The world is dimmer now, cloaked in shadow and pain. Whitepaw lies curled in his nest in the medicine den, his body still and fragile. The moss beneath him feels scratchy, damp where it cradles his trembling frame, but he doesn't have the strength or will to move. His breaths come shallow and uneven, each rise and fall of his chest accompanied by the rasping wheeze that has been his constant companion for moons. It's louder now, his body weaker than ever before, but the sound pales next to the hollow silence in his mind. He doesn't look at the world with both eyes anymore. Only one is left. His other eye is gone—a raw, gaping absence he can't bring himself to dwell on for too long. The pain is distant now, dulled by the medicine he's been given, but the ghost of it lingers, like the sharp ache of memory. His ear is gone too, the ragged wound hidden beneath a layer of cobwebs that feels heavy and suffocating against his skull.
The den smells like herbs and blood. His blood. He can still taste it in the back of his throat, metallic and bitter. It churns in his stomach, threatening to rise every time he closes his good eye and sees the moment again. Deathpaw's snarl. Her claws slashing. The look in her eyes, so cold and sharp it cuts through him all over again. Whitepaw flinches at the thought, his chest tightening as panic claws its way through him as the realization strikes him all over again. He killed her. He killed Deathpaw. The words hammer against his mind, relentless and cruel. He feels the weight of her body atop him again, the warmth of her blood dripping over him. He hadn't meant to do it. He hadn't wanted to. But she had lunged for him, her claws tearing through flesh, her teeth tearing pieces of him away. It had been her life or his own. A shudder racks his body, and he squeezes his eye shut against the flood of guilt and fear. The darkness behind his eyelid is no comfort; it only brings her face closer, twisted in fury and pain. He gasps, his breath hitching, his ribs burning as his body heaves against the weight of his emotions.
He's still here. Barely. But at what cost?
@whitedawn
The den smells like herbs and blood. His blood. He can still taste it in the back of his throat, metallic and bitter. It churns in his stomach, threatening to rise every time he closes his good eye and sees the moment again. Deathpaw's snarl. Her claws slashing. The look in her eyes, so cold and sharp it cuts through him all over again. Whitepaw flinches at the thought, his chest tightening as panic claws its way through him as the realization strikes him all over again. He killed her. He killed Deathpaw. The words hammer against his mind, relentless and cruel. He feels the weight of her body atop him again, the warmth of her blood dripping over him. He hadn't meant to do it. He hadn't wanted to. But she had lunged for him, her claws tearing through flesh, her teeth tearing pieces of him away. It had been her life or his own. A shudder racks his body, and he squeezes his eye shut against the flood of guilt and fear. The darkness behind his eyelid is no comfort; it only brings her face closer, twisted in fury and pain. He gasps, his breath hitching, his ribs burning as his body heaves against the weight of his emotions.
He's still here. Barely. But at what cost?
@whitedawn
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