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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What little openness, confidence, hope, that Duskpaw had possessed before the trial evaporated the moment she stepped upon the podium, torn up and ripped apart when she was thrown off of it and made a fool in front of the entire clan. She couldn't look anyone in the eyes, but that wasn't as bad as not being able to look at her sisters at all. She'd avoided them entirely, moved away when they got too close, ran off wordlessly or with a thinly-veiled excuse when they tried to talk to her. The guilt tore her apart. It would have been easier to get a better grip, to reevaluate or think or calm down, if she was allowed to leave camp, but she was an Inferior, she was inferior in every sense of the word, and she wasn't offered such a luxury. There was only so far she could go into the tunnels and caverns without getting lost. The apprentices' den had an burning tension to it since the trial ended. She knew many of them had cheered on the death of both her and her sisters, and part of her was angry, furious, about that, wanted to scream and yell at them until her throat was raw, until they could feel just how she had felt, but for the most part she was just hurt. Plain, old, pathetical hurt. None of them were friends, exactly, but it still stung. But what more was she to expect from such a divided group of cats, trained under Kier's insidious policies. Duskpaw tried to spend less time there, slinking in at the latest she could and leaving as soon as the moon began to rise.
It felt like something was wrong with her. Cascadepaw and Pantherpaw had no problem speaking of their loyalty to Nightclan, their devotion to Kier — even if they were lying — but for some reason Duskpaw couldn't get the words out of her mouth. At the trial, they had died in her throat, replaced by a pitiful no. She'd never felt so stupid, so ashamed. In a way, she wished Snowblister hadn't intervened. She would have much preferred herself over that young apprentice, whose face still haunted her, in her memories, in her dreams.
The very edges of camp made a secluded place to sit alone, isolated, away from everyone. All she ever did was think, staring out at the rest of camp or at the wall closest to her, letting her mind wander into the darkest places. Today, she kept thinking of that apprentice, of Ratpaw's face as he threatened to kill her, at his joy. She could almost hear the roar of the crowd. And then she recalled what led them there, her disloyalty, her stubbornness to even attempt to lie and say she was as loyal as her sisters. Anger wasn't a primary emotion to her, it hardly came naturally at all, but in her quiet moment now, she felt it bubble. In an act surprising even her, she twisted sharply, half slamming, half scraping her claws on the nearest wall, letting out a shrill growl of frustration, tears welling in her eyes. Lowering her paw, letting her claws slip back into place — she hated them, she hated them so much — she let the side of her head fall and hit the wall, leaning against it as if it would provide any sort of emotional support.
“Will you,” just as Duskpaw was lowering her paw, Kier suddenly appeared behind her and grabbed it with his claws, slamming it down on the stone ground with such force that she was made to buckle, “be quiet?” His voice was a deranged hiss close to her ear, like she’d just woken him, or like she had grated on him by existing so audibly when she ought to have shut up. He was doubled over her, his underside pressed along her back to hold her paw down — and, finally, he let her go and stepped back. “You’re lucky you aren’t in prison, you foul little worm,” Kier spat, brushing his chest fur like she’d sullied him, “you’re lucky you aren’t dead. If you’re going to act like a complete nitwit with your self-pity, at least have the good breeding to do it somewhere private.” Seeing the tears in her eyes for the first time as the red faded from his own, he tilted his head and pouted mock-sympathetically, reaching out a paw to brush under her eye. “Ohh, poor little Duskpaw. Mummy’s going to die, isn’t she? Yes, yes, why don’t you cry about it — that’ll make everything better.” Usually, seeing a she-cat cry would have sent a pleasurable little thrill through him; but it just irritated him when Duskpaw did it, irritated him to madness. Because she was just so fundamentally, insatiably useless. Because she cried, but she didn’t beg — and what did she want to come from that?
For whatever reason — because she was soft, an easy target, and Kier latched onto weakness like a shark with blood, a true schoolyard bully who was so charming to those above and so petty to those below, pushing and pushing and only stepping back, satisfied and respectful, when they finally retaliated and stood up to him; because she was the only sister who wasn’t useful, and so that gave him leave to be unspeakably cruel to her, almost like he was personally annoyed she weren’t better than she was; because she didn’t fight back; because there was no reason — Kier had taken a bristling dislike to her, an unwarranted vendetta. It was unseemly, a leader having it out for a harmless, bumbling apprentice who had hardly done a thing to affront him, and yet it was so. He despised Duskpaw. It was almost like something about her frightened him, more so than either of her sisters, more so than her mother. Something about her put him on edge, and so it made him insane, made him actively aggressive in a way that almost surpassed whatever Moonblight did to him. Kier was all about the underhanded cruelties — but with Duskpaw, it was all on the table; he wanted to give her all the back-breaking labour, wanted to not just break her down but break her, and even he didn’t quite know why. Maybe it wasn’t fear on his part. Maybe it was just weakness on hers. Maybe it was just that she didn’t fight back — she never fought back. Maybe Kier wanted to push her to. Maybe he couldn’t understand her weakness, didn’t understand how she could just take what he did to her, didn’t understand why, when everyone else at least begged him, or defied him, she just fell silent and hung her head. Maybe that lack of understanding, that confused fury at her compliance, drove him up the wall. She was simultaneously compliant and defiant, because she was gentle, sad, and yet she made no effort to appease him, to ingratiate herself to him as her sisters did — and he couldn’t understand it. Was she stupid? Was she slow? Did she have a death wish? Duskpaw made his head spin, and he hated her for it. Hated her to distraction, with all the confusing-to-any-onlooker fury of a teacher who’d made a mortal enemy of a student.
And then, Kier was smiling.
“So,” he said after a moment, and his atmosphere had suddenly changed; he was grinning, easily and vindictively, like Duskpaw had just exposed her soft stomach to him. He sat down, looking at her with pleasant secretiveness, like they’d just sat down to tea together. Both her sisters had some sort of connection to him, and she was the odd one out — it made him want to say something sly and niggling, something like ’so, we’re going to be in-laws’ just so he could grin at her and see her wilt, but he refrained. Instead, he finished, “your sister is expecting. Any idea who the father is?” His grin didn’t falter, wide and white and toothy; his eyes didn’t blink. He expected Pantherpaw hadn’t told her sisters yet — might never tell them; might be too ashamed, and wasn’t that a lovely, teasing thought — but there were rumours. Oh, there were rumours. And Kier let them spread, ate them up, hoped they’d reach Primrosetuft in her prison cell — because what a perfect stamp of tyranny, to have dominated the traitor’s daughter and left her with a memento for all the Clan to see. What a symbol of his power, of what Kier could overcome. He wasn’t outright admitting it to Duskpaw, wasn’t outright bragging, but nor was he particularly subtle. The lines she needed to read between were remarkably thin. He leaned in closer, the grin still on his face and his eyes still on hers. “Isn’t that nice — you’re going to be an aunt.”
She twisted to match the angle at which Kier slammed her paw to the ground, writhing briefly before going still, aware of how useless it was to try and wiggle out. She tilted her head away as he hissed at her, ears flattening. The quickness of her breath stirred dust. You’re lucky you aren’t dead. Duskpaw knew it was true, no matter how much it hurt to admit, and even then she couldn't bring herself to truly feel lucky, because every day after the trial always felt miserable, hopeless, like she was cursed with life rather than blessed by it. She picked herself up, pushing up into a sitting position and holding her paw up, close to her chest. "I. . ." instead of picking up where her sentence had trailed off, she let it fade instead. What could she say? She couldn't object to it, she couldn't beg, she couldn't cry because Kier didn't feel pity for her. In a way, she was terribly stubborn. Not the loud kind, the kind that demanded attention or met others with snarls or attitude; hers was quiet, fearful yet forceful and only when it truly mattered to her, not for anyone else. She wouldn't tell a lie, she wouldn't hurt anyone, and she stood by those principles even when everyone else demanded different, even if it caused mayhem. She wouldn't budge and, rather pathetically, she would roll over and take whatever punishment came with it as if it was entirely deserved.
His smile unnerved her more than his sneer, his anger, because when Kier enjoyed something, the same Kier that basked in the blood of trials, the same Kier that played with her fear, it wasn't the type of thing that would be enjoyed by anyone else. She could read the smugness in his voice clear as day. Pantherpaw's pregnancy was obvious by now, and of course Duskpaw had heard the whispers — 'have you seen the way Kier looks at her?' — but nothing had outright been confirmed, it was only speculation, something she hadn't put much thought into at all. Her mind had been elsewhere. Pantherpaw was her sister, they were family, she was nothing but happy for her, but there was a tragedy in it, in her kits being born in such an environment where surely they would suffer in some way or another. There was a sudden bitterness to her, that it was Kier who was telling her all about it when Pantherpaw hadn't spoken to her yet. Duskpaw hadn't gotten to share that innocent glee with her, and now it was poisoned. She flashed a brief suspicious look at him, setting her paw on the ground.
"It's quite. . . exciting." There was hesitation, that same fear creeping in, a striking pessimism — it was a coin, one side the excitement, the other the grief. "You seem happy as well?"
