?
There he sits, alone in the little nook, trying to breathe past the lump in his throat. It is his fault. If he had tried more, trained harder, been stronger, Dovesong and Windstrike would still be here. His younger siblings would still be here. They would be curled up against each other, protected from the leaf-bare cold by the love of their clanmates, and he would be there, too, not here. Not alone. Not staring at their bodies.
Now, the frigid cold doesn’t touch him. He is too numb inside to feel its bite. He wants nothing more than to be held close in his mother’s comforting embrace, the way he did when he was a kit, but she is as cold as the snow around them, and she’ll never be warm again. She is frozen. Like ice.
He had wondered once what ice was and why he had been named after it. He had wanted to ask, but the question had been buried under the weight of thousands of others. It had been laid to rest and forgotten, but now he remembers. Now he doesn’t need to ask. He knows what ice is. He understands why he has been named after it. Ice is the useless form of water. Frozen solid, it cannot be eaten, and it cannot quench anyone’s thirst. It is dangerous, capable of killing if a paw lands on it slightly wrong. It sits there, doing nothing but taking up space and using up water, waiting to cause the death of an unsuspecting cat. Or a pair of unsuspecting cats.
Icewhisker understands now, and he thinks it is fitting. From the start, he was destined to be different, to be useless, and now his family has paid for it.
The soft crunch of snow under light paws tells him that he is no longer alone, and he turns to see a familiar she-cat. But for a touch of ginger splashed across her face, her fur is as bright as his under the moonlight. Silently she approaches him, and he sits there, watching, thinking. He imagines Frostfire’s spirit, normally burning so bright with life, flickering as its flames begin to wane. On one paw, he can count the number of times he’s seen her so quiet and with so little vitality. Her shoulders are slumped. Idly he thinks that she ought to stand up straighter, but he knows how much effort that takes. He doesn’t have that energy anymore either.
She sits beside him, and they look at each other. He hears her words from before. They still bounce around his head but quieter now, as if her presence has tamed them. Then he hears new words, murmured softly, seemingly coming from a distance even though they’re leaving his own mouth:
“I’m sorry.”
Is he apologizing for the earlier incident or because there is a guilt now that weighs heavily on his chest? He can’t bring himself to look at her, knowing he has extinguished so much of her flame.
“It’s my fault they’re gone.”
Silence. He waits, expecting more daggers to cut into him. He understands her anger now. How could he not see it before? He is entirely to blame; of course she wouldn’t want to hear anything he says.
“No, Icewhisker, that’s entirely wrong.”
He is surprised by the force behind her words, so he turns to look at her and is surprised by the fire in her eyes.
“I don’t know what you’re thinking, but you're wrong. Nothing you have done could have caused this or prevented this. It’s not your fault.”
Silence. Again. He is too busy reeling to respond. He wants to argue. He wants to sink into her words and let them wrap around his wounded heart and protect it from further harm. He can't decide what he wants to do more. There is a sandpaper tongue on his cheek.
“Come on. Let’s go back inside. It’s cold out here.”
It is, he realizes suddenly, and, oddly enough, so is he.
“They’re still there. They’ve just become stars in—”
“Icewhisker, for once in your life, shut up. I don’t want to hear it. Leave me alone.”
Illuminated by the bright light of an almost-full moon, the lone figure sits silhouetted against the shadowed basin not far from camp, his white fur just as blinding as the snow banks that surround him. The silent stillness of leaf-bare blankets the moorland, yet his ears ring with the words. They echo within his skull – he can picture them there, bouncing around incessantly – and shatter the peaceful hush with a refrain only he can hear. Tonight, they are his only company.
Frostfire has always had little patience for him, and she has always had a sharp tongue and quick temper. But never has she ever transformed her words into such sharp daggers and aimed them at him. They cut deeper than he had thought she would ever let them, scoring fresh wounds into his raw and bleeding heart. He had only wanted to offer comfort in the best way he knew how. He had seen his sister hurting, and he had wanted to stop it. But he should have known better. He isn’t good with others. Moons of ridicule have taught him that much. He doesn’t understand how their minds work in such a linear fashion, not when his own thoughts frequently wander in all sorts of directions, getting lost before getting found again. His clan mates have no patience for him. They don’t like having him around.
He’s too different.
But he had thought that he could do this, that he could console his sister and soothe away some of the pain. He is – was – Dovesong’s son, after all, and that is what she is – was – best at. Others had told him that cats went to the stars when they died, as if they had expected that knowledge to ease the emptiness in his chest. It didn’t, but then he had realized that maybe those words made normal cats feel better. Frostfire is more normal than he was. He had only wanted to help. It had gone horribly, and he doesn’t quite know why.
There are a lot of things he doesn’t know. There are a lot of things everyone thinks he doesn’t know but he actually does. They think that he is oblivious, lost in his own world, but he knows what goes on behind his back. He hears the whispers when they think he’s out of earshot. He sees the looks when they think he can’t see them. But he doesn’t mind. If they want him to, he can play their fool, because then they can go around thinking, ‘at least I’m not as bad as Icewhisker.’ It makes them feel better about themselves, and normally it doesn’t hurt him, not really, because he has always had the security of knowing that there are at least two cats in the clan who will always accept him unconditionally for who he is. His parents.
