Average/One

"Sometimes I wish I was a kinder, better me for all; sometimes I wish I could be someone who isn't me at all"

―Social Dance by Dodie Clark

“Your vigil is over now,” Sedgestar says, causing Mottlepelt to sleepily turn around. Duskgaze blearily stumbles into the Apprentice’s Den: two hollowed out logs with nests inside. Not the most comfortable.

“Oh, thank StarClan, I can talk again!” Cherrywing exclaims. “There’s no use trying to stop him. He’s probably already asleep. Do we need to prepare our nests?”

“No, I’m sure the other warriors won’t mind if you borrow their nests for a little while. It’ll be alright.” Before she is even finished, Mottlepelt is stumbling toward the Warriors’ Den, Cherrywing on her heels. The Warriors’ den, a large thicket of brambles, has only a few nests. The others are in different thickets, and Mottlepelt heads toward a decently sized one with five nests. She quickly licks the brambles off of her coat, and surveys the nests.

Thistletail is occupying one, looking like he is prolonging being awake for as long as possible. He nods at Mottlepelt in greeting. Two of the nests are just moss, and two contain feathers. One’s studded with ornamental rocks (who in their right mind does that? It may look nice, but it’s so uncomfortable!), so she heads for the other. And, StarClan, maybe it’s just her over-tired slightly depressed state of mind, but it’s the most comfortable nest she’s ever been in.

Seriously. The moss is still warm, and the feathers are downy soft. Mottlepelt only has a moment to relish in the nest’s amazingness, and then she’s asleep.

-~-~

Mottlepelt emerges in her dream. She’s in the woods of the territory. A younger version of herself, back from many moons ago. The confident apprentice bounds through the woods, looking back at her friends who merely want to stay back and relax.

“Come on!” Mottlepaw yells. Sorrelpaw, the stubborn she-cat, scowls back at her.

“I’m not particularly feeling like it,” she calls, “Come on, yourself, Mottlepaw. We’ve been training all day.”

“And if you,” adds Heatherpaw, “feel like failing your assessments due to a lack of sleep, that’s fine by me.”

The enthusiastic grin drops off of her face because she just doesn’t understand.

For the rest of the day, anxiety fills her with restlessness (it was just a dream, just a dream).

“Mottlepelt?” It’s sunset, and she opens her eyes to see a handsome face; it belongs to Swiftfur (of all the nests she could’ve slept in, of course it was his).

“Hello,” she squeaks out.

“Hey,” he says, “That’s my nest, you know..”

“Oh,” Mottlepelt replies, hurriedly sitting up. “It’s awfully soft.” (Maybe this is why she has no friends? she muses).

He smiles warmly. “Thanks for appreciating it. Nobody else seems to care.” The she-cat breathes a sigh of relief. “Would you like to go for a walk?”

“Sure,” she breaths, following him. Pure optimism leads her through this, and it tries to drown her suspicion.

-~-~

It’s approaching dark, now, the sunset’s nearly over. Mottlepelt’s silhouette is outlined in shadow, and she’s sitting next to Swiftfur. Laughing. Happy.

It’s a good thing she’s not the suspicious type, otherwise by now, Swiftfur would be in some trouble.