Warrior Cat Clans 2 (WCC2 aka Classic) is a roleplay site inspired by the Warrior series by Erin Hunter. Whether you are a fan of the books or new to the Warrior cats world, WCC2 offers a diverse environment with over a decade’s worth of lore for you - and your characters - to explore. Join us today and become a part of our ongoing story!
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11.06.2022 The site has been transformed into an archive. Thank you for all the memories here!
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For some unknown, mystifying reason, Kier felt strangely guilty. He looked down when the kit thanked him, nodding to his own paws like he didn't trust himself to speak, like the thanks felt empty. Do I come back tomorrow? Kier looked up. "It would be a shame not to," he replied in an oddly soft voice, when what he really wanted to ask was do you want to come back tomorrow? But he couldn't let go of his manipulation, of his mission for Laertes, that easily, however reluctant he now felt about it. "You've already come so far. Your sisters - I doubt even the most hardy could have done what you did today. I couldn't have. That's why I need you." He smiled, and it looked a little... pleading.
Then, picking the mouse up by its tail with his front teeth, Kier suddenly stood. "Either way," he continued more cheerfully, "you can't go back to your parents looking like that - they'll think you fell in the fountain and then they won't trust you at all." Or were forced into a freezing pond, he thought uncomfortably. Why now, of all times, was he experiencing guilt? Desperate, angry frustration grew within him like a balloon, hot and confused. "One more stop and then you can go home. Come." He threw a smile at him, then set off, hoping Laertes would follow like he hadn't just spent the whole day ensuring that he would.
He led the way through the trees, twisting and turning through the forest that had long since grown pitch black. Then, finally, in the distance there appeared a warm orange glow. He padded towards it, until at last the woods opened up onto a small round clearing pitched with two tents and glowing with a campfire. The twolegs were already asleep, the tent walls dark, and Kier didn't hesitate before padding straight over to the fire and sitting down in front of it. A kithood spent around twolegs had completely eradicated any fear of them; really, he held them in contempt as stupid, lumbering things. "Sit," he told Laertes, and it sounded more like an offer than a command. "It won't hurt you." He scoffed lightly and tilted his head back to look at the flames licking at the night sky. "Really, it's less impressive than everyone makes it out to be. Just a bit of heat and then what? Ash." He gazed up at it quietly, his air almost melancholic. This was Kier's way of apologising.
He turned his head to look at the kit. The heat of the fire burned his chest where he sat. "Did you ever hear the story about the wolfman on the moors? It's less cheery than tree nymphs and sprites but I always liked it." He smiled, the angles of his face softened by the firelight.
That's why I need you. His parents loved him, his sisters loved him, but none of them truly needed him — he was the one trailing behind, making them stop and wait out of pity so he could catch up, the one who needed the protection and didn't do the protecting. If he weren't there, a difference would hardly be made, and so to hear someone say it made him brighten, filled him with an insatiable need to be better, better, better. There would always be room for improvement, room for praise. When Kier got up, Laertes followed, because by now he knew how it worked; as much as he wanted to be in charge, show off his arrogance and familial power, he couldn't be. He had to sit and learn.
When they reached the humans, Laertes stopped, hesitating. He'd never encountered them before, and he hadn't planned to any time soon. Their tents didn't have the same appeal as their mansions, their homes, their lack of architecture on the little cloth structures was, for lack of a better word, boring. They must have been stupid as well, it seemed, to leave such a fire unattended. He sent Kier an apprehensive look, only to be met with his words of strange reassurance. After a moment, he reluctantly moved up and took a spot beside him, immediately feeling the warmth of the fire. It was almost soothing. Over the course of the day, he had grown quieter, so he let the grimness hang in the air. He leaned slightly towards the fire, enjoying how the heat tickled his face.
Did you ever hear the story about the wolfman on the moors? He shook his head, realized he wasn't sure if Kier was actually looking at him and deciding to answer, "no," because he hadn't been told many folktales. Sometimes he would mention the occasional monster or forest creature that he'd made up, but the things that always scared him most were the things that were real — foxes, badgers, other cats.
Kier looked over at Laertes, and for a long moment he just watched him, how innocent he looked with his eyes closed and his head leaned towards the fire. The flames licked at the smoky sky, sending sparks cracking towards the tree tops, and in the peace of the acrid air and the fire’s heat, he felt all his earlier hunger for control melt out of him like treacle.
Rearranging himself, he crouched down and tucked his forepaws under his chest. “When I was your age — albeit, much smaller,” he laughed, “my family and I stopped to shelter in a cottage out on the moors. There was a twoleg there, but she was old and asleep, and she cared for an old, grizzled she-cat. She invited us inside, and lying in front of a fire the same as we are now, while the rain beat down outside and the wind sent great gusts down the chimney, she told us a story. Many years ago, there lived a wolf pack on the barren slopes where it was always winter. All the wolves knew the tale of a beast that haunted their lands, a creature that crept in the silence, that waited upon the fields on moonless nights, that wailed and wept in the valley like some poor, wounded child. Many over the years sympathised with the creature — they would say, ‘it isn’t a monster. It’s crying for help, out there,” Kier gestured with his nose towards the dark pines, “out there on the tree line. It’s lonely. It’s afraid. Don’t you hear it?’ And off those wolves would go, and there they would stay. And as that fresh grief set into the wolves upon the slope, all the mothers of the pack would say, ‘stay away from the forest upon the hillside. And if you should hear weeping upon the moor, shut your eyes and turn the other way. And if you should see something moving out there, on a black and moonless night, run for your life.’ But there was always a question that hung at the backs of their minds, when they were out among the heather or on the black peat — which of us can run faster?”
