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A lean leaf-fall faded into a desolate leaf-bare, each hunting patrol’s meager catch celebrated like it was the most food the clan had ever seen. In an effort to keep the fresh-kill pile stocked, more hunting parties were dispatched each day than would usually take place over a few sunrises; the warriors were overworked, but they had to keep trying. Thrushpelt went out with nearly every patrol despite the ache of his limbs and the growling of his stomach.
At the end of one such patrol, he had secured one mouse for the clan, his party-mates not faring much better. Before depositing the mouse, Thrushpelt paused - he had yet to eat that day, and the hunger pains were growing unignorable. If he wanted to go out again, he’d need to eat something. Guiltily, he backs away from the pile with his mouse, shooting an apologetic glance at the others as he shuffles toward the warriors’ den.
Before he makes it there, Swiftbreeze passes by with a tired slump to her shoulders, on the way to the fresh-kill pile; Thrushpelt knows she’s recently had another litter, and the three kits must be hungry… Not giving himself a second to hesitate, he sets the mouse down and calls to her, “Swiftbreeze, hold on,” drawing her attention enough to make her slow down before he continues, “here, you can have this mouse - there’s not much over there.”
She immediately perks up, her hopes of actually retrieving prey apparently low. Despite her obvious excitement at the offer, she hesitates, reluctantly asking, “Are you sure? I know you must be hungry too.” Her gaze shifts from the mouse, making eye contact with Thrushpelt for a moment before he hurriedly looks away.
“Yes, of course, I’ll be fine,” he says with an unconvincing attempt at a smile. She looks incredulous, but accepts the mouse with a more sincere smile and a thank-you before trotting back to the nursery. He lets his smile dim into something more genuine, glad to know he’s helped Swiftbreeze and the kits. Glancing back at the fresh-kill pile, he confirms his suspicion that there is no longer a fresh-kill pile. Unfortunate, but he’ll be okay - he’ll just have to wait for the next patrol.
Despite the way his stomach pangs in time with his pawsteps, Thrushpelt puts on a slightly strained smile and once more volunteers for a hunting patrol later in the day. This trek through the snow is no more bountiful than the last, only bringing home one scrawny sparrow - once more, Thrushpelt can’t bear to take it from the many hungry mouths back at camp, let alone his fellow hunters. With a longing glance to the packed dirt and snow that was once held prey, he retreats to the warriors den, sinking into the damp old moss with a sigh.
The next morning, despite the struggle of rising from his nest, Thrushpelt volunteers again, and refuses food again. Once more in the evening, then the next morning, the next night, and on for four more days; he took no more than two mice over the span. By the end of it, he can barely walk, let alone hunt, and Bluefur takes notice.
“Thrushpelt, you’re stumbling over your own paws, I can’t ask you to hunt,” she stated with a worried edge to her voice, “you should stay in camp today, get some rest.”
“But we need the prey, Bluefur, there are kits to feed–”
“And you need to take care of yourself, or we’ll have one less paw to help out.” Her tone was firm, though soft at the edges - he knows she understands his worries, knows she’s only denying his request for his own good.
Shifting his gaze away guiltily, he gives a disappointed nod and begins the walk back to the warriors den once more. Before he makes it five paces, his ears begin to buzz and his vision blurs at the edges - a familiar feeling, but one he’s shrugged off before, so he tries to ignore it. The ringing in his ears seems to seep into his body, head going numb, the feeling spreading down his neck and back; as it reaches his foreleg, they collapse beneath him.
Dully, as though his head were submerged in water, Thruspelt hears a commotion around him - whatever’s going on must be important, so he tries to stand again, only managing to rise an inch or two before falling back to the ground, jaw making contact with it just as his vision fades to black, noise cutting off as he passes out.
For the next two days, he fades in and out of consciousness, never awake long enough for Featherwhisker to make him eat anything; Bluefur visits frequently between patrols and her other deputy duties, twin grief and guilt already settled on her face. On the third day, he wakes no more.