Whitepaw lies still in the medicine den, his bony frame almost sinking into the moss nest beneath him. The faint scent of herbs clings to the air, sharp yet soothing, but it does little to distract him from the dull ache that pulses through his body. His breaths come shallow and uneven, each one rasping in his throat like dry leaves scraping over stone. He feels the weight of exhaustion pressing down on him, heavy as if the world itself is trying to pin him in place. The dim light filtering through the den feels oppressive, making the shadows of the walls stretch and twist in ways that seem alive. Whitepaw's gaze flickers to them occasionally, his amber eyes dull with fatigue but tinged with restless energy. His mind races, thoughts tumbling over one another like a torrent he cannot slow. What could he have done differently? The question hovers over him, unspoken but deafening, suffocating in its persistence. He curls in on himself slightly, trying to block out the nagging voice that refuses to let him rest.
The sound of his own cough breaks the silence, a dry, rattling noise that feels like claws scraping at his chest. He winces, instinctively drawing a paw closer to his chest as if to shield himself from the pain. His ribs ache with every movement, and his throat burns as though the sickness that nearly claimed him once is waiting to strike again. A bitter taste fills his mouth, and he wonders, not for the first time, if he's destined to always be this fragile, always on the edge of breaking. The herbs he was given earlier sit heavily in his stomach, the taste still lingering unpleasantly on his tongue. He shifts, trying to find a position that doesn't hurt, but no matter how he moves, there's always some part of his face that aches or pulls in protest. Giving up, he lets out a frustrated sigh that turns into another hacking cough. The sound echoes in the quiet space, and he feels exposed, vulnerable, like an open wound.
His gaze drops to his paws, thin and trembling. He flexes them slowly, wincing at the stiffness. It's a reminder of how far he has to go, how weak he still is. The thoughts creep in again, whispering doubts and fears he can't silence. He closes his eyes against them, pressing his face into the moss, though it offers little comfort. The scent of earth and herbs surrounds him, grounding him but not enough to ease the storm inside.
@CELANDINEPAW
The sound of his own cough breaks the silence, a dry, rattling noise that feels like claws scraping at his chest. He winces, instinctively drawing a paw closer to his chest as if to shield himself from the pain. His ribs ache with every movement, and his throat burns as though the sickness that nearly claimed him once is waiting to strike again. A bitter taste fills his mouth, and he wonders, not for the first time, if he's destined to always be this fragile, always on the edge of breaking. The herbs he was given earlier sit heavily in his stomach, the taste still lingering unpleasantly on his tongue. He shifts, trying to find a position that doesn't hurt, but no matter how he moves, there's always some part of his face that aches or pulls in protest. Giving up, he lets out a frustrated sigh that turns into another hacking cough. The sound echoes in the quiet space, and he feels exposed, vulnerable, like an open wound.
His gaze drops to his paws, thin and trembling. He flexes them slowly, wincing at the stiffness. It's a reminder of how far he has to go, how weak he still is. The thoughts creep in again, whispering doubts and fears he can't silence. He closes his eyes against them, pressing his face into the moss, though it offers little comfort. The scent of earth and herbs surrounds him, grounding him but not enough to ease the storm inside.
@CELANDINEPAW