Post by fallenpaw on Sept 16, 2018 15:38:04 GMT -6
Fallenpaw did not love her mother. Fallenpaw did not love the molly with whom she shared a pelt, with whom she shared blood. Fallenpaw did not love the molly who scorned her, who starved her and ignored her and left her for the crows. Fallenpaw did not love the leader that listened not to her suggestions. Fallenpaw did not love the molly who hated her yellow eyes, the same yellow eyes she shared with her miserable excuse for a father. Although, compared to Rapidfang--Rapidstar, she reminded herself--the tom was doing relatively well for a parent. No, Fallenpaw could not love her mother. Not after the hurt, not after the begging, not after the scorn, not after the anger.
Sometimes, the littlest apprentice thought she had known love. Short-lived, cut short by rats and rot and rogues. Love for a mentor, for a father-figure who, in the short time they had properly known each other, had changed the apprentice at her core. She had loved the mentor that, despite all the stern training and odd interactions, believed in her. She had loved the mentor that had promised to help her reach the unattainable. But he was gone, rotted and left, just like she was, to the crows to pick the rotten meat from his bones as the color was leeched from them by the bleaching sun.
Grotesque imagery like the thoughts of Littlethorn's corpse were the occasional visitors to her mind, malevolent things that the molly was desperate to escape. In her nightmares, they were most prominent. When her mother laughed in victory as Fallenpaw fell from pseud-glory, cast to the shadows to wallow in her defeat. While still every inch the rude, bitter molly she had been, parts of her were haunted. Like moments when she would get distracted while practicing or training with other apprentices or young warriors. She hoped that, once her name was earned and the majority of her dreams achieved, that the ghosts that plagued her waking and sleeping steps might settle amongst the stars where they belonged.
For now, she looked to the east. The sun was high, unwavering in its heat as it bore down upon ShadowClan's marshy territories with little remorse. Insects buzzed lazily throughout the fen, going about their daily lives. Her ears flicked frequently as flies droned around them, making their own attempts at diving close before being knocked away. She gazed at her clanmates as her body itched to move, tired of being cooped up in the camp without a mentor to take her out to the Burnt Sycamore. Deciding to swallow her fears and anxieties, the smokey cat called out, "Would anyone like to go on a hunting patrol?
Sometimes, the littlest apprentice thought she had known love. Short-lived, cut short by rats and rot and rogues. Love for a mentor, for a father-figure who, in the short time they had properly known each other, had changed the apprentice at her core. She had loved the mentor that, despite all the stern training and odd interactions, believed in her. She had loved the mentor that had promised to help her reach the unattainable. But he was gone, rotted and left, just like she was, to the crows to pick the rotten meat from his bones as the color was leeched from them by the bleaching sun.
Grotesque imagery like the thoughts of Littlethorn's corpse were the occasional visitors to her mind, malevolent things that the molly was desperate to escape. In her nightmares, they were most prominent. When her mother laughed in victory as Fallenpaw fell from pseud-glory, cast to the shadows to wallow in her defeat. While still every inch the rude, bitter molly she had been, parts of her were haunted. Like moments when she would get distracted while practicing or training with other apprentices or young warriors. She hoped that, once her name was earned and the majority of her dreams achieved, that the ghosts that plagued her waking and sleeping steps might settle amongst the stars where they belonged.
For now, she looked to the east. The sun was high, unwavering in its heat as it bore down upon ShadowClan's marshy territories with little remorse. Insects buzzed lazily throughout the fen, going about their daily lives. Her ears flicked frequently as flies droned around them, making their own attempts at diving close before being knocked away. She gazed at her clanmates as her body itched to move, tired of being cooped up in the camp without a mentor to take her out to the Burnt Sycamore. Deciding to swallow her fears and anxieties, the smokey cat called out, "Would anyone like to go on a hunting patrol?
