#rip dusty...

So maybe it wasn't just allergies.

Web bent over as another spasm caught him off guard, the deep cough squeezing his eyes shut and clawing with needle thin tines at his throat. He straightened up quickly, breath ragged and audibly contorted. His tail swung and smashed into another one of the strange creatures trying to sneak up on him. It seemed to be the last of them in the immediate area, which was good since he was having trouble standing.

He stepped on it harshly, deliberately facing away from the brutality as he did. He left the corpse where it lay, knowing someone would be round later to collect it. Likely Bovey. Or, thinking about it, one of the spirals from the boonies, since he was pretty sure Bovey had been seriously maimed only hours before. Either way, the carcasses were too valuable to leave lying around. They were rich in resources, partially edible, and useful to the doctor for research, even as squished as they often were.

DustedWeb coughed again and began to drag himself back to the edge of the clan. The north-eastern border was holding. He'd been sent to look at it, fearing damage, but it seemed like most of the defenses were still in one piece. A quick inspection of the outward facing spikes and hastily constructed walls revealed only a few holes. He would report back with the recommendation that a few smaller sheets of material be sent, and perhaps a few extra bones to bury in the ground, sharp edge up. All in all not the most exciting report, but a good one.

Web coughed into his hand yet again and pretended not to notice the dark sticky wet left behind, opting instead to wipe it away on his clothing. The sickness had been eating him from the inside for days. The pain in his abdomen a dull ache and constant reminder of his failing health. It hadn't been too bad before the long night had started, but there hadn't been any time to take care of it. The past few weeks had been nonstop barrier building, visiting lairs to fortify any weaknesses just in case the border was lost and the creatures came inwards, and creating defensive lines. Not to mention once the sun sank for the final time and the creatures began to appear.

So maybe he hadn't been resting as much as he should have been, but who around had, really? There wasn't time for that. The siege of endless attacks and relentless monsters began, and what little free time there was ended. That was simply the way this went.

Web barely slept anymore, splitting his time between as many duties as he could. Every time something new was asked of him, he agreed. With the large workload on everyone's plate, it was easy for the rest of the clan to miss just how large his had become, since he wasn't about to mention it.

Monitoring the defenses and doing repairs. Boarding up huts, houses, and lairs. Scavenging for supplies and resources in a desolate and dangerous wasteland. Restocking the postings around the edge of the clan's land.

Guarding the kii'gol, the nesting grounds, and caring for anything inside of it (which was now 8 eggs and a small, sickly hatchling). That particular task was its own full time job, and generally his main one. He was lucky enough to have Acorn helping him this year, but the coatl seemed to have his feathers full with the tiny nocturne they'd found in the waste and with the care of the non-nocturne eggs. 

Alongside the kii'gol, his duties extended out to his young ward, Muiria. The long night meant it was cold, colder than most were used to, and so the young pup was covered in ice and raring to hunt. She'd been a terror when the Long Night started, running loose and trying to fight alongside him. His only counter, which was a mean tactic, had been to threaten to send her away to the Ventusians in Wind for safekeeping if she didn't stop. She'd quickly shaped up.

He could appreciate wanting to sink your teeth into something in defense of the clan, but really this wasn't the best time to have a young, inexperienced pup underfoot on a battlefield. He just let her chew on the corpses instead.

And the monsters? Those were part of his duties, too. They were the duty of anyone who was capable of dealing with them. Which, as far as anyone knew, he was.

He took a turn at the perimeter just like everyone else. He cut through attack after attack just like everyone else. He got bloody, beaten, and bruised for his troubles just like everyone else. He was part of the clan, and would do his duty, just like everyone else.

With all that said, he felt it was reasonable for him to be a little run down.

Web coughed again, tasting the blood this time, and forced himself to swallow it back. His head hurt like it had just been squished into dust by a rather larger imperial, and the pain didn't seem like it was going to stop anytime soon. Over the past week it usually arrived, tortured his head a bit, and then left. But today it wasn't showing any signs of stopping, and he was starting to fear he'd go blind from it.

Web shuffled closer to a wall, trying to avoid being spotted by whoever was on guard at that point of the clan’s edge in favor of bee-lining towards his hut, head down, shoulder’s hunched.

The ground wobbled some as he walked, and he caught himself on a wall. The past week and a half of beatings and constant pushing had left his right arm feeling vaguely numb, but today it was spreading. Web choked back a groan and gathered himself, pushing off the wall and forcing his legs to keep carrying him forward, despite the creeping edge of numbness across his chest and down his leg. Just need a bath. Muscles are just too tight, that’s all. 

He made it to his hut without seeing anyone, and sent thanks and praise to the Plaguebringer as best he could considering his brain was a misty haze. He pushed through his front door and dropped forward, catching himself hard on the table with his arms, sending sharp jolts through the bones. He panted hard.

His lungs were on fire.

Web had been short of breath for weeks. So long so that it had become the new normal for him. He'd wake up, turn on one side, and cough in spasms until his lungs cleared.

But now? Now he could barely draw in a single breath.

Breath. Breath, Dusty, breath. You have to. He threw his head back, eyes prickling with tears as he gasped, trying in vain to calm his body and force his lungs to work. 

Spots swam in his vision, but he couldn't tell if they were from the lack of air or the pain in his head. His hands gripped the table so hard that it creaked and threatened to crack. His arms shook with the strain of holding him up, and he squeezed his eyes closed. 

Sharp pain blossomed in his chest, shooting out in all directions like lightning, searing his insides and causing him to grab at his shirt, fingers twisting the fabric tightly, desperate to reach the pain.

