- Dec 27, 2022
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Lichenpaw isn't much of a medicine cat, he knows. Always so out of place, in ThunderClan and among the other healers. Lying through his teeth to keep suspicion off his back, pledging faith to ancestors he didn't believe in. Basilwhisker's exile was enough proof that the two of them never belonged here. There's guilt beneath his pelt, a want to tell Berryheart of what they've kept secret. He, at least, deserves to know. But Lichenpaw is so tired, and he barely has the energy to look for his mentor amidst the crowded medicine den, much less tell him anything. Maybe after he gets better. Maybe when the journeying cats do not return. Maybe when they do, by some miracle. He could almost believe it, now. He's too tired for desperation, though.
The stars overhead are silent in their watching, a thousand tiny pinpricks dappled like the freckles that color his mottled pelt. He can't see them from here, in the medicine den. If the stars wait for him, then they will be waiting for all of time. The comfort is a distant thing, a thing for cats far brighter than he. Lichenpaw was never the hopeful sort.
Who would wait for him? Basilwhisker is dead, he knows. Parker, his brother. He must be, sick as he was when he left (and ah, Lichenpaw meant to bring him lungwort, but they ran out so fast that he couldn'tslip out with any). But Basilwhisker never saw hope in the stars, either. It is the cats down here, they know, that wait. Wait for him to return from his illness, his delirium. It has not been long since he contracted it; they know there are others who lasted longer. But Lichenpaw has always been the restless sort, the impatient sort.
And they are tired, so very tired. They want to rest.
It's easy, to stop holding on. His clan needs him, he knows. The thought drums at the back of his head, growing quieter and quieter. It's nice, to feel wanted. But Lichenpaw is selfish, and he knows what he wants.
His breathing is shallow, but steady. Slowing. Lichenpaw's glassy eyes fall shut, and there is a distance to all of it. The pain of his throat, the strain of his breathing. The fog in his head thickens to envelop all of him, a gentle blanket coating his shaky body. It feels... peaceful. Nice. The confusion drifts distant, unworrying, like a mind half-asleep. Their thoughts have felt so hard to grasp for a long time, now. There's an apology left on his tongue, but the muscles of his mouth feel too weak to move. He doesn't have the energy left to care, really. He thinks he should. But it's so easy, to just let go, to let all the muscles in their body relax. That's never been easy before. Their breathing, thin enough to be barely a whisper, grows quieter and quieter.
...And Lichenpaw drifts off to sleep. They do not dream.
The stars overhead are silent in their watching, a thousand tiny pinpricks dappled like the freckles that color his mottled pelt. He can't see them from here, in the medicine den. If the stars wait for him, then they will be waiting for all of time. The comfort is a distant thing, a thing for cats far brighter than he. Lichenpaw was never the hopeful sort.
Who would wait for him? Basilwhisker is dead, he knows. Parker, his brother. He must be, sick as he was when he left (and ah, Lichenpaw meant to bring him lungwort, but they ran out so fast that he couldn'tslip out with any). But Basilwhisker never saw hope in the stars, either. It is the cats down here, they know, that wait. Wait for him to return from his illness, his delirium. It has not been long since he contracted it; they know there are others who lasted longer. But Lichenpaw has always been the restless sort, the impatient sort.
And they are tired, so very tired. They want to rest.
It's easy, to stop holding on. His clan needs him, he knows. The thought drums at the back of his head, growing quieter and quieter. It's nice, to feel wanted. But Lichenpaw is selfish, and he knows what he wants.
His breathing is shallow, but steady. Slowing. Lichenpaw's glassy eyes fall shut, and there is a distance to all of it. The pain of his throat, the strain of his breathing. The fog in his head thickens to envelop all of him, a gentle blanket coating his shaky body. It feels... peaceful. Nice. The confusion drifts distant, unworrying, like a mind half-asleep. Their thoughts have felt so hard to grasp for a long time, now. There's an apology left on his tongue, but the muscles of his mouth feel too weak to move. He doesn't have the energy left to care, really. He thinks he should. But it's so easy, to just let go, to let all the muscles in their body relax. That's never been easy before. Their breathing, thin enough to be barely a whisper, grows quieter and quieter.
...And Lichenpaw drifts off to sleep. They do not dream.
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// RIP ;-;
thank you all so much for having me as your MCA!! i love all of you in thunderclan very much and i had such a lovely time playing lichen, but unfortunately i just don't think i'll be able to keep up with the role or the character anymore. still wanted to give him a proper sendoff though <3
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LICHENPAW named for the lichen on the trees of his home.
— he/him or they/them. 15 moons.
— thunderclan medicine cat apprentice, mentored by berryheart.
— bears a near-permanent nervous grin.
penned by saturnid. -
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