Post by froststream on Dec 31, 2009 15:09:27 GMT -6
Brackenpaw was supposed to be hunting, and to be fair, he was. But the dawn he had devoted to hunting really had another purpose. His powerful paws treaded over the moor, with purpose, with dignity. His fern green eyes scowered the mooor, then seemed to lock on a particular place, a bit ahead. It had a dip in the otherwise flat moor, with a scrawny bush nearby. Brackenpaw, refreshed with new hope, increased his speed to a powerful run.
Scarlet blood no longer painted the smooth earth's surface. Of course it didn't, what did he expect? And the metal thing was gone. The cats had disassembled it as much as possible, but sluggish twolegs came to pick it up anyway. He wondered that if by the ginger fur they knew they killed Firepaw, taken a whole piece of him. All of him.
Everyday he vistied the site of Firepaw's death. The world, afterwards, had continued normally, cats heading out on patrols, hunting, just taking a moment to grieve Firepaw. And then, Brackenpaw has spent the rest of his life doing it. Didn't they know the world was different now? Why did the singing birds serenade a cheerful song when it should be a eulogy? Why did the rabbits run when they should be cowering in the shadow of death itself? Why did the sun shine when it should mourn the loss of innocence on earth?
Brackenpaw lay down on the warm, dry earth. His broad head rested on his paws, in the exact place where Firepaw lay once. Her body had seemed so small as bloodstained fur plastered against her ribs. He felt oversized in here, cramped into one place where death gave no mercy.
Then again, wasn't the whole world like that?
Scarlet blood no longer painted the smooth earth's surface. Of course it didn't, what did he expect? And the metal thing was gone. The cats had disassembled it as much as possible, but sluggish twolegs came to pick it up anyway. He wondered that if by the ginger fur they knew they killed Firepaw, taken a whole piece of him. All of him.
Everyday he vistied the site of Firepaw's death. The world, afterwards, had continued normally, cats heading out on patrols, hunting, just taking a moment to grieve Firepaw. And then, Brackenpaw has spent the rest of his life doing it. Didn't they know the world was different now? Why did the singing birds serenade a cheerful song when it should be a eulogy? Why did the rabbits run when they should be cowering in the shadow of death itself? Why did the sun shine when it should mourn the loss of innocence on earth?
Brackenpaw lay down on the warm, dry earth. His broad head rested on his paws, in the exact place where Firepaw lay once. Her body had seemed so small as bloodstained fur plastered against her ribs. He felt oversized in here, cramped into one place where death gave no mercy.
Then again, wasn't the whole world like that?