But now they’re there, and he’s here. He sits here, staring at their bodies and wishing with every piece of his shattered heart that Dovesong would sit up, that she would walk over to him with the warm purr she always saved just for him, her little odd son. He closes his eyes and imagines her lovely white fur and her kind green eyes, mirror images of his own but cast in a different hue. In his mind’s eye, she is full of love and tenderness and life, and there is Windstrike, his beloved mentor, his father in all but blood. He is strong and supportive and there, always there, in a way Cloudflight has never been. The two stand side-by-side, and he opens his eyes and sees them laying there, side-by-side. Slowly the warmth of his dream fades, leaving him cold and empty.
For the first time in his life, he is alone.
An ache has planted itself in the hollow cavity where his heart used to be, and no matter what he does, he cannot make it go away. Day and night, it sits there relentlessly gnawing away at him. Sometimes he manages to forget it, but just as soon as he realizes it’s gone, it comes back, twice as painful as before. Getting up in the morning reopens all his wounds, for in that small instant between sleep and wakefulness, he always forgets. On some days, he has barely managed to crawl out of his nest. It is on these days that there is silence in his head. For once, his mind is quiet. Now, as he stares at the small, lifeless figures before him, his mind is as silent as they are.
Throughout his entire life, he has always been able to create stories and small worlds in his mind, but now, when it really matters, he can think of no reason for why this has happened. He can find no explanation for why StarClan has decided to take away his parents and his younger siblings. He wants to know – he needs to know. Why? This is the most important question he has ever asked, but he has been given no answer. There has only been that silence, so he has wracked his own brain for any possible explanation. This is the hardest he has ever searched for any rationale, the longest he has ever sought out the smallest clue, anything to justify this – this amount of pain. And then:
What if it was something he did?
He has always known that he is not a good warrior. Others have told him so. He spends too much time with his head in the clouds. He is too reluctant to unsheathe his claws, and he can’t fight anyway. He is too distracted to hunt. ‘Icewhisker,’ they say, ‘LightningClan’s burden. Careful or you’ll end up like him.’ Never has he had to pay any price for his parasitic role except to face the ridicule of his clanmates, but what if his debts have finally caught up to him? What if StarClan has decided to punish him for his oddness, for his uselessness, by taking form him those whose love he values most?
There he sits, alone in the little nook, trying to breathe past the lump in his throat. It is his fault. If he had tried more, trained harder, been stronger, Dovesong and Windstrike would still be here. His younger siblings would still be here. They would be curled up against each other, protected from the leaf-bare cold by the love of their clanmates, and he would be there, too, not here. Not alone. Not staring at their bodies.
Now, the frigid cold doesn’t touch him. He is too numb inside to feel its bite. He wants nothing more than to be held close in his mother’s comforting embrace, the way he did when he was a kit, but she is as cold as the snow around them, and she’ll never be warm again. She is frozen. Like ice.
He had wondered once what ice was and why he had been named after it. He had wanted to ask, but the question had been buried under the weight of thousands of others. It had been laid to rest and forgotten, but now he remembers. Now he doesn’t need to ask. He knows what ice is. He understands why he has been named after it. Ice is the useless form of water. Frozen solid, it cannot be eaten, and it cannot quench anyone’s thirst. It is dangerous, capable of killing if a paw lands on it slightly wrong. It sits there, doing nothing but taking up space and using up water, waiting to cause the death of an unsuspecting cat. Or a pair of unsuspecting cats.
Icewhisker understands now, and he thinks it is fitting. From the start, he was destined to be different, to be useless, and now his family has paid for it.
The soft crunch of snow under light paws tells him that he is no longer alone, and he turns to see a familiar she-cat. But for a touch of ginger splashed across her face, her fur is as bright as his under the moonlight. Silently she approaches him, and he sits there, watching, thinking. He imagines Frostfire’s spirit, normally burning so bright with life, flickering as its flames begin to wane. On one paw, he can count the number of times he’s seen her so quiet and with so little vitality. Her shoulders are slumped. Idly he thinks that she ought to stand up straighter, but he knows how much effort that takes. He doesn’t have that energy anymore either.
She sits beside him, and they look at each other. He hears her words from before. They still bounce around his head but quieter now, as if her presence has tamed them. Then he hears new words, murmured softly, seemingly coming from a distance even though they’re leaving his own mouth:
“I’m sorry.”
Is he apologizing for the earlier incident or because there is a guilt now that weighs heavily on his chest? He can’t bring himself to look at her, knowing he has extinguished so much of her flame.
“It’s my fault they’re gone.”
Silence. He waits, expecting more daggers to cut into him. He understands her anger now. How could he not see it before? He is entirely to blame; of course she wouldn’t want to hear anything he says.
“No, Icewhisker, that’s entirely wrong.”
He is surprised by the force behind her words, so he turns to look at her and is surprised by the fire in her eyes.
“I don’t know what you’re thinking, but you're wrong. Nothing you have done could have caused this or prevented this. It’s not your fault.”
Silence. Again. He is too busy reeling to respond. He wants to argue. He wants to sink into her words and let them wrap around his wounded heart and protect it from further harm. He can't decide what he wants to do more. There is a sandpaper tongue on his cheek.
“Come on. Let’s go back inside. It’s cold out here.”
It is, he realizes suddenly, and, oddly enough, so is he.
---
“What [he] did not know, and would never have believed, was that though [his] soul seemed to have been grown over with an impenetrable layer of mould, some delicate blades of grass, young and tender, were already pushing their way upwards, destined to take root and send out living shoots so effectively that [his] all-consuming grief would soon be lost and forgotten. The wound was healing from inside.”
- Leo Tolstoy