Post by M'Lady on Dec 14, 2017 19:54:42 GMT
He didn't know how long it was between the bouts of pain.
It started as a simple cough that brought him to the medicine den, where Silverfang kept a close eye on him and refused to let him leave. Fevers and headaches would come and go, but he thought the feverfew and the tansy she was giving him along with force fed catmint was working. He thought it was making him better.
It was two days later that he had started coughing up blood. His throat burned, his lungs burned, everything was set aflame. It wasn't working, and whatever Silverfang gave him did not stay down for long. He could drink water, but the lack of food was starting to get to him, and he spent his hours curled up in the mossy nest designated for him in the back of the medicine den. His mouth and throat continued to taste coppery and hot, and he attempted to stifle his coughs to no avail, he didn't want to worry the other patients in here, he didn't want to scare them with what was to come.
And then the pain.
It was searing, his muscles tensed and convulsed, it was all he could do to stay rigid in his nest and clench his jaw shut, but then he would pass out and he didn't know what had happened when he woke up. He always opened his eyes exhausted, and from what poor Silverfang looked like, he knew that it couldn't be good, whatever was happening to him.
He wasn't... Concerned, though. Whitecliff wasn't scared, or distressed. Mostly because, in the past few hours, he could feel the warm pelt of another cat curled up beside him. Soft fur and the sweet familiar scent of cedar bark and a tang of spice, it calmed him down like nothing else. Despite the pain that wracked his muscles and the rest of his body every hour or so--they were getting more frequent--there was no longer a tight ball of anxiety in his chest. It was gone, and though his starlight eyes were dull with pain and lack of sleep, they were still open. He hummed softly, a low rumble in his chest, as his phantom nest mate dragged their tail over his matted white fur.
This nest mate was Ashlark, if you hadn't already guessed. With a sad smile on her face and glowing blue eyes, she watched over her brother even though he couldn't view her back. She glanced up, where he could not, as Silverfang entered the den again from wherever she had been. She rested her head atop her brother's back, where his shoulders bunched together in an attempt to stave off the pain, but soon relaxed when he noticed her presence there. For once, the Starclan cat was silent.
It started as a simple cough that brought him to the medicine den, where Silverfang kept a close eye on him and refused to let him leave. Fevers and headaches would come and go, but he thought the feverfew and the tansy she was giving him along with force fed catmint was working. He thought it was making him better.
It was two days later that he had started coughing up blood. His throat burned, his lungs burned, everything was set aflame. It wasn't working, and whatever Silverfang gave him did not stay down for long. He could drink water, but the lack of food was starting to get to him, and he spent his hours curled up in the mossy nest designated for him in the back of the medicine den. His mouth and throat continued to taste coppery and hot, and he attempted to stifle his coughs to no avail, he didn't want to worry the other patients in here, he didn't want to scare them with what was to come.
And then the pain.
It was searing, his muscles tensed and convulsed, it was all he could do to stay rigid in his nest and clench his jaw shut, but then he would pass out and he didn't know what had happened when he woke up. He always opened his eyes exhausted, and from what poor Silverfang looked like, he knew that it couldn't be good, whatever was happening to him.
He wasn't... Concerned, though. Whitecliff wasn't scared, or distressed. Mostly because, in the past few hours, he could feel the warm pelt of another cat curled up beside him. Soft fur and the sweet familiar scent of cedar bark and a tang of spice, it calmed him down like nothing else. Despite the pain that wracked his muscles and the rest of his body every hour or so--they were getting more frequent--there was no longer a tight ball of anxiety in his chest. It was gone, and though his starlight eyes were dull with pain and lack of sleep, they were still open. He hummed softly, a low rumble in his chest, as his phantom nest mate dragged their tail over his matted white fur.
This nest mate was Ashlark, if you hadn't already guessed. With a sad smile on her face and glowing blue eyes, she watched over her brother even though he couldn't view her back. She glanced up, where he could not, as Silverfang entered the den again from wherever she had been. She rested her head atop her brother's back, where his shoulders bunched together in an attempt to stave off the pain, but soon relaxed when he noticed her presence there. For once, the Starclan cat was silent.
