The Moth and the Flame
One moment Heathertail is taking shelter in one of the camp's burrows, reassuring her Clanmates that it's a simple spring storm and soon it will pass; the next, lightning strikes the ground hot, blinding her with a brilliant white flash, and then there is fire.
This is what I get for trying to be optimistic, Heathertail thinks, as she scans the smoking mooreland. At least the rain manages to reduce most of the fires to ash, but small ones seem to be popping up everywhere.
"We'll split into pairs and cover the territory quicker," Harespring decides aloud. "If you find a fire, watch over it until it burns out. It shouldn't be a problem but take your wet moss, just in case."
Heathertail agrees with this decision.
"Alright, Crowfeather will come with me; Leaftail and Emberfoot will go together; and Heathertail and Breezepelt will go together."
Heathertail decides this is a terrible decision.
She glances at Breezepelt, who is staring straight ahead like he's contemplating running away, but he won't. He has only ever ran away once.
The pairs split up and follow different paths. Heathertail looks north and opens her mouth to suggest they head in that direction, but when she turns around Breezepelt is striding towards the horizon. Heathertail blows out a sigh but picks up her wet moss and follows him.
The Moth and the Flame
They used to chatter like birds, day and night. It seems like they always had something to laugh about, to argue about. Now they walk side-by-side in silence, and Heathertail distracts herself by wondering where they went wrong.
It is a poor distraction because she's still thinking about Breezepelt and why they aren't talking; and also because she doesn't have to wonder, she already knows the answer.
She considers blurting something out, anything to shatter the stillness between them, but Breezepelt beats her to it: "I see smoke."
She follows his gaze and sees a trail of smoke billowing in the air. "It's probably a small one." She almost challenges him to a race, but Breezepelt is already leaving her behind in pursuit, and she's left staring after him with an aching feeling in her chest.
The Moth and the Flame
Heathertail remembers how things used to be between Breezepelt and Crowfeather; everyone remembers. But she remembers the things that no one else does, because Breezepelt told her things that no one else ever knew.
She wonders if things are better between them now, because it certainly seems that way. I could always ask him if they're better, she thinks, glancing at him.
The storm disappeared as quickly as it came. There are no lingering clouds to distract from the magnificent sunset that WindClan bore witness to every evening; the sky explodes into orange and gold as the sun dips behind the mooreland.
"Did you watch the sunset while you were… away?" Heathertail tries. It's not the meaningful conversation she misses, but it's not too painful, either.
Breezepelt shrugs. "It's kinda hard to miss. Not the same as a sunset on the moore, though. Too many trees."
"Oh. Did you miss watching it from the moore, then?"
"Not really. They all look the same, after a while."
Heathertail has never heard such an absurd statement before. She looks at him to make sure he isn't messing with her, but his face is blank; his amber eyes are dark and reflect none of that red-orange brilliance in the sky.
"You're serious? You think they all look the same?"
Even as apprentices, Breezepelt would become frustrated whenever she pressed him. But as she searches his face for the slightest twitch, he only shrugs and says, "I really watched them before I left, Heathertail. I guess I've always focused on the wrong things."
She falters and then slows down, instinctively expecting Breezepelt to do the same so that they glare at each other while they argue. But Breezepelt doesn't slow down. Doesn't falter.
Doesn't even look back at her.
He's slipping away, Heathertail thinks. She never used to watch him leave her behind. It was always the other way around.
She wonders what he called the ache in her chest.
The Moth and the Flame
The fire is small, just like she said it would be. She doesn't even think it warrants the trip across the moore, but she supposes that one can never be too careful.
She lays down and tucks her paws underneath her stomach. Breezepelt eyes her for a moment, then asks, "You don't want to use the moss balls to put it out?"
"I don't see why we should. It'll burn out on it's own."
"But it'll go out quicker if we use the moss."
Petty isn't her style, but she snorts. "If you're in such a hurry to get away from me, you can go back to camp. I can handle this on my own."
It's a test, of course. If Breezepelt leaves her then their friendship (friendship?) really is ruined; but if he stays with her, then-
Wordlessly, Breezepelt copies her.
Hope ignites in her chest, as small and bright as this fire; the ache is still there too, but fires spread.
"Thanks," she whispers.
They're on the edge of their territory; a little ways off, Heathertail can see trees. But it's the moon that is most telling. It's replaced the sun as it shines down from Silverpelt, almost full.
"You're welcome," Breezepelt finally whispers back.
The Moth and the Flame
They lay there in silence for a while, but for once tonight, Heathertail isn't bothered by it. She's transfixed by the fire; large fires are dangerous but this one is small enough to be considered beautiful in the way that the flames flicker and throw shadows.
Out of the corner of her eye, a moth catches her attention. She watches as it flies closer and closer to the fire, until it's hovering directly above it. Even though she knows what happens to moths and fire, she still winces when the flames stretch and engulf the insect. Maybe small fires are dangerous after all.