He paused for a few moments, gazing into the fire. “Over the years, more and more wolves disappeared into the treeline from which the weeping came, until finally there was just one wolf left, a boy as brave as he was frightened. And so he said to himself, off I will go. I will find my family and I will bring them back and I will hunt down the monster. And he went. He packed all the food he could carry and he set off for the trees — and when he got there, there was nothing strange about them. They were only trees. But the deeper he got, the more he realised something was wrong, for there wasn’t a single bird there to sing. And it was at this point that he became terribly afraid, because he turned and turned in circles but he couldn’t find the way from which he had come — out and out the trees spread, but they all looked the same, and his pawprints had disappeared behind him in the snow like they had never been there at all. But, gathering together all his courage, he continued on. Until finally, after days or weeks or moons of travelling through all that same, empty forest, he heard in the distance a tremendous howling. And so, he began to run — because it had been so very long since last he had heard a wolf’s howl. And the closer he drew to it, he began to weep, for he recognised it. It was the howl of his mother. And as he recognised his mother’s howl, he began to recognise the others — his sister’s, and his brother’s, and his father’s, and his grandmother and grandfather and everyone else who had ever loved him. And then, at last, he burst out of the woods and into a clearing, and there all his family was — and they ran towards him and gathered around him and covered him in such love that he thought he would die from it. And when at last the crowd began to clear, he saw another creature in the centre of the clearing — a great, hairless beast, bony and gangly and with limbs as long as a tree, hunched over in the snow and watching him with a smile as gentle as anything he’d ever seen, as gentle as a newborn pup’s. His family saw him staring at the creature and they embraced him again and said, with the same smile that the creature wore, ‘he was all alone in the world, alone and afraid. But now he has us, and now he has you. For if there is one thing you learn in this life, my darling pup, let it be this: even monsters dream.’”
By the time Kier finished, he was hot to the bone from the fire, his vision a bright, flickering orange and his eyes brimmed with tears as he stared into the fire. Blinking, he broke his trance. “Both of my siblings fell asleep, as did my father — they’re terrible house guests, you know,” he purred, his voice back to normal from the wistful state it had been in. “But I didn’t. I was enraptured.” He was silent for a moment. “It’s just a silly story, though.” Looking over at Laertes and regaining his cheerful Kierness like the story had never been told, he told him with a smile, “your fur should be dry enough now. Can you find your way home by yourself or would you like me to walk you? Noon should be early enough to meet me tomorrow — you’ve worked hard; spend the morning doing whatever it is kits do.”
Laertes sat quickly, listened to the stories with his head lowered towards the fire, let the heat dance on his face until it hurt and still didn't pull away. He tried making pictures out of the flames. As his fur dried, so did the rest of his energy, and he was sat half dozing, allowed Kier to lead him home, crawled into bed and, unusually, didn't stir until the sun was nearing its highest point.
✦ cool time skip ✦
Things had gotten a little easier over the next few days — the tasks, especially, and the pain in his muscles was loosening. It didn't take very long for Laertes to grow loyal to Kier; he always took every word to heart, played the day over in his head until he fell asleep and woke up the next morning, mind on one track. Eventually, he grew more comfortable with sarcastic quips, occasionally gave a light-hearted eyeroll at the things he didn't want to do but otherwise held no complaints. The fear was still there, of Kier, of the curse, of failing, but if it wasn't, he would have no drive, and he was already shaping into a fine young soldier. The routine had been nice for him. Wake up early, meet Kier, do whatever it was that he wanted, go home, sleep, rinse and repeat. It became less tiring over time, and he genuinely wanted to get better at everything, his ambition mixed with the ability to learn quickly and learn right, most importantly.
Laertes did the same thing he did every day, walked out to the old iron fence and waited near the bars, first stared out into the forest beyond, still dark with the rising dawn, and then towards the house again, where (if he wasn't waiting already), Kier would slink out to greet him. His ear twitched, listening for any signs of him. He was a little nervous, eyes focused on the front door, because yesterday he had completely missed his lesson, too busy dealing with the company of his sister, Nour and trying to keep her as far away from Kier as he possibly could. He had made it very clear what he could do, and he did not need any demonstrations. He would simply have to work especially hard today, he decided. Idly, Laertes lifted his paw, turned it over so he could watch his claws flex. They were still small, not yet big enough for anything fatal, and as he waited, he wondered when he'd have to use them.
Kier wasn’t in the Mansion. Wasn’t waiting. He hadn’t been home at all, in fact. Hadn’t slept. After dropping the body in front of Aspenstar in return for some… some… He couldn’t even quite remember. Some higher ranking than— than trainee… After that, he’d gotten halfway back into the League’s forest and then he’d just sat down. And like that, from before midnight to dawn, he’d stayed, just staring unseeingly a little way ahead from his paws, his expression an odd mutation of near tears, mouth slightly open and downturned in horror he kept reliving and eyes glazed over with grief, though the tears never fell, and nothing at all. Blank. It wasn’t numb, because numbness suggests a sort of apathy — it was just nothing. His brain was still. His mind, his head. His heart kept beating, but Kier wasn’t there. If anyone had stumbled upon him, even someone he knew very well, he would have started and raised his head and just stared at them with stricken unrecognition.
When finally he regained enough of himself, just enough, to know he ought to go back to the Mansion, even if he didn’t quite know why, he stood and padded through the woods, but he didn’t remember any of it afterwards. He was just somewhere out there, and then he was closer to home. Home — well, he supposed he’d be leaving it soon. Wouldn’t he. He stumbled slightly as he went, and his paws felt very soft. That’s the only thing he would remember, that his paws felt soft. He didn’t know why.