That was another thing that angered Kier — she never gave him a reaction. Even when he’d held her to him and forced her to look at the dying apprentice’s face, she’d just been quiet. Kier thrived on getting responses from people — disgust, anger, fear — and so getting nothing, getting politeness, getting pleasantries… It felt like the worst form of defiance in the world. It felt like she was mocking him. It felt like she had something hidden, some underground scheme, like the face she wore for him was a face she suddenly ripped off when she was with others and the laughter at his expense started. And it wasn’t true — none of it was true — but, oh, in the fragile state he was already in, she only amplified his paranoia. She was like a beacon of everything he hated, the opposite to Cascadepaw. In many ways, she wasn’t the coward of the litter: she was the bravest of them all. She was the hero. She was the stubborn, courageous one, the only one willing to die, to hold her ground and anger the tyrants, however meekly, however quietly. And he just— couldn’t crush her. Nothing he did got to her. But she got to him, almost without meaning to. Without even being conscious of, while being oblivious to it. The frustration was turning to frantic, flustered grief in his chest and tearing him apart; he felt like his lungs were too tight, made of scratched plastic.
And so, he just smiled wider, cheery and warm and calm. He would never let her see how she got to him, by just existing. He would kill her with friendliness — after all, they were family now. And at the end of the world, when everything was flaming rubble, they’d be the only two left, because he’s torn everything down just to see what would get to her, just to spite this one harmless girl — and he would still be so warm. This vendetta of his had bound them together, whether she wanted it or not.
“Me?” Kier replied, his voice half a laugh. He touched his paw to his chest. “Me — oh, me, I’m always happy. I’d be on top of the world if you were dead, but we all have to make do, don’t we?” He smiled, his head tilting slightly as he looked at her. Then, standing, he moved around to sit beside her. “You know, Duskpaw, I’m surprised — one of your sisters came to me to bargain for your mother’s life.” That wasn’t true; he’d spoken to her first, and that bargain had been a gentler thing than he pretended it was — it made him sound very cruel, very selfish, to tout it as some exploitative, double-crossing thing, the perfect boys’ club story to be laughed over at Pantherpaw’s expense, and so he paraded it like that. But it wasn’t really true. Wasn’t so wholly simple. She’d used him and he’d used her — she’d given him something to manipulate him with, to buy a stay of execution with herself, and he’d taken it without meaning to keep his promise. But that hadn’t been all of it. The day after, it was a sordid, tawdry bargain. The night of, it had been two tired souls finding solace in each other. The truth was somewhere in between. “The other one…” He grinned, slight and thin, and then it turned to a smile. “Well, the other one’s already started to work out what’s good for her, you know.”
He turned his head to look at her; his gaze was uncomfortably long, always was — the first thing he did when he met someone who might get fanciful ideas about their place, especially a tom, was stare them down with such a smile that they finally had to submit and look away first. And now, he just went on looking at Duskpaw long after most others would have looked away. “But you — there’s nothing. There’s just nothing.” He leaned in, blinked, smiled. “Why do you think that is? What is it about you that stops you from doing what’s best for you? Mm? Don’t you know what I could do to you?” He leaned in further still, his voice dropping at the proximity. But there was no flirtation, not like there usually was with Kier; there was just anger and hate, muffled by the warmth of his voice but bristling with it all the same. The corner of his mouth pulled up in a smile. “Do you like it?” he asked quietly, and the sordid implication was mocking, slightly excited by the idea. His eyes glittered. Then it melted off and the seriousness came back. “Or do you just like making me mad? Let’s get all the cards out on the table, Duskpaw.”
Her face set in a permanent grimace as he spoke, put a paw on her chest, and though she stiffened again, gaze wandering down to stare at it, she didn't move away. I’d be on top of the world if you were dead. He spoke it so casually, callously, as if he were speaking about her but not to her, as if he were talking about a rainy day or a simple annoyance. It felt like he was rubbing that fact in, that she was an afterthought, something to be irked by and blamed and scapegoated because it didn't mean anything, she didn't mean anything, so it didn't matter.
Duskpaw only nodded as he continued, eyes lingering on the ground. "I expect you won't keep that promise." It was said inoffensively enough that it wasn't accusatory, but instead the most obvious thing in the world — it was Kier, of course he wouldn't listen to an apprentice, the daughter of a traitor, no matter what they had shared in a single night. It was a lost cause, the reason she hadn't already tried herself. Well, the other one’s already started to work out what’s good for her, you know. The lines between were obvious. She was doing what she had to do, she was listening. Cascadepaw always seemed so sure of herself, so composed and thoughtful, capable of scraping by in an environment such as Nightclan, where she could be the things demanded of her even if it wasn't what she wanted. Duskpaw couldn't. The worst thing about her was that she was herself in every shameful, unyeilding way. She didn't shift or change or contort to fit in, the things she wanted were far out of reach and she didn't try to figure anything else out. It was a wonder she wasn't dead or imprisoned, but she dared not ask why.
Don’t you know what I could do to you? Finally she tore her gaze from the ground, snapped it up to meet Kier's for the first time, and it wasn't just his words that made her recoil, but the shifting looks of his face, how he went from teasing to grave in a blink. "I don't know how to be better." Her words were whispered, a breath at most, "I don't know what I'm doing." There was the smallest hint of desperation, like she was asking how without phrasing it as a question. It was apparent she meant it in multiple ways — she didn't know what she was doing in Nightclan, in her life; she didn't know why she failed so much; she didn't know why everything she did made him seethe, because as far Duskpaw was aware, she hadn't done anything significant. She could understand her bad reputation with the way she behaved at the trial, but beyond that she wasn't sure what could possibly drive his distaste.
I expect you won’t keep that promise. The doubt, the certainty, made Kier’s gut heat up with indignation. He frowned at her, the top of his lip twitching up slightly to show the faintest hint of teeth — because there was nothing a liar hated more than being called a liar, than being told they would do precisely what they had been intending to do. “I might,” he replied, affronted, like she were no more than a crushed insect under his heel questioning his personal and political prerogatives, his affairs; like he hadn’t made his mind up yet and was still mulling it over. Then he grinned, slimy and taunting, and it covered up the brief, immature lapse in composure that had shown how young Kier truly was. “Of course, if you really think I’m so treacherous, you’re welcome to try where your sister failed. She was…” He let out a breath, giving his head a quick shake that was half a shiver as his eyes clouded with memory, “VERY good.” He was just saying it to be cruel, to degrade and reduce her; he wouldn’t go to bed with her if she propositioned him a thousand times, the one cat in the world Kier would turn down. He leaned down slightly to catch her eye, to rub in his grin, to force everywhere she looked, her entire world, to be Kier. There was no escaping him and the hold he had on her family. Then he leaned back, like he was giving her some pitying, gentlemanly advice for her own good. “Really, Duskpaw, your betters have fallen in line — it’s unseemly for someone like you, the lowest of the low, to still be holding out. What do you imagine,” he barked a laugh, “ — you’re some sort of prize?” He laughed again, a little louder this time. “We’re all just waiting to see what the dissenter will do next? You could rot to bones in the centre of camp and no one would bat an eye — not even your sister, when she’s busy in the nursery caring for her little ones. My,” his voice was the exhalation of a sneer, all chivalry gone, “but you are a useless little thing, aren’t you, my dear? Even your family has moved on.”
Violence couldn’t do it, terror did nothing — maybe word after word after word could achieve some minuscule dent in her armour. As honest as his words were — and it was a tremendous relief to really just let it all fly; he so seldom got the chance nowadays to just breathe out pure stream of consciousness; it was like therapy, like weight being lifted, and he felt lighter — they were also exploratory, sending out feelers to see what got a reaction, a little twitch. Herself? Her sisters? Being left behind, letting them down — what? Or was she sweet enough that she really did want them all to be perfectly happy? At her expense? That last one certainly did things to him. In many ways, he was treating her similarly to how he’d treated Laertes when they’d first met, when he’d pinned him down on the buckled floorboards of the back porch and told him all the ways he could break him, break his sisters. And, strangely, that parallel made faint guilt coil in his gut. Because, though it seemed quite the opposite, he’d gained more humanity since then. The angry kit he’d been finally had an outlet for all his cruelty, but in other ways he’d grown gentler. And feeling himself sink back into that place he’d been with Laertes… It didn’t feel as good as it should have. And as he felt a faint flood of sympathy for Duskpaw, his defensive, protective anger doubled down on it — this was her fault, too. Feminine wiles, he’d have blamed it on — they get into your head.
I don’t know how to be better. I don’t know what I’m doing. All this time, Kier had still been staring at her, his pupils twitching back and forth across her profile, hardly seeing. It was only when she turned to face him, when their eyes locked, that they refocused and zeroed back into the present, his head turning ever so slightly to meet her; his right pupil constricted to a pinpoint at the closeness, his left one still blown. He might have felt sympathy. He might have shifted closer and pulled her comfortingly close, like he did Laertes; told her she was doing alright, he didn’t mean any of it. She was so young… But that internal commotion from seconds before had scoured it all away, and now the cruelty was tenfold; it had faded from fire to pure ice, freezing coldness. His resolve, briefly weakened, briefly tender, had grown back impenetrable. “Well,” he whispered back, eyes hateful, close enough to feel her breath, “isn’t that the most damning confession? There’s not even a reason for it.” He slowly drew back. “Chin up, Duskpaw — you’d best get used to this life. It won’t be so bad. Your mother will die — and, speaking from experience, that can be a wonderfully freeing feeling.” Killing Harley had been anything but freeing. “You’ll live your little life, you’ll see your nieces and nephews grow into fine NightClan examples — speaking of, as soon as you’re able, I want you settled down. Maybe to someone nice, like Ratsneer.” He smiled, tilted his head; it was cruel, just as the suggestion was. It was clear he’d been mulling over the idea for a while, mulling over how to punish her. “Wouldn’t that be good? It’ll be beneath him to have an Inferior for a,” he hesitated, “mate — but it’ll certainly keep you busy.“ His smile widened, his voice grew tender and encouraging, but his eyes were vicious. Icy. “Once you’re in your place, you’ll come to enjoy being there. Mm? Busy is good. Stops any silly little thoughts from forming.” He tilted his head, still smiling. Even he felt faintly sick; the usual satisfaction was gone, replaced with foul-tasting lead.
