Eight of Swords [solo]

Smokefeather jerked awake with a snarl, riding to a half crouch before suddenly sinking back into her nest as agony tore through her injured leg. In her panicked thrashing she must have forgotten that moving it or trying to put weight on it was a bad idea.

Days had come and gone since Dawnhawk’s attack, and Smokefeather had been relegated to the medicine den. If she hadn’t been a fan of being cooped up with nothing to do before, her current injuries only made it even worse. Her leg had been well and truly mangled, and while it was healing on the surface, any attempts to put even slight weight on it ended in the same way; Smokefeather, sprawled across the floor.

It was infuriating, really. Beechface hadn’t outright said that Smokefeather might never regain use of the leg again, but she didn’t have to. Smokefeather wasn’t blind to the look on her daughter’s face. It was a look of pity, and Smokefeather appreciated it about as much as she appreciated Beechface’s out of character, forced optimism, which was to say not at all.

She was out hunting for herbs, or something. Smokefeather wasn’t sure, and wasn’t sure she really cared at this point. The den was empty either way. The frustration that rolled off the medicine cat was almost palpable, and Smokefeather wished that she wasn’t helping contribute to that. Every day it seemed there was something going wrong, and it was overwhelming even when one wasn't in charge of caring for the clan's health. Copperfox was dead and they still didn't know how it had happened. He'd been young and healthy and now he was just... Gone. Why him? Did Starclan not care at all? They'd lost so much already that Smokefeather wasn't sure how she had any tears left. That Beechface was gutted by her brother's loss was an understatement. She hadn't been in a particularly cheerful mood recently, but the air in Skyclan's medicine den seemed darker now.

The medicine den was far from a relaxing place to be, but not adding to that was a struggle. It wasn’t helped that she was trapped in the same den as her now-former mate, probably the one Skyclanner she didn’t want to see at all right now... But that wasn't quite right. Not truly.

Bloodstrike had ended things abruptly and it had hurt. It still hurt. Looking at him hurt. Watching him continually suffer and being able to do rabbit droppings about it hurt. He wanted distance and Smokefeather felt beyond foolish for the way she hadn’t even attempted to fix things between them. But seeing him in the medicine den, maybe he’d been right in that they weren’t good for each other, not now... Maybe they hadn’t ever been. The thought felt wrong, so wrong.

But what if it wasn’t?

Smokefeather’s tail twitched back and forth in frustration. She could hardly stand, let alone go for a walk to clear her mind like she wanted to. Dwelling on what ifs was pointless, she knew that deep down.

Yet there was nothing else to do but dwell. The den was empty, she couldn't even muster the strength to make it into a sitting position.

Featherkit, Mountainpaw, Copperfox, Dustpaw, Beechface... She'd failed every last one of them. She'd failed Bloodstrike, and Dawnhawk. As a mother, as a mate. She hadn't protected any of them from harm, and she certainly hadn't held the family together over the last several moons.

A flash of pain from Smokefeather's injured leg shook her from her thoughts, and she hissed in frustration. The pain was maddening. Nearly as maddening as her own thoughts. She shook her head, but there was no clearing it, not from this.

Smokefeather closed her eyes, hardly noticing the tears that had started sometime... She didn't know. She wouldn't go back to sleep, and didn't think she could even if she had wanted to.