And then, padding out of the pine trees, he lifted his head and saw Laertes. For a long moment, Kier just looked vaguely afraid, which had been his expression for most of the night; then, it became personal confusion, like he was trying to remember something, knew something was supposed to happen every morning at the same time, but he didn’t know what it was. Finally, clawing enough of himself back together that he would at least vaguely resemble Kier, he closed the rest of the distance between him and his protégé, walking like he was in pain, sore, or just very, very tired, and sat down beside him. “Oh,” was all he said, and for some reason it sounded like he was almost amused, but he wasn’t; that ‘oh’ was a very strange sort of ‘oh’, because it lasted just a little too long, and yet it was really nothing. Like a sigh. Like a groan. Like waking up after a hangover and seeing a note to yourself about some awful social activity you’d forgotten saying yes to and to which you didn’t want to go. “Laertes. Yes, hello.”
He didn’t say anything after that. His eyes were mostly blank — the parts that weren’t haunted. It was like he didn’t know Laertes was there at all, despite having spoken to him. His eyes wandered slowly down and his head bowed and he saw there was still blood caked under his claws. He raised one paw, curious and confused and still, like it was a worm, and began to look at the claws, turning his paw this way and that, flexing them. He didn’t understand why there was blood there.
Oh. There was a slight tilt to his head as he watched Kier, curiously and apprehensively, because something was off. For a moment, he looked as young and fearful as Laertes was. Small. Lost. His eyes never left, only trailed him until they were side by side. Laertes sat up a little straighter. Laertes. Yes, hello. His voice was off-putting, almost strange to hear, like it didn't belong to the cat it came out of, even though none of Kier's voices belonged to him. For a moment, he choked on his words, opened his mouth as if to say something, but all that tumbled out was more silence.
He looked past the fence, "Kier." The word cracked in the middle, but he cleared his throat, tried to chase his nerves down, "Kier. What are we doing today?" Finally, he looked over, saw his mentor admiring — not really admiring, because the look on his face was anything but — his claws, just as Laertes had been doing before. The behaviour was strange; his confused, dazed look, oddly, put him on edge, because in the time he had known Kier, he had never outwardly been so unsure, so scared, so confused. There was no softness to it, it held secrets and terrible things and, despite his curiousity, Laertes didn't say a word on it, tried to gloss over it and let it be. He had learned to keep his mouth closed.
He felt the need to talk about other things because the silence weighed too heavy, near suffocating. He coughed. "I, uhm," it wasn't often he stumbled over his words, let himself loose the grace he usually held in his speech, "I got busy yesterday, I couldn't come. But I practiced … I made it from the Mansion to the marshes perfectly. I think … I've gotten better at direction." Not that he was particularly terrible at it, but any slip-ups and mistakes had to be fixed, especially when he lost his way in the thick forests of the League.
He'd never been the smiling kind, but he gave Kier an earnest look.
Kier didn't reply to Laertes' question, just let out a noncommittal hum that, somewhere along the way, turned into a laugh - the sort of laugh that's close-mouthed and in your throat, warm and unsteady and unhinged, like some inside joke is so terribly funny. It trailed off into a high sound, and still he didn't look up from his claws. Everything felt unreal, Laertes and himself and the ground beneath him. I made it from the Mansion to the marshes perfectly. I think … I've gotten better at direction. "Did you?" Kier asked, finally looking up at him, and the grin on his face was uncharacteristically boyish - but despite its softness, there was something so nasty about it, like he was mocking Laertes; and yet even that nastiness was harmless in that moment, just laughter. Everything was unstable. "Did you really? Oh, how lovely. My, and you've grown too, haven't you!" He lifted a paw and, holding it above him, drew a line from the tips of Laertes' ears to the empty air above his own head. He let out a high laugh. "My, my, well, you have! Taller than me. I suppose it's not difficult. Small genes from my mother, you know - she didn't give me much, but she gave me that wonderful 'screw you' gift." He laughed again, that same joyful expression still on his face.
"Well, come, come, then, Laertes," he continued suddenly, getting to his paws and turning back the way he'd come. "Your final test approaches. I suppose I could change the date, considering I set it," more laughter, "but I don't like to argue with myself - I'll always win, you know. So come along, my perfect protégé - we have much to do this day. Have you been to SpringClan yet?" As they fell in beside each other, Kier walked close beside him, closer than he ever usually did with his horror of physical contact, and as he did he kept bumping against him. It didn't seem to bother him in the slightest - in fact, he seemed to delight in it and find it very funny. "Doesn't matter right now, anyway," he continued, and then suddenly changed their direction back towards the Mansion, herding Laertes around; at the bewildering, senseless inexplicableness of it, he let out the loudest, highest laugh yet, throwing his head back. "Right now, we're going to exploit our very own home. Well, it won't be my home for much longer. That's the most important lesson you can learn, Laertes - all that-all that rubbish about unconditional love and family bonds, they're all lies. No one cares about anyone unconditionally. There are always strings attached, such beautifully fragile strings - they can snap at a moment's notice. A moment's! And the League's string, my dear boy, is that so long as you stay a good little soldier, they'll let you eat. But the second you get a mind of your own, they'll crush it out of you. And that's what I'm determined will not happen - I don't want you crushed, Laertes. I won't let you be." Not by anyone but me; he had the sense not to say that out loud, even in his current state.