Her expression was set in a slight, consistent frown, a slight furrow of her brows, listening, letting his words sink in no matter how confusing they were — what do you imagine — you’re some sort of prize? — because, with the tone he used, his viciousness, it still stung. She didn't think of herself as anything above the dirt on the ground, to be truthful, and he was right about her uselessness. Even your family has moved on. She winced, "I —" but almost immediately her mouth closed. Kier was a liar, she knew, but even liars sometimes told the truth, and Duskpaw was stuck between believing his words — it was plausible, they'd hardly spoken since, her sisters hadn't even tried to defend her (though she wasn't angry, she couldn't be, because that would have put their lives at stake) — and disregarding them, because he didn't know her family, he didn't know what they were like, right? She didn't know what his relationship towards them was like, his odd pull towards her sisters and the violent push against her.
Your mother will die — and, speaking from experience, that can be a wonderfully freeing feeling. She didn't have the same distaste to her own family that Kier had. She was raised on the sound structure of it, the fact that her and her sisters were quite close, that they were supposed to have each other, and Primrosetuft was nothing but loving. To loose her was to loose a part of herself. When she lost Primrosetuft, Cascadepaw, Pantherpaw, there would be nothing but a shell in Duskpaw's place, and perhaps that was the point. She was the outcast, and the loss of her family, by death or by emotional distance, would destroy whatever will, whatever hope, was left. Perhaps she would finally give in, or perhaps she would wither instead.
I want you settled down. Again, she winced, blanched when Ratsneer was brought up. His face was a familiar one in her nightmares, she couldn't stand the thought of sharing a nest or whatever it was that mates did. "I don't like. . ." she trailed off again, voice quieting at the end. She wasn't into toms, and she didn't want to settle down just to keep busy, to find a place in her clan — she wanted to settle down for love, something sweet, because she wanted to, not because she was told — but she didn't voice those thoughts, letting Kier carry on as if he knew best. Though her heart, regrettably, was always on her sleeve, and even if she didn't object verbally, the look on her face was clear enough.
I—. Duskpaw breaking off her sentence almost broke Kier. He came impossibly close to letting out a hissing breath through his teeth, had come impossibly close to leaning forward in anticipation only to have her once again fail to rise to his bait. What more did he have to do? What more did he possibly have to do? To get a damn word out of her. “Are you simple?” Kier snapped, finally losing his temper for a second. “Is that it? Do you understand what I’m saying? Or is it all going completely over your head? Because, truly, Duskpaw, I’d like to know — I’m at a complete loss as to how someone can be such an utter little dolt. Explain it to me — please, come on.” He grabbed her paw with his claws and yanked her closer by it, “come on — it’s all very funny, isn’t it? It’s very funny. Yes. Yes, maybe I’ll kill Pantherpaw, mm?” He raised his brows from where his eyes were locked with hers, still not letting her go. “Maybe then you’ll say something. Or maybe your tongue ought to go — then you’ll have a reason,” he gave her paw a short, violent shake; his head almost twitched, he held it back with all the force he had, it made him angrier, “to not speak. Because as it stands, Duskpaw,” he let her go, but didn’t move away from his closeness to her face, his teeth glinting in the moonlight and his eyes wild with ice, “you’re doing a terrific job of making an enemy of me. Maybe the second your sister’s kits are born I’ll have a little surprise waiting for her, mm — wouldn’t that be nice.” He hissed the word, still leaning close. Nothing else could have made him want to kill Pantherpaw — but to get to Duskpaw; that just might do it. Then she might just become collateral damage in his inexplicable vendetta. Maybe it was the most imprudent thing to do, giving one of the only people on Earth who could get to him the knowledge of what made him so angry, and half of him knew that — but he was blind to anything but all the things, the frustration, she made him feel. Kier was remarkably ruled by emotion. And then:
I don’t like… It was the closest Kier had gotten to a reaction; his heart rose and thudded in his chest; he physically straightened slightly. “What was that?” he asked, leaning in again, his face lit with glee, his brows slowly rising like she’d just given him enough to kill her with. His voice was quiet, shaky, breathy with barely repressed excitement. His whole demeanour changed, drawing back to charming host from hissing madman, hissing near-teenager. “What?” He gave an involuntary, high little laugh that didn’t move his mouth. “Toms aren’t to your liking? My dear, what must you think of me — I’m not a monster. I could tell you to settle down with me — I didn’t do that, did I? No, no, I like she-cats too, I know the appeal; if giving you one will speed along the process, I’m sure we can find someone perfectly lovely.” He smiled, tilting his head and holding her eyes. “Snowblister, maybe.” What a double-edged sword that would be, guaranteed to make the both of them miserable; he almost shivered at the thought. “Someone your own age? Oleanderpaw? I’m sure she didn’t really mean it when she cheered along at your trial.” Then he laughed, rearranging his paws like he were barely able to stop himself from kneading excitedly at the ground, and the laughter bubbled messily over his words. “It’s rather slim pickings, I’m afraid — all the rest are doing what they’re good for.”
He seemed to think for a moment, looking away. “Of course, even with a lovely she-cat mate, you’ll still need to have kits — every one of us must do our part. And I hope you understand,” he shuffled slightly closer, looking back at her, “that I don’t mean just—“ He waved his paw, “bringing in new blood. Adoption, you know. Very messy business — who are the parents? They might be traitors.” He laughed, cruel eyes not leaving her face, like it were such a ridiculous concept so far removed from her. Then he settled down. “No, no. I don’t care one bit for all that. I mean your kits.” He smiled, perfectly cheerful. Really, it wasn’t about bolstering numbers; it was just a way to control their bodies. “Yes?“ His eyes flicked down her. “You’re pretty enough.” It was said lightly, but then he seemed to reconsider his words, or to immediately let on that it was a lie, his muzzle growing pert and his nose wrinkling slightly as he looked her up and down like she were something half-rotten, silent for a few seconds. Then he drew in a cheery breath, his brows raising in determination, and he went on. “Some nice tom might take a liking to you. And if not,” he smiled, “you know where to find me — I’m sure your mother would be glad to know you’d be in fine hands. Doing what you’re meant to do!” He laughed, then, a few moments later, grew regretfully, pityingly grave, frowning at Duskpaw like she’d made some mistake by having dreams. “She-cats must get these silly follies out of their heads. Bearing progeny for the good of the Clan is the greatest honour they can expect to have. And the best part is, when they’re done with one, they can start again — isn’t that nice: the marvel of the feminine body.” The last part was slightly sneered. Then he breathed in and smiled again. “And aside from that, you can have a perfectly normal life. A small price to pay, I think, and a very happy one.”
Then, after a moment of just smiling at her, he finally stood. Sudden, like he’d just made a decision. “Come, Duskpaw. Let’s go for a walk. You must be yearning to breathe a bit of fresh air — it can get awfully stuffy down here.” His gaze wandered about the cavern. “I’m always telling them to air it out a bit, you know, do a bit of a dusting, a bit of sweeping, but they always do such a haphazard job of it that they might as well not have done it at all.” He laughed and turned his head to Duskpaw; his tone was like he were shooting the breeze with an old friend. “What can I say — raised in a barn; I have a certain standard for cleanliness. What else can we expect from dirty wild cats?” He laughed again, affable and open and conspiratorial, like Duskpaw weren’t one of them, like he weren’t completely and fully NightClan in his heart. He gestured with his head eagerly towards the slope leading out of camp, ushering her as he began toward it. “Come, come, my dear, hurry along.” Kier padded along across the cavern, waving away a guard when he instinctively moved to join them. “No, no,” he told him with such amiable, casual cheer, “no escort necessary. We’re perfectly fine.” He smiled at Duskpaw, waiting for her to lead the way out of camp with his paw outstretched up the slope. “Just two perfect friends going for a walk in the woods, aren’t we, Duskpaw? Up-up we go — wasting moonlight.” His smile didn’t waver, still holding his paw out. It felt like the greatest threat of all, that deferential friendliness.
She tucked her chin towards her chest, both taken aback by his unusual anger and guilty, though she wasn't sure why. He pulled her closer, rough and violent, and she didn't bother to tear her eyes away from his, her own wide and confused. Yes, maybe I’ll kill Pantherpaw, mm? It seemed to have struck some nerve, buried deep down, and Duskpaw pulled herself away with the same force Kier had used, half shoving him in the process, frown turning into a slight curl of her lip, and there was a tenseness in her jaw. He was already planning to kill her mother, he was already ripping her family apart for whatever sick amusement he got out of it, he didn't need to kill Pantherpaw as well — not only for Duskpaw's sake, for Cascadepaw's sake, but for her kits. The words made a tiny portion of her walls crumble, a hint of anger wrapped in fear. Her tail flicked from where it was laid out behind her, a frantic side-to-side motion.
