All my twisted thoughts free flow| WillowxCinder

[Whiskers]

How quiet the night was, and how beautiful. Even in the medicine den, tucked away from the stars, Willowpaw could feel their radiance as they did the impossible--keep light when dark was more powerful. Any moment now, Willowpaw figured that the dark sky would bite down on the stars and snuff out their lights. But this didn't happened-- it never happened. Night after night, the stars glowed softly, throbbed with insistent, stubborn brightness. The stars were not like the sun, which burned with roughness, blinded the world beneath it. They were humble and graceful. They were the reason Willowpaw preferred the night over the day.

It was no wonder then, why the other clans saw the stars as powerful celestial beings, parading over the world with their brilliance. But stars, as wonderful as they were, deserved no worship. They needed nothing but a pair of searching eyes to appreciate them. They were, after all, just lights. Nightlights, really. Willowpaw thought this with fondness. Yes, they were her nightlights and they chased all bad dreams away with their smiles. If only she could see her precious nightlights now. They would remind her that her bad dreams were just that: dreams. Nothing but terrible, dark nightmares with snapping teeth and foul rat stench.

But she couldn't see the stars from where she slept on this makeshift bed. She could not even lift herself to venture outside, to calm her panicked mind, for her legs were lead and therefore too heavy to use. And everyone was sleeping, so she could not tell anyone of her nightmares.

If only the stars could come inside and dance for her-- the nightmares would go away and she would not be alone.

[/size]

[swift]

The wind squeezed through the small entrance, rough and powerful. Once inside, it proceeded to wreak as much havoc as possible, stirring up the dust off the floor, scattering neatly stacked piles of herbs across the den, tugging the moss out of the sickbeds. It seemed to be enjoying this newfound playground and sent borage leaves dancing, marigold petals flying. It even managed to get into the stock of poppy seeds and began to throw them against the walls until they popped out of their dark husks and dribbled onto the floor.

At the moment when the wind was at its climax, Cinderpaw slinked inside, a mouse trapped between his jaws, its little pink tail hanging down against his lips. The wind, excited by the prospect of a playmate, wasted no moment in buffeting the newcomer with as much herbs as it could get its hands on. Fortunately, the air pressure inside the den had placed him on high alert. With his whiskers, he had gauged out the wind as volatile and had realized that the slightest disturbance might push him back with such force that it would knock him off his feet, so as quickly as he had entered, he left.

The wind rushed past him in a flurry of branches, bile-coated leaves, cobwebs, and all sorts of medicinal instruments, as expected, and spirited them away into the heart of the camp. But one thing he had not predicted was the speed at which it charged out, stealing the breath from his lungs. He dropped the mouse as fast as he could before his body took charge and made him gasp and double over.

"Cant," he panted, "Cant. Breathe."

Of course, there was no one walking around in the middle of the night. There was no one to help him. No perfect stranger. He coughed a few times to clear his throat and inhaled deeply. When his pulse slowed down and he found that he could breathe properly again, he picked up the mouse and walked back into the den, calm as could be.

[/size][/justify]

[Whiskers]

Willowpaw squeezed her eyes shut when the wind came. It ricocheted around the den in angry blades, hitting the walls hard, bringing dust up, grabbing herbs and tossing them around. Willowpaw let out a small squeak as she heard it roar in her ears; she curled up in defense, letting her small body become even smaller and more compact. The blades of wind, however, still managed to cut at her fur with a chilly strength, and she felt herbs slap her sides and graze her body. Meanwhile, as the wind bullied Willowpaw into cowering, an image of a rat and its red eyes summoned itself against the darkness of her lids. Its sinister gaze and salivating mouth smiled at her and cackled hysterically before it leaped--

Willowpaw squeaked and her eyes shot open, her body uncurled itself. The last of the gust slapped Willowpaw in the face and then left, exiting out of the den as quickly as it had entered. Willowpaw, though, was rattled by its howling, it's power, and she now realized that even if she wanted to sleep, the act of merely closing her eyes would conjure an image that cut into her very heart. Willowpaw breathed heavy and gulped at the oxygen in the den in order to stop her heart from racing. This burned her throat-- it was unusually dry. Oh, what she wouldn't give for a drink right now!