She wonders if Breezepelt feels sorry for the little moth too, and looks at him.
The fire casts a shadowy glow across Breezepelt's face. His eyes smolder, and Heathertail has to pry her gaze away from him. As she stares past the fire, she wonders which one she is: the moth, or the flame.
Before the Dark Forest Battle, she thought she was the flame; Breezepelt had been padding loyally after her since they were apprentices, and although she hadn't meant to lead him on in the beginning, there was something about having him wrapped around her paw that made her feel smug.
But the Dark Forest Battle was moons ago, and she doesn't feel so smug anymore.
"You could have told me, you know," Heathertail meows.
"About what?"
She looks at him. "Think about it."
He looks back at her, and maybe for the first time that night, their eyes lock. "Right, because that would have gone over so well with Tigerstar."
"They were watching you even when you were awake?"
"They were always watching me."
She returns her gaze to the dying fire. "When do you think they started watching you, specifically?"
"When I was eight moons old."
The certainty in his voice makes her think Oh. They recruited him two moons after the start of his apprenticeship; it makes sense, she reasons. His parents' relationship worsened every day, and it wasn't like he got along with Crowfeather very well.
"I sent him away," Breezepelt adds. So they tried to recruit him at eight moons old. "He came back again after the Gathering." She doesn't have to ask which Gathering he's referring to.
She does ask, "Who is 'him'? Tigerstar?"
"Tigerstar's mentor. Thistleclaw."
It's weird to think that Tigerstar had a mentor; that he used to be young and full of possibility. She wonders where he went wrong. She wonders if someone can pinpoint the moment the same way that she can with Breezepelt.
She wonders and wonders about things that are pointless, because at least they occupy space in her head. Breezepelt has only ever run away once, but sometimes Heathertail thinks that's all she's ever done. Run away.
"Heathertail, I did try to tell you," Breezepelt meows abruptly, and she turns to stare at him in disbelief.
"When?"
Breezepelt scoffs. "When you thought I was asking you to be my mate."
That is the moment she can pinpoint, where everything went wrong between them. The ache in her chest is written all over her face.
"I was going to tell you the truth about everything," Breezepelt goes on, unable to stop now. "I wanted your help in warning the Clan, and then we could have gone to the other Clans, or maybe... I mean, I thought that if no one believed me, we could have run away together. We would have been safe, at least."
"The Dark Forest- Thistleclaw, he would have known you told me," Heathertail stammers, always latching onto those small, pointless distractions. "As soon as you fell asleep, he would have grabbed you!"
Breezepelt shrugs, turning away from her. "I wouldn't have ever slept again if it meant I could protect you, Heathertail."
I am the moth, she can't help but think as she stares at his back. Moons ago she would have scoffed at the notion, but the aching feeling in her chest has returned and now it's desperate and hot and it's consuming her and she is helpless, just like the moth.
Breezepelt is dark and dangerous and no matter what lines he crosses, no matter how many times he makes her furious, she is always drawn back to him. He is the flame.
He turns to face her again, and as if she needs any further evidence, his eyes are finally alight with that red-orange brilliance, but it does not come from the sunset.
"I'm sorry," she whispers in a small voice. "I should have listened to you that night. We could have saved everyone." And I could have saved us.
Breezepelt stares at her for a long moment and she wonders if he's reading her thoughts, then he picks up her moss ball and drops it on the small fire; within moments it is gone, a pile of smokey embers.
"Come on," the Flame meows. "Let's get back to camp before Harespring sends a patrol for us."
The Moth nods, defeated, but is reassured when he does not depart without her. Breezepelt is patiently waiting for her to pick up the pieces of her pride and walk with him.
The journey back to camp is silent, but they're both lost in their own thoughts. The ache in Heathertail's chest is softening, but it does not fade away; it won't. Not until what they almost had is restored, or until she dies. She has her preference.
Breezepelt turns to glance at her the same instant that she glances at him; their eyes lock, and she thinks that she can still see fire burning there, lighting his eyes up something fierce.
He gently bumps their shoulders. She shoots him a tiny smile, aching and hopeful all at once.
It spreads until she is consumed.
I've had this concept locked down for some time now, it was just a matter of putting my butt in gear and actually writing it out. It's short and simple and I'm not convinced that I've nailed Heathertail here, but I'm comforted by the fact that they're both a little delicate right now.
I posted a new one-shot to my collection (SHARDS [Blood and Water]) but it didn't receive any reviews, so this is an experiment: do you prefer to interact with singular one-shots (like this one), or is the interaction on FFN just going down? I've been crossposting all of my works to AO3, but I may quit posting here if the latter is the case.
Anyway, you can find me on Tumblr at KatieK101. If you ever want to chat or have a question/request, that is the best place to reach me. AO3 is KatieK101 as well.
I hope you're all staying safe during these uncertain times! Wishing you all of the best.