She forced herself to keep it still, to swallow down the anger and the alarm, to look away from Kier. My dear, what must you think of me — I’m not a monster. She could have laughed. She doubted it, he'd proven himself to be nothing but cruel, nothing but a gall, entitled cat, not much older than himself but with too much control to not be cruel. Still, she nodded, slowly as if hesitant to admit some wrong. In such an environment that pushed kits onto she-cats and mindless obedience to their husbands, not having an interest in any of that felt like an embarrassment, some uncontrollable wrong. Her face twisted at his suggestions, not only for the distastefulness of them, but because, once again, she didn't want to be pushed towards somebody. She wanted this small bit of control, this tiny decision, to be hers. His words only left a foul taste in her mouth. You’ll still need to have kits. Her scowl returned, disheartened because he just didn't get the point. She didn't want kits, she didn't want to be a mother, there wasn't a way she could do well if she was. If she brought kits into a world like theirs, she wouldn't be able to forgive herself for it. A small price to pay, I think, and a very happy one. She found herself nearly intrigued, a slight nudge somewhere in her conscious, a slight push towards it, like she was reaching towards a small, impossible to catch light; she didn't want to trust a single word he said.
"A walk?" She found herself asking, hesitant to get up and follow, though, as he was already up and off, she knew she had no choice. It did get stuffy, and being inside all the time made her feel stir-crazy, like she couldn't get enough air, like she couldn't get enough space. The cave walls got claustrophobic. His cheerfulness was worse than his anger, and the suddenness of which he treated her as a companion when she had been his enemy only moments ago was scarily confusing. She didn't look at the guard, and neither did she say anything. With an uneasy glance at his outstretched paw, a slight falter in her step, Duskpaw led the way up the slope, blinking as the moonlight grew stronger with every step closer to the exit. She would have been worried that Kier was taking her out to kill her or bring her to her demise, but she had a feeling that if he wanted her dead, he would have done so with someone else, a lackey, never himself.
It was incredibly peaceful. A recent rain made the trees and ferns drip, and the ground felt slightly damp beneath her paws, but it was nice. The air was sharp in its freshness, and she took a few deep breaths. She stopped, not willing to lead the way further, ears downturned as she cast a look towards Kier. "If," she picked up where their previous conversation left off, voice slow and unsure, "I bring kits —" not have, she didn't want to say it, "— it'll all be. . . better? Because I'll be doing what I'm supposed to?" She felt the urge to ask about others things, better things, but she quieted those thoughts.
When she shoved him away, the hissing snarl that pulled back his lips gave way to jovial, startled laughter — well! The little kitten had a bit of life left in her yet! She could push, she could shove. It excited him terribly, thrilled him, and it was the worst thing she could have done: now he’d never stop trying to get another rise out of her. If he’d never gotten one, he would have eventually become so despondent that he just gave up entirely; now that he knew she had it in her, that she was just very good at pretending to be this mild-mannered thing, he was going to become obsessed with it. Unlike with Moonblight, who he’d danced around because all the thrill came of knowing he could be a breath away from his face and he couldn’t do a thing, chained like a dog, with Duskpaw he’d crave every hit, every slap, every hint of teeth, just so he could laugh and have that same, mocking titillation — and if she never did it again, it would drive him mad, because he knew that she could. He would dismiss her, he would dismiss her, he would dismiss her — he would be cruel, he would be blind to her, she wouldn’t exist. But when she did, she would be the little piece of skirt who shoved him away. His body buzzed with it all the time they were in the cavern.
A walk? “Yes, a walk — a walk — you know what a walk is?” He said it all smilingly as he waited with his paw still outstretched, like it was just friendly back-and-forth and not slightly acidic. In another world, he’d have been putting on his coat while he said it, fussing about the lapels. When finally she padded up, he watched for a moment, waiting until she was halfway up the slope, and then, still smiling, followed after her into the glow of moonlight. He squinted his left eye as the pupil of his right constricted as it was supposed to; by the time he stepped out into the damp, fresh chill after her, it still wasn’t what it ought to have been, was still a discomfort, but it had begun to slowly shrink. He unsquinted his eye and took the discomfort, never liking to be seen as vulnerable.
And then, after a moment of looking around like he was taking in the sights just the same as he, like he was enjoying the moment with polite company, he set off, giving her a smile that was every bit a friendly invitation impossible to excuse herself from. If. He stayed silent, calm and unconcerned and smiling as he padded along unhurriedly at her side, like he were politely humouring her bringing up a topic he’d thought they had laid to rest, but his ears were clearly listening. Clearly interested. “Yes,” he prompted calmly, affably, his voice dipping low, at bring kits, like he hadn’t noticed the distinction between 'bring' and 'have.' It’ll all be. . . better? “Maybe,” he replied cheerily, non-committally, like he was really in no position to promise her anything, like it was out of his hands. Then, laughing like he’d realised how rude that sounded, he glanced at her and added, “really, Duskpaw, I don’t remember saying that — it’s certainly nice to dream, but bearing kits is really the least you can do. If that were the only thing standing between traitors and a better life, we’d have a nursery overflowing with stock we’d have to,” he thought, then finally decided to not mince words and blurted out grandly, “get rid of. It happens all the time with litters born a little too big — we need fodder for the nursery, but not that many. My god—“ He laughed, a bubbly sound, straightening up a little, “we’d have nowhere to put them all if we kept every she-kit that was born. But the point is, my dear, yes,” he said it like he was saying the same thing after a sleepless night and he was tired of it, just wanted it accepted and done away with; cloyingly nice, but beginning to wear, “— it’s a good starting point.” It was exhausting, and something he wasn’t very used to at all, explaining his policies to the ones they impacted — the toms had no issue with it; it was always the she-cats that needed it explained five, ten, twenty times in varying stages of sweet, patient condescension. They really were little idiots.
For a little while he was quiet, just padding through the black and silver forest, through the towering trees and the ferns that glittered with dripping rain. He clearly had a destination in mind, but he was in no hurry to reach it. She wasn't going anywhere; they could take as long as he liked. And drawing it out, making the walk something so peaceful and calm and hope-restoring, would only make reaching it all the better. Then, suddenly, he spoke up again, like something had been bothering him and he felt he had to put it right. “Duskpaw, I think you’ve misunderstood me. This is nothing whatsoever to do with being a mother. The concept — it’s outdated. NightClan doesn’t need mothers, we need… kits. I really can’t put it anymore delicately than that. All you’ll have to do," he said the five words slowly, like he were explaining a concept to her, and he drew slightly closer, his voice growing quieter, more intimate, more secretive, if secrets were known and understand by everyone but her, "is bear them. After that, they’ll be taken away and given to more…" He felt around for the word. "FITTING she-cats. She-cats who know their place, you know — who care for NightClan and believe in what we’re doing here. Who care for me." His voice grew more sympathetic, more comforting — but it clearly left no room for argument, like he'd already gotten her over the hurdle and now he was just showing her to her rooms. "You’ll see them about, maybe, your kits — but they won’t really be…" he winced, like he was wondering how to phrase it gently, like he wanted it to be gentle at all, "yours. They might know you’re their mother, they might not." He licked his lips and sped up his speaking, getting passionate now. "But the really fundamental thing to grasp, Duskpaw, is that you aren’t…" He searched around once again for the point, "RESPONSIBLE. Impactful, you know." He quickly added it, leaning forward for a second like it was the perfect word, brows raising.
Oddly, Kier didn't seem as excited as one might have expected him to be, as he would have been at any other time, as he would have been one minute ago, two — it felt more like he was so committed to this education that he'd forgotten it was meant to be cruel. Forgotten he was supposed to feel that sick, buzzing pleasure at objectification, at this industrialisation of birth. Even he had briefly forgotten he was meant to be punishing and was truly invested in selling it as a business proposal, in soothing and reassuring her, in being gentle — give up your soul; take the deal; sign on the dotted line; it’s a wonderful thing, to do your duty for your Clan, and you’ll be rewarded handsomely for it. You’ll be happy. If you just submit. His voice was soft as he went on, like he understood her pain and he was trying to offer all the ways it was good, all the ways she could still be happy with it. His eyes didn't leave her profile as they walked. "This Clan is their family. This clan is their mother, their father." And then the softness dropped and a hint of that mocking, flippant glee reappeared. "All you have to do is carry them about in that stomach of yours for a few moons and then relinquish all claim — what could be easier? Freeing, you know." He smiled.
When he stood at her side, letting the silence creep on in the moments before she asked the question, it had been uncomfortable, a tingling, uneasy crawling feeling making its way through her pelt, like he was always staring holes into her. Then, she broke it. Maybe, he'd said in return. Maybe. She couldn't tell if she were slightly relieved or angered — if she'd had the chance at something better, perhaps she would have given kits, as terrible as the thought was, because if she handed them over, didn't name them or get to know them or even look at them before she let them go, she'd have seen them as she saw any other clanmate yet she would have provided all the same. It would have made her life a little better. With each word he said next, she found herself berating her mind for having the very idea in the first place, for the cruelty of it. Foolish hope, not only for the fact that it would make her better off, but that the kits would grow up unscathed. But the point is, my dear, yes — it’s a good starting point. Her ears flattened, the smallest sign of hostility, but she said nothing as they moved into the forest. She wondered just how many she-kits he'd gotten rid of for the sheer fact that they were somehow, unexplainably so, lesser than anyone else. She could cry out of frustration at the unfairness of it all — she had, at some points, but this would only add to it. There was a hardness in her glare, "I know I'm not fitting. I don't want to be a mother, or a kit-bearer." She didn't want to play his game.
