IN THE MIRROR OF YOUR EYES \ yellowcough

[MALLOWLARK]

By now his wound had knitted back together. Oh, how he'd wanted to sing the praises of the tom who'd done it- his mate! It was a privilege, really, wasn't it? To be cared for so deeply by someone whose job it was to care. Yet... they'd been keeping their distance, still. Mallowlark knew that Dawnglare did not worry for his own health, immune by his own admission, but rather for what might lie on his pelt and latch onto Mallowlark. They'd been careful, so careful. Even though it was painful, even though Mallowlark would give anything to sink into that familiar warmth. The warmth he'd given up his family for.

Life had a funny little way of giving you what you wanted at a weighty price.

That morning, the large tom had woken with bleary eyes, a terrible headache, a fire beneath his pelt. In past days his breath had been little more hollow, but he'd chalked it up to the way that rogue had thrown all their mass against his rib. Surely he'd just had all the wind knocked out of him- even though it probably wasn't supposed to persist like this. It'd be good, though, to get the day started. He could bring prey to the sick, an excuse to get closer, to share a glance among it all.

Inky pawsteps were heavy and slightly staggered as he moved to the exit of camp. No longer were silver eyes moon-wide, and his smile was so strained that his fatigue was tangible to anyone who so much as glanced at him. Where was he going?

Ah, yes- to hunt. Predictably, he didn't get very far.

Mallowlark did not remember when he had hit the ground- it didn't even hurt, really. Stunned for a few moments, he could only lie, a toppled tree. What had been sharpened sights before now looked like blurs, hazy colours melding into each other, the beauty of nature tainted by a sickness. His mind felt not his own, and he couldn't will himself to his paws to seek the help he knew he needed.

Someone was approaching, someone was walking over to him. "Dawnglare...?" he weakly murmured the blurred pair of paws before him. It could only be Dawnglare. Mallowlark was certain no-one else would have bothered.​

☺PENNED BY PIN​

 

[DAWNGLARE]

The distance between them has worn him thin.

The waking world feels like a nightmare, more often now, than it felt this wonderous thing— mortal experience. If he is to walk among them, he has learned that his life is made easier and happiness more plentiful, so long as he sees a beautiful thing that the rest of them did. He should turn his eyes to hills and rocky enclaves— masterfully carved out by the curl of Mother’s claws. He should lift his eyes to the moon and take in the smell of the rain.

The mortal experience was also sickness. It was also death.

It is this fact, that now halts all progress made. Did he have the time to appreciate the drying air, when something unseeable keeps them all within its silent grip? He has never cared before. No, he had not cared since he was a child; and he’d bowed his head to a dawn - streaked sky, and the earth below. There had been nothing to remember– nothing he could have held. So he had chosen everything, in the end.

He had learned all he could after that. This was never meant to happen.

Exhaustion is a thing that can blanket all else, if you have enough of it. There has been a tight grip around the wild flare of his heart, buried beneath the call to the ground. It is Leafbare again. But the sickness is incurable. Leafbare, where his nest had been empty, and he knew what he was missing was not so devastatingly far away. That his staying away was now his choice, rather than necessity, was an irony not lost to him. It is a choice that did not matter, in the end.

It is a solitary creature that he’s been forced to become. Consider it luck, purely, that he sees him when it happens.

No, this was not the first time he is seen this. But it was only the second that had his heart give that little jump; fizzing and spitting. Dawnglare scrambles to him with a quickness afforded for few. The fur along his neck is frayed. He comes to Mallowlark on shuddering feet. Each crack of dirt is far too loud. " Mallowlark. " He does not know what to say. He does not look for a dry, dry nose, or resign himself to his sniffing — Dawnglare feels at the tom’s ears, and the burn, contrary to their snowy visage. He reaches for his face — and he sees the terrible glassiness in his eyes; a gaze that was only partly his. Erupting into a frown, his voice catches, " Mallowlark... "

He had felt it, when he had seen him, sides split by foreign claws, that perhaps he ought to hover, instead. Perhaps if he had let himself be close, he would have caught him sooner, and he would have a better chance to live. A memory of the half - moons meeting calls back to him, and he thinks, had he any Lungwort left, he may have spared every leaflet for him.

Dawnglare lies with him, as if that would do him more good than bringing him a sprig of feverfew would. He just wants to see his eyes — and for Mallowlark to see his. A mournful cry is bitten back on his tongue, for his mate was not dead yet. ( And he will not die, a much smaller voice says ). " You cannot die, " he reminds him in a whisper. And he does not say it with the certainty of someone that knows— statement true; and indeed, he is secure in it, but rather with the certainty that he himself could not take it.

He prays for it — wills it past stone and roots and into Mother’s glowing heart that no such fate would ever come to him. He is the last one that would ever deserve it. And She would know this pain almost certainly, would she not?

OOC 𓆩♡𓆪 9.16.2023 𝘚𝘠𝘕𝘖𝘋𝘐𝘊 𝘚𝘌𝘈𝘚𝘖𝘕 𝘛𝘖 𝘊𝘖𝘔𝘌 𝘖𝘜𝘛 𝘖𝘍 𝘏𝘐𝘋𝘐𝘕𝘎

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• ( 𝙒𝙃𝙔'𝘿 𝙄𝙏 𝙏𝘼𝙆𝙀 𝙎𝙊 𝙇𝙊𝙉𝙂? ) DAWNGLARE Medicine Cat of SkyClan. Mentoring Fireflypaw
  —— He / him , deeply confused by the use of other pronouns
  —— Currently 56 moons old. Mated to Mallowlark
  
  Unsettling and strange, Dawnglare bears a unique perception to the world and stars above on top of a generally unpleasant disposition. Holds others to uniquely impossible standards and himself undeniably above the rest.
  

  You may find him kinder to others than is typical, exhausted from the yellowcough blight and heart heavy in a way he has never felt.​

  Mood is decided by dice - rolls per thread, with the exception of some important threads

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[Fireflyglow]

Death never discriminated.

Fireflypaw found himself walking circles often, repeating the same maddening results one cat after another until he'd grown used to this. Yellowcough had become so familiar to him, that he knew what it was like just as he had known the back of his paw. Familiarity came with uselessness, for the cure was nowhere to be found. A shame, when the world around him could be so unjust as to punish the innocent with such incurable illness.

It is Fireflypaw who nearly stumbles over his mentor and his mate. It is Fireflypaw who knows the sound of fearful calls of Mallowlark's name. "Oh dear.." He murmurs softly under his breath, panic ebbing into his very bones. If the high priest's mate wasn't safe, was the high priest safe at all? Was this an omen, predicting something horrible that shall happen? Would the claws of death come, snatching Mallowlark's life from him like a bird from a tree? He blinks, turning tail to go fetch a familiar herb.

Feverfew, grasped in his jaws.

He returns soon after, panting softly as he drops the herb beside his mentor's face. "You must treat him, Dawnglare." He urges, not daring to touch the forbidden fruit that was the ex-windclanner. If he touched him, death would spread further. Dawnglare was risking everything cradling the face of a deadtom. He was staring into the face of death, of Mother's paws. "Mother help him.." He prays softly, head lowering to press into the ground. Save him, save him!​

SKYCLAN MEDICINE CAT APPRENTICE ✦ 14 MOONS ✦ CHUNKY, BIG-FOOTED SEAL POINT ✦ TAGS​