- Jun 9, 2022
- 408
- 102
- 43
He has moments of clarity, when he can be convinced to lick up the herbs Wolfsong presents him with. When he remembers the cats who come to see him, however distantly, are his friends, his kin, his Clanmates, and he manages to lay his paranoia to rest. There is no such thing as spirits who wear cats like cloaks, like veils. Wolfsong is his friend, Cottonpaw his daughter, Mintshade the littermate to his beloved.
These days where he knows his reality are worse.
Weaselclaw can feel the strength leaving his body. Prey remains uneaten or picked to unappetizing fragments. His cheekbones are stark, bladed, the ribs protruding nakedly from his flanks. It is worse than the most brutal of leafbares, he thinks bitterly, to be trapped in this maddening plague, where prey is plentiful but he cannot force himself to eat it.
His daughter is not doing well, either, but he can only hope her youth, strength, and innocence will save her. She is devout as the rest of his kits are. When Weaselclaw remembers he has waged war with his warrior ancestors, he begins to quake with fear for the rest of his family—and in those moments where he remembers it, he scrapes a furious gaze over the reddening sky. They’ve done nothing to deserve this. They are not at war with you. You will treat them the way you do the rest of the cats who believe.
Weaselclaw’s flanks heave as she shifts in his nest.
In idle thoughts, Yellowcough is an enemy warrior, crusted with illness and with rheumy pale eyes, but their claws and teeth are sharper than any Weaselclaw has faced.
It is not a battle he can fight. It is not a battle he can win.
Weaselclaw rubs a paw across the bridge of his nose. Stars—whatever those are to him, now—he is tired. Even sitting dormant in his nest is exhausting now.
These days where he knows his reality are worse.
Weaselclaw can feel the strength leaving his body. Prey remains uneaten or picked to unappetizing fragments. His cheekbones are stark, bladed, the ribs protruding nakedly from his flanks. It is worse than the most brutal of leafbares, he thinks bitterly, to be trapped in this maddening plague, where prey is plentiful but he cannot force himself to eat it.
His daughter is not doing well, either, but he can only hope her youth, strength, and innocence will save her. She is devout as the rest of his kits are. When Weaselclaw remembers he has waged war with his warrior ancestors, he begins to quake with fear for the rest of his family—and in those moments where he remembers it, he scrapes a furious gaze over the reddening sky. They’ve done nothing to deserve this. They are not at war with you. You will treat them the way you do the rest of the cats who believe.
Weaselclaw’s flanks heave as she shifts in his nest.
In idle thoughts, Yellowcough is an enemy warrior, crusted with illness and with rheumy pale eyes, but their claws and teeth are sharper than any Weaselclaw has faced.
It is not a battle he can fight. It is not a battle he can win.
Weaselclaw rubs a paw across the bridge of his nose. Stars—whatever those are to him, now—he is tired. Even sitting dormant in his nest is exhausting now.
