[attr="class","nuggettitle"]silverkit

[attr="class","nuggetsubtitle"]thistleclan

[attr="class","nuggetwords"]Silverkit recalled a time when he could not be kept away from the medicine den. Pilfering herbs off of unattended shelves, stooping in the shade with ears pricked to drink in the teachings of Shadepool as he went over the use of every leaf, clamping on the ones that fascinated him most- the sort that made the head grow dizzy and drew poisons from the gut. Once, he had looked at that yawning den mouth and saw a world detached from the one in which he lived. A world of magic, where the smallest mouthful of some odd berry or root could purge a sickness or bring one about. Where something as unremarkable as a spider web could become binding to hold poultice and set splints for luxated or fractured limbs.

Now when he drew near the medicine den, he felt the mounting unease and fear of one who knows a great danger is bellied there. He looked into the den hole and saw the fox tunnel again, just as he did when he peered into any den. But the medicine den was worst of all. It felt as if it bellied the same stench, and sometimes, if he lingered for long enough, he could imagine those yellow eyes bearing up from it again—he could see the slavering jaws, the blackened lips, the pink tongue… He grimaced.

Ever since they had been returned, since he saw the aftermath of his callousness lolling in the jaws of his mother, the eye tugged from its socket, the way it dangled, the odd way the light fixated and danced off of it, he could not bring himself to brave the underground. He slept on the surface in the elements. He thanked the stars for the coolness of leaf-fall and made shallow dugs filled with scraps of moss in the place of the warmth of his mother’s side. At first, he had not been able to sleep, but then he quickly learned to grow used to it and reasoned that it was better that way, for his mother had lost the warmth in her voice for him, and he could not bear to return to a nest chilled by such gazes as hers.

Rightfully she blamed him, just like everyone else did. He did not care. It had not been his fault that he had run faster. But did you? again, the little voice pried.

He frowned upon hearing it. No. Not in truth. But the truth had died with his brother, and everyone said it was only a matter of time before he died; even if not aloud, you could see it in their faces that they thought it—that his wounds were too grievous, that the infection would taint him and take him to the stars.

Silverkit had prayed for it every night, yet the days slipped by, and Bluekit lived on. Then on the day that brought him to the medicine den, a more pressing rumor had been passed around: that he had woken up.

He grimaced where he crouched. His breath panted up in his throat. A clamminess dampened his furs, so he felt hot and cold all over as his heart thundered in his chest. He stared down. He saw the eyes flashing, the pant of parting jaws, the—tmp-tmp of kitten paws.

And then the vision was gone, and he was in the clearing. The den mouth was empty, and no smells of foxes lay there. There was only shadow, and beside him, there was only Kitekit, shifting impatiently from one foot to the other. In silence, he sighed and drew in a quiet breath before regaining himself. “Would you quit moving around so much? You’re so distracting…” And he narrowed his eyes. he looked at the den mouth again and sucked in a breath before stepping forward. “…hurry up. And don’t touch anything. Or step on anyone. Or stick your nose into anyone’s nest. And if he’s asleep… don’t wake him up.”

It had been days since he’d walked underground. To be there again, he was again reminded of the closeness of the walls. He swallowed as he let his eyes adjust and padded over the den floor, rooting about until he saw his brother nestled beneath a blanket of moss. For as long as he could remember, Bluekit had been larger than him. Yet now, he seemed so small.

Pathetic. You should’ve died. You should’ve…

He grimaced and glanced over. He drank in the borders of Bluekit’s nest, fluffed with feather down. The cloying stench of lavender nestled there; in places, he saw broken sprigs of it stamped through to bring on the comforts of easy sleep. All around the floor, poppy seeds dotted the ground where they had been clumsily spilled from a proffered paw. And at the center of it was his brother, now shifting and turning slowly towards them, his head a mess of cobwebs, his body so severely smeared with poultice that his grey furs, dark as they were, had adopted odious green stains.

A single tired eye watched them beneath a shelf of swollen brow. Red veins tinged the whites of his eyes as they shifted between them.

“I thought Black-kit was full of it… you really are awake,” Silverkit murmured softly. He took a step closer, then paused. Without knowing why, he felt too afraid to draw any closer.

Even half-swallowed in bandaging, Silverkit saw the questioning as the eye darted between them. He glanced over his shoulder at Kitekit, shrugging. “Oh, her. She wanted to see you.” He shrugged, feeling that odd, dull pang in his chest to mention her. He hated it. He hated her. And yet there was something in her request to see his brother that he hated more. He knew not why, and he knew not why it vexed him so. Frowning, Silverkit stamped such thoughts out. “…mom really tore into me because of your stupid tumble, you know. I told you you never should’ve gone down there…”

[attr="class","nuggetnotes"]1004 - lightning, doge