The world is dark, and cold. She is dying.
There is nothing he can do. His paws are like stone, the only thing anchoring him to the ground as she bleeds out before him. Shackle has tried to make him go outside, just to let him calm down, but no hysteria overwhelms him. It feels like he has gone numb, like he has slept for too long and his limbs are limp, dead weight.
(He is cold, like ice, so deathly cold that he wonders if he is dying as well, every one of his heartbeats fading in time with hers, but he doesn't feel a thing.)
Something had gone wrong during the process, something that he can understand no more than he can comprehend the fact that he's going to lose her, to lose her all over again. He sits right in front of her, almost touching, his pale fur in stark contrast with her dark pelt. The tom can't bring himself to reach out to her, though, not when he knows that his muzzle will only come away stained red as roses, red as rage, red as death.
(He is pale, like ice, so frigidly pale that red would splash across him as brightly as paint on a canvas, proclaiming to the world that he has tried and failed and lost once more, just as he always has.)
Only the sound of her fluttery, faltering breathing breaks the silence in the air, a far cry from the laughter and chatter that had filled the air only just that morning. Has it really only been that long? he wonders. Only that long since he's smiled, since he's laughed, since the idea of losing her to something like this had never even crossed his mind? He clears his throat, even that tiny sound explosive in the all-consuming quiet, and when he speaks, his voice is low and unreadable.
(He is hard, like ice, so carefully hardened against the world and its woes that it is almost like nothing touches him, even when those woes sink their claws into his heart and twist until he is bled dry.)
"The kit is healthy. There's only one, a she-kit. Black fur like yours, or so Mackerel tells me. She says that she's beautiful." He lifts his head, scarred-clouded eyes squinted as if he can make them work just one more time after so many moons, just to see her face one more time. "I wish I could see her. I wish you could see her. You would love her." He falls silent, finally out of words after so many years of talking his way in and out of everything. Their last conversation hangs over their heads, the silly, stupid, stardamned argument that he should have never let happen.
"For StarClan's sake, I hate you sometimes!"
"Well, I hate you too, Maelstrom!"
((He is transparent, like ice, so completely transparent, if one just knows where to look, and so was she; the look of pain at that old name, at all of the old memories it pulled back to the surface, had been plain as day is his face and hers.))
Her breathing hitches, stops completely for a moment, only to return to its faint, ragged gasps heartbeats later. When she begins to breathe again, he allows himself to do the same. "I love you," he begins, and the words begin to tumble out, syllables stumbling over each other as he tries to say all that he's thought, all that he's felt, all that he's said and never said since dark fur and green eyes, since a bright smile and the loveliest laugh he's ever heard, since hello, my name's Shadypaw; you're Sleetkit, right?
"I love you. I love you so much. StarClan above, please, just remember that. As long as the east stands across from the west, until the stars fall down and the sun burns out, I love you. I always have, always will, even from the very first moment. I'm sorry, Shadypaw, I'm so sorry that I've been such an idiot. I've hurt you so much. I've lied to you, and I've hurt your feelings, and- Shadypaw, I don't hate you. I'm stupid, and I'm sorry, and I wish I could take it back with all of my heart."
(He is sharp, like ice, so painfully sharp, all broken edges and serrated points so keenly honed that he doesn't mean to cut, to rip, to tear; it is always those he loves most that he ends up hurting, and as long as he lives, he will never understand how they simply patch over the scrapes and stay by his side.)
His breathing is as ragged as hers now, panicked and raspy at the thought that he won't be able to say all it in time, to say all of the words to couldn't say before and would never get a chance at saying after this moment. "I'll look after our daughter, Shadypaw, I swear. She'll never know pain or hunger. I'll never let anything hurt her, I swear on my life." His head drops, proud form bent and broken, the fallen god brought low. He presses his muzzle to her side, ignoring the blood he feels seeping into his fur.
"I can't do this without you, Shadypaw, but I'll try. I don't want you to hurt anymore, and I know you've got a place in StarClan. I swear I'll find you one day, when I'm gone. I'll always find you." His voice breaks, and he buries his face in her fur. "Not even the stars can keep me from loving you."
(He is fragile, like ice, so very fragile that each word is like teeth crunching mice bones; he doesn't want to give her up, to lose her after fighting so hard to give her back, but she's hurting, and he won't hurt her anymore.)
Silence consumes the air once more, her breathing too faint for him to hear any longer. He feels her muzzle brush against his own. "I know," she murmurs.
She is still, and cold. Like ice.
((He is broken, like ice, so jaggedly, utterly broken as the piece that had once made him whole is ripped away.))
He hears Shackle padding in to tell him that his daughter, his Shade, is awake. Sleetpaw turns to meet him.