Phantom Limb

The pain in her leg is strong, burning and searing through her veins like nothing that Otterspark has ever felt before. The teeth of the beaver that had torn through her left her gasping for air, her chest tight and her muscles pleading for release from battle. It’s not a familiar feeling, it’s a signal of aging — that Otterspark isn’t as robust as she used to be. Her vision is blurry and her ears are heavy with the loud thumping of her blood roaring through them, threatening to pull her from the battle altogether. It’s Barkmask crying out that draws Otterspark back into reality. She has no time to react to the sight of one of the beavers picking up her precious daughter and tossing Barkmask aside as though she was a toy. 

The rage that floods through her veins and encourages her to attempt charging forward, eager to avenge her daughter by bringing pain onto the bastard is familiar. Far more familiar than the pain and cold coming over her all at once, far more familiar than the terror in her heart and the very real fear that she was about to lose everything in one foul swoop. But Otterspark’s paws crumble underneath her weight, and she can only gasp out as she’s forced onto the ground by some invisible weight, some sort of mockery from Starclan. 

Otterspark doesn’t dare to look at her pained leg when the beavers finally retreat, and a familiar voice comes over her ears. “Splashzone?” She could cry, sob, even at the sound of her father’s voice. The tabby can’t help but let her face falter, looking at the dark furred tomcat like a helpless kitten, blue-green eyes wide and ears pressing down against her head. Beetlestar asks what happened and her mouth feels dry, as though she just stuffed it with cat tails. ( She had previously learned the hard way not to do such a thing. ) 

If she had an answer for her father, it would have fallen on deaf ears as his gaze fixed from her to their clanmates. Her father’s expression makes that tightness in her chest grow, and Otterspark is quick to blink back tears and swallow her fear and pain in favor of sparing her father of some of the stress he must be feeling. The tabby warrior clenches her jaw as she stands back up onto her weak paws, listening vaguely to her father rattle off commands on what to do next. 

And then Barkmask is mentioned, and Otterspark feels that tightness in her chest come back again. Motherly concern comes washing over her like the current of the river, and Otterspark can’t help but turn her head toward the orange colored tabby. They look bloody and scared, and the gash on their back inspires both rage and pain in her heart. “Kiddo…” She finds herself rasping out to the young cat as she forces herself to come forward, to come closer to her terrified kit. Barkmask is her kin, her daughter — Otterspark has to do everything that she can for her, especially when… 

Otterspark bumps her head against her daughter, pressing her muzzle as comfortingly as she can into the younger’s pelt in hopes of bringing her comfort. In spite of the fact that the world almost seems to be spinning, and she’s now beginning to feel horribly wobbly on her paws. A sniffle sounds from the orange tabby, who lifts her head to look up at her mother with big, worried eyes. Otterspark does her best to offer a smile in turn, before stumbling her way to what remained of the Herbalists Den with a shaky exhale. 

Upon sitting down, her back facing the clan and the others coming into the wreckage that once held their herb stores, Otterspark can’t help but let the tears slip down her cheeks the way that she lets reality settle in. Their home was attacked, damn near destroyed. This had happened before, once, but not to this level — and any fights that Otterspark had ever been in were somewhere far deeper or even off territory, but never this close to home. Never this close to where she grew up, where she raised her kits. Where she loved, lost, and grieved. The one place that served to be safe was no longer safe. 

In fact, it could have proven to be her tomb. The thought makes her queasy, and her tears devolve into silent sobs as her shoulders hunch underneath the invisible weight of her stress, pain and fear. 

Otterspark isn’t certain on when treatment began, or when they really came to the ultimately unanimous agreement that the leg would have to go. It was all sort of a blur, between the amount of cats that had to shovel their way toward the prey pile or into the remnants of the Herbalists Den — followed by the distressed and panicking felines that returned from the Gathering. Feeling overstimulated, the large warrior decided to lay her head down and just rest, entrusting the three Herbalists to do what they could for her. Mintberry and Peppernose hadn’t failed her yet, and she’d gotten herself into a good amount of scrapes and scuffles throughout the years. 

What Otterspark is certain of, is that when she finally begins grounding back into reality — it feels very strange to not have something that used to always be present, no longer present. It’s like taking the shell necklace off of her chest, or the flowers and feathers off of her pelt. There’s the lingering feeling that what was once there is still there, but… It’s not. The gravity of this loss settles in when the big warrior tries to turn to her right. Her muscles flex, but nothing moves with them. She doesn’t feel the ground underneath her right hind paw anymore. 

She knows what to expect, she knows to brace herself when she turns her head to look toward where her mangled leg once resided. She’s greeted by a stub where the limb once was, wrapped securely in a mixture of herbs that she feels guilty for using up, after everything that happened. Otterspark can’t ignore that gnawing voice, at the back of her brain, telling her that she should’ve done more. But what the hell is feeling guilty going to do for her, or anyone now? The warrior feels a familiar itch in her pelt, the desire to move. 

“I hope you’re not planning to chew on that poultice like you did the last time you were in here.” Mintberry’s voice is an affectionate mew, familiar and comforting to the warrior’s ears as she turns to look toward the green eyed herbalist. Said herbalist is a few pawsteps away, coming closer to Otterspark with a somber expression settled on her features. Otterspark huffs, offers the best smile that she can muster to try and wipe that look off her friend’s face. “I dunno, sounds pretty temptin…” 

Mintberry just sighs and shakes her head, looking only minorly entertained by Otterspark’s attempt at light heartedness. Otterspark feels her chest ache at the stress in the Herbalist’s body language. “Th’erbs th’bad?” Otterspark prompts, her ears pulling down toward the back of her head. That guilt is coming back, and it’s like a tick that she can’t reach — not that she’s often finding ticks on her pelt… Unless she’s coming back from a visit with Rippedtail. How is Rippedtail? Otterspark hopes he’s fairing a whole lot better than she is —

“They’re not ideal, but I’m sure Lynxclan will find a way to replenish the stock in no time.” Mintberry states, although her voice doesn’t provide much confidence to Otterspark. The warrior feels her whiskers twitch, an edge of frustration lingering on her tongue. “Maybe you can join them in the search, when you’ve got your footing back.” 

“Haha.” Otterspark grumbles as she catches onto Mintberry’s wordplay. “Real funny. Thought y’were an Herbalist. S’posed t’be nice, an’all that.” Mintberry only hums in reply, and Otterspark can then feel the Herbalist’s gaze roaming over her new wound. But when her head turns again, she can see the faintest smile on Mintberry’s muzzle. She feels dull satisfaction at providing temporary escape from her stress, even as the Herbalist continues with her treatment of shoving herbs Otterspark’s way.