A cold, frigid wind gusted past the white furry form huddling at the edge of the bramble den, his eyes squeezed shut and his tail acting as a covering against the cold.
A ticked silver tabby slid into the den and looked around for the white kit, spotting him shivering at the edge of the den. She curled around him, warming him instantly.
"Brackennight," a bony siamase tom with blue eyes called into the large bramble den, his eyes half closed from exhaustion. "Parsleykit got worse."
A tall, cinnamon ticked tabby she-cat heaved herself up, panic flashing in her green eyes. She shoved past the bony tom, hardly noticing the leaf-bare wind slicing through her. She forced her way into a small cave and rushed over to a small, frail, still form of a cinnamon and white kit.
"Parsleykit? Parsleykit, how are you doing?" she asked softly, nuzzling his back, trying to wake him up.
"I hurt," he meowed softly, his voice hoarse from lack of use. "Momma, help me."
"Oh, honey. If I could take your pain away, I would, I swear."
"Momma, am I going to die?"
"No, honey, no. Thicketfire is going to cure you and you'll be running and playing Thistlekit soon, I promise."
"I don't wanna play. I just wanna be near you," he murmured, trying to get closer to her, but his weak body hardly moved. "I don't wanna go."
"You won't. You'll live a long and healthy life, I swear on my own life," she whispered, licking his ear.
He looked up at her, his green eyes slowly losing their use. He touched his small nose to her chin before resting his head on his paws. "I hope I see you tomorrow," he murmured, closing his eyes.
She choked back a cry of despair and curled tightly around him, wondering if this would be the last time she could hold him.
A/N: Probably either gonna rework or remove this since it doesn't seem too relevant to the actual story