Shadewood in sickness & in health ii

for magpie; prior thread.

It had worsened violently — whether it was the agitation of travel or the mere pace of a fever refusing to better. His stomach had emptied itself twice, thrice? over. Its veritable bounty of spittle and slivers of meat wasted on their path until they had fallen into another stretch of darkened wood. 

He was wordless, just a clutch of limbs lurching forward, a struggling leg causing him to stumble on either pace. Almost ironic, his sawing pace had brought him before his shadow, his compass skewing them back into the Shadewood. At some point he had paused, standing, waiting. For what, only the whim of the wind knew. They stood in a shallow clearing, with no sign of easy, waiting comfort. 

The anger writhing beneath his pelt was an entirely foreign beast, coursing throughout his limbs like wildfire, and yet somehow slowing his pace dramatically. He felt stiff with rage, like his bones were fit to burst under the pressure of whatever fleeting paranoia still lingered within. He was sure they weren't being followed, that much he'd already mulled over and coped with. It was the control he'd lost, forced to further agitate wounds he wasn't even sure were going to heal without the added trauma. The sound Cormorant had made echoed in his mind for hours, ceaselessly like the drumming of an anxious heart. He was so close to crawling in, under the wolfs skin like a parasite, making his home amidst warm scents and tender flesh. So close but now so far, almost welcomed and now pushed away again as they sought another refuge. It made his teeth itch.

Magpie's mind was so fogged in his inner tantrum he hadn't even realized the other had stopped, flinching at the soft meeting of his shoulder to Cormorant's hip. His eyes flicked up, focusing on the others ragged form with a somewhat irked squint. It was sensible he'd be in pain, with hardly a rest between moving and now an obvious sickness wheezing in his lungs. This had all become so much trouble, he almost cursed himself for lashing out back in the swamp, almost.

He scanned the trees bordering the clearing, looking for hollowed logs or thawed soil he could carve into a "home". There wasn't much, nothing easy at least, but a few arching, mossy roots did spark the faintest idea. Keep going. He mumbled sweetly, moving around the wolf and gently shoving his head into a trembling shoulder, coaxing him toward what would ideally be his peace. For them both, of course.

Cormorant hardly jolted as Magpie's weight bumped his, his legs already shakily locked; a vacant fear he would fall, keeping him up. The instinct still managing to hollow his bones into something alive said collapsing meant death. An addled mind took it for gospel, squeezing distressed breaths between teeth.

His ears hardly twitched to the sound this time, before his legs were bumbling him forward, urged by Magpie's prodding. His complaint only came in a unhappy twist of his head, a gesture that left him swaying too far a side, his dizziness doubling as blood washed around inside his skull. His nose tipped down at a harsh enough angle that all he could see really clearly was the grass pressed beneath his paws, blindly following wherever Magpie led.

Maybe if he kept quiet and obeyed, they would find a place to rest sooner — no thought sounded more beautiful than that.

You're almost there. His voice was hollow but warm, carved out by the sleep deprived ache in his joints. He was still seething, perhaps more than he should've been, but the meager contact between them felt overwhelming in his muddled state of mind, smothering his anger like a sedative. The roots he'd spotted were a little more tangled up close, sticking up out of the ground in weird angles, uncomfortable just to look at. Magpie had them stopped, his muzzle pinched into a sneer as he debated with himself. How the hell was anyone supposed to feel secure out here? He'd been taught all his childhood to find good shelter in rock formations, and yet that advice so well utilized in the past seemed beyond useless in this green hellscape. If only he'd been blessed with proper den carving abilities, perhaps then maybe they would've both been saved a million headache's, and preserved Cormorant's immune system at least. Though, that was all no fault of his own, rather, it was his traveling friend who brought them into this wooded mess. Not him.

He could very well have had the wolf tough it out, especially considering he didn't feel he owed him much of anything. His gaze slid over Cormorant's form, scrutinizing him with narrowed eyes, before dipping over the grass again. Magpie held his silent, contemplative stare, moving only to nudge the other at any impatient or protesting sounds. A shiver of irritation coursed down his spine, followed by a sharp click of his tongue and an obviously exasperated huff. His shoulders flinched as he moved, circling around the wolf to stand over their "spot". He eyed the ground for a moment, an almost defeated expression taking over whatever anger was left as he descended toward the floor.  Magpie got about as comfortable as he could, wincing at the protruding branches digging into his side with little verbal complaints. As much as he would've liked to express to Cormorant the kind of burden he was, it was better the wolf didn't know exactly how much he was sacrificing for his comfortability. Well? You look like an idiot standing there like that, I won't bite.