"And so the best way to stop it is to snap the strings yourself before they can do it for you. And we're going to do that today. Today, Laertes, you're going to kill." Kier's voice sobered slightly as he said the words; the drunken glee was gone, and in its place a dead-eyed, bitter, hateful seriousness. If he was suffering, someone else had to suffer as well. And Laertes' innocence - his bloodless paws - was a direct affront to him, a glaring judgement on his own violence. So, for his own comfort, he had to taint him to his own level. Then he could love him. Then he could be kinder. Then Laertes wouldn't leave him. He suddenly felt so terribly, terribly lonely. He wanted a friend. He needed Laertes. And because he needed him, he couldn't have this last remaining purity. He looked up at his protégé, and there was something pleading, something child-like, in Kier's tearful, hollow eyes.
He wasn't silent in his usual way, out of obedience only interrupted by the occasional growl or quip or remark — he was nearly dumbfounded, and certainly his mouth would have been ajar had he let it be. The words made him feel ashamed that he'd grown, that he was here existing and taking up Kier's time, and despite the flick in his ears, he willed them to not flatten. He felt like he didn't deserve such a loving mother when his mentor didn't have the same privilege. He trailed behind, slow and reluctant and silent, like a good lackey should be. His face felt incredibly warm, but perhaps it was his unease. He let Kier fall in beside him.
"Springclan?" He asked suddenly, resisting the urge to move away. He'd heard Springclan was magical, but wasn't sure if he truly believed it. Despite the tone of their outing, he felt nearly giddy with the concept of going somewhere new, somewhere far. The anxiety that had first plagued their trips, of being too distant from his family, had gone away some time recently, and he could feel nothing but a slight excitement at the prospect of such places as the clans. There was always a twist, he knew, but the shoe hadn't dropped yet. He would have said more, but Kier was continuing, rambling like both nothing and everything mattered, like he hadn't gathered his wits yet. They were turning now, back towards the Mansion, and he felt his eagerness fade. Well, it won't be my home for much longer. He played the words over, conflicted. Part of him felt glad that, perhaps, he would have the tom as far away from his as possible, that he could go back to his life before he met him without another worry, but he promptly realized how utterly stupid that sounded. How was he supposed to get better? Stronger? Protect his family from their own blood? Kier was a lifeline, a sick, twisted, terrible thing, and yet he clung to him still.
He tripped over his words, something he hardly ever did, "I don't —" he didn't know. He was unsure. He felt a helplessness creeping up on him, like something terrible was going to happen. He knew the League, knew their values and their principles, and yet he struggled to believe he couldn't rely on them at least somewhat. His family ran the League. Was it bias that made him feel this way? It was rather ironic, that the string Kier was describing had already wrapped its way around Laertes' neck by the very tom who spoke those words.
Today, Laertes, you're going to kill. He'd dreaded it, but knew it was inevitable. Kill. Take a life. Put out the flame of life. He twisted away suddenly, stopped in his tracks just behind his mentor, stared for a moment with an open mouth and a scared, near desperate look. He could have said anything in the world, and yet he chose, "Now?"
There was a slight shakiness; he knew he couldn't refuse, and yet he hesitated anyway. Fear would do him no good. He didn't tear his eyes away from Kier's, and for a moment they were all he could see, "I am not ready yet." As much as he wanted to pretend he wasn't, Laertes was young, naïve, susceptible to the evils of the world. And he was innocent. And somehow that made him feel ashamed, too.
Far from being angry when Laertes suddenly stopped, Kier just swivelled around to face him, stopping as well. His expression was almost enamoured by the confused fear, like this was a game. "Yes, now," he replied with a breathless, patient sort of laugh, like his protégé was making an unfunny joke that he had to humour, but the insistence didn't have the usual disapproving cruelty it held when Laertes refused him; he was still smiling. At his I'm not ready, Kier rolled his eyes back, still smiling, and let out a breath, padding slowly back to join him. "Oh, Laertes, you're just nervous," he assured him, eyes gentle and intimate, the closest he'd ever felt to him; he was frightened, that was natural, that was alright. He was just a kit, however tall he had become. "There's no shame in that - you have a good heart."
His voice only grew gentler as he continued, slower, sitting down beside him and drawing him against his side with one comforting paw, just like he had when he'd still been smaller than him. "But everyone has to grow up eventually, and that means leaving your good heart with all your other childhood things. Everyone else had to do it - your mother, your father. Me. It's a part of life, as natural as breathing. And it can feel so terribly frightening, but that's just the arbitrary morality the world has tried to inflict on us to stop us from reaching out full potential. You won't be killing someone who matters, Laertes. You'll be killing an old cat. Someone who's going to die soon anyway, someone scrawny and hungry - you could waste food on them, or you could give them this simple mercy. They'll thank you - with their dying breath, they'll thank you, Laertes. They'll smile, because it will mean they'll be able to go to the world beyond this one and see their loved ones again, all the ones they've lost. Doesn't that sound good? Doesn't that sound like a kindness?" He smiled, and the quiver in his voice wasn't forced. "If you do this, you'll be unstoppable. My perfect protégé. I'll be so proud of you. Prouder than I've ever been of anyone in my life." It truly did sound like Laertes could say no, like there was a way out. And the way Kier felt about him in that moment, maybe there really was. His eyes were earnest, gentle, emotional, his smile so softly hopeful as he looked up at him.
"And if you do this," he continued in that same quiet, harmlessly domestic voice, "things will become so much more fun. We can move on to truly grand things. The way things are going for me, I'll need someone by my side. Wouldn't you like that to be you, Laertes? The Clans, all sprawled out at your paws. Doesn't that sound nice? Adventure." He whispered the word, eyes never leaving him, paw still holding him to him. "Fairytales come to life. Magic. All you've ever wanted - this is how you get it. For me." He smiled, weak and slightly tearful.
