private Feel like I'm at rock bottom - Thriftfeather

[milkthorn.]

Eight nights since he had visited his friend.

Each day drawled slowly past as the rosetted tom winced and sulked in his nest deep in the medicine cat den. His anxiety was high, the guilt of Celandinepaw finding him heavy in his heart that an apprentice had to find him like that. Claws barely gripping the edges of life and death, barely holding on from the precipice of the fight against the duskclanners.

He was barely conscious when he was carried across the moors, their murmurs barely cohesive to jagged ears from moons ago in sparring trainings and probably being cuffed over them.

But his injuries bestowed on him were the worst he'd ever endured. "I'm holding on," he barely managed to the fleeing image of the apprentice through pinpoint vision, fighting the darkness that threatened to overtake him.

And why, as he sat he within the depths of the sweet scent of the medicine den, did the only thought on his mind was worry over Thriftfeather and whether he managed to stay in camp or not? Did scorchstar send them away? Fortunately, as he was finally free, he'd see Dimmingsun perched in front of the den.

A breath released from him he didn't know he was holding. The tom was lathered in poultices, eye wrapped in cobwebs where he was now missing one, his vision much worse than he ever thought possible. His ears tucked back against his skull, he limped towards the nursery with a dip of his bulky head in greeting to the other, before ducking his way in. "Th-thriftfeather?" He asked, greeting- the scent of fear washing over him.

He had no idea of the patrol that came in his time hidden away, or any idea that they indeed were looking for the other tom. He had no new knowledge of Thriftfeathers and bluefrosts kittens finally leaving the den for the first time- and what felt like forever, was really him missing a lot.

And he felt like shit. Not just because he had missed so much, but because he felt like the cobweb wrappings wouldn't hold onto his guts from spilled out, nor the fact talking hurt his throat massively from the tears endured by the duskclanners.

Blue eyes fell upon gold, before dropping to his hind in a pitiful manner. "D-duskclanners," he breathed, shaking his head. "They... Attacked me... I was... Afraid of that." This entire time. Though. A chuckle escaped him. "Over a hare. How pathetic, am I right?" He asked, trying to make a joke of it.

@Thriftfeather

My colours messed up bADLY//

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[Thriftfeather]

The mingling scents of herbs and pain find Thriftfeather before he sees Milkthorn’s familiar shape in the mouth of the nursery. Thriftfeather is on his paws before Milkthorn has entered completely. His rabbit-heart has found a home in his throat as Milkthorn says his name—tremulous enough that Thriftfeather’s mind has already supplied a countless number of wrongs to follow.

This isn’t the first time that Thriftfeather has seen Milkthorn in such a state. The last time, it had been Thriftfeather to come to Milkthorn. The last time, Thriftfeather had been frightened enough by Milkthorn’s wounds that he had trouble looking directly at his friend.

Older now, jaded against such things, Thriftfeather doesn’t look away.

“Your eye,” It leaves him more as surprise than a statement. Thriftfeather’s own aches in sympathy for the loss.

And then Milkthorn says DuskClanners, and Thriftfeather understands. Milkthorn continues while Thriftfeather swallows a burgeoning guilt—it was slim moons in DuskClan, even when Greenleaf was at its height. He remembers hunger, remembers what he would have done for a hare.

“Pathetic…” Thriftfeather echoes without intonation. He understands the desire for distance from pain, understands the soft laughter that leaves Milkthorn, but each new sound is another bolt of worry that jolts through Thriftfeather. It isn’t funny—not to Thriftfeather. “They’ve killed for less.”

His green eyes flick beyond Milkthorn—Dimmingsun’s anger for Lilypaw is still fresh in Thriftfeather’s mind.

“They’ve killed for less,” He repeats far more forcibly, his eyes now fixed onto Milkthorn’s own. Thriftfeather has killed for less. “With—there isn’t prey to be found in DuskClan. Not like WindClan. This is going to… It’s going to get worse, now that we are in Leaf-fall.”

How long ago was it that Thriftfeather had felt the wind shift—had worried what that had meant for himself, for DuskClan? Leaf-fall was finally sinking its teeth into the scrub-briar.

“You can’t—you need to be careful. I don’t…” Thriftfeather swallows, swears beneath his breath, and continues, “I don’t want to see you buried. Not by them. Never by DuskClan.”
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DUSKCLAN DEPUTY ✦ GOLDEN TABBY TOM ✦ ✦ TAGS​

 

[milkthorn.]

Your eye. A laugh escaped the rosetted tom, a hearty one. He was just happy to see his friend again. Happy to break the space as he looked upon the other with a narrower sight then before. It was odd, having one eye. But he was nothing but strong. And though insecurity chewed at him, he should've fought harder, he tried, always tried, to make the light of the situation.

"It's gone... But it won't... it can't hold me b-back for much longer." His breath was a bit wheezy, strained, like still choking from his injuries. But he strained to sound okay. He needed to, for those around him. He was a Windclan warrior, from the toes to the bone. Though, he picked up on Thriftfeathers seriousness and frowned. The other couldn't find amusement, who could in this situation. He turned his scarred eye away, craning to examine Thriftfeathers bent form as he spoke about Duskclan.

"You know .. Thriftfeather...." A sharp inhale, before a soft exhale, raspy as matched his gravelly voice. "We can fight side by side now... We've never... done that before. I think, I think if you show me some skills you picked up there," he forced out his words quickly, before taking another wheeze of a breath. It was hard, but he would get better. He could only go up from here, right?

"Me an' you, we could be... unstoppable. Ya know them well, an' that would be cool, to... practice with you. Cotton- inhale. Cottonsprig said, I'd have to retrain and get used to my new vision." There was a sad lilt to his voice, that this was all real and true. That he wouldn't wake up with clear vision.

"Imma, imma get them though. Thrift. Imma get them. Th-they stole my eye. My throat, nearly my life. Two mollies of fire and dirt, theyre-" his teeth clenched, tail flicking behind him before scoffing. "They're good as dead next time I see them. I'll be ready." He declared confidently. But it was a long time before then. If what Thriftfeather said was true, they'll come back, hungry- weak.
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