Instead she got a cat. A strange cat. Willowpaw noticed him from the corner of her eye and her head whipped around. She was tense, completely on edge. She probably looked a bit mad, the way her eyes expanded into large green spheres. Yet a second later, she calmed down as she recognized this cat as a friend, or rather, a fellow apprentice. His name was easily remembered as soon as Willowpaw got a good look at his pelt and despite the dim light, Willowpaw managed to do just that. His name was Cinderpaw; he was older than her. He was a stranger, but a memory...no a dream stirred and scratched at Willowpaw's conscience and she felt like he had come to visit her before.

"What are you doing here? Isn't it past your bedtime?" Willowpaw quipped. She had wished to coo in a soft, teasting tone and to arch an eyebrow. She could imagine herself doing this, as a small smirk graced her muzzle. She would be cute that way, Willowpaw knew this, but it was not to be-- her tone was tired, her feminine wiles not as sharp as they used to be. Yet her gaze was strong and fierce and she pinned the tom down with her green eyes. He would not proceed any further until he gave her a suitable answer.

[/size]

[swift]

Gentle moonlight streamed in through the entrance, illuminating the den with soft silver light. The moon itself was peeking coyly from above the treetops, having shed its cloud habit in exchange for its own naked brilliance. As it shone radiant and lustrous, and the stars winked from their perches high up in the night sky, Cinderpaw was setting the mouse down beside him. Instantly, he was ablaze with light, his ashy coat suffused with white—the angles of his face thrown into even sharper relief, intensifying his fine-boned features until each flicker of emotion, each ill-fated flame of passion was magnified in his eyes a hundredfold. He sat with his back to the entrance, and thus unaware of the vulnerability of his face, proceeded to allow his feelings to pass through him strong and raw.

Anger, spite, malice, confusion: all sorts of fervent desires and tumultuous sensations stirred in his countenance. It was a wonder that he did not move, that he did not dare breathe while he was held fast in their grip, and his body remained as stoic as ever. From the tightness of his jaw, one could almost see the resolution, the willpower, with which he repressed his emotions. He shied just from the border of release, and he knew that release would be the ultimate bliss, but he also knew that to let them flow out would be the end of him. Within him, burning in his chest, was the desire to hurt, to break, to crush, to make every one--even just some one--feel his pain and reach out to him as he had. But with his will, he held the destructive forces that roared so loudly for liberation—for the freedom to exercise their power against the world until it was their obliteration or that of the rest of society—and reined them back until they only managed to exist as dim apparitions of fear and hate.

His face was dark and severe. His eyes blazed with barely contained, unexplainable fury. He looked to be on the brink of exploding, but then,

”What are you doing here? Isn’t it past your bedtime?”

The flames extinguished, the animation of his eyes deadened as he struggled to resurface: to pull himself together.

“Isn’t it past yours?” he replied, shifting on his paws.

His face was thrown back in shadow as a haze of cloud billowed out to enfold the moon in sickly mist. Only the occasional flash of the eyes, a discreet twitch at the corners of his lips betrayed him. It was like glimpsing through the bars of a cage, desperately trying to see through--to catch a glimpse of what exotic animal might be trapped inside. Sometimes, one was gratified with a flash of wings, a shimmer of dark feathers here, or there; but at others, the bars were too close, the object of interest too far away to excite fancy, and thus, the spectator would throw his hands up in the air in defeat and leave disappointed and desolate.

And what of the trapped creature?

Well, no one ever cared enough to ask.

[/size][/justify]

[Whiskers]

Willowpaw lifted her head and her eyes squinted up at this cat. So much bigger than her; yet she was smaller than most, more a mouse than a cat, her body as slight as the wind itself. Perhaps if she stood up, she would find that he was not as tall as he appeared and she was not as small as she felt. Maybe she could stand and reach his muzzle, or even better, reach his eyes with her own. How she longed to look at someone directly in the eyes, to steal into their mind and make a permanent spot for herself there. She would carve it out with her claws and though the process would be, at first, rather painful, in the end it would all be worth it because, in the end, she would not be moved.