His messages confused her, and she couldn't tell if he was trying to convince her or steer her away. She'd already chased the stupid thought from her head anyway, and any words he said afterward were lost on her. "I think I'm good." Her voice still held the softness, the anxiety, but it was still painfully stubborn. "Isn't there anything else one could do?" One, as if she weren't just asking for herself, as if Kier didn't know that already. "Surely there's more." Despite herself, there was a tinge of hopefulness in her gaze as she glanced up at him, a slight turn of her head, a slight furrow in her brows, like she was quietly, passively, demanding something more without actually demanding it. Duskpaw knew — hoped — she could do something more than that, and though she didn't subscribe to the expected way of thinking, the unwavering loyalty to Kier and Nightclan as a whole, she still wanted to prove herself worry, if only to get back a smidge of dignity. She was torn between cherishing her gentle parts because it was what she believed to be good and wanting to rid herself of them because it was what made her weak, a target, in the eyes of beasts and monsters and those tricked by them. Nothing he suggested sounded freeing at all. It only served to tie her here, to tie everyone here.
THIS GOT SO LONG forgive me my liege i am on my hands and knees for you
It only took those words — I think I'm good — for Kier's temper to snap again. He let out a laugh, and for a few more paces he was calm, smiling, as the anger bubbled up in his chest — and then, suddenly, he lurched to the side and had Duskpaw against a tree. “Are you?” he asked, close to her face, and his voice was so cloyingly, stunningly ebullient. His head kept turning this way and that, eyes never leaving hers. “Oh, are you? I really wish, Duskpaw, that you’d be a little more thankful when I try to be kind to you — I really do. Instead, you take every,” he touched his claws under her chin, “single,” he danced his claws, achingly slow, along her throat, “gentle deed I do for you and throw it back in my face.” On throw it back, his claws suddenly flexed out and caught the girth of her throat, slamming it back against the tree and briefly choking her, his expression hateful. A second later, so quick that it was like it had never happened, he let her go, still keeping her against the tree. Kier smiled, brushing his paw up and down her cheek. “Mm?” His voice became tender, comforting. “I’m in charge here, my dear, not you. Never you. You’re good when I say you’re good.” His smile widened and, slipping his paw down from her cheek, he found her chin. “Be a good girl. Say you understand. Give me a little nod.”
He smiled at her for a moment longer. And then, with a laugh like all that ugliness was really so very undignified and she must excuse him, Kier pushed himself away from her and refound the path between the trees. “Duskpaw, if only the most fitting she-cats became mothers, we’d hardly have a kit among us.” He brushed off the back of the paw he’d gripped her throat with as he said it, like it were dirty, or like he would have been fixing his skewed tie in another world. Then, stepping back, he again held out his paw for her to go ahead. The smile he fixed her with, and the way his eyes didn’t blink, made it all a little more threatening than it had been in the cavern, like she’d had two strikes put against her name and only had one left to save herself with.
Isn't there anything else one could do? Surely there's more. “Mm,” he agreed. “Oh, there’s more. Just not for you.” He turned his head to smile at her as they walked. “I do appreciate your efforts to expand your vocabulary, though. ’One.’ Very good — it’ll take a little longer before you’re out of the true depths of your stupidity and the whole world can’t see right through you, but we can’t expect miracles. Your bloodline isn’t precisely exemplary. I mean,” he laughed, “what have any of you done? What did your daddy do besides die? No, well,” he turned back to the path, still laughing to himself, “everyone needs the town idiots, don’t they? Who else will change the bedding.” He smiled to himself for a little longer — and then finally drew in a breath, his expression growing slightly irritated. “But to answer your question, yes, Duskpaw, if you’re so committed to a childless life, husk of a she-cat that you are, it wouldn’t be very well to force you on some poor tom. Even the dregs deserve better than your drudgery — even I would be asleep before the deed was done.” He let out a bark of laughter at the crassness of it. And then he grew irritated again, because he remembered the question anew, and because even the finest performer was wasted on an audience as corpse-like as Duskpaw. “Make yourself useful. Be silent, or be agreeable. You’re incompetent in battle, too, I assume, so there’s no hope for you like there is Oleanderpaw — she’ll have kits one day, I wager, I’ve seen her padding about after Bumblebeepaw, but she can go back to being a warrior after the nursery, Duskpaw,” he put emphasis on her name, to ensure she was paying attention and hadn’t let her mind wander off, little dolt that she was, “because she’s proven she has something to give. You understand?”
When he mentioned Bumblebeepaw, he meant that if Oleanderpaw were already showing signs of interest, it wouldn’t be long until she showed interest in someone who could actually give her kits; he was silent, he arched his brows and looked away, but he wasn’t oblivious. He said nothing to the other toms in the Clan, pretended he didn’t know himself, because he knew they wouldn’t take kindly to what was really in the Executioner’s breeches, and because they were uncommonly useful. He kept the secret he hadn’t been asked to keep and that they didn’t know he knew, treated the apprentice with the same brusque, vague irritation or passing, saccharine approval he treated all of them with, because he knew the violence, the outrage, the persecution, that would result of anything else would be impossible for even him to contain; he’d have to let them have Bumblebeepaw, and then he’d be down moons of work. He was perfectly happy to accept toms who labelled themselves such — genuinely, really, not just to escape the nursery; in fact, he was delighted by it, with all the appropriate old boys’ club welcome. To him, they’d made the right and brave choice in rejecting the sex they were born as and aligning themselves with toms. Or maybe he just had a soft spot for Bumblebeepaw.
A soft spot he certainly didn’t have for Duskpaw. “Perhaps, if you study hard enough with that little head of yours, you could be a perfectly fine secretary for the advisory council. Fetch things, you know, drinks and the like — stand there and be nice to look at. There’s no hope for you being a nursemaid —“ he glanced at her with a faux-loving smile, like her treachery were a fond inside joke between old friends, “you’d try to fill their heads with all sorts of nonsense.” He gave his nose a little bunny scrunch and then looked ahead again. “But, really, Duskpaw, the opportunities are endless.” It was deliberately cruel — the opportunities were as prolific and inspiring as the dirt. “There’s always room in NightClan for kit-bearers, as you so sweetly put it — what a fine word — who don’t want to be mothers.” The sentence was so sweetly sneering, dripping with disgust. Up ahead, the treeline was just beginning to clear, the meadows beyond lit blue by the moon just as they had been the night he had come near here with Snowblister, and now Kier became excited, trotting more quickly. “Come, come, my dear,” he told her, his mood changing once again, “we’re almost there. I can’t wait for you to see it. I have no doubt it will be an,” he searched around for the word, “inspiration.” He smiled at her.
Her back hit the tree with a thud, and the pressure on her vertebrae made Duskpaw squirm under Kier's grasp, her front paws bent backwards to get a grip on the wood. She pointed her face away, ears flattening against her head, nose moving with short, quick breaths, though she tried to keep her chest still. Her heart fluttered, her stomach twisted. When his claws grazed her throat, she resisted every muscle screaming at her to move away, to protect it in fear he decided to just end it all there, be rid of the annoyance she had made herself out to be. The force on her throat made her mouth gape, her chest tighten, but still she didn't struggle, as much as she wanted to kick him away with as much force as she could muster — but food wasn't as easily given to cats like her, and Kier ate like a king; despite his litheness and her sturdy frame, he was stronger, he was better, he was more skilled than her. Duskpaw wasn't trained to defend herself, she was trained to be walked on. When he let go, the breath she gathered was unsteady, and her eyes didn't meet his. The change of his tone sent a shiver through her. Give me a little nod. Slowly, fearfully, she nodded.
She followed him away from the tree like nothing had happened at all, though a spot on her back ached with the previous pressure and her fur itched where it stood on end.
Oh, there’s more. Just not for you. She nodded as if she already knew the answer, exasperated in her frustration to be useful, to be worthy, but she tried not to show it. She would have agreed with him completely had the rest of her family not been brought into it — what did your daddy do besides die? — she recoiled, face heating up and tears pricking the corners of her eyes, angry ones, but she swallowed them down painfully, alongside the lump forming in her throat. It filled her once again with the hopelessness of loss, the consuming grief she hated to feel because to feel it three times over was worse than just one. The loss of her father stung, still, despite the fact she should have gotten over it by now, and the looming death of her mother only strengthened the feelings of despair. Duskpaw was lost; she just wanted her family back. She couldn't force words through her mouth to voice an agreement with him, even if she didn't mean it, and so she let him talk, let her own silence stretch on — though she assumed that would annoy him just as much as talking would, because no matter what she did he didn't seem to like it. Her existence was a point of visceral anger and irk. Still, despite his violence, his cruelty, his crudeness, he had a point. Oleanderpaw, Bumblebeepaw, even Leveretpaw all had something to offer, something more than she could ever give.
