Sleep came easily for the first time since he had fallen ill- and despite the chill, he had moved closer to the entrance of his den, into a patch of slightly-warm sallow that lit the floor, the midday sun giving him respite. Berryheart sank into dreams, still feeling the eyes of the stars upon him, feeling no better and no worse. His breath, most of all, had stayed short- on account for an ailment that had hounded him since kithood, he would guess. Recovery in stasis, but no worse, he found no reason to worry.
Oh, how he should have been more careful. How he should have suspected that the fatigue had to swoop in from somewhere. And when it hit, it would impale him- with icy claws, constricting grip. How he should have known, and now will never forgive his foolishness, sleeping with ice in his chest.
Breathlessness wakes him. Berryheart's eyes shoot wide, and are already bloodshot; he does not know for how long he has been gasping, for how long the coils were tightening and shrinking his lungs. There is no space anymore for a breath- and faintness eclipses his vision with flashes of shadow, relentless. The air is too cold to gulp, his lungs are too frozen to hold any air. It has never been this bad before, he knows it- knows that greencough's deadly tendrils had wound down his throat and pierced him deeper than catmint could reach. Permanence.
And the air is thick with it, with permanence, and the knowledge that it is over. Knowlege has never been so reviled. Berryheat's mind is choked, bruised- he cannot think straight, and does not wander toward his herbs but toward the exit of his den. Half-in, half-out, he plummets to the floor. He cannot see, he cannot breathe, he cannot-
A pathetic teacher, a pathetic healer, to wither away like this. Spirits sprawl toward him, and he is not prepared, white-toed paws twitching as if to grasp something that might, might be there. A thread of life that keeps evading him, and will soon split forever. It is no way for anyone to die, and- and his voice is drowned blue as he chokes out, "Please," and does not know what he begs for.
Oh, how he should have been more careful. How he should have suspected that the fatigue had to swoop in from somewhere. And when it hit, it would impale him- with icy claws, constricting grip. How he should have known, and now will never forgive his foolishness, sleeping with ice in his chest.
Breathlessness wakes him. Berryheart's eyes shoot wide, and are already bloodshot; he does not know for how long he has been gasping, for how long the coils were tightening and shrinking his lungs. There is no space anymore for a breath- and faintness eclipses his vision with flashes of shadow, relentless. The air is too cold to gulp, his lungs are too frozen to hold any air. It has never been this bad before, he knows it- knows that greencough's deadly tendrils had wound down his throat and pierced him deeper than catmint could reach. Permanence.
And the air is thick with it, with permanence, and the knowledge that it is over. Knowlege has never been so reviled. Berryheat's mind is choked, bruised- he cannot think straight, and does not wander toward his herbs but toward the exit of his den. Half-in, half-out, he plummets to the floor. He cannot see, he cannot breathe, he cannot-
A pathetic teacher, a pathetic healer, to wither away like this. Spirits sprawl toward him, and he is not prepared, white-toed paws twitching as if to grasp something that might, might be there. A thread of life that keeps evading him, and will soon split forever. It is no way for anyone to die, and- and his voice is drowned blue as he chokes out, "Please," and does not know what he begs for.
PENNED BY PIN ☾