His ears flattened, his paws shuffled closer to each other, and he turned his eyes downward, towards the ground below him. It didn't feel like something natural, necessary, but he felt the need to tell himself what did he know? He was an insolent little kit, he didn't know how the world worked. Kier did, and he knew every way to get to Laertes, get him to agree, no matter how many options he presented, all but one was null. You'll be killing an old cat. It didn't make him feel any better, but he still considered his words. He supposed if he were old, frail, alone, he would want such a mercy, too. He wanted someone to be proud of him, he wanted to be worth something, and so at the mention Laertes looked up again. Something about Kier's state was so genuine now, like a promise would truly be fulfilled — an argument could be made, that Kier had never actually not completed a promise, because he was doing exactly as he said he would. Making Laertes better. He tossed it around again, truly thought about it. There was still a resistance, but he tried to push it down with the lump in his throat.
"For you," he repeated. He wasn't sure what he was referring to, what magic he was truly talking about, what the clans had to do with his first kill, but he'd learned not to question things. Trust the process. He gave a final fearful look, before he reluctantly stepped forward, back onto their previous path.
His shoulders were still hunched. "I suppose so. I'll try. For you." He could trust Kier, because he was older and wiser and knew things, how terrible the world was, how to get his way, and Laertes had already dug his grave, there was nothing else to do but lie in it.
"Good boy," Kier purred softly, leaning up to touch his forehead to Laertes' cheek, his eyes open and slitted the entire time, never leaving the kit's eyes as he gazed fearfully ahead at the Mansion. This was the second to last hurdle, and Laertes had jumped it; now the only one left was actually seeing the life fade out of whatever old, inconsequential idiot Kier could find for him. Then he'd be lost to everyone but himself. And then the true fun could begin.
For you. It was all Kier had ever wanted to hear. He almost trembled at it.
"Come, then, Laertes - much to do." Letting go of him, he led the way back between the rusty bars of the gate and through the dead, overgrown blackberry bushes of the back garden. "Now," he continued as they walked, because he knew what a brooding worry-er the poor boy was, "you mustn't treat this as a thing to drag your paws about - if you do, you'll never enjoy it, and then what's the point? There's an art to it, to killing, that goes beyond mere survival or kindness. It's beautiful, in its own way - in fact, nothing on Earth is more beautiful. Being the last thing someone sees, being the reason they can let go, holding the most powerful thing in the universe in your paws... it's magic, more than any of StarClan's trickery. But if all you do is sulk about it, Laertes," the name was thrown pointedly over his shoulder in a disapproving little growl as Kier glanced back to catch his eye and full him out of his own head; he always needed to be reminded of the present moment, "then you're going to be blind to the truly restorative properties killing can offer you. Your..." He floundered for a moment, and when he spoke again he sounded unconvinced by his own argument; if he'd been standing still, he would have circled his paw in the air, "your soul, you know. Do you believe in souls? Doesn't matter - you're clever, I trust you to make up your own mind. But the point is: if you don't prepare yourself for the show, you're going to give a lacklustre performance." He suddenly stopped and turned to face him, putting his paw on Laertes' shoulder and tilting his head with mock sympathy. "And no one likes a bad performance."
"Now," he continued, turning away again and leading the way to the Shaman's greenhouse. "My preferred method is poison - it's all about quantities, you know, and that knife edge is very exciting. So much room for error." Stopping at the side of the greenhouse, he turned and sat among the dense, trailing ivy, the grimy, broken glass at his back and his tail wrapped around his paws. "But that might not interest you the way it does me. What do you think you'd like, Laertes? Poison? Your own paws, a bit of brutality? A lovely little accident, like a fall from the roof?" He let out an almost accidental laugh. "That would be thrilling, a protégé who kills by subtle accidents - oh, what a thought. Anyway, Laertes, don't let me influence you - what do you think you'd like?" He smiled, genuinely excited and almost sweet-looking, like he was asking about Christmas presents.
That familiar apprehensiveness gripped him as Kier spoke, thinking over the unhinged plan he had presented for Laertes. The words were almost background noise, but he understood enough to know he was supposed to follow. He hardly took in Kier's speech and certainly didn't attempt to seem happy about it, though he still, somehow, felt bad when it was brought up. But if all you do is sulk about it, Laertes. He narrowed his eyes slightly, but picked up his pace. Perhaps he was a fool to feel so hesitant about it, perhaps it was just what he needed to be strong, to be worth something — he would neither be the first nor the last in such a situation, what did he really have to complain about? Opportunities like this were difficult to come by, and Kier had already taught him a lot already. He was lost on the performance of it, how something like that could be an art. It wasn't like the paintings he had found so interesting in the Mansion. It was something dark and foreboding, a loss of innocence, though perhaps that was artistic in and of itself. A tragedy.
What do you think you'd like, Laertes? He was still thinking by the time the Greenhouse came into view a little way away, stared up at it like it was some monster that would attack him the moment they got close; he looked down at his paws the same way. He didn't think blood would feel nice on his paws, and he didn't know if he could pull off accidents. Poison seemed like a very hands-off approach, something less detectable. Kier was expecting an answer, and he was taking too long.
"The … poison?" The word felt dirty on his tongue, like the ones his parents used, and they shook as they came out. "Whichever one is the easiest. I don't know."