He stumbled sideways, hood falling and hair coming loose in strands around his face, wispy and clinging to the clammy skin. The spots in his vision turned from white to black, spreading and morphing, covering more and more of the world until it all seemed too much, and before he could even register that he was falling, Web was consumed by darkness.

Webster's body crumpled to the floor with a loud thud, glasses skittering across the floor, lenses cracking, leaving fine lines in a cobweb pattern on the glass. An almost mocking reflection of the body they'd been on so long.

It was hours before the body was found and the doctor sent for. 

But in that time, DustedWeb died.

The only thing worse than the fear and panic Web felt as he fell to the floor was the absolute confusion and terror that greeted him as he was forcibly pulled back into his body. 

The searing heat of magic forcing itself through his veins, pulsing and crackling, invasive and unwanted. Screaming up every nerve pathway it could find and stripping away the touch of death that had settled there. 

The pain of it being forced through every fiber of his being threatened to tear his mind to pieces, Web unable to scream as it wove tendrils through his tissues, nerves, and all the way up his spine to his brain.

All he could see and all he could feel was the crackling pink.

When the doctor finally removed his hands, the air was electric, and Web's breath cut through the silence in tiny, harsh puffs, stuttering and hoarse, lungs protesting being used when they'd already resigned themselves to the cold embrace of death. 

Tears forced their way from his eyes, vision shaking and blurred as he watched Jan pull thick black gloves back over his hands. The thin, calculating eyes turned slowly towards Web to watch him, hands reaching out of his limited line of sight and coming back with a thin needle. Web tried to struggle as it was pushed into his neck, but one solitary hand on his chest was all it took to hold him down.

His eyes searched wildly as he desperately attempted to orient himself. He was.. in his home? 

Web was spread eagle on his large table, shirt removed and a thick, fresh incision glowing pink as it continued to heal itself. That was all he could see. The knowledge that he’d apparently been sliced fully open should probably have panicked him more, but instead he groaned and squeezed his eyes shut. 

He must have passed out.. 

Plaguebringer, to be found by someone that way... Probably Muiria looking for him... And then to need the doctor come out to fix him? His hands were so full already. The embarrassment and shame cut through the haze and helped sober him.

Jan, finished with it, replaced the needle with the rest of his tools and turned to face Webster fully. His assistant, an apprentice of sorts, was standing a ways off, pressed to the wall, looking for all intents and purposes as if he'd just seen something so spectacular that he might never speak again.

"Usbrod."

Web could only groan in response.

"Usbrod, you hear?"

He nodded a bit, eyes clenched shut against the impossibly loud sound of the doctor's voice.

"Ah. Good.” His tone was short and clipped as always, “You have died. This is no good."

Yeah, yeah, no good, eat more vegetables, get more- Wait. Sorry. Died? 

He opened his eyes and looked straight at the doc, bewildered. "Nn..o.. Sick, but.. mm. Not that s..ick..."

Jan smiled down at him, no warmth in the expression. "Organs. Inside bits. Give up." He poked Web's stomach directly on the tender, pink line, causing him to flinch at the sensation. "You, ah.. Hmm." He turned to his apprentice, "Word is? For, ah.."

The boy on the wall stepped forward some and spoke, voice soft and mercifully quiet, "You died. Completely. Not for long... But some of your organs failed and your body shut down. You may have also severely choked on blood, but... we're not entirely sure." He glanced at the doctor nervously, and got an affirming nod at his interpretation. "Doctor Tinbergen was able to... counteract it some through the application of his own energies. The damage isn't entirely gone but.. it's no longer lethal."

Web tried to raise a hand to rub his face but was unable too. It dangled over the side of his table, numb. He couldn't move anything. It was like... a cloudy haze of pink surrounded him, and underneath it he could sense the dull ache of his body. "D-Don't..."

Jan tilted his head, "Hm?"

"Don't.. tell my mom."

Jan stared at him a moment, unblinking. He smiled a little more in reassurance and pressed his hand to Web's chest, giving it the tiniest pat. Web grimaced and tried not to flinch again as the hand was taken away and he was lifted from the table. The doctor was remarkably strong, and handled him with ease, despite DustedWeb being so much larger than him. He was laid out on his bed, and a blanket was carefully pulled over him.

Once settled, he tried not to think about what repercussions this... accident would bring. Which, for once in his life, wasn't hard. His head was too clouded and almost seemed as though it didn't belong where it was. Thinking was next to impossible.

Cleaning up tools, Jan and Finnegan talked quietly, too low for Web to make out words. When Jan came back over, he carried an aura of finality.

"Will not tell. Is secret. But warning, you are not well, you push too hard." He poked a finger into Web's chest yet again, "Very lucky. Died. Should still be dead. Now? Visits in dreams. Be careful."

Web groaned, struggling to sit up, but was unable.

"Do again and I tell mother. Father. Leader." Jan shrugged and turned away, "Back later for samples. Check on you and for Fin’gan give magic. To help heal." 

Web listened to him gather his things, the clink of equipment barely drowning out the immense amount of magic still thrumming in the air and through his head. Finnegan paused momentarily next to the bed, gently setting down his glasses, cracked and delicate. He gave Web a tiny smile, worried and sympathetic.

Eventually it was quiet, sounds fading out, and his door clicked shut. There was too much on the doctor's plate for him to fret very long over any singular patient. Webster cursed himself and thanked everything divine over and over that the clan's doctor was as strange of a man as he was. Had he been any other person, Web didn't think he'd have gotten away with trying to hide what had just happened.

What had just happened....

Web’s eyes fluttered shut, and he tried to push away the flashes of memory. His supposed death, the experience of it, the pain of treatment... He groaned and tried not to acknowledge the tears beginning to gather in his eyes, threatening to spill over. Exhausted by his ordeal and overwhelmed by emotion.