She still felt so weak though. She could not stand up. But she tried to force her way anyway, raising her chin, her eyelids fluttering over the green of her eyes. She met him with a hitched eyebrow and all the trembling from her nightmare had stopped. She had shoved the trembling to the back of her head, along with the rat image, though this was only possible because of this cat in the medicine cat den. He was proving to be a wonderful distraction.

Hs reply was rudimentary. She could have guessed it a million miles away, could have said it before him. Yet he displayed a wonderful poker face as he said it, and he did not say it with cheekiness or with a laugh caught in his throat. He said it with the smoothness that she would say something. She was intrigued.

"I'm the guest of honor here," she answered lightly, both her eyebrows arching up and a smile tickling her whiskers. "I get to decide when I go to sleep. In fact, I make up all the rules."

She looked away from the tom then, feigning a disinterest in him, trading in their stare-off for the ever interesting task of fiddling with poppy seeds. The wind had kicked them up and she was surrounded by a few; she rolled them back and forth and let a little yawn shake her body. It was the yawn of a kit, truth be told, and she often despised how young she sounded when she got tired, or when she laughed, or sneezed.

"And you didn't answer my first question-- why are you here? Her attention turned back from the tom. She glanced down at the prey at his feet. "Did you bring that mouse for me, perhaps?"

[/size]

[swift]

She stirred in her nest, struggled to move her limbs. She was so thin, so frail, like a baby bird that had not yet learned to spread its wings and fly; and those eyes: those big round doe-eyes that stared right into him as if he was made of glass--as if he was transparent, inconsequential. He wanted to tell her that she had him right where she wanted him. That she had him wrapped around her finger, dancing on the palm of her pretty little hand. He wanted to scream and squirm and laugh all at the same time, because he saw the want in her eyes too, the very reflection of his own.

But of course, he also wanted to save face. He had his pride to worry about, and he did not feel like sticking his neck out for her to decapitate. There was a warning in her eyes, almost as strong as her want, and it sent alarms sounding in his head. She was dangerous. She was cruel. She was absolutely breathtaking.

Nothing could describe the ferocity with which he beat down his emotions, and yet they would always return all the more fresh and intense. He wanted so badly to touch her, to feel her underneath his skin, to feel how he might feel to everyone else. They were one and the same. Both hurt, both still licking their wounds. He let himself sink deep. He let himself imagine for a moment what it would be like to have the courage to get up and tell her how much he needed her, how much he wanted her. In his fantasy, he would approach her and confess to her everything that was on his mind, everything that had ever haunted him since his family had splintered away and shattered into a million different pieces. She would nod, understand his pain, relate to him what she herself was feeling, and then they would make each other whole again.

He was broken. Damaged. Empty. Hollow--a mere shell that knew only to breathe, to walk, to talk.

Make me care. Make me hope.

Make me sing. Make me dance.

Make me laugh, make me smile, make me burst with joy to joke, to pray, to cry, to grieve, to hate, to love...

Make me live...

Please, just make me whole again.


”I’m the guest of honor here.” His head snapped up to catch her gaze, eyes smoldering. ”I get to decide when I go to sleep.”

He remained fixated on her, his eyes taking in everything: the way her mouth moved when she talked, the way she arched her eyebrows, the way her eyes shone with each word she drew into the air between them, the way that smile slipped so innocently onto her lips.

”In fact, I make up all the rules.”

And then she turned away from him, and his eyes lost their grip on her, lost their focus. He could barely follow her as she toyed with some poppy seeds.

”And you didn’t answer my first question—why are you here?

She returned to him, and his heart felt like it would burst, but then he realized that she was actually scrutinizing the mouse resting by his paws. He felt it deflate.

”Did you bring that mouse for me, perhaps?

