- Apr 27, 2023
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I would post a thread of what occured, however it is not yet complete. Please be aware of blood and grave injuries throughout this post, and mentions of previous death. ////
Milkthorn spent his entire life wanting to make windclan proud of him. Wanting to be someone that others looked up to. He was confident, but when had that all faded? When did he become insecure, and struggling to connect with his clan? The rosetted warrior wouldn't know. He wouldn't know when they would look to him and see someone different then the kid he once was. He tried, tried so hard, and worked so hard every day. But he had fallen back on communicating. He had fallen back on even taking care of himself. And perhaps that was when his sisters life was taken, before his very eyes.
He would never seek to make others proud of him on purpose, not when he watched his sister fall to her demise by their own mother for turning away during the final fight. Milkpaw, help- i.. dont want to be, i dont want to follow them anymore. i cant keep being like this- The words had shocked him. And it was less than seconds, their mother was before them. Set to kill them both, set to kill her daughter, overhearing the 'pathetic' words that spewed from her lips. Milkthorn had killed his mother- but he was too late for his sister.
Her last dying gasp was that she was proud, that she was glad to see he returned from the journey. But it wasn't as if he wanted that. He didn't want to hear that, not then. He wanted to hear everything was going to be fine. But it wasn't. It was never fine after that, it seemed. It was, but it was different. And he filled the cloud of change he wasn't used to in work. And in more work.
To see Thriftfeather back was a blessing from starclan, he thought. He thought he'd be doing the right thing. In his head, he was defending a lead warrior that still kept her loyalties tied to Windclan at least.... and a previous warrior of their clan, who wanted to see the clan grow. Because, he couldve brought them to Duskclan- instead he abandoned everything to be with Windclan. To bring his children to Windclan, and strengthen their soldiers. And he seemed the happiest Milkthorn had ever seen his friend.
Friend. Such an odd word to come from his maw. He wasn't sure if anymore that word felt so easy to use.
Thriftfeather had said he would've killed Milkthorn if it was demanded of him. But could he blame him?
Maybe he wasn't as loyal as he thought he was. He didn't think he could kill Thriftfeather if it was asked of him, even now.
He had spent days, weeks; worrying over if Duskclan would seek the borders for Thriftfeather. Or just push their luck, anyways. And he didn't know why he hunted out alone on this day, so close to the border, but he would come to regret it. His hare that he had caught was no longer there, just the scent of it in the air. And Milkthorns body would be splayed on his side, his breaths ragged. Thick blood spilled from his maw, from his neck, and his stomach. Two against one wasn't a very fair fight, was it? But why should he give the benefit of the doubt that Duskclan would decide to be fair?
There was more than just his own blood spilled across the moor. There were tufts of fur noting that he managed to get the others as best as he could. And even if not seen, he knew. He knew, that right now, if he died, he died trying to protect Windclan, right? But.. he failed. His catch was gone. They went back across the border, and he was left here. He let out a haggard breath, blue eye slitting. There was pain, pain he never felt before. It was different from the usual emotional pain. Or the pain of getting a slice or a cut. His head throbbed, an eye entirely swollen and warm with blood. His stomach was sliced open to what felt like shreds. His neck fucking burned.
And for the first time in his life, he began praying for mercy from his wounds.
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