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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The trail down the mountain was familiar to his paws. Though he had only ventured into the forest once before, he recognized the dark, clustered wood and the heady scents of warm prey; it stirred memories buried long ago, of bounding alongside his sister as he confidently took the lead. Head high, eyes sparkling, Gardeniastar had danced her way straight into the enemy camp and declared them gods, and it had nearly worked. It felt like a lifetime ago, now; her name had been stripped from her alongside everything else. Her family, her pride, her kits, her life.
Deathreign paused, his paws trembling; he stared down at his paws, at the dark crimson he still imagined spilling over them, and he broke away from his careful trail, plunging through the trees. The river roared in his ears, nearly as loud as his heartbeat, and his breath whistled through his teeth in quick, short gasps as he plunged his paws into the icy depths of the melting river.
The cold water quelled him; he let his paws rest within until they were painfully numb and then he pulled them free, inspected them for even a drop of blood, and he swore he could still taste it sharp on the air. He nearly crawled back into the river, but the cold had soothed his racing mind and left him tired.
He couldn't stop to sleep now, though; not when he wasn't sure which body might be lurking beneath his eyelids.
"You could come home with me. They’d love a failed royal. I'd like one, too."
Kier's mocking little offer hung in his mind as he turned his paws toward NightClan once more. Maybe it was just a cruel jest, maybe the offer no longer applied now that he was a leader, maybe the rumors of his takeover were entirely false, but Deathreign clung to his hope with all four paws anyway, desperate for a way out.
“But I don’t think looking after your sister will be the only good thing you do in your life. I’ve never met anyone so loyal before. That’ll count in the end.”
He held onto the image of Kier in his mind as his tired, soaked paws stumbled toward the foreign clan. His large, batty ears, his strange scent, that dangerous gleam in his blown eye. He reached the border and sank down onto his haunches, and only then did the image fade from his mind as he realized he must look a mess. He paused to neaten his fur, push it back into place, as best he could when he was so sodden and tired and haunted. He almost looked put together. Another few minutes might have done it, but then a warrior wandered his way, and the former knight grabbed him by the throat and snarled in his face until the skinny Siamese tom nodded a terrified agreement to his demands. Deathreign marched his escort back to the camp.
"Kier, there's some WinterClan guy here," the warrior called as they stepped into the camp, his coat prickling under the former knight's fierce warning glare.
Kier still bore the scars of the aftermath of his ascension — grazes across his cheek from Sagebristle’s attempt to humiliate him, fresher claw and teeth marks from his mother’s murder that had cost him the first of his lives and put somewhat of a damper on the proceedings. But still, he had shaken it all off and was in as cheery a mood as ever, even if it was a little more strained and brittle than usual. He would bounce back, but for now he was still slightly shaken; and being shaken meant that he had disappeared into his den for the last day or two and left the indoctrination of the Clan and the doing away with dissenters to Snowblister. They had a plan; she could follow it out. There was a bright spot in all the nerves, though, and that was his mate’s pregnancy. He tried to focus on the breathless, disbelieving joy of that, on his love for her, on fussing over her and satisfying every craving and ordering delicacies to be brought from every inch of the forest, and not on the fact that even being a tyrant didn’t stop cats from treating him the way his brother and sister always had, with scorn and contempt and violence when they should have been terrified of him, in awe of him; but he was finding it harder than usual to crush it all down and compartmentalise. There was something about him that others could sense, something that told them he would always, always take it; the knowledge terrified him almost to breaking, to suffocation, to panic — but when Kier panicked, he went silent, struggled to breathe. And that was all the more reason why Kier had to hide himself away: so he could get himself back under control. Only Eris could see him like this.
So, when he heard his name called, at first he just turned his head pointedly, slowly, anxiously away and dug his chin more firmly into his forepaws, hidden away in his nest where no one could get to him. He wasn’t going to respond; the warrior couldn’t see him, he would just assume he was asleep. Anyway, it didn’t matter what he assumed — he was just a grunt. Kier didn’t have to explain himself. But the truth was, he was too frightened to go outside; too frightened, too mournful, to do anything but hide inside his den. He blinked slowly at the cave wall, so morose even his thoughts seemed slow and distant. Muffled. Somewhere in his expansive den water dripped from the ceiling. Drip, drip, drip.
