When she talked back to him, Kier turned to watch her, his lips drawn back slightly and a quiet growl tearing unceasingly from his throat as he listened; it was very rare that his anger was anything but theatrical — even with Kate he laid on the melodrama as a transparent show of how unaffected he was, how little she mattered — but with Pantherpaw, there was no amusement. And maybe it was precisely because it was that bit too personal — with everything else, melodrama was degradation; he was above it, he was deigning to interact, to give his time and energy — it was dominance. You were nothing but something to be laughed at, and perhaps eventually he’d throw you a bone. But this… It was so utterly bleak, so utterly important, that he was serious. And that was almost a show of submission in itself — Kier had to tread that fine line, he had to appease Pantherpaw just enough that she’d be amenable to certain impositions once they were born, he had to give her due consideration and let her call him names. He couldn’t laugh, because just as much as Kier held the puppet strings, Pantherpaw held certain other advantages — the main one being that the kits were in her stomach. She had leverage over him, and as much as he had tried to keep that reality hidden in the hopes that she wouldn’t realise, she had picked up on it. And Kier hated being outwitted, hated being used, hated being seen through. Hated feeling anything less than the cleverest one in the room — especially at the hands of a she-cat.

But if there was one thing he wouldn’t let her do, it was make a cuckold of him. And that was where her loneliness, her isolation came from. Not for any personal affection, but for one, simple reason: if any other tom were to have kits with her, they would be the half-siblings of royalty. And he couldn’t have that, because that immediately gave that father and those kits an avenue for social advancement. For destabilisation. For his own deposing. Kier was always locked in a silent, psychologically obsessed battle with every other tom, without them realising it; to him, they were just looking to unseat him, and he had to constantly reassert himself — it was that paradox of irrationally paranoid, narcissistic insecurity. Every tom in the Clan knew that going near her was as good as a death sentence — now, and always. That, and he didn’t much like someone else touching his things. With Eris, it was different; he could love her without possessing her, however all-consuming, however soul-owning that love was for him. He didn’t want Pantherpaw, he didn’t like her — but he had claimed her, and there was still that little prickle of sick jealousy. Really, it was an uninspiring prospect, having to keep her about, untouched and unmarried, until she grew into an old spinster. But such were the burdens of ruling. Maybe his humanity would take a dent in the future and he could make it simpler for himself, just kill her. Oh, it was such a freeing prospect…

You chose to spend that night with me. “Yes, because you manipulated me into it,” he snapped back, voice a wild, messy hiss, “— seduced me like some succubus.” Really, it was a bit of a sore point for him — for whatever reason, it had hurt him. And being hurt made him mercurial. To him, the only manipulations she-cats were capable of were the intimate sort — and he hated that he was blind to them, that he could be played like he so often played others; it was a distasteful, dishonourable thing when they did it, not the fun of his own deceptions. As she went on, the growl in his throat resumed, gurgling like a hunting dog’s, like metal on metal. Too angry to stay still, he paced back and forth in front of her, his tail-tip flicking erratic, his pupils dilated to the same size. I am carrying them and creating their lives in my own stomach, something you toms cannot manage to do. “YES!” he exclaimed, snapping his head up from where it had been thrust forward, sounding wild and unhinged, almost hysterical, almost laughing, eyes wide and faux-joyful. “And what a mercy that we can’t! It makes me sick. Everything about you, everything you are — it makes my stomach heave. It’s charity that you had me for your first time — no one else would have touched you, and now no one else ever will. At least you have that memory.” He almost spat the word.

As she drew nearer, the hysteria iced back over. Kier drew back, chin tucking back, warning growl resuming. They were the same height, small and frangible. His eyes held hers, narrow and unblinking with mutual hate. He was angry, he was furiously angry — but he hadn’t lost it yet. He was still containing himself; he was still restrained calm; nothing had tipped him over the edge.

And then:

The next time you raise your paw at me, do it. Coward.