Unable to delay a reply any further without seeming outright rude, at last Cinderpaw broke his silence.

“No, it’s my snack,” he said, purposely evading her earlier question. Now was not the time for that. “But I’ll share.”

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he lapsed back into his dark silence. He began to second-guess himself. Perhaps what he had mistaken for want was actually hunger, and that he had desired so desperately to see it that his mind had obliged and decided to play along with him and had given him what he had craved most. Or maybe it was just a trick of the light and the violent demand for him that he had read and recognized so easily in her eyes was actually just the blank stare of a vacant mind. He did not know. He wasn’t even sure that he wanted to know. Would it hurt to find out that he had only been imagining things? Was there even enough space on his body left for more pain?

No. He shook his head, scattering his thoughts. He had to concentrate. He was losing himself again, and that was the last thing he wanted right now. He made way for natural instinct. Don’t let her see that you are weak.

God, it was so damn hard to act sane sometimes.

He slowly got up onto his paws and leaned over to scoop the mouse back into his jaws. Then he turned back to face her and stood frozen for what seemed to be the longest time--for Willowpaw, most likely seconds, but for him, it was eternity. He was desperately trying to memorize her just so, to have something to think back to when she hated his guts and he hated hers, because that was how things always turned out when he met someone as dangerous as her. Because that was how he made sure things would go.

Stone-faced and without a word, he closed the distance between them in a few long-legged strides, the hard muscles lining his ribs contracting and expanding as he breathed, his powerful back rippling, the toned sinew in his shoulders and haunches further accenting the fluidity and grace with which he loped across the dusty floor. He stopped right at the edge of her sickbed, his flaming amber eyes burning a hole through her straight to the wall. He could almost taste her now. Strong and sweet without a trace of rat. He let the mouse slide from his mouth headfirst until only the tip of its tail was trapped between his teeth. It swung slowly from side to side like pendulum. He simply let it dangle above her head, just out of reach.

“Come and get it,” his eyes said.

[/blockquote][/justify]

[Whiskers]

Every movement that the tom in front of her made looked so rigid, tense and minute, as if the slightest breath or wink executed out of place would hurt him physically. HIs eyes were firm rocks, solid, unbreakable. His jaw was set so precisely that she wondered if parts of him really were just stone, instead of flesh and fur. But then parts of him twitched, a breeze touched his ears, the dim moonlight reached his face, and Willowpaw was reminded that this was no stone statue, but a cat.

His gaze was absolutely smoldering, and they sought to catch her fur on fire while they watched her. She would not let him succeed though-- though she may be weak, injured, potentially scarred for life (oh, her legs, her poor legs, she's be positively repulsive if they didn't heal up!), she would not let this stranger get the best of her. She had strength in her yet, a courage fueled by her fear, strange enough.

She could not help her natural instincts though-- her ears perked, her eyes brightened as soon as he spoke. Just the fact that he offered to share it eased the ache in her legs and the intensity of her stare. She resorted back to her kit days for a second, letting her happiness run rampant, uncontrolled. It was stupid that a mouse could make her this happy. But she really was hungry and a handsome tom was delivering it to her. Why not bask in the moment?

His steps were just as meticulous as his blinks had been. Ridiculous that she would have noticed something like that. She brushed the thought of and watched him hungrily until he sat down but a tail-length from her. The mouse dropped-- and then snagged at the last moment, bouncing for a heartbeat before becoming a motionless corpse once again. The brief happiness was snuffed out as Willowpaw realized this new challenge. It was replaced by, first annoyance and then a bout of determination, a fire of energy renewed inside her.

Just the thought of movement brought pain. She could remember the burning. She knew that standing would not be good for her, not now, when the wounds were still so fresh. She glanced down at her legs, the bites-- they were red and inflamed, swollen and ugly, yet tamed by the poultice that her brother had made. The ugly scent of the rats had vanished...maybe if she tested her legs out she would find that the pain had subsided too. Either way, she would not lose this challenge.