It was only when he heard the word WinterClan that he slowly forced his head up. After a long moment, Kier finally pushed himself to his paws, feeling unsteady and in pain, and staggered uncharacteristically clumsily down the path to level ground. Still apprehensive to fully leave his den, he poked his head out, his expression decidedly un-Kier-like; he looked uncertain, miserable, smaller than usual. Shoulders hunched and head low. But then he spotted Deathreign standing beside the warrior.
Immediately he straightened, plastering on a pleased grin and brightening his eyes. It took a lot. For the first time, lying truly felt like lying. So exhausted it was heavy, like a ship’s hull scraping against pebbles because all the water has been drained from the sea. “Weeeell!” he greeted, padding from his den; at the back of his mind, he regretted neglecting his appearance during his slump. He dismissed the warrior with a silent twitch of his tail, not giving him so much as a look. All his attention was on Deathreign, eyes unblinking and locked with the other tom’s. “I had a feeling I would see you again. Come to see my success? It’s quite something, isn’t it?” He looked around as he said it, gaze flicking across one side of the camp; he hardly seemed to register the cowering, half-starved cats huddled there. He looked back up at Deathreign and smiled, eyes pushing up at the bottom, but it was a teasing, knowing thing. Vindicated. “Business or pleasure?”
For a cat constantly wearing a mask, Deathreign did a poor job of recognizing when others were hiding their feelings. WinterClan cats were straightforward, they were blunt and cold and they did not mince words, and he rarely had to worry they were keeping secrets about their emotions. Even Deathreign could see straight through the grin Kier offered him. As much as he wished that his presence did summon that bright gleam into the leader's eyes, he knew better. Kier's stumbling decline down from his den was the first hint.
"It's quite something, isn't it?"
Deathreign stood with his eyes narrow and his stance wide, still prepared to shove and fight his way through the crowd if he needed, even as his escort slipped away. Now, as he followed Kier's gaze around the around the camp, he blinked twice, hardly able to believe his eyes. These were the cats who had oppressed SummerClan? He heard tales of their plight from higher up on his mountain, his brother had directly witnessed the aftermath when he went to live with him; Deathreign thought NightClan must be an impressive force. These scrappy, starving warriors just looked pathetic. They lacked his thick northern fur, making them tiny to begin with, but even then they seemed thin and shivering, like a cat half-drowned in the icy lake.
Then he was starkly aware of how he must stand out here, massive and dark and muscular. In WinterClan, he was just the shadow of his father-- Deathreign swallowed hard against the lump in his throat-- but here was unfamiliar territory and unfamiliar faces. Should he keep up his mask, for them, if not for Kier? Kier had a glimpse at how shaky his acting was, but he might still be expecting the proper knight, or some semblance of him. But did it even matter now, what they all thought of him? His clan was lost. He was lost.
"A bit of both," he replied at last, with a thoughtful crease near his eyes. It could be both relevant political information and a personal triumph, right? A triumph, was that what it was now? He paced closer to the leader, lowering his head and his voice to a rumble as he murmured, "can we talk somewhere else-- privately?"
It was sensitive information to tell the whole clan. And Deathreign wasn't sure if he was about to cry or laugh when he shared his news, but he didn't want to do either so publicly.
“Mm,” Kier hummed to himself as the Knight looked around at his kingdom, smiling like he was reliving his triumph all over again and appreciating it for the first time since his mother had robbed him of his first life, of the embodiment of the one thing he’d clawed together for himself. He’d been in a daze; now his heart began to reawaken. When Deathreign began to speak, he looked back at him, that innocent smile still on his face for a few moments before he registered what he was saying. Then it sharpened, darkened, into something more fitting.