“Poison?” Kier repeated; he wasn’t disapproving or angry, just genuinely surprised and taken aback. His ears pricked. It wasn’t often than he hadn’t been expecting something and the earnest surprise in his voice showed it. “Really?” Well, it wasn’t optimal that both of them would be reliant on poison, but it wasn’t a bad thing either — twice the expertise, he supposed. And poison certainly did have its virtues, especially if they were going to be encouraging leaders to drop like flies. Either way, Laertes could be trained in other methods later — this was just the curtain going up. He certainly intended for Laertes to get blood on his paws, but for now he could keep them clean; it was enough that he’d be killing. Kier seemed to accept the choice, giving his protégé a single pleased nod. “Alright. Alright, excellent. Poison it is, Laertes. Good choice. Come.” He wouldn’t say that in terms of actually watching a cat die, poison could be the very opposite of ‘easiest’: it was one thing to watch someone gurgle on their own shredded jugular — his father’s wide, bulging eyes, his open mouth, his paws reaching up for Kier’s chest; he suddenly stopped in front of Laertes, that earlier, dissociative terror swallowing him again as he stared wide-eyed and unseeing at the opposite wall of the greenhouse for a moment; quickly, he shook it off — but quite another to watch them froth and writhe and drown in their own spit. Laertes would learn that for himself. Perhaps others would think it was kinder to warn him; to Kier, this was the kindness. That, and he couldn’t have him backing out. Either way, he’d be right there beside him; if he was to impart one piece of indoctrination into Laertes, it was that he and only he was to be a source of comfort and stability. He was the only one Laertes could turn to.
Padding into the greenhouse like he owned it, Kier looked from side to side at the plants in old terracotta pots on the shelves that lined either side, grown over with trailing ivy. “Now, you have your oleander, your hemlock, your nightshade, your foxglove,” he smiled enticingly at that, pulling it down and turning to Laertes and holding it under his chin like one of those game show girls showing off the kitchen sets. He put it back and continued on. “Snakeroot. Aconite.” He nodded at each of them as he named them, like they were old, familiar companions. Suddenly, he smiled and pulled down a stunted little tree in a broken plot, and it felt like he had made a decision. “Seeds of the maidenhair tree. What a wonderful little thing, such poison in such a small body.” Talking about poison was the closest Kier came to sounding in love. “Ingestion, at first, will cause mild symptoms — headache, dizziness, bruising.” He tapped the pot as he spoke, tipping his head from side to side. Then, he leaned closer, pupils dilating until his lacklustre grey eyes were black and smiling. His voice was breathless and excited. “But very quickly, they become terrible — internal bleeding, vomiting blood, seizures, asphyxiation… death.“ He said death like it was a disappointing, irrelevant finale, a personal insult to him, and looked away to set the pot down. He realised he had gone back on his earlier policy of not scaring him off; he’d just gotten too into it. He quickly back-pedalled, gaze still averted as he dusted the plant off. “Well, I won’t spoil too much for you. And it’s really not all that bad — it’ll be over before you know it.”
He looked back up and smiled, right pupil back to normal and voice calm once more. “Come, Laertes, I’ll show you how to collect the seeds.” He shifted over pointedly so his protégé would have space to sit beside him in front of the potted tree, his eyes hopeful and earnest and the smile still on his face, like denying him this would hurt his heart deeply, like it would be the worst cruelty, worse than poisoning an innocent.
Laertes almost took his words back. His nerves made every hint of disapproval worse, every glare murderous, every word one of anger, and so he was taken aback when Kier continued, pleased, talking like it was so exciting. He wondered what would happen if he were to back out, run off and tell his mother everything and see if she'd deal with him instead, but he continued, stopped when Kier did. It was sudden, worrying, and Laertes nearly ran into him. He didn't speak immediately, only watched with wide, anxious eyes, and just as he was about to say anything at all, Kier was moving again, awoken from whatever trance he was in. They carried on like nothing.
He was reluctant to enter the greenhouse, hesitated at the entrance as he watched Kier march in with his confidence and arrogance, and before anything could be said about it, Laertes followed. They all looked rather beautiful, and while he was more drawn to the towering buildings of the city and the walls of the Mansion, there was a quiet, particular love of the natural world. It was quite funny, how things so deadly could look so beautiful. He would have chosen the hemlock, personally, it looked so innocent, but Kier was directing them towards the maidenhair tree. It was a sad thing, slumped and diminutive, and somehow it reminded Laertes of his situation, of himself. Maybe he'd lost it, relating to a tree.
Ingestion, at first, will cause mild symptoms — headache, dizziness, bruising. His lip curled unpleasantly, but still he nodded. But very quickly, they become terrible — internal bleeding, vomiting blood, seizures, asphyxiation… death. He moved to sit beside him, stared down at the tree with unblinking eyes, didn't quite take in just how passionate Kier was about it. Maybe he should learn to be like that too, but it seemed so unlikely.
For a long moment, as Laertes sat beside him, Kier just smiled up at him unblinkingly, like he was waiting expectantly for something, or like he was trying to fathom what on Earth could be wrong. Then, finally, he broke the silence cheerily. “Laertes, what’s wrong?” He sounded, surprisingly, genuinely concerned — or, perhaps closer to the truth, just perplexed as to why he wasn’t more enthusiastic. Kier was ordinarily remarkably astute, but, given his current state, it was possible that very astuteness was a carefully honed performance and that the real Kier was a little more self-absorbedly psychopathic and dense: the usual Kier would understand Laertes was a sweet-natured, quiet soul at odds with killing; this Kier just didn’t understand why he wasn’t joining in on the fun. “Is it the maidenhair? Would you rather foxglove? We can do foxglove, I just thought that for a beginner something incredibly potent would be best — with foxglove, sometimes they don’t die right away, you know, and then you have to go in with your claws and it can become terribly messy. Are you tired? Did you not sleep well?” With every question, he leaned in closer, his worried eyes never leaving Laertes’ profile.