So Willowpaw rose, as gracefully as an injured she-cat of her stature could. A river of newfound pain trickled through her, a strange rush that made her dizzy in the head. But she did not let this stop her-- never, never. She lifted her chin and the pain stopped before it reached her eyes, before retreating back down the path from where it came. Willowpaw smirked in triumpth and her smirk changed to one of amusement. Her eyes dimmed and she leaned forward, nearly touching her nose to Cinderpaw's, before ducking her head and taking the tail of the mouse in between her teeth. She tugged it from his grip with the gentleness of a songbird, placing it at down at her bed with an equal amount of care.

A sigh tickled her whiskers as she lay down again, the feel of cool moss on her sides refreshing and comforting. She looked back up at her adversary with a pointed gaze. "Well. Join me, won't you? Unless you plan to eat sitting up."

[/size]

[swift]

As their lips touched, as their breath caught in each other’s throats, he felt his body catch on fire. A searing pain burned violently within his chest--consumed his ice cold heart--made every beat ache and bruise and sore. Each inch of hair on his body stood up on end, anticipating for the next accidental brush of fur, or the teasing sensation of fluttering lashes. Each breath was simple agony and pure joy. Each furtive glance was rewarded with flaming amber eyes. A faint blush colored the back of his neck. His face exuded a pink glow. Again and again he caught her watching him, and again and again he returned the favor by openly staring her full upon the face.

For once, he was grateful for the dark cover of night. Night-vision could only go so far--although in his case, he forgot to add Willowpaw’s close proximity into the equation. She could most definitely see all, if she had been examining his face--trying to break through that wall of hardened steel. Of course, any and all efforts to decipher and interpret each thought and feeling that pervaded across his countenance was made in vain. He was still an impenetrable fortress, his heart still unconquered and virgin.

And then she withdrew. But alas, he let her go, without one motion to bring her back, or one candle of hope of her return, and he watched with solemn eyes--his face petrified stone, his lineaments chiseled marble--as she plucked from him the single thread with which they had been brought together and connected. So quietly did she break away from him, so gently did she draw it from between his firmly set teeth, that it took him a brief moment to realize that she was gone. Oh, if only they had a few more seconds. Minutes. Hours together. Days. Weeks. Months. Years to memorize each other until time could no longer make memory fade as it so often did.

”Well. Join me, won’t you?”

And what was this—this offhanded manner? Had she just not extended her hand to him, beckoned to him, enticed him with an invitation to enter into her realm? Had she no clue, or perhaps no shame, that she had just asked a raging inferno, a beast of flames, over for dinner?

”Unless you plan to eat sitting up.”

A sharp glance his way succeeded in redirecting his thoughts. He nodded awkwardly, sort of bent his neck instead of his head, and lied down stiffly beside her. But the way he threw his long legs across the moss, pressed his side against her thighs, turned his head to take an innocent bite of mouse, showed that he was completely at ease so near to her, as if he did this every day.

[/blockquote][/justify]

[Whiskers]

She waited. She waited for him with the same, persistent look, one she would not drop until he gave in to her will, bowed his head and lay down across from her. She could wait forever, if she had to, because Willowpaw never lost and she always got what she wanted. And though she could sense the stubborness that he wore on his fur, a pigheadedness that was sewn onto his bones, Willowpaw knew she could crack him too.

And she did. She did not even have to wait very long before he bent, broke, and proceeded to listen to her order, lowering tall, strong body so that he was at her level. But then he acted out of accordance, and he swung his body so swiftly that Willowpaw only had time to blink in question before she felt his body against her body, his fur against her fur, his heat spreading into her, quickly engulfing the coolness that the moss had earlier provided. She barely managed to stop herself from gasping, but luckily, she kept her surprise inside and let it fizzle until it died.

Was she wrong in her thinking, or did Cinderpaw just rebel against her? Was she not in control here, was she not the one who beckoned him down? Yes she was the one, but she had not given him permission to sit beside her, and such an act, such proximity to her, was not a gesture with no meaning. He was a forward tom. He was not like her usual toms, the ones that she teased with the cutest of giggles and the tiniest of smiles. No tom had ever touched her like this. This was how a tom would eat alongside his mate.