Kier stayed where he was as Deathreign padded closer, only tilting his head back slightly with a small, secret smile to listen to the Knight’s words in his ear. He gazed down at the cave floor down the length of his muzzle, pupils twitching back and forth slightly as he listened. “You WinterClan cats and your secrets,” he whispered back at last with a little grin, raising his eyes to look up at him, the sides of their muzzles almost brushing and their warm breaths pooling between them. Then, without any further questions, he nodded to his den. “My mate will be back soon,” he added as they walked side by side, “but I don’t think she’ll mind finding me alone with you.” He turned his head slightly to grin up at Deathreign, lecherous and taunting. The meaning was clear: she’ll find you just as charming as I do. Though his fright had made him lean on Eris more than ever, needing the reassurance of her constant company, the openness of their relationship would still be strange to many. But as unblinking as Kier’s eyes were, as much as it sounded like an impersonal jibe at a sore point, there was something soft in it. Something that said however he treated the vast majority of cats, Deathreign was never going to be one of them. That still breathed silently over whatever they had shared on the mountaintop, even if they didn’t put it into words. That if there were only three cats in the world Kier cared about — the she-cat who he loved, who he worshipped at the altar of; a dim-witted SunClan apprentice he couldn’t stop his heart inexplicably opening for; and Laertes, always Laertes — then Deathreign had somehow become the fourth.
“Excuse the mess,” Kier apologised as he led the way up to his stone nest overlooking the pool of turquoise water in his den, hidden away from the prying eyes of the rest of the Clan. Truthfully, there was very little mess — even Kier in a slump was fastidiously clean — but to him, the odd coating of dust was unforgivable. It bothered him as he settled down on his side, momentarily forgetting Deathreign as he stared at it, looking completely vacant for a few moments as he disappeared into his mind to think about how much he hated dirt. Then, finally, he blinked and looked back at the other tom. “So,” he continued, now that they were alone. His tail-tip flicked; he smiled. “Princey. What is this bit of both? Wonderful things or terrible? And while I’m honoured — no, not honoured, flattered — you came to me, I have to ask why.” He grinned, leaning forward with his chin resting on his forepaw, and it looked dirty. His voice was low and quiet, his eyes hooded and black in the gloom of the den. “It can’t just be because I’m such an expert lover.”
The unexpected comment brought a jolt to his heart. His front paw was lifted, midstep, and in his hesitation it skimmed back and forth over the ground, unable to find purchase. Then acceptance settled in and his paw found the ground again. The revelation started him, but it did not sicken him; he had not come here with any ill intentions (had he? he still was not convinced he should have come, but it was the only escape he could imagine; he couldn't bear to return to SummerClan and see his brother's face).
Besides, he was WinterClan, famed near and far for their loveless marriages. Affairs and open relationships were no novelty for Deathreign.
Deathreign stored the information away in the corner of his mind as he followed Kier into the den, resolving to save it for later. He sat down opposite Kier, his fluffy tail tucked beneath one paw to force it still. He ought to have started speaking, but Kier's vacant gaze offered him a much-needed excuse to study the den, his gaze covertly finding the water pool and sweeping out to the edges of the den before returning to the water, where he resisted an inexplicable need to wash his paws one more time.
He released a deep sigh as Kier spoke, his gaze flittering back to the leader's. He refused to let himself get distracted.
"You might be a leader, but your clan looks weak," Deathreign insisted forcibly, leaning forward. His words were harsh -- weak was a cruel insult on the mountain -- but he needed Kier's full attention. "So I came here to feed your ego. Tell you that you were right."
His paws drummed over his tail, and he knew he had to continue before he lost his nerve. "I did it. I-- Mother pushed it too far. She went after Sludgemilk." He paused again, this time because his voice was trembling, with rage and fear and grief. He took a deep breath and spat it out: "she tried to hurt my sister so I killed her."
"So kill her." A throwaway statement from Kier that had cracked his defenses, that had crippled his will. When the moment came, he couldn't stand by anyone, couldn't let it happen. A low sound rumbled in his throat, a growl or a purr or some twisted amalgamation of both.
