Work Text:
Snowfur always wanted grandeur. When cats saw her white pelt—they assumed, and so ludicrously, they picked apart what they thought she would be. They saw innocence—however faux—and saw her more rounder features and thought of her as kind. She was illuminating. From the very den she was born in, to the woods she hunted, trained, loved, and lost in—-to the old, rotten road she died on.
She stood out.
But somehow; cats turned their heads when she truly blossomed. When her pelt became caked with a dark, grueling red that for a moment, not even Bluefur could recognize those blue eyes. They were burning and flickering with fire—one that Bluefur held, but instead of in her claws and their sharp intentions were tightly strewn in her future and brain.
Thistleclaw saw her. Not as meek and down to the floor, ears bent back in this awful, begging forgiveness. He saw her through gritted fangs and burning passion, eyes sharp and a bloodlust behind her very swipes. He was like her—except all cats knew what to expect his hulking figure of. He was broad and massive, a force even when he still suckling on his mothers teet, the smell of milk clinging to his fuzzy pelt.
And somehow, when she laid dead; he forgot too.
Ideas of a weak and polite she-cat fooled his memories. The concept of her fangs staying close instead of bare became the accepted truth when it was nothing but. They thought of a round, feminine she-cat who was simply at the wrong time. Maybe it was because her belly still had pinks too it from birthing her son, maybe because sweet and fresh milk still wove itself into her now limp, flat pelt.
Bluefur knew. Bluefur saw that fire sizzle out. Saw how quickly it was extinguished and how quickly the ashes were swept away.
Snowfur always wanted grandeur, but instead she became the soft, sweetest-spoken, and compliant cat to walk in stories, popping in so nicely and kindly in others minds. They saw white fur, bubbly features, and the scent of clinging milk—-and not the caked on blood or the intention that led to her demise.
Bluefur didn’t speak of her—-grief stricken by her death and let her memory be swept away other than the small, shy stories she told Snowfur's son,
Her son was too young to remember anything but her scent, and somehow—- his singular memory was the most true of her.
She smelt of milk when she died.