He watched his shadow depart, stepping away after a few gentled words — he almost thought to follow, and then wondered, why? Cormorant's head listed to the side a moment, eyes tracking as Magpie halted, some thought going through his mind. He was more interested in the trees around them, examining the bark, the leaves high above them, the meager snow that had slid between branches.

Colors. Coarse. His eyes hurt. His head hurt. He shut them, ears pressing to his skull. It only made it all worse, and a silent whimper threatened to slip through his lips. He was distracted, his eyes opening, ears swiveling to the sound of the other. Magpie, cramped in roots, looking like a scrap of charred cotton trapped in its thistle. He blinked, he hesitated, stood there, head still tilted... a long pause.

He understood, but he did not like. Cormorant trudged forward, his pace a crawl. He stopped then, just as he stood over their makeshift bed. A pause. He shook his head, then almost tilted aside, catching himself. He carefully leaned back on his good hindleg, before his front legs, shoulders quivering harsher than they should have for such an easy motion, drew his paws through grass and loose dirt. He clawed at the ground, shoving the grass, litter, and dirt behind and past him. He didn't even spare a look at the shadow of the Shadewoods, just dragging his paws until he was satisfied. Every motion was worse than the last, and his breath whistled harsher through his nose before he coughed.

When he peeked his eyes back open, not realizing they had fallen so nearly shut he could hardly see, he just half-slid, half-rolled, laying across the churned ground. Cormorant didn't care as he brushed the other's fur, just tilted toward the warmth, ghostly blues already hidden once again. His entire frame shuddered, the shivering refusing to relent, but how desperately he needed them to just go.

Magpie's eyes rolled back dramatically, a chain of disgust curling his lip and staining his breath as the other rattled to the floor beside him. There was a part of him grateful for the other's compliance, and another that desperately wanted to shake him again for causing such a mess, though for now he would side with a more passive facade. Happy? His tone dropped to an unimpressed grumble, exposing his exhaustion plainly now that Cormorant was settled so nicely against him. The warmth of his pelt felt like heaven. Even as it stunk slightly of damp earth, he still hurriedly buried his muzzle into the other's scruff.

He curled over the mass of fluff like a wave, partially obscuring Cormorant within the void of his pelt. Magpie hated to admit it, but he'd never felt so accomplished. Never before had he felt so connected to something, so in control of the things he loved. His head pressed down beside the other's, nosing at his cheek for some sort of response, any morsel of attention. Talk to me... please. He sounded almost desperate, his voice cracking slightly as he fought the sleep that called him. Please. Fill my head with your song. My love, my angel.

Cormorant nose whistled a sour, sick note in a belated reply. He had already been reeled in and swamped in the dark and damp, mired in the scent of something he knew deep down he despised, before he had even made it. It was such a sweeping, blinding and muddying sense, the tear of instinct and the subtle lull of exhaustion. A quiet note of relief at cold leaking out of his bones, of torn muscle and aching joints being warmed, being held still, being coddled towards healing instead of agitation.

His stomach twisted. He was hungry, but his appetite lay dead in this den with him. The only yearning he had was for more warmth, for more comfort, for the crackling in his lungs to abate. He wheezed then, in time with a subtle shoving, almost elbow against the dark's chest. He nosed under a warm jaw, pale eyes blinking open, bleary. 

White fur. Black fur. His brow furrowed, and then his eyes shut. The scent coiling the root's hollow. He knew it. Sickly sweet. Cormorant's throat vibrated with the sound of a word, breaking on its first syllable, becoming a deep-chested, cracking heave. He was wrong? He tucked himself further into dark and desolation, allowing it to pull him closer to slipping. Only when he bumped lightly against the other did he remember he was trembling, but it wasn't enough anymore. It wasn't keeping him awake.

A sound more like a crow's dying hum broke through his lip, 'st kalt..