To have woken up at all is a disservice.
Charity does not remember the interim. Her eyes closed, and water sloshed in around her body. It took her, evidently, to a place of safety and salvation - or something close to it. She was pulled from the water by furless paws, each hooked beneath her arms, before her back was hurriedly beat to encourage the floods to exit her lungs. And then, a bright space, where the sun was everywhere yet indiscernibly nowhere. The same bare paws held her, now dry, and coddled her. And finally... here again.
Or, rather, as close as here could be.
They cured him. They stole the one promise he had and gifted him back to a world of hurt and pain. Oh - his pantheon must be writhing, hissing. His blood was meant to water their fields, his corpse to feed nature. This... is embarrassing. WindClan never understood quite what he spoke about, with souls attached to living bodies, and he doubts that returning there would warrant any warm welcome. Home, too. It's much too far to travel to, and having left when he was little more than a nosy whelp... Charity couldn't tell anyone whether the way home was down the stream or up the mountains.
The humans deposited him down the river, likely where they once found him. And that's where he stayed. Charity minded the borders of RiverClan's outerlands, never crossing them nor daring to be seen at sunhigh or moonhigh. She hunts in the lands belonging to no one, praying to whomever listens that the bones may be well received by the earth and maggots. It's been more than a season since she's wandered alone, sticking close to her site of resurrection, as if the very land could revoke the right.
This night, the clouds drift over the moon, yet do not obscure its placement. Charity scoops up the thin mouse she's managed near the RiverClan border, and turns to leave - but the undergrowth grows unsettled, and the air becomes tainted with fresh scents of willows and reeds. The pale furred moggy turns her squinted gaze, poised no different than a newborn fawn. Pale fur flashes, and with it a spot of recognition.
"Is that the moon? Peaking at me, there, through the tall grasses?" Charity hums, humor now creasing her smile.
Charity does not remember the interim. Her eyes closed, and water sloshed in around her body. It took her, evidently, to a place of safety and salvation - or something close to it. She was pulled from the water by furless paws, each hooked beneath her arms, before her back was hurriedly beat to encourage the floods to exit her lungs. And then, a bright space, where the sun was everywhere yet indiscernibly nowhere. The same bare paws held her, now dry, and coddled her. And finally... here again.
Or, rather, as close as here could be.
They cured him. They stole the one promise he had and gifted him back to a world of hurt and pain. Oh - his pantheon must be writhing, hissing. His blood was meant to water their fields, his corpse to feed nature. This... is embarrassing. WindClan never understood quite what he spoke about, with souls attached to living bodies, and he doubts that returning there would warrant any warm welcome. Home, too. It's much too far to travel to, and having left when he was little more than a nosy whelp... Charity couldn't tell anyone whether the way home was down the stream or up the mountains.
The humans deposited him down the river, likely where they once found him. And that's where he stayed. Charity minded the borders of RiverClan's outerlands, never crossing them nor daring to be seen at sunhigh or moonhigh. She hunts in the lands belonging to no one, praying to whomever listens that the bones may be well received by the earth and maggots. It's been more than a season since she's wandered alone, sticking close to her site of resurrection, as if the very land could revoke the right.
This night, the clouds drift over the moon, yet do not obscure its placement. Charity scoops up the thin mouse she's managed near the RiverClan border, and turns to leave - but the undergrowth grows unsettled, and the air becomes tainted with fresh scents of willows and reeds. The pale furred moggy turns her squinted gaze, poised no different than a newborn fawn. Pale fur flashes, and with it a spot of recognition.
"Is that the moon? Peaking at me, there, through the tall grasses?" Charity hums, humor now creasing her smile.
