- Feb 18, 2023
- 428
- 78
- 28
the dog that weeps after it kills is no better than the dog that doesn't. my guilt will not purify me.
His bones ached in places that he had thought were long dormant. A bone-chilling ache past scarred skin and muscle to settle, buzzin' with the sins of his choices like old-time rivals. His breath fogged around a scarred muzzle, cloudin' his vision and nearly sendin' him tittering sideways. Shit. If he stopped now—Duskpool breathed hoarsely, shoulderin' against howling winds that threatened to drag him down to its dark dreary grasps until he became another frozen corpse. His lips curled bitterly, tauntingly so as he stared ahead. His paws ached.
His heart bled. It ached and trembled within its thorns.
When did he become nothin' more than a hollowed soul? Sleep couldn't fix the things he's done or hadn't done. It didn't solve his grief and wrongdoings. It sure as hell left a deep, gaping hole in his chest that dripped with tar—unhealing. Flowercloud was gone. Tatteredlight's death. He killed his baby brothers who thought they could count on him to protect them. His sons. His beautiful sons. Jaggedstorm. Sakura. His newborns. Sorrelsong too, although she had finally come to her senses and saw him for what he was.
He wanted to snarl and claw at his skin until he was a bloody corpse saturatin' the earth's white canvas. They dug into the bitter earth. It made him realize one thing. A bitter persistent thing, he'd admit.
A drawn-out inhale made him shudder, coughing hoarsely at the icy chill. Foxdung. He needed to get a grip. Life was cruel. It ain't a friend or a foe. It was uncontrollable. Unpredictable. It was time he remembered that. He'd sure as hell lost more than he thought imaginable, and yet, for some selfish, stupid reason, Duskpool had risen again and again with more scars and demons than he had no right havin'.
His body pivoted, stumblin' forward, nearly causin' him collapsin' in a heap. A low, bitter laugh more akin to a rumble than anythin' else escaped his scarred muzzle. He was tired. So fucking tired of the endless grief spewin' at the damn seams. He wondered if this was it—if this was the end of a nightmare where he'd wake up and to see his kids, his brothers, and Flowercloud breathing.
Alive. Alive. His mind would scream, chest constrictin' and heart galivantin' as he swept them into his arms, promisin' that nothin' nothin' would happen to them. He swore it. He would bathe these lands in blood as long as they were safe. If he had to shun himself and die a sinner, he would. He would do it a thousand times. He would suffer for them. They were his reason to live and without them, Duskpool would drown a sorry man. He clawed weakly at the bitter ground, icy tendrils sinking deep into the muscle as ichor pooled beneath him, taintin' the land in endless damnation.
And somehow somehow Palemoon had wormed herself into his sinful heart, tearing down his thorns and tar. Making a home inside his rotten chest. Undeserving. She was everything. His closest friend. His—Duskpool hissed sharply, paws giving out beneath him, panting harshly, watchin' with hooded hues as smoke clung to his scarred muzzle.
It was then, beaten and bloody, and lost clarity pooled into a foggy molten hue. She was his everything. His heart and soul. Duskpool wanted to laugh, grating and cruel to the ear, but it was a swift kick to the stomach when realization pooled heavily as he watched the river's edges crack in ice and death.
He loved her.
He loved her.
His heart bled. It ached and trembled within its thorns.
When did he become nothin' more than a hollowed soul? Sleep couldn't fix the things he's done or hadn't done. It didn't solve his grief and wrongdoings. It sure as hell left a deep, gaping hole in his chest that dripped with tar—unhealing. Flowercloud was gone. Tatteredlight's death. He killed his baby brothers who thought they could count on him to protect them. His sons. His beautiful sons. Jaggedstorm. Sakura. His newborns. Sorrelsong too, although she had finally come to her senses and saw him for what he was.
He wanted to snarl and claw at his skin until he was a bloody corpse saturatin' the earth's white canvas. They dug into the bitter earth. It made him realize one thing. A bitter persistent thing, he'd admit.
A drawn-out inhale made him shudder, coughing hoarsely at the icy chill. Foxdung. He needed to get a grip. Life was cruel. It ain't a friend or a foe. It was uncontrollable. Unpredictable. It was time he remembered that. He'd sure as hell lost more than he thought imaginable, and yet, for some selfish, stupid reason, Duskpool had risen again and again with more scars and demons than he had no right havin'.
His body pivoted, stumblin' forward, nearly causin' him collapsin' in a heap. A low, bitter laugh more akin to a rumble than anythin' else escaped his scarred muzzle. He was tired. So fucking tired of the endless grief spewin' at the damn seams. He wondered if this was it—if this was the end of a nightmare where he'd wake up and to see his kids, his brothers, and Flowercloud breathing.
Alive. Alive. His mind would scream, chest constrictin' and heart galivantin' as he swept them into his arms, promisin' that nothin' nothin' would happen to them. He swore it. He would bathe these lands in blood as long as they were safe. If he had to shun himself and die a sinner, he would. He would do it a thousand times. He would suffer for them. They were his reason to live and without them, Duskpool would drown a sorry man. He clawed weakly at the bitter ground, icy tendrils sinking deep into the muscle as ichor pooled beneath him, taintin' the land in endless damnation.
And somehow somehow Palemoon had wormed herself into his sinful heart, tearing down his thorns and tar. Making a home inside his rotten chest. Undeserving. She was everything. His closest friend. His—Duskpool hissed sharply, paws giving out beneath him, panting harshly, watchin' with hooded hues as smoke clung to his scarred muzzle.
It was then, beaten and bloody, and lost clarity pooled into a foggy molten hue. She was his everything. His heart and soul. Duskpool wanted to laugh, grating and cruel to the ear, but it was a swift kick to the stomach when realization pooled heavily as he watched the river's edges crack in ice and death.
He loved her.
He loved her.
- ooc —— some minor mentions of death and blood, but nothing major. thought i'd slap a warning just to be safe ^^ but duskpool's 400th post!
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release me from my promise to you.
don't make me do this anymore. don't make me go on without you -
duskpool he/him
♡ a massive scarred obsidian-smoked ghost mackerel tabby maine coon / norwegian forest mix and a molten copper eye with low-white
♡ warrior of skyclan
♡ sixty-one moons; ages on the 1st of every month
♡ speech thought attack
♡ peaceful + healing powerplay permitted
penned by blueblossomtea
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