“Ah!” He suddenly perked up, a smile lighting up his features. “I know what will cheer you up, Laertes. Come, come — an adventure and a cure rolled up into one. You pull it off like this,” he tugged a stem of the little tree off with his teeth, “and we can de-flesh the seeds later. Come, come. Tally ho, Laertes.” Holding the bundle of leaves and toxic seeds in his mouth like they were any other parcel, he trotted out of the greenhouse and headed for the Clans. “Killing someone you know, even if it’s only someone you’ve seen in passing, can be daunting, I know. An old League cat — what was I thinking? How cruel — and to do it to my own dear protégé, what a monster I am. No, no. We’ll go to SpringClan instead, as we originally planned. You won’t know any of them.”
Kier was positively skipping, all of his usual poshness abandoned. Oddly, he was being truly caring: he thought he got to the bottom of Laertes’ discomfort, and so he changed the course of their day to make him feel better. Even if both the diagnosis and cure were wildly off-base, his intentions were genuinely tender. “Tell me, Laertes,” he said as they walked, “what gossip have you heard around the Mansion? Any scandals? Affairs? Love children? Coups, treachery, scheming?” He threw a winning grin at his protégé over his shoulder. More than fighting practice, which had Laertes learning to be nimble and quick despite the natural brute force of his size, if only because the only asset Kier had was his swiftness; more than scouting and hiding and climbing, which were all terribly gruelling; more than any of it, spying was his favourite of Laertes’ tasks, and their nightly debriefs was the highlight of his entire day. All the errant mischief the married women of the League got up to — he practically squealed and rolled back and forth with delight at it.
He blinked, dumbfounded, floundering for a moment on what to say, "it's none of that — nothing at all," it was a lie, a clear one at that, but he forced the words past his lips and into the air, let them rest uncertainly. Not only was it untruthful in the fact that he said nothing was wrong, it was also untruthful because, frankly, he hadn't gotten a good sleep in weeks.
I know what will cheer you up, Laertes. His first instinct was to not trust a single word Kier said. Not doing this would cheer him up, and he had a sneaking suspicion that whatever he was about to suggest would have the least desired effect. Mentally, he cursed himself for thinking so foolishly. Still, he followed, listening along, waiting for the hat to drop. Indeed it did. We’ll go to SpringClan instead, as we originally planned. He attempted a small smile, but it came out as a grimace. Wasn't that just wonderful? Wasn't that just grand? To see their land firsthand like he'd wanted, only to have to spill blood over it? Such a pretty place that he would have to ruin for himself. But Kier had a point, he didn't know them, they wouldn't matter in the grand scheme of things, it wouldn't affect him.
"Gossip?" Once again, he floundered, didn't meet Kier's eyes as he looked over. He only listened when he was told, and all the things he learned didn't infect the life he lived outside of his lessons — at least, not in that way. He was still alert, still practiced occasionally when he could, but he liked some separation. Even if it was only for a short time. He cleared his through, like he was a reporter about to give a report, but instead he said, "I … haven't been listening." It was followed by an apologetic look.
“Well, that’s alright,” Kier replied in that same cheery voice, uncharacteristically forgiving, like he was only half there. “I didn’t tell you you had to listen at all times — of course you were only following orders. You’re very fine for that. No need to think for yourself. Very fine indeed. There will be plenty of time for gossip later, from an entirely new place. I think we’ve quite outgrown the League. All the stories have grown old.”
Quickening his pace, Kier trotted ahead. Soon, they were leaving the dark, looming trees of the League behind, and from there the world opened up before them in great, rolling plains, golden and sparkling with early morning frost. After the stifling gloom of their wooded home, with its permanent dampness and faint smell of rot and fungus, the fields were radiant. Kier stopped for a moment at the crest of a hill, looking out over it with a faint smile, but it wasn’t clear, even to himself, whether he was enjoying the beauty of the view or just orienting himself, or whether he was even seeing it at all. “Come,” he said at last, just because it had become habit to drill that word into Laertes’ head. Leading the way down the hill, they passed into tall, golden grass that whispered over their heads in the faint, cool breeze. It was almost eerie, the empty, silent beauty of it and these two cats cutting their way through the untouched peace.
From there, it was a straight path to SpringClan. Kier had already been to SummerClan and found it very boring, even with the occupation that he’d sometimes snuck out of home to watch the goings on of; SpringClan was no better, but that made them perfectly docile guinea pigs. Crossing the fields and patches of soft, pristine woodland, they smelled the cherry blossoms before they saw them. But, when Kier finally stopped on another rise to look down at the territory, the innocence of it — the sweetness of it — had no effect on him; he was already too far gone. All he thought of was the poison. Smiling, he descended into SpringClan.
It wasn’t long before they found a lone ginger tom rolling in a patch of sweet-smelling flowers. Without a word, Kier lurched to the side and tackled Laertes into the cover of an elderflower bush. “Shh!” he hissed hurriedly, rolling off of Laertes’ shoulders to crouch down beside him and look out at their victim with wide, excited eyes. He dropped the toxic seeds forgetfully at his own paws. “There he is, Laertes. Your first project.” He turned to him with a grin. “How will you do it? Play the sweet kit card? Pretend to be passing through and offer to share your fresh-kill? Follow him until an opening appears? It’s in your capable paws.” The eager, expectant, unblinking grin didn’t leave his face as he stared at his protégé.
