Ego Death [closed]

The fever came first.

A low simmer weighted heavily in the base of the spine, a gradual heat that blistered and scorched in greatening intensity until it seemed hot enough to cook one from the inside out. It strained the heart and constricted the lungs, heated the brain beyond the ability to function properly; stole the sharpness from one's sight, stifled what little sense of taste and smell that might've stubbornly resisted the early allure of the strange infection. By the early hours of moonlight upon the first night, the fever had begun to induce frequent seizures that grew only more severe with their heightening frequency.

Next came the weeping of blood.

The hemorrhaging had only initially occurred during particularly violent episodes of seizing, a light display of clotting that was likely only induced by the increased strain on the already failing body. However, as the infinitely critical hours continuously crept forward, the bleeding became more pronounced, primarily affecting the eyes, ears, and nose. Cloying tears of abnormally dark blood perpetually marred the lines of the face in a disconcerting mockery of tear-tracks, an unrelenting flood that could hardly be properly cleaned between episodes of heavy blood-flow.

Of course, there were a plethora of other wildly concerning symptoms; the vomiting of dark, slimy masses at sudden and unpredictable intervals, episodes of extreme muscle tightness where one's limbs were unable to relax for varying amounts of time, irregular speech and thought patterns, abnormal nocturnal habits that often drove one to aimlessly wander in circles under the wan light of the moon, refusing to halt in the fruitless trekking until one's lungs were heaving violently and dark, blood-flecked froth hung heavily upon the jowls.

you are not well, they whisper to Brindlestar, reedy sighs seeping through the concerned conversation of those unable to do more than idly watch, the moon has made you ill. Under the thinly veiled threat of her rapidly diminishing sight, it is verging on impossible to discern the speaker of the somber revelation, the familiar shapes of her Clanmates nothing more than watery smudges against the ominous red hue of her sight. Perhaps it's lingering damage from the snake-bite, and StarClan was unable to restore her completely. Perhaps it's something else; something caught when lingering in what exists between life and death.

The unfamiliar illness is named moon-sickness; it is resistant to all applicable treatments.

-

Flecks of unusually dark blood puddle softly against the rough earth of the moorland, a glistening trail that simmers a somber silver under the light of the swollen full moon. Heavy tendrils of stubbornly lingering fog drench the rolling hills of the moorland, a soft blanket of willowy grey clouds that stifle the senses; it becomes impossible to see more than a paw-step or two before you. Unnatural silence shrouds the forest, the very pulse of life seeming to stutter to a pitiful halt under the abnormal conditions bearing down cruelly.

Brindlestar's legs partially collapse under the strain of her own fluxing weight, muscles weak and verging on complete failure. It takes several moments of agonized scrabbling against the dry dirt of the crevice, forelimbs desperately gouging deep furrows against the soft grass in a thrashing attempt to pull herself up and over. Bloody spittle hung in viscous streams against the split yawn of her jaw, tongue lolling heavily against her dry, cracked lips. Glazed and unseeing eyes remained fixed upon some unknown point in the fog-shrouded distance, dilated pupils unregistering of anything within immediate sight in her surroundings. Dirt and clumps of brittle grass came free in a earthern shower of rocks and debris as she finally pulled herself back upwards into a position somewhat akin to standing, promptly staggering forward several paces down the sharp jut of the ridge. Soft whispers and murmurs curled heavy upon the damp weight of the chilly autumn fall, the countless voices at once familiar and alien; the hundreds of near inaudible words spoken at once a language familiar, and yet entirely withheld from reach of understanding. hurry, hurry, hurry! Came the sensual bird-song of encouragement, drowning out the faintest cry of worried pursuers.

Time appeared to be nothing more than a futile construct in these agonizingly long moments. She had been staggering forward for what seemed like hours, yet the perilous state of the full moon revealed nothing about how much or little time had passed. The freshly reawakened strain within her over exerted muscles proved to be a proficient marker, but the aches were seemingly residual- it hardly took anything to evoke a sense of hurt nowadays. Yet, even with the presence of exhaustion and dismay lingering, the thread tugged on endlessly, offering not a single moment's reprieve. It had brought her through the maze of unrecognizable landmarks that had once been incredibly well-known, deep into the sacred land of her home, but strangely enough, as she converged upon the central point of the territory, the invisible threads currently embedded deep within her seemed to whisper some sinister, unheard instructions. The well-worn trail Brindlestar was currently dragging herself across was carved into the dew-dusted earth before her, twisting and curling in invisible patterns that somehow made sense within the fathoms of her fever-riddled brain.

Perched atop the sharp cleft of the hill, Brindlestar's head lolled back as though entirely without support. In the distance, concerned cries drew closer, clearly trying to discern her current location. The dull expanse of her pupils suddenly sharped into focus as though staring at something within the sky, eyes retaining more vibrance in this singular instance than in weeks prior. Bloody tear-tracks stiff upon the face, features creasing in a sudden display of uncharacteristic raptness. The drumming whisper suddenly rang out within the confines of her mind once more, resonating with a startling clarity. Despite the soft tone of voice, it had sounded as if the speaker was standing right alongside her now. Stiffly lifting her head to peer about at his unfamiliar surroundings with unabashed wariness. Yet, she saw no cat nor creature standing alongside her- only the rolling length of the moorland unfurling around her, heavy clouding presence of fog obscuring most of the familiar landscape.

The late hour was somber in its continuous silence, the only sound to be heard was the jagged rhythm of Brindlestar's staggered breathing and frighteningly erratic heartbeat. The willowy sea of fog was unbearably quiet amidst it's perpetual shifting and roiling; nothing more than a silent sea of stark, pallid hues. Presence nothing more than a lingering obstacle between worried pursuers and their failing leader. In one heartbeat, the curling and fluttering pulse of the softly moving storm of chilly fog was creeping across the dry earth below her paws, a silky river of mildly unpleasant coolness gently tethering itself around her trembling limbs in a quiet embrace. In the next, the density of the fog was converging upon her location, a writhing mass of dew-heavy vapor that twisted and curled in a variety of bizarre motions and patterns, seemingly swallowing Brindlestar whole and leaving naught a single trace.

No further pawsteps ventured beyond her final known location; only a cold trail half erased by the steady presence of the now dissipating fog.