- Jan 29, 2024
- 27
- 8
- 3
[ direct follow up to this thread. cw for graphic descriptions of gore and violence in the linked thread. this thread is less graphic but does describe the aftermath ]
The weight is unbearable. Whitepaw's breaths come in shallow gasps, his chest heaving as he forces himself to move. Deathpaw's body is heavy and limp, the warmth of her blood seeping into his fur. His paws slip in the crimson mud beneath him, the sticky residue of their battle clinging to his pawpads. The world tilts, blurred and fragmented through his one remaining eye. The pain radiates from every part of his face—his torn ear, the claws marks that mar one entire half, the hollow void where his eye once was. Yet, somehow, he persists. He doesn't think. Thinking would mean processing, and processing would mean feeling. He can't afford that now. All that exists is the distant goal of camp, the place where safety, warmth, and something resembling calm might still wait for him. He hooks his teeth into the loose fur of Deathpaw's scruff, the sharp tang of iron stinging his tongue, and pulls.
It's a pitiful crawl. His legs tremble beneath him, his body threatening to give out with every dragging step. The moor stretches endlessly before him, each rise and dip a cruel reminder of how far he has to go. His claws dig into the dirt, his muscles burning as he drags Deathpaw's lifeless form over the uneven terrain. He doesn't look at her face. He can't. The adrenaline drives him for a time, dulling the sharp edges of his pain. The wind cuts through his blood-matted fur, biting against his exposed flesh, but it feels distant, muted. All that matters is the next step. And the next. And the next.
But adrenaline fades. The shock dulls. The weight of her body, the agony in his limbs, and the relentless throbbing in his face become too much. His steps falter, his legs shaking violently before buckling beneath him. He collapses onto the moor, gasping for air that feels too thin. Deathpaw's body slips from his grasp, landing heavily beside him. The sound is final. Whitepaw lies there, chest heaving, his vision spinning. The cold seeps into him, his blood-stiffened fur offering little protection against the moor's unrelenting chill. The tang of copper fills his senses, the scent of blood and earth overwhelming. His remaining eye stares blankly at the sky, its vast emptiness a mirror of the hollow ache spreading through his chest. He tries to move, but his limbs feel like lead. Every part of him screams for rest, for release from the torment that has become his body.
He turns his head weakly to glance at her. Deathpaw's eyes are closed, her face eerily peaceful despite the violence that brought her here. His throat tightens, but no sound escapes him. The words he wants to say are tangled somewhere deep inside, lost in the haze of exhaustion and pain. The moor is silent, save for the whisper of the wind through the grass. It feels like the world has stopped, holding its breath for what comes next. Whitepaw doesn't know if he wants to be found. The shame, the guilt, the failure—they threaten to suffocate him. But he doesn't want to die here, alone and broken. His eyelids grow heavy, the pain in his body ebbing into a dull throb as exhaustion overtakes him. His breath slows, shallow and uneven, his body too battered to do more than exist in this moment. Somewhere, in the distance, he thinks he hears pawsteps—faint and uncertain, like the edge of a dream.
The weight is unbearable. Whitepaw's breaths come in shallow gasps, his chest heaving as he forces himself to move. Deathpaw's body is heavy and limp, the warmth of her blood seeping into his fur. His paws slip in the crimson mud beneath him, the sticky residue of their battle clinging to his pawpads. The world tilts, blurred and fragmented through his one remaining eye. The pain radiates from every part of his face—his torn ear, the claws marks that mar one entire half, the hollow void where his eye once was. Yet, somehow, he persists. He doesn't think. Thinking would mean processing, and processing would mean feeling. He can't afford that now. All that exists is the distant goal of camp, the place where safety, warmth, and something resembling calm might still wait for him. He hooks his teeth into the loose fur of Deathpaw's scruff, the sharp tang of iron stinging his tongue, and pulls.
It's a pitiful crawl. His legs tremble beneath him, his body threatening to give out with every dragging step. The moor stretches endlessly before him, each rise and dip a cruel reminder of how far he has to go. His claws dig into the dirt, his muscles burning as he drags Deathpaw's lifeless form over the uneven terrain. He doesn't look at her face. He can't. The adrenaline drives him for a time, dulling the sharp edges of his pain. The wind cuts through his blood-matted fur, biting against his exposed flesh, but it feels distant, muted. All that matters is the next step. And the next. And the next.
But adrenaline fades. The shock dulls. The weight of her body, the agony in his limbs, and the relentless throbbing in his face become too much. His steps falter, his legs shaking violently before buckling beneath him. He collapses onto the moor, gasping for air that feels too thin. Deathpaw's body slips from his grasp, landing heavily beside him. The sound is final. Whitepaw lies there, chest heaving, his vision spinning. The cold seeps into him, his blood-stiffened fur offering little protection against the moor's unrelenting chill. The tang of copper fills his senses, the scent of blood and earth overwhelming. His remaining eye stares blankly at the sky, its vast emptiness a mirror of the hollow ache spreading through his chest. He tries to move, but his limbs feel like lead. Every part of him screams for rest, for release from the torment that has become his body.
He turns his head weakly to glance at her. Deathpaw's eyes are closed, her face eerily peaceful despite the violence that brought her here. His throat tightens, but no sound escapes him. The words he wants to say are tangled somewhere deep inside, lost in the haze of exhaustion and pain. The moor is silent, save for the whisper of the wind through the grass. It feels like the world has stopped, holding its breath for what comes next. Whitepaw doesn't know if he wants to be found. The shame, the guilt, the failure—they threaten to suffocate him. But he doesn't want to die here, alone and broken. His eyelids grow heavy, the pain in his body ebbing into a dull throb as exhaustion overtakes him. His breath slows, shallow and uneven, his body too battered to do more than exist in this moment. Somewhere, in the distance, he thinks he hears pawsteps—faint and uncertain, like the edge of a dream.