He only nodded mutely and trailed, moving to walk just beside Kier, shoulders hunched slightly, because it always felt like such a task to stand tall. I think we’ve quite outgrown the League. He didn't question the words out loud, but rolled them around in his head idly.
He could tell they had reached Springclan the moment their trees lightened and the sweet smell hit his nose. It smelled like flowers, moss, and freshwater. Despite the situation, he tried to take in as much of its innocence as he could, stared up at the blossoms and around at the beautiful flora, and the earth itself seemed to hold a magic in it. He would have been so much more excited if he were with anyone else, but it was kept quiet, in the wideness of his awestruck eyes. He didn't spot the tom until he was tackled, and even then he was just a blur of ginger fur, but as he readjusted himself, crouched low behind the elderflower, he peered over in a break in the leaves to watch him. Kier had no reason to shush him, he was already quiet. A sense of dread settled in his stomach, and he almost complained to Kier, but realized that would alert the tom to their presence, and certainly his mentor wouldn't like that. He bit the inside of his cheek.
"How …" that certainly was the question, wasn't it? He thought for long enough that the tom rolled over onto his stomach, half dozing. Laertes moved suddenly, back and away from the tom, from Kier, until he was out of sight, not returning for a suspiciously long amount of time. When he did step back behind the cover of the bush, he had a small, pathetic mouth in his jaw, a messy kill job. He placed it on the ground, examined it for a moment, before scooping up the seeds with one paw and turning it over, cutting a small, inconspicuous slit in its stomach, tongue stuck out only slightly past his teeth. After working to shove the seeds inside its gut, body moving on its own accord as he began a slow disconnect, he gave Kier a final, hesitant look before grabbing the mouse without a word and moving towards the top, taking a moment to adjust his features into that of a lost, confused cat.
"Sir," he approached wearily, talking around the prey in his mouth before he dropped it at his paws, "I'm sorry for bothering, but … I got lost. And I remembered — my mother, she told me that clan cats lived around here, and that they could help me get back home if I got lost, can you help me?" He waited for the tom to stir, eyes finding it's way back to the bush only briefly before he focused his attention once again onto the Springclan cat.
When Laertes shuffled off and disappeared without a word, Kier whipped his head around and stared after him with a little frown that was almost hurt, mouth open slightly like he was going to ask where he was going, or reproach him, or just protest. But he decided he must have a plan and turned back to watch the SpringClan tom, the frown still on his face. He didn't properly relax until Laertes reappeared, an excited, relieved glimmer thrilling through him; he greeted him with wide eyes and a big, open-mouthed grin. And, as he got into character and crept out to meet his victim, Kier turned back to watch, his heart glowing with pride. It reflected in the soft, proud smile on his face. He'd learned so much already.
"Wait, wait, wait," the SpringClan tom interrupted Laertes without opening his eyes, holding up a paw. His voice was obnoxiously relaxed. Finally, after a long few moments of holding his breath, he finally let it out. Only then did he open his eyes and look at the kit. "Oh," he greeted in a coo, leaning closer slightly from where he was still lounging in the flowers in a beam of sunshine. "Well, aren't you just the cutest thing. Did you catch that all by yourself? What a good job. I would've thought those big ugly ears would for sure tip off the mouse but maybe you'll grow out of them - my cousin was a really unattractive kit, too, but then she had an accident and she doesn't look nearly as bad with half her face missing." He said it all in such a genuine, smiling way, like it truly was meant to be encouraging and hope-inspiring; it wasn't this kit's fault he was so repugnant to SpringClan's sweeter standards. "You just have to pray to StarClan three times a day and they'll give you whatever you want, if they like you enough like they do me - do you do that? Or are you one of those horrible heathens? You and your mom will burn if you are." He smiled, completely reassured of his soul's own unblemished purity. He was StarClan's favourite. His eyes flicked down to the kit's offering, still smiling. Still so friendly. "Skinny mouse, too. But maybe hunting's just not your calling. Is your mom a good hunter? It all comes from the mom's side - if she's useless, the kid's gonna be useless too, ya know? It's too late by that point. Didn't pray three times a day." He clicked his tongue; the kit's spot in Hell was already guaranteed. "Should've. I'll still take it though." He licked his lips, eyeing the mouse.
Kier watched all of this with a genuinely taken aback curled lip, all of his own villainy forgotten in his befuddled, silent reaction. Oh, he was insufferable. He deserved to die. Snapping out of it, Kier motioned at Laertes encouragingly from behind the SpringClan tom, nodding frantically, eyes wide. Go on, go on.
Every time Laertes went to interject, to say something to steer their conversation elsewhere, the tom continued to speak his nonsense, and by the end of it all, his mouth was left slightly agape, stunned silent, and his face was burning. This was the second cat to call him ugly in the past forty-eight hours, and frankly it was enough to make his self-esteem drop just a little more. As the tom eyed the mouse, Laertes suddenly placed a protective paw over it before realizing his mission, nodding bashfully as he pushed it towards him. It was a rather pathetic thing, wasn't it? But the tom wouldn't be around long enough for his words to sink in, and Laertes had, despite his own moral compass, already had enough of him.
"My mother is a fine hunter — it's yours, like a gift — but, uhm, I think you should ... help me home, or something. When you're finished, of course," he grew clammy and nervous, his voice held a crack to it, "and I'll keep your words in mind. May Starclan .. bless you?" It came out more of a question than a farewell like it was supposed to be, because he'd never been a big believer in the clans dead cats. He looked uncertainly towards Kier again, gave a long-suffering, confused look because who did this tom think he was, insulting him like that, but he turned back quickly.