At Deathreign’s criticism, Kier leaned back and opened his mouth to defend the state of his Clan, a dangerous glare on his face — yes, it was dismal at the minute, but that was intentional; they had to be punished and torn down so they could be built back up, or the ones who couldn’t handle it lost in the process; he didn’t know why he felt the need to defend himself against him, why it made him angry and flustered when his opinion should have meant nothing, when he had no right to come in and be so impertinent when he was second-fiddle royalty and Kier was the real thing — but the Knight went on before he could get a word out. So I came here to feed your ego. He closed his mouth. Well, he wasn’t going to argue with that. He settled back down; flattery was the surest way to make Kier calm down and listen, was his greatest weakness, the thing easiest to exploit.
Tell you that you were right. “Well, I so often am,” he joked smugly with a little grin. But the grin faded a little as his eyes flicked down to Deathreign’s paws drumming anxiously over his tail. He raised his brows a little as he watched. Something truly was bothering him. Looking back up at the other tom, he shut up and listened, rearranging himself slightly where he lay. His heart sped up expectantly, anxious and uncertain and a little excited, because living so long as an actor playing at roles meant even his heartbeat subconsciously mimicked any great display of emotion. But as Deathreign continued, Kier was solemn and silent, taking everything in with even blinks and a gaze that never left the Knight’s, even if the other tom’s flitted madly about. He didn’t need to ask who Sludgemilk was; he had Deathreign’s whole family tree — well, the immediate one; tracking down all the Eeries was an arduous task even for Kier — laid out before him in his mind like an open book. His only response to the revelation of matricide was a slow intake of breath through his nose as he leaned back, straightening where he lay. At Deathreign’s unhinged purr-growl, he didn’t respond either beyond a slight nod.
Really, he didn’t know what he was feeling. If this had happened a moon ago, Kier would have been joyful, would have slung his paw around Deathreign’s shoulders and congratulated him and gloated about what a wonderful thing it was. More than that, he would have had the addictive pleasure of living vicariously through a tom who had actually killed his mother. But now, he just felt tightly contained, silent, like things were vibrating just below the surface but he was too afraid to listen to them, too afraid to let down the walls of this repression because everything would be felt too much, would be so overwhelming, too immense and urgent for him to do anything but drown in it. Since meeting Deathreign, he had murdered his father as payment for a crown; usurped a Clan through sheer violence; been betrayed by his mother in the most ultimate way. Everything was too much. There were too many similarities, too many differences, too much empathy and recognition, too much fear, too much… guilt, too much anger, too much confused, kit-like grief at still not being enough. So, though his soul was quivering, he stayed silent.
Finally, he licked his lips. “Well.” He was quiet for a moment longer, gazing unseeingly at Deathreign’s paws; he wondered if they felt the way Kier’s had after tearing out his father’s throat, wondered if they no longer felt like they belonged to him. Then he looked up to meet his gaze. “Yes, I suppose it would have been, wouldn’t it?” It was an impersonal thing to say; there was no gloating, no glee, no congratulations, no I’m sorry, no are you alright? Instead, Kier just stood and turned away, padding stiffly and with no real purpose to the edge of the mound of stone that made up the pinnacle of his nest. Just so Deathreign couldn’t see his face, he gazed out over the edge to the still, blue-green water below. He wanted to console him, wanted to go to him, but he couldn’t. Didn’t. “Well, Deathreign, she was a tyrant,” he continued, like he wasn’t the same thing. “You ended the story the only way it could ever have ended. She was always going to die, and you were always going to be the one to do it. It’s a…” He was silent for a long moment. When he could speak again, his voicer was quieter, haunted, but stiff; if it weren’t stiff, it would be breaking. He drew in a deep breath, like he was hoping it would give the illusion he was resigned to and far beyond the sentiment, moved far past it, wise and jaded. “It’s a difficult thing, to kill a parent.” Even if they deserved it. He didn’t say it, because more and more he was burdened by the thought that his father hadn’t deserved it after all. That his inability to love his son had really been the son’s determination to believe he was unloved.
He had the cruel urge to dismiss Deathreign, the fearful urge to dismiss this vulnerable closeness, with a cold if that’s all… But he didn’t. For whatever reason, he didn’t want him to leave.
