- Mar 18, 2023
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The attacks on their territory had taken a toll on everyone. It would be absurd to consider otherwise: their very home had been invaded, and so many had been hurt. Some had even died. Foxbriar considered himself lucky, in spite of everything. There was a brewing anger in his stomach that had wormed its way in after the initial shock, the initial anxiety had all worn off, but he was trying to ignore it. Though it was just as much a part of him as anything else, feeding such emotions ended poorly. He also did not want to worry Duskgaze with such emotions, making him think that he was in a worse spot than what was true.
That had been his primary concern. Duskgaze, through it all. That face of his, his beautiful eyes, his voice—all of it. The thought of him had kept Foxbriar sane as he sat through treatment.
He had been part of the fighting—he felt a responsibility to be. That might have been his downfall—the nagging feeling that he always had to help.
Foxbriar was not a fighter, and he ought to have known that. He ought to have tried to stay on the outskirts of the main conflict, and he had not. It had punished him. Though he was not horribly wounded, he had not left the battlefield unscathed. Cuts and scratches patterned his flanks and limbs and underbelly, and there were a few more nicks in his ear than he would have considered attractive. A small cut was underneath his left eye, but his face had remained (luckily) largely alright.
His cuts, though not fatal, were certainly unpleasant, and he had been ordered to rest as he recovered. Having already left the medicine den, he now sat in a sore ball in his own den, wincing with every minute movement of his. He wanted to find Duskgaze, but he did not want to move. It hurt too much, even if he had the strength to do so.
More than anything, though, he did not want to worry him too much. Foxbriar cursed himself for being so weak, really.
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