- Mar 22, 2023
- 28
- 9
- 3
wordcount: 796
cw/tw: mentions of grief and loss of a loved one; depictions of rabid animals and death; implied suicide
cw/tw: mentions of grief and loss of a loved one; depictions of rabid animals and death; implied suicide
can't take it anymore, need to put you to bed —
Venomthroat is rattled - their entire being shaken, their world shattered. It was one thing knowing their brother was dead - to see it, too feel it. It's another to come to terms with that fact - to realize the reality of it. How many times have they thought they'd seen him from the corner of green eyes? How many times had they gone to make a joke to a ghost, have they gone to tease a corpse lying cold in the ground. And then suddenly they hadn't felt much like joining and teasing at all anymore, withdrawing into themselves. A silent shadow, where once venomthroat was known for their laziness and apathy, now the warrior throws themselves into every patrol they can get their paws on. Too much, not enough - stuck, pulled and tugged and torn apart until they are utterly spiraling out of control.
How many days has it been? The sun continues to rise and to set, as though it is mocking them with it's ability to move on, to pretend nothing has happened. And everyday they look, they search - hoping to catch even one glimpse of a stranger, one whiff of a scent that does not belong - as though through sheer force of will they can get their vengeance, can find tigerfrost's murderers and end them with their own paws. But they don't, the moorland is eerie in it's silence, mocking them. He'd simply been at the wrong place at the wrong time, a random crime of opportunity, no matter the way something had neve sat right within the moor runner.
How could any mere rogue take their brother down, even if there were three.
And then something shifts, as though the wind itself is guiding their paws - and venomthroat is helpless to do anything but follow, leaving the patrol behind until they can hear the rush of water and knows that the gorge cannot be to far off. Until the world seems to still, turning silent until it is only the sound of their heart beating in their ears, of blood rushing and pumping, tick-tick-ticking away like a timebomb. And then the world bursts into color like an explosion, as red meets black in a flurry of teeth an claws and blood. And suddenly they feel alive again, they remember that this is what they'd once lived for - why they'd followed their brother to windclan from the marshlands they'd once called home. Why they'd put their trust in sootstar of all cats, despite not really knowing the blue-furred she-cat all that well.
Hind legs brace against the ground, claws gouging into the earth below as the warrior snarls, fangs flashing as they let out a warning hiss - the yapping, foaming thing before them returning their threats in it's own feral way, neither backing down. And then they are moving again - a flurry of paws and jaws as they all but dance. They leap and they dodge and the swipe, matching every blow with one of their own, but it's useless. it's growing clearer, the way this will end. Because venomthroat is not tigerfrost - they are young and inexperienced, and while they can certainly take a hit, this is beyond even them. They know this sickness, have seen it spread from predator to prey and right back - have seen many a creature succumb to it's effects.
For a moment, the battle draws to a halt - a pause as they stare at each other, as black paws back away slowly, one step at a time, until they can feel the earth shift - there's nowhere left to run. Blood drips - down their face, blurring their vision into a hazy sea of red - red red red so much red. The fox follows each movement with a staggering one of it's own, amber eyes all rolling wildly in it's madness as it spits and foams, and they can only grin at the sight. Pain, white-hot and all encompassing sears through them when yellow teeth finally clamp down across there throat, near-black eyes watching as all too familiar figures crest the hills - too little, too late. Eyes close tight as they surrender to the inevitable, lurching back with all the strength left in their frail body.
And then they fall.
Venomthroat does not feel the impact of their body hitting the water, down not feel when the fox finally lets go, as current sweeps them both under, dragging them into it's depths and swallowing them whole. They feel none of this, for they are already lost in the darkness. Until suddenly they are not. It's quiet here, peaceful even - and when green eyes open, they are no longer alone. With lopsided grin, rasping voice chuckles, a sarcastic quip on the tip of their tongue "Aww - did you miss me, brother?"
— sing you a lullaby where you die at the end