She winced when he threw her own words back at her, and somehow they sounded much worse coming from him, but she nodded anyway, pairing it with an uneasy shrug just before. An assistant, something to be ordered around, silent and obedient but useful, despite the emptiness she would surely feel. In Nightclan, it seemed that no option was best for her, that she would always be scrambling to find her place on the ladder only to be repeatedly knocked down again and again. Just leave, her mind whispered, treacherous and foolish, because even if she attempted to get away, surely she would not get far before she was struck down by those who hunted cats like her. Where would she go? The world outside of Nightclan was a mystery. What if it was all the same?
I can’t wait for you to see it. The way he said it made it sound like she wouldn't enjoy herself at all, but she picked up her pace regardless, trailed just behind him, tepid and unnerved at his excitement, because it she'd learned quickly it was never a good sign for her. "I'm. . . sure it will be," her words shook, her forced smile matching.
I'm. . . sure it will be. Kier turned his head and gave her a smile. “Ohhh,” he praised, and it was an ’ohhh’ that went with a little scrunch of his nose and a little wiggle of his head, like he was so pleased she was finally getting the hang of it and yet like he was still mocking the stupidity of her. “Look at you. So good already.” He liked the way her voice trembled; he liked how strained her smile was at the edges. His voice was just as airy as he continued on, like he were speaking of purely fanciful things that she would never do. “Just don’t think you can go about being a little actress and stirring up dissent. Imagine little Duskpaw,” he gloated, raising his voice slightly between the dark pines, “a rebel! Oh, you know, I almost wish you would — there are such things I want to do to you and I have to hold back in the name of mercy, you know, of fairness, because you deserve another chance. Although, I feel quite safe in assuming you know that’s all— well,” he laughed, flinging her another look, “I shan’t say such crass words in front of a lady. But it’s not true. Sick Kier just wants a trophy. Oh! You know, it’s quite refreshing to be able to say all of this out loud. Maybe you can be my little confidante — yes, you know, maybe that would be a fine use for you. But the point is, Duskpaw — the point I was getting to was, don’t think you can go behind my back. You’d just be giving me an excuse.” He gave her a look, and it looked like fondness. Yes, now they truly shared something — he could say all he liked to her and she wouldn’t tell a soul. What intimacy. What punishment. To hear all the vile things her mother’s killer wanted to say and have to bow her head.
Speaking of.
Quickening his pace again, they finally emerged from the trees, into the wide, sprawling meadow, wild with tufts of tough grass and washed a silvery blue by the eerie moonlight. Far off in the distance, at the opposite edge of the trees, the standing stones held their haunting vigil. And what he finally stopped them in front of, a little way from the pines behind them, was a black pit in the ground. Kier stood at its edge, looking down at it with true fondness. It was dark, deep, dug in a clean rectangle. The smell of wet earth rose up to meet them; it was fresh, but not from tonight. It had clearly been there for a little while already. Then he turned his head to look at Duskpaw. “Your mother’s grave,” he announced cheerily. “All dug and ready for her.”
For a moment he was silent, just gazing down at it in fondness, head tilted slightly. And then, finally, he spoke. “Do you want to know the truth, Duskpaw? The whole truth?” He tossed her a cruel, knowing little grin, like he knew he was now safe to share these things with her; he could have told her any manner of secrets and she wouldn’t have breathed a word. “All those noble NightClan warriors, our fallen dead — we just toss them in a ditch. Small wonder there’s been such a marked increase in fox sightings. The Inferiors don’t hunt beyond sight of camp, the patrols go where I tell them — and the foxes have taken care of the bodies before anyone ever finds them. It’s really such a brilliant little system; keeps the foxes happy and away from our kits, and does away with the messy mortal remains of cats no longer productive. That’s mostly just warriors, though — the warriors who were old under you-know-who, we shan’t say her name, and who said to me,” his voice grew higher, “ohhh, Kier, we’ll be so loyal! We’ll be so useful!” It returned to normal, wholly disinterested; he flicked a loose stone into the grave. “And they were, you know, but I really grew quite tired of them. So off they went. The ones I like, the ones who are truly useful — they’ll get a true burial. Because they deserve it.” He smiled, so casual, like he weren’t saying anything particularly cruel. And then his expression darkened slightly. “Your mother, though.” His voice slowed, quiet, dripping, like he wanted her to hear it, like he wanted her to swallow it down and drown in it. He turned his head to look at her, eyes black in the moon shadows. “I want her to be on NightClan territory for the rest of her after life. I want her to see every little thing I do to her daughters.” And then, suddenly, a smile lit his face again. “Why don’t you take a closer look?”
His paw suddenly smashed into her back, sending her tumbling into the damp, black grave. Kier stepped forward and looked down at her, down there in her mother’s grave, looming over her against the sky. “What do you think?” It was asked in a gleeful voice — he knew the grave was too deep for her to scramble out of herself, knew the earth was too wet and crumbling. Knew she was trapped down there, looking up at him, surrounded by all those roots, all those bugs, all that rich, overpowering dirt smell. This was a terrific game. “Do you think she’ll like it?”
Being good, being useful — it was what she wanted, wasn't it? It was the thing she had asked about most on their journey together, and yet hearing the words — look at you. So good already — made her stomach recoil and twist distastefully. It didn't feel like praise at all, it felt insulting, it felt mocking, and Duskpaw was sure that it was his intention to make her feel that way, to tear her down even when it sounded like he was supposed to be praising her. It set way for an endless cycle. Duskpaw would do something, almost anything, to get a hint, a taste, of something better, and yet her attempts would be futile, met with mocking and disregard and hatred, because she was the one that got the blame, the anger, where nobody else could fill that role. In a way, she'd accepted it, but still she sought a way out, still she looked for something more.
At first, Duskpaw didn't quicken her pace to match his, and she could only trail behind him through the trees as he sped up and breached the clearness of a meadow, rolling, grassy fields almost welcoming in their calmness, but in the same vain it was also unnerving. He stopped somewhere ahead, near the wall of pines on the other side, and it took a few moments for her to reach him, reluctantly stepping into the space beside him to stare down into the rectangular pit. She froze, claws gripping the earth where they grazed the edge.
Your mother’s grave. Her paw moved back, frozen where she was torn between turning away and keeping herself locked in place. All dug and ready for her. The rest of Kier's words almost — almost — passed through her ears, silent like soft wind, because all she could imagine while staring into the depths of the grave was Primrosetuft's body, mangled and torn and bloody and broken, her eyes wide and glossy with the remnants of a plea, of suffering and sorrow. And, according to Kier, she would be lucky. Lucky to be dead but buried all on her own, lucky to have a place in the ground where her children could mourn her body instead of tossing it in a ditch to be scavenged at. It was entirely cruel, heartless, agonizing in the thought. Duskpaw couldn't get the imagine of her body out of her mind.
With her mind so chaotic, unwell, terrified, Duskpaw was about to turn and flee, to run without care of consequence or the thought that she would be hunted down afterwards, because all she could think about was the fact that she had to get out, out, out. From where she stood, her body shook helplessly, heart thrumming like thunder, fur on end, and before she could turn her head past the halfway point, there was a pressure on her back and suddenly all she could see was darkness. The earth, the blackness, was suffocating, and when she finally figured out which way was up and tried to climb out, she found the walls slipping and crumbling under her paws. She stood helplessly, standing and leaning on the walls of the grave for support as she looked up at Kier's silhouette, his back illuminated by moonlight, his face towards the darkness and features indiscernible. She didn't notice her tears.
Her words came out as helpless, panicked, and tearful, stumbling and tripping over each other. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, please let me out, please," one of her back paws hooked into a crevice in the dirt, and she tried to push herself up with it, grasping for the space above her head, but it got her nowhere. She was trapped. She couldn't breathe. "Please, please let me out, I — I need to get out." She was going to die in here — Kier was going to turn and walk away, leaving her to sob until she ran out of air, letting her rot and wither. And, to her own horror, Duskpaw realized it would be deserved. She didn't do anything right, she only caused problems, she only disobeyed even when she didn't mean to, and she would never be like her sisters; she wasn't useful, she wasn't dutiful or obedient or silent or loyal. Still, she tried to reach up towards the lip of the grave to pull herself up, desperate, but it was out of reach.
Kier laughed, wildly and uncontrollably, leaning back almost fully onto his hindpaws and pawing excitedly at the damp, dewy ground, like this was some tremendous play acting itself out in front of him. “Please?” he cackled delightedly, his voice high with glee, with exhilaration, anticipation — what would come next? It was rare that Kier looked truly insane — because, fundamentally, he wasn’t: he was too self-aware, too comfortable with his own violence, to be mad. But now, he did. Utterly and fully. His eyes were alight and alive with joy; his face was radiant with it. He couldn’t take his eyes off the scene below him; he just kept staring, unblinking and hungry to drink it all in, like he’d been dying of thirst and this was the first thing in all the world that could satiate him, like he’d waited all his life and here it finally was. “Please, Duskpaw?” He hadn’t done it for so long, but now he turned back to his old mimicry, adopting Duskpaw’s own voice and parroting her own pleas back to her: “please, Kier, please, oh, I’m so sorry, oh, I’ll do anything — I’ll be such a good girl.” With a coughing laugh, because his vocal cords were out of practice, he leaned back again; his wide-mouthed grin, his bright eyes, didn’t falter for a second. If it hadn’t been in front of so horrible a sight, he would have looked staggeringly cute.
