Swiftcurrent Creek there's something in the static

Eshe speaks; paints the picture that Wren could not. Silvertongue offers to bring her home. Home. Was she not home? She blinks swollen eyes, eyes that search rapidly; yes. She knew where she was. Okay.
She did the right thing. She saved their lives. She did the right thing. She saved their lives. Why didn't it feel like it? Why was her throat still so tight and her chest still so heavy? Why—
And the pain; the searing, throbbing, ugly pain that tears at her and crawls up up up into her innards, in her bones, settles behind her eyes. Her head hurts. Her lungs hurt. Her feet, caked still with a thick layer of now half-dry dark bogmud. She shivers.
She searches with the tip of her muzzle and finds the shoulder of the Riverclan wolf that she now presses a dry kiss to. And there were no words, not anymore. Not any that she could find the strength within her to utter, but within that kiss was so much.
Her eyes find Eshe, and silently, she pleads for her to take care of herself.