He took in, for the first time, all the healed over scars littered across his brother's skin, in particular the one Kvalun seemed to sport with pride. There was another scar he envisioned in the back of his mind, one that gleamed silver under white fur, but he blinked and the image cleared. "I think I'd like that," he said after a moment's pause. It felt strange to be asking for a beating, but he figured a tougher skin might fare him well.

A dark chin was lifted resolutely, Crow's firebright eyes glistening with determination (and a bit of trepidation). From how Kvalun explained WinterClan's culture-- and from the sight of his ragged scars-- he knew he was in over his head, but he never backed down from a challenge. He would need all the strength he could muster if he intended on defying the gods and bringing Raypaw back from the dead. "I'll stand. I can take it."

Hidden beneath solid black fur, his skin was swollen and purple where it wasn't cracked open, bleeding, and raw. Pain flared through his nerves until the steady, pulsating rhythm became so natural it felt like he had never lived a day without it. Crow was a hollow shell of himself in that moment, standing only by the sheer willpower that outweighed the desire to crumble and let the earth open its jaws and consume him into oblivion, or maybe what kept him up was that he couldn't feel his legs to even sit or lay down, paralyzed in this moment.

The area around them was splattered with the varying stages of blood drying-- some was crusted an endless black, some the deep brown like they stood on rust instead of snow, but at their paws pooled the brightest, richest shades of crimson. To Crow it looked like his whole body had bled dry, but there must have been something left if he was still living. Or maybe I'm a ghost, tethered to the spot I died in, he thought distantly. His physical wounds would heal in time, but the mental and emotional scars would be permanent, hardening Crow's resolve and teaching him that pain existed in various forms, much like how his sadness manifested itself in tears or in bloodshed.

But he felt, in some form, lighter. It may have been from his body being drained of blood and energy, but his soul felt cleansed even though his mortal form was tainted.

"O-okay," he finally to breathe out, noticing that Kvalun backed away, but his muscles were still braced for unsuspecting impacts. "I'll be ready...for tomorrow.. Thank you, brother."

Do better? Crow could scarcely believe that Kvalun could do much worse to him that what they'd already done, but he bit his lip and nodded. He would have to prepare himself for what came next, knowing the next rounds would just get harder and harder to bear until his skin toughened as it healed and the blows began to bruise less. "Okay," was all he managed to say this time, lacking the strength to say more.

(wanna time skip to a bit in the future?)

Over the course of their almost daily regimen, which became more brutal with every passing day as Kvalun learned more ways to beat him, Crow found that it became easier to bear. His skin had become calloused and hardened through the harsh training, which he was thankful for after their second round had left him immobilized and wondering if he'd chosen wrong when he told his half-brother he was up to task. He could take more for longer periods of time than when they'd first started, but that didn't mean it got easier; if anything, it became a battle of wills, his brother's resolve to help him fighting against his own resolve to stay standing, refusing to be pummeled into the snow. The outcome of each day was different: Sometimes his legs collapsed, but some days he managed to stand aloft, trembling but determined.

The last few days were a much needed break. He was sure his body would regret that when it came time to resume, but for now he would be grateful that his nerves would not scream out in agony.

Despite Kvalun's recent absence, Crow was at their meeting spot every day as it became a part of his routine lately. He would prowl against SummerClan's border in the light of the evening sun, but once it set and he accepted that another day had gone by without his love coming to see him, he would venture back to the Gathering place, hopeful he would see his kin and he could substitute the pain throbbed within him with more manageable surface wounds. Until tonight he hadn't been lucky on either front, but he was pleased when he caught sight of Kvalun waiting for him. "Everything okay in WinterClan? It's been a few days?"

Crow's eyes twinkled. Though he knew little about WinterClan's ranks, his brother was clearly elated about the promotion and he was happy for him. "Agonywail does have a nice ring to it," he agreed. They'd spoken of his brother's desire to be accepted among his clan despite his heritage, so he knew this meant a lot to Agonywail. "It's okay. I've been dealing with some stuff with my group the last few days." It wasn't a total lie, but Crow omitted the parts that related to his complicated love life and the SummerClan isolation period. He didn't want to get into that.

Glossing over the subject, he asked, "Tonight's the last night, right? It's been a moon."

He caught the tremors shooting through Agonywail at the mention of their final night of beatings, and inwardly Crow shivered as well. It had to be severe to evoke such a reaction from his brother. "Okay. I'm ready. I'll stand up... I have a feeling that I won't be able to get up at all if I lay down." Even now, knowing that the worst was yet to come, humor rang in light undertones in his voice. He cracked a foolhardy grin at Agonywail and nodded, but his muscles braced for the onslaught to commence.

Up until now every night had been moderately more severe than the last, testing his limits and then pushing past them when it appeared his body had adjusted to the pain. Up until now he'd been sure this was nothing more than a test of his perseverance and discipline, a gauge of what he could handle and where his weak points were so they could be eviscerated handedly. Up until now he hadn't felt fear.

It exploded through him disguised first as pain. Agony ran red across his ebony coat, but when the initial stings would subside, his heart would thump, thump, thump in his chest, slamming against the confines of his ribcage and screaming for escape, howling for release, wailing for death. Where Agonywail would strike him, his skin was incendiary but in the absence of bites and bruises it was chilling, grown cold by loss of blood. He felt, for the first time, he might surely die here, his life stained crimson in the Gathering place, but no one who ventured here during the full moon events would know the tale of the hapless rogue beaten down by his half-brofher nor the promise of strength that had enticed common sense from his brain. No one would know. The rains would wash him away instead.

And then it ceased, and he supposed this was death. Perhaps death was just an inverse of life. Perhaps this is what kept them separated from the afterlife. Mortal beings climbed upwards toward WinterClan's peaks, but perhaps spirits stepped on stars and their sky was the earth with the seas and mountaintops hanging precariously above. But this couldn't be death, he supposed, the faint quivering thump of his heart gaining volume in his ears, and slowly the haze was lifting. The mountains were not the sky and the sky not the ground. The sky was the sky-- endless, black, and glittering coldly overhead-- and the mountains were below, reaching skyward with their earthen claws. He wasn't dead. He was alive, and his body was not cold but hot, so hot against the snow, which was stained scarlet with his strength.

Some impulse was directing him now, guiding him to roll back onto his stomach. He was sure his innards might all fall out, but they were blanketed and held in tact by the snow's embrace, the bleeding staunched for now. His skin, where it wasn't cut open, was irritated, bruised, and there were several welts hidden by his coat. The rest of him was a graveyard-- puncture wounds and claw marks carved into his flesh like graves in the ground, and within them would be buried the old Crow, the weakest version of himself. Still, he grinned at his brother, something melancholic and taunting twisted into it. "That's it?"