Tittering wildly to himself, he crouched down, flattening his chest and belly fur to the cold, wet earth, and reached his paw down to Duskpaw, keeping it just out of reach, like he were tormenting a caged animal, like he were tapping against glass that said please do not tease the fish. He waved his paw back and forth in the thin air; it felt colder, damper, swallowed up by the dirt and the dark. He hardly stopped laughing for a second. “Oh, you need to get out?” he cooed smilingly. “Poor baby. Do you think your mother will be crying the same thing? Down there, all alone in the dark? Do you believe in ghosts? Do you think she’ll haunt you because the most useless of her little girls didn’t do what was necessary to save her? I think she’ll be heartbroken. Have you heard that heartbreak is the best way to guarantee a haunting? Maybe then you won’t be so terribly lonely, when both your sisters have their own lives and you’re still stuck being poor, plain little Duskpaw. Maybe even if she doesn’t— let me—“ He cleared his throat melodramatically, giving his shoulders a little wiggle like he was preparing, “let me see if I—“ He made an experimental sound out of the corner of his mouth, like he was trying to get the placement of his vocal cords right and find the right pitch. He hadn’t really heard Primrosetuft speak very much at all — and that wouldn’t have mattered a fig in the past, when he did it every day, when even a passing cat from two moons earlier was stored away in the sprawling files inside his mind to be pulled out at the drop of a hat, but now he was a tad rusty. Rearranging himself again, he seemed to find it — and, with his grin growing wider and wider and his eyes flicking back down to stare at Duskpaw with joyous triumph as it came out sounding just right, he went on in a near-perfect imitation of her mother, with a sympathetic gentleness that contrasted so cruelly with the glee on his face, “oh, my sweet love, don’t let Kier get to you. You have something he’ll never have: a gentle heart. With such a beautiful thing, what is any of his power worth?”
Snapping back to his own voice — really, Primrosetuft’s was lower than his own at the moment — he dissolved into a coughing fit of laughter. “Yes, yes — don’t you worry, Duskpaw: the second you need reassurance, just crawl into my nest.” When she reached her paw up towards the lip of the grave, Kier smiled down at her, patient and fond and suddenly calm, his head tilted; he reached down and laid his paw across the back of her own, his warmth bleeding into the frantic cold of her own after only half a minute in the earth. “You don’t think a night in here would be better for you? Mm? You don’t think I should go back to the nice, warm camp and come back for you in the morning? Because I think you’re—“ He leaned down closer, half over the side of the grave, his paw still on hers so softly. His voice quietened, his unblinking eyes so simultaneously gentle and gleeful as he stared into hers. “I think you’re forgetting one little thing, Duskpaw: I want to torture you. Mm? I’m not afraid to say it to you.” He smiled and brushed his paw across her cheek, his other one supporting him against the side of the grave wall. “Say my name and I’ll help you out. You never say my name, have you noticed? I’d like to hear you say it.” His smile widened, so gentle, so encouraging, so fond, like he were just comforting her, like everything before hadn’t happened at all. Everything about him was warmth and quiet. “Then we can go home. Then you can be safe and sound, and I'll have a guard bring you the sweetest piece of prey we have.” His smile didn't falter; he brushed his paw against her cheek again, tilting his head a little more. "Mm?"
it’s totally unintentional but this honestly builds so well to dusk’s warrior name and im frothing at the mouth
Perhaps the fact that he was rusty with his mimicry made it all the more terrifying to hear her own voice thrown back at her, flawed and off-putting — too low, too high, said in the wrong tone, or maybe for the simple fact it was coming out of his mouth. She recoiled, paws slipping down the sides of the dirt wall until they were half way from where she had placed them. In the moments while he was standing above the grave she had been tossed in, illuminated by the moon and rendered faceless by the shadows, copying her voice like he had stolen it, he looked every bit like the monster he acted like, the type of cruel that was only seen in fairytales and stories. Nothing but a shadow, a violent spectre, and for a moment Duskpaw felt that if she closed her eyes tight enough, she might find nothing there when she opened them.
When he reached a paw down, her first instinct was to feel relieved — foolish in retrospect, she should have known Kier wouldn't be so kind. Her paw shook as she reached up towards his, falling short, and when he didn't move to put his own in her reach, she realized it had been intentional. Still, she reached up.
Have you heard that heartbreak is the best way to guarantee a haunting? He was doing it to bother her, to push her down, to tease her, and yet she felt he was right — she'd noticed that often he was, no matter how viscous or spiteful he was with his words, they always, somehow, made sense. In a way, she was haunted already, by the death of her father early on, the imprisonment of her mother, the abandonment of her sisters and her clan. Or perhaps it was Duskpaw herself who did the haunting, the weeping ghost, disquieting everyone around her with her perpetual gloom and bad luck, causing misery in her aimless roaming. Half the time, she felt invisible, and it took everything in her to not believe she had died at her trial, that she wasn't an apparition only spotted in the depths of the dark, when the eyes tricked themselves. Tragedy, sorrow, kept ghosts around, and Duskpaw surely had enough of it.
Oh, my sweet love, don’t let Kier get to you. At the sound of her mother's voice exiting Kier's mouth, still not entirely right in tone and prose, Duskpaw made a choked sound, a sob in its depths. He sounded impossibly loud, his off-voice ringing in her head, and she would have pulled away had his paw not caught the back of her own in what would have been a gentle touch had it been anyone else. Desperate, begging, she shook her head. His name, such a strange request, but she realized did tend to avoid it, as if he were a boogeyman, as if he would erupt from the shadows if she spoke it out loud. She quivered.
"K —" her voice caught in her throat, suffocating, "Kier, let me out, please, let me out."
Her horror, her discomfort, the look on her face like pure sickness, like pure nausea, like pure grief — it was ecstasy to him. Kier made little show of hiding his sadism; even when he was so warm, so cloyingly smiling in camp, it was with the universal knowledge of what was hiding just behind it — if he thought they didn’t all understand just the things he could do to them, he wouldn’t have smiled so. But nothing had ever excited him as much as Duskpaw did: she hadn’t awoken something that had always been dormant — she had fed some sick longing that nothing else in the world had ever managed to sate. And so, it made her indescribably special to him — she was the only drink that could quench that specific, addictive thirst. She was some ultimate prize to be housed in a special locked glass case; not the way Sagebristle was, because that was a far more base sort of pleasure, but in the way a favourite artist, a favourite musician, a favourite racing horse accompanied a monarch — they were little more than pets for amusement, but, my, did they scratch an itch. Kier tilted his head as he looked down at her, watching in grinning silence for a long few moments before finally letting out a high, long sort of sound that was halfway to a laugh, a laugh so delighted it couldn’t even manifest itself as one. A sound like a rat being tickled.
The few seconds he had to wait for her to say his name, with his paw still so gentle atop hers and his moon-silver eyes boring down into hers, were the most wonderful seconds of his life. And then she said it — and there were no words for the feeling it gave him. The only thing better than hearing her say Kier was hearing her say please straight after — and he hadn’t even had to ask for that. She’d done it all on her own. A violent shiver ran through him, making his fur prickle in its wake like a wave, and the shiver made a noise in his mouth, a euphoric shuddering sound that was far less put on than it was genuine. “My, well, Duskpaw,” he finally managed to say when he could speak again, his voice as warm as it was heady, like he’d exhausted himself and it was the most exquisite feeling in the world, “look at how the world opens up for you when you’re polite.” He let out a breath that was half a sigh — a truly sated one. As he went on, he sounded so condescendingly sympathetic, like he truly had no memory of tossing her into the grave and wondered how she’d come to such an end. “Come, my dear, let’s get you out of this sorry place you’ve found yourself in. You really must learn to be more careful — one of these nights you might meet someone far worse than me. And then you’ll wish you had such a generous saviour.” He smiled down at her, his eyes half-lidded as he slipped his forepaws further down the wall of the grave and began to ease towards her. “Not everyone is so friendly.”
Just when it looked like he was going to sink his teeth into her scruff, his warm breath bathing her neck and his smiling eyes still locked with hers, he suddenly thwacked forward a flimsy branch with his tail. Reaching out blindly above him with one forepaw, eyes still never leaving Duskpaw’s, he drew the gnarled branch down in achingly slow increments until it finally made a gentle thudding noise against the damp earth at the apprentice’s paws. All the while, Kier had been half-perched against the sheer dirt wall, upside down like a lizard. It was almost like he was daring her to pull him down with her, to lash out in some violently defiant way, to hold him to her and suffocate him against her fur in the claustrophobia of the dark; but unlike the rage he’d felt earlier at her inability to do precisely that, now he seemed fond of her passiveness. And if there was one thing more unsettling than Kier hating something about you, it was him liking it. Finally smiling wider, he told her warmly, “up you come”, and began to push himself back up with his forepaws, backpedaling against the black, worm-and-root rich dirt. “Let’s leave the earth to contemplate all the ways it dreams of eating at your mother’s corpse. Such an unappetising thing she is to any one of us — but, oh, the worms will make such a feast of her. Maybe if you press your ear to the ground,” he looked up from where he’d been concentrating on his paws, smiling down at Duskpaw again, “you’ll hear them nibbling. What a lucky girl you’ll be.” Letting out a little titter from around his grin, he slipped over the edge of the grave. “Say thank you, Kier as soon as you’re up, mm?” He called down to her, hidden beyond the lip. More quietly, like he was talking to himself in a sing-song, cheery sort of voice, he added, “she’s learning some inkling of manners — what good mothers are, if she couldn’t even teach that.” That was what growing up without a father did, he supposed — no one to instil a bit of discipline. He sounded faintly like his mate — she was always saying she needed to teach Brat manners, needed to teach Snowblister manners; it was rubbing off on him.
