is there a puddle nearby I can look into? (c)

There was much, so much that happened after that Gathering that he didn't remember. The initial cut, he would never forget that. He saw it in the back of his minds eye in the lapses in and out of wakeness and slumber, the heavy paw coming down and tearing everything in its wake. The blooming pain, how he did not feel it at first. How he felt only weakness, that cold spread of fear and the notion that his leg would not obey him. Then the notion that he could not see from one eye, that his hearing was strange and he could not stop drooling. The pain came when he realised it was not drool, but blood that was seeping into his mouth from a gash that had torn the top-left lip open.

He remembered moments, being heaped onto the medicine den floor and the shadow of red behind him. He had bled a lot, it seemed. Perhaps that was why he was so tired. Every paw that was placed on him was hot, burning agony. He did not have the energy, or ability, even, to scream or shout. His throat hurt all the same, but not as much as the rest. There were moments he thought he had died, a blurry transition from nothingness into everything. All the pain returned as one, and he could see movement. He could hear muffled, murky voices, and then darkness again.

When he woke up this time, however, he remained awake. Not that his body would obey him. He twitched and pulled at his paws to move, to get under him, but every tiny strain or hint of effort had him choke in pain and collapse again. He was covered in something. His own blood, yes, and he believed they were cobwebs. They smelled strong of something. Something acidic, tangy, strong. Something that stinged if it got into the wounds. Whatever wounds they were. He still could not see. Perhaps his eye was covered with cobwebs too, and maybe his ear was the same. Maybe that was why he could only hear from one side.

Ryepaw went to speak initially. Habit. All he did was talk. He felt air squeeze past swollen lips and a tight throat, a moist and crunchy wheeze. And when he moved his tongue to speak it caused some sort of knock-on effect, a squeezing of his throat and a splutter that caused white-hot pain and panic. His breathing wheezed and stuttered, and he went to thrash-- Only for a paw to settle on his flank and he stilled. Rationale flooded in then.

His eye, bleary and shaky still, moved to focus on Hemlockfox. His words were muffled, hard to understand, so he looked to his mouth then. He couldn't lip read. But he'd try.

One slow, deliberate blink. Wink? He couldn't feel his other eyelid move. Probably dressing too tightly packed. Maybe.