𓆝 . ° ✦
How did she end up here so often? On the edge of WindClan's scent-lines, where she knows that old forest looms somewhere past her eyes' reach, Plague stands as the sun descends upon the horizon, painting her cream pelt with hues of orange and pink. There is a light wind blowing through the dying heather behind her, buffeting her fur as she stands frigidly upon the very blades of grass that marked her transition into a new life - her transition into a ghost.She isn't quite sure what she waits for here, and the many times before now. Perhaps it is that elusive tom, Elohim, that she seeks the counsel of once more. Perhaps she waits for her paws to cross this border towards a path of vengeance. But deep in the thorns of her mind, she knows the truth. It's always been him.
She just hadn't expected for it to happen so soon.
Across the border, atop a hill, stands a figure strong and tall. Plague smells him before she sees him; it is the scent of warmth, of honeyed lies, of promises that once made her feel safe. Then, she sees him, with his fur flickering gracefully in the wind as if the world bows to his presence. The sunset outlines his fur like fire, a beautiful contrast of light and dark. It is a sight that snatches the breath from her chest, one that drags her down into the hollow ache she's been pretending she's outgrown. A sight that brings back broken memories of empty promises whispered under the moonlight, and a cold dismissal towards the disaster that he had helped create. Hemlock.
A whisper carried on the wind, he calls to her.
"Plague."
As if one with the breeze, it ruffles her fur and chills her to the bone. Through the strain to defiantly hold her posture, the queen averts her gaze as that sore name echoes in her ears. After all this effort to find her, why must he call her by that wretched brand? It scrapes against every wound he left behind. It sparks a realization in her, one sorrowful that tears into hopes she didn't know she had: no matter how many moons pass, she is still not his Ivory. She is still his disease, his mistake, his monster that they had helped create together.. his plague.. And yet.. and yet, here he stands - tail lifted, chin dipped, an invitation sweet as poison. Hemlock has always known how to lure her back. Once, she might have gone to him. Once, she might have crumbled at the sound of that voice.But the storm in her chest does not beg in this moment. It roars.
Plague. It is a name she had grown accustomed to, a reminder of her heartbreak that she dared not let go, for this pain was truly all she knew. To forsake this title was to forsake a part of herself, her trials and punishment. It would do away with the last memory she had of her love, no matter how cruel and unusual. So, why.. why does it turn her blood cold when she hears it now, spoken so softly by the very tom she sought not to forget? Why, stars, had he not answered her calls sooner?
She stares, and something inside her shifts.
Some say when a storm whistles through the trees, it's the dove calling for the ones she trusted to keep her safe. But the forest does not answer, and the jay does not return.
She sees now, the seeds of rage inside her, and the paw that had sowed them. Desperation had overgrown them long ago, from the moment she had begged him to stay until this very night, as he waits invitingly for her to choose him once more, to return home and fill the void that she had created. She draws in a breath, steady - for once, it doesn't shake.
"That is not my name."
The words aren't loud; they don't need to be. They are not meant for him. Confusion flickers behind his carefully guarded gaze. Perhaps he expects her to crumble, to kneel to the ghost of what they were.. but she doesn't. Plague straightens, lifting her chin in a final show of defiance, then turns.The heather bends as she walks back into WindClan's embrace; not as a ghost, not as a curse. The sun finally dips below the horizon, leaving his figure stranded in shadow. For the first time, it isn't her left stranded and hopeless. It's him.
✧ ° . ✶ . ° ✧
- ooc: —
-
a complex molly; timid and meek on the surface, but what dwells beneath?