As he sat there and waited in the chilly, moonlit night, he was in a euphorically chipper mood. Anyone could have asked any favour in the world of him and he’d have done it — he was smiling to himself, was practically humming. Oh, Duskpaw was a delight like no other. It was such a shame she didn’t much fancy toms, such a shame she didn’t seem keen on kits, such a shame she was selfless enough that wanting to protect those unborn little lives from this life outweighed her loneliness — he’d so love to have her come to him and ask so meekly pardon, Kier, I know what I said about not wanting kits— As tantalising as it was, he nipped the fantasy in the bud. It deserved more time and attention and imagination than a thing to pass the time in the silver-crossed air while he waited for her.
Her skin crawled, painfully uncomfortable at his delight, and she almost — almost, because her desperation to get out overpowered anything else — felt repulsed at the thought of grasping his paws. She watched them ease in, terribly slow, and the moment it was within reach she reached up and grasped them in her own, trying to grab hold with her claws without drawing blood (though she wasn't sure she succeeded, but everything felt too numb). One of these nights you might meet someone far worse than me. She offered no reaction at his words, but she doubted them immensely. To her, Kier was the monster under the bed, the boogeyman, the beast only spoken of in silly campfire stories that still forced you awake at night — he was everything cruel and evil, she couldn't picture anything worse. His closeness made the crawling sensation worse, starting from her neck, and she had to force herself to remain still, to let him help her up.
When he shoved the branch down, she propelled herself away from the wall, releasing her grip on his forearms and grasping hold of the branch instead. She steadied herself, scrambling upwards desperately, leaving her movements clumsy until she could finally pull herself over the edge of the grave and onto solid, grassy ground. Her legs felt like thin sticks seconds away from snapping, and it took all her energy to not collapse when she got up. Swaying, Duskpaw stepped shakily, fearfully, away from the hole. First, she took in her surroundings as if she spent moons in the grave, and then her eyes found Kier and she faltered, voice threatening to die once more. "Thank you," she choked out, murmured but sincere, genuine, relieved. She hardly heard his words at all.
"Thank you," she repeated, just as breathless, like she forgot she'd already said it. She wanted nothing more than to go home, to curl in her nest — before the outing, Duskpaw hated being in camp, despised the stares and whispers she got, but now she wanted it all back, just for the security of it all.
When Duskpaw slapped her paws against his forelegs and sank her claws in with such desperation, Kier let out a hissing breath that was half pleasure, so surprised by the sudden display of accidental, clumsy violence — there was something so tantalising about that, that she held a primal, tearing power the same as any other cat but she just didn't know how to use it. That she was ignorant to it. That he could glimpse the possibilities of her more than she herself could. Another shiver ran up his body and for a long moment he just stared back at her, so close in the suffocating shadows of the grave. She hadn't meant to, but he could feel thin beads of blood trickling hot down his forelegs, seeping over her own paws until her dusky fur was poisoned by his blood, all interlaced and irremovable. The heat of it amid all this cold was tremendous. Duskpaw had been holding him; now Kier held her, tilting his head in the intimate darkness and giving her a knowing little smile. His paws turned to grip her just as she gripped him. The claw marks stung ferociously; he relished it, this visceral proof of how desperate Duskpaw was for him, how much she needed him — in this moment and always. “You know,” he whispered, him draped over the edge of the grave like a serpent, her in the dark earth, and both their forelegs intertwined, claws holding each other in place. “I might have been a little hasty. You’re really quite pretty up close.” A grin spread across his face. “Quite the shame this is the only way we can christen your mother’s resting place.” Tittering to himself, he stared for a few moments longer, drinking in the sight and the feeling of her quick, shallow breaths on his face, the fear in her eyes — then finally let go of her and slid out over the top of the grave.
As she clambered out, he didn’t look at her, instead flicking blood from his paws and laughing where he sat. He felt a tremendous camaraderie with her after this night’s adventure — he really felt as if they’d grown closer, crossed some insurmountable divide. It was good, to get to know his in-laws like this. Good for the kits to have the stability of a strong family. “My, Duskpaw, you do have some fight in you after all,” he laughed; blood was still trickling down his forelegs, mostly lost to his black fur but visible as rivulets that shone in the moonlight. As she thanked him, he just smiled wide and took it in, still not looking at her. He was owed it. He really had been kind. “No, Duskpaw, thank you,” he finally replied, looking up from his paws and meeting her eyes with a smile as he stood. “Thank you for showing me you’re more than a bland, unattractive, middling little dolt with none of Cascadepaw’s charms or Pantherpaw’s,” he shivered deliciously, “generous obedience.” Kier tittered, shoulders shaking, and then gave her an eager, congratulatory open-mouthed grin. “You’re only half of that! Wonderful, my dear. I’d count this little outing of ours as a success.”
Padding over, he gave her a little nudge with his shoulder against hers, jerking his head back towards the direction of camp and offering for them to walk side by side. He smiled, eyes not leaving hers, and it was truly friendly, like everything between them had been forgotten and forgiven. “Come, my dear. You must be cold. If you like, I can send some pretty little thing to your nest — and it doesn’t do to turn up an offer like that.” He continued as they walked close beside one another, like he were welcoming her just briefly into his world. “We’re a lot alike, you know. The middle sibling, absent parent, the one no one expected anything of — and look at me now. Maybe a nice Superior tom will see the things I’ve seen tonight and make a fine mate of you — then you can see all the pretty she-cats you want and he can do the same.” He smiled at her, eyes venomous and mocking; he was nice before, but now he couldn’t resist being cruel again. He got to be leader; she got to be a wife. “That’s what any good union should be — you give him a warm nest to come home to, and utter freedom the rest of the time.” He tittered, like he found something tremendously funny that he wasn’t telling her. Then he looked away. “Oh, Duskpaw. We’ll find some use for you. Leave it with me. I’ll find you a handsome match.” The sun was just beginning to rise as they padded back through the forest, Kier utterly cheerful and relaxed, like this outing had taken a much-needed load off and he’d come back refreshed.
By the time they approached the opening to camp in the rock pile, still guarded by one of Laertes’ toms, the sun was turning the woods to a dull, eerie gold, the shadows too long and the mist drifting between the trees tarnished and dreary. Just before they went in, Kier stopped Duskpaw with a smile and a paw on her upper foreleg, drawing her back. He gave a low little laugh as he did so, like he was apologetic about preoccupying any more of her time but he really couldn’t let her leave without a last word. “Remember what we talked about, mm?” he told her gently, voice quiet and intimate, gaze drifting down from her eyes to where his claws came up to hold her so softly by the chin. “No funny ideas about running away, or about stirring up discontent.” His mismatched eyes flicked back up and his smile widened. “Be a good girl. I wouldn’t like to do it, I really wouldn’t, I’m not a monster… But if you or your pretty sister were to do something I didn’t like, I really couldn’t guarantee your little nieces and nephews wouldn’t become,” he drew her in closer, voice dropping to a breath as his eyes trailed down again, “collateral damage. It’s not really fair to put Cascadepaw’s behaviour on you, I know, especially when you’re the least important of the sisters,” he smiled, looking up at her eyes again, “but I’m a little desperate.” He wasn’t, and she would have known that; everything was precisely where he wanted it to be. His voice had become cooing, like he was appealing to her sympathy for him; his eyes trailed up and down, up and down, her eyes and then away. The smile never left. He tilted her head from side to side with his claws; his own head followed hers. He made no mention of Pantherpaw; somehow, she was still exempt. “Mm? I like you, Duskpaw. I really do. Enough to be my little insurance policy. My little good behaviour spy.” The smile widened; his eyes met hers, just a breath away in the growing dawn. The Guard looked on in silence; Kier wasn’t bothered by his presence one bit. After a long, long moment, Kier finally smiled one last time and let her go. “Thank you for a rejuvenating night, my dear — if you want a little cred, you can tell all those miserable gossips we did something.” He laughed, already turning away and heading down the tunnel; he spoke of the miserable gossips with a huge deal of fondness. Just before he disappeared, he looked back, still in a wonderfully good mood. “Oh — and if you change your mind about the gift for your nest, you know where to find me. You really ought to wet your appetite some time soon — getting a bit old, aren’t you?” He laughed, like they were just sharing a joke. “Nobody likes a spinster.” Still laughing, he vanished into the black, off to get a report on what he’d missed in his absence and then to find Eris. “Sweet dreams, Duskpaw!” he called over his shoulder, his voice echoing against the tunnel walls. “Hello, all!”
From outside the camp, the moment he descended into the main cavern was clear; the sounds of excitement, of loud talk, of Kier’s laughing voice at the centre of it — “someone go relay a message to Primrosetuft, I’m really dying for her to hear it; okay, alright, here it is…” — echoed out into the forest where dawn was bathing the trees in misty gold. The party chattered on drunkenly and laughed raucously as Kier took his place as host, spilling out into the woods like the echoes of a bad dream, and there at the entrance sat the silent, hulking guard. NightClan was a monstrous thing.