The thought rattled her, threw her off her game, and she let herself slide into stone for just a second, and she did not move or react at all. She needed to process what this Cinderpaw was trying to do. It seemed, to Willowpaw, that he was trying to match her, that he was not going to play along with her, but he was going to play against her. That, or he had no idea of social conduct and he did not know that closeness like this was not appropriate between a she-cat and a tom not mated.

Whatever it was, Willowpaw would pretend that this was normal. She would continue her game and she would win.

So she did not move away. No, she sat very contentedly, ignoring the way his fur felt against hers (so strange, so unfamiliar, so hot), and then she stretched her neck toward the mouse, and in doing so, moved her body so she was pressed even closer to this enigma of a tom beside her. She took her own bite of mouse, finally satisfying her hungry stomach.

And she pursued her answer to her first question. There was no way he was going to not going to answer her.

"You are wonderful at avoiding my question," Willowpaw purred, drawing Cinderpaw's attention away from the delicious mouse, seeking his eyes so she could capture him with her gaze once more. "But I'm stubborn. And I won't stop asking why you've come to visit me until you answer."

[/size]

[swift]

He inhaled sharply--more in surprise than a sudden need for air--as she pressed her body close. His heart was thumping wildly in his chest, accelerating to a violent staccato, squeezing blood so loud and fast that he could practically hear it roaring in his ears. He saw her move her mouth, part her lips, her eyes growing expressive and bright. Was she talking to him? He tried to catch her words over the tumult.

”You are… avoiding my question….” she said, and the rest was lost to him over the sound of rushing blood, pumping hearts.

He could feel her purr reverberate through her chest and against his back, and for a moment, he allowed himself drop away back into the fantasy world, where everything would work out perfectly. She would be exactly what he had needed, had expected, and he, in turn, would be what she had needed. They would complete each other. They would always be together. They would love… He let the thought trail off, sinking deeper, trying to imagine that life. A happy, boisterous life of sharing meals, tongues, nests. Of getting to enjoy someone to the fullest. Of kits and fatherhood. Of never having to ever sleep alone again. And of love—loving someone, and being loved back…

He turned white around the mouth. He checked himself.

The earlier blush faded to his normal, pale complexion, wanting color, liveliness--vividness to indicate that he was in fact of flesh and bone just like her, and not stone. A dash of rouge there. Some brightness here. The forlorn expression on his face was abruptly replaced by one of pensive doubt. The glassy luster of his eyes gave way to their usual fierce burn.

He was being played, he thought. He could feel her eyes trained on him, demanding his attention, drawing him nearer than he had ever intended to grant. Her emerald gaze pierced through the depths of anguish and spite, appraising him, completely unaware of the silent torture that he was going through just by the sight of them. Don’t look at me. Leave me alone, a part of him, the last conscious breath of humanity in him screamed. Don’t you see? How much you hurt me. You don’t even know me, yet I feel like I know you, and just by knowing you, it’s pain.

He crushed it, that weak, hated piece of himself, let it writhe in agony underneath his feet before its thin voice grew smaller--tinier and tinier until he couldn’t hear it anymore. Like how he had ripped away at his stomach--nearly broken all his ribs--trying to get at the hunger that was driving him insane as he lied in the forest clearing, barely able to stand; the sun on his face, clearly illuminating the horror and pain that terrorized him every time he dared close his eyes and think of what waited back there across the border. Home. Such an empty word. He was never going to go back. He would never have a home.

And then he remembered that Willowpaw had asked him a question. Well then, it would be rude to keep the lady waiting, now wouldn’t it?

“It’s cold tonight.” He said it in a quiet, gentle tone, his eyes wistful. He glanced back at Willowpaw, studying her face, all the while letting his own grow soft. His shoulders relaxed on the moss. Without waiting for an answer, he said, “How do you think you stayed warm?”

Come play with me, he mused in a bored air. Come play with my sticks, my stones; let me break all of your bones…

[/blockquote][/justify]