Deathreign didn't know what he wanted when he rushed down the mountain in a blind search for the stranger that once invaded his home. He had to leave, he had no where else to go, and he had fixated only on Kier, on finding Kier, because in some twisted way he thought that finding him would make this right. He would fix it. His mother would still be his victim, but maybe he'd be pleased about it, maybe he'd settle into laughter instead of tears. He didn't know how desperately he needed Kier to provide that levity until it didn't come, and he felt disappointment settle into his stomach like a hard chunk of ice.
Had he made the wrong choice, coming here? He came for joy, not for pity, not for reassurances. How badly had he screwed up that this was all Kier had to offer? His paws tapped harder over his tail, fighting a surge of grief; if he wasn't gloating over his victory then all he could fixate on was the blood, hers and his sister's, and his father's head at the center of it all, looking so very close to his own.
"It's a difficult thing, to kill a parent."
Deathreign shook his head once, objecting. It had been too easy. She never thought her meek little son would turn on her and ruin their picture perfect family, and her skin had split so easily between his teeth, he had all of his father's might and hours and hours of training as a Knight had made him a force to be reckoned with. Murder wasn't hard, but when he opened his mouth to explain, it finally struck him that Kier was being uncharacteristically subdued.
"It is difficult," he agreed cautiously, leaning forward. He was falling into detective mode now, determined to find the source of his companion's oddness, latching onto any distraction that meant he didn't have to focus on his own issues. Deathreign was a shoddy detective, but that only compounded the difficulty, made it a more intense game.
"But she had nine lives, so she's... she must be awake again by now. She's not.... she's not really dead." She must be angry, seeking revenge, but he pushed that thought away. "You must be safe now too," he ventured, "with nine lives."
But she had nine lives, so she’s… she must be awake again by now. Kier had forgotten about that detail. He nodded sharply, still turned away, like that would hide the fact. Of course he knew. It made him feel suddenly ungrounded, betrayed, strickenly bitter, because Deathreign wasn’t in the same situation as he was, he didn’t have to live with a parent being dead because of him — truly, rotting-in-the-earth dead. He hadn’t realised how much it had immediately, instinctively, become a comfort, to have that kindred spirit to latch onto and empathise with, until it was suddenly ripped away. It also made him feel suddenly distant from the Clans, locked out of something that was so normal to them as to be a second thought — he had thought he had blended in perfectly, that if he knew all of their history and all of their names that that meant he was one of them, but of course he wasn’t; of course it was second nature to them to know leaders came back, of course they never forgot, of course it was as natural to them as breathing. The fact he had briefly thought dead was dead felt like the grief of an outsider to him, because no matter what, no one was ever going to believe this was his home. He was always going to be other. Some pagan. It all suddenly felt so hopeless, so pointless, and as he stood there impassively, his chest roiled with defensive, embarrassed, arrogant anger, and confused grief, and panicked, breathless insecurity, and betrayal, and through it all, the feel of his father’s blood growing cold and congealed between his claws. What was the point? No one appreciated him here. What was he doing? He had the childish urge to just run away and abandon his plans.
But he didn’t say any of that. He just said, quiet and emotionless, “five.” After a moment longer, he turned back to Deathreign. “Five lives.” Suddenly efficient — he had to walk — he padded, quick and authoritative, back down the winding stone slope to the entrance of his den — “I got six before the ceremony was disturbed; well, I suppose it always was. Disturbed.” — not looking at the WinterClan runaway beyond a glance that looked dispassionate, disinterested, and faintly annoyed at being put out by a visitor, but that really said join me? It was as close to pleading as Kier would get.
Not waiting for Deathreign, he disappeared out of his den and into the main cavern. As he stalked past the starving wretches of his Clan, he didn’t listen to see if the disgraced Knight was following; he could pretend very well to himself that it was irrelevant if he did, that he was going out anyway and a companion would be an irritating distraction, that he had things to do. He just padded straight up the slope to the forest floor above, bellicose and fixated unsentimentally on the task at hand and disinterested in his surroundings or any possible companion.