For a moment, for a horrifying moment, Kier’s eyes went wild. The fur along his spine bristled; his gaze stared into hers; his teeth looked impossibly sharp. And then, as quickly as it had come, he settled again. Settled too much. His fur instantly lay flat, so quick and so unnatural that it was jarring. His entire demeanour changed. Completely serene, Kier let out a high, prolonged little giggle high in his throat, slowly turning away from Pantherpaw with something like a sigh — like it had been a good match between equals. “Ohhh, my dear…” he told her serenely, that laugh still in his voice, his back almost completely to her. And then, suddenly, he snapped around and caught her cheek, slamming her head to the ground. And for the first time alone with her in private, the theatricality made its appearance. “Yes, you know, you’re completely right,” he told her cheerily, like they were doing nothing more than taking a stroll together; he repositioned his paw, forcefully rolling her slightly so his claws could grip her round her throat instead, “there’s no discipline if one doesn’t follow through. We’ll have to learn that about our kits, won’t we? Of course you’re an insolent little harlot — of course you are, my dear. Your mother was so tender with you. Well, guess what, my girl,” his voice was suddenly vicious; he pushed down against her throat, claws prickling, “your mother isn’t here. Your mother is dead. I’m here — and if even your stupid sister,” he pressed down harder, half his weight on that one forepaw, “can learn the merits of keeping me happy, then there’s no excuse for you.” His voice changed again, now like he was making a passionate announcement. “Step one, my dear — punishment. I always find public humiliation does wonders; there’s something about having your wrongdoing paraded for all your…” He suddenly laughed, raising his head and holding up one paw as his shoulders shook. “Well, I was going to say friends, but that’s not quite the right word, is it? But for all your Clanmates,” he cooed the word so mockingly, leaning down towards her until their noses almost touched, his eyes dancing, “to see. And what better than a name? Let’s think.” He rocked back slightly, eyes drifting to the ceiling, like he was getting more comfortable; his paw still stayed against her throat, barely allowing any air in. Still, he hadn’t gone anywhere near her stomach. He had gone back on his aversion to harming pregnant she-cats — to him, this was more just frightening her; a warning; he could have done far worse — but he still hadn’t been beastly. He still didn’t want them wounded. He still cared about them. He’d already lost one litter, and it had almost broken him; he couldn’t lose another, even if this one’s mother was a nuisance. Even if he had to put her in her place. They had weeks left before the kits were due — he still had time to drill a bit of proper deportment into her. She was carrying bastard royalty; she had to look the part.

At first, when she’d first called him ‘coward’, the names racing behind his eyes had been spitting: toy, thing, hussy, nothing, concubine, drudge — the nastiest, pettiest things he could think of. It was one of the most harmless forms of cruelty, that need to live with whatever name you were given, but it was one of the most demeaning, the most all-consuming, the most difficult: it was identity itself, imposed on you by someone else just to be cruel. He loved the power of names, the power of holding them. Now, even though the feelings propelling him were still hot, red rage beneath the skin, the theatrical persona had overtaken him, and that always channelled pure anger into things more productive. More creative. If he acted on pure fury alone, he’d have lost his crown long ago. He wouldn’t have even had it. It was the theatricality that the cruelty came from, and it was the theatricality that gave him his edge. “Pantherpaw’s very bland, isn’t it?” he asked, like he was genuinely seeking some sort of opinion, some sort of confirmation; he looked back down at her, peering down unblinkingly with his paw still cutting off her air. “Your fur is black — my, we give your parents too little credit for their creativity,” he laughed. “No, my dear, I think you need something more fitting. Something that reflects you.” He smiled down at her, leaning closer, brushing his other paw down her cheek. His voice was so gentle, so loving. “A meaningless… cheap… disposable… little womb.” He smiled wider, close to her face, and tilted his head. “Mm?” The question was just a tender little hum in his throat.

If I remember correctly, it was you who cried to me, Kier. The memory flashed through his head, hazy but not as hazy as he tried to pretend it was. His own sobs echoed in his ears. My mother — why didn’t she love me? Why didn’t my mother love me? Why was I never enough for her? For my father? Why did my brother— why did my SISTER hate me? Why me? Why was it never ME? I was just a kit. I was just a child. And it hurts — it HURTS. It had been such an easy step from that aching vulnerability, from his muzzle pressed into her black fur and the smell of her filling him in his grief, to what had happened next. And that was precisely why he was so touchy about the subject — because he felt betrayed. He felt betrayed, and he couldn’t quite reconcile that feeling — couldn’t quite come to terms with it. It felt too petty, too wounded, too personal. Every other time he’d been betrayed, by his mother or his sister, or most recently by Snowblister, it had been anger — aching, childish confusion, yes, because two of the three were meant to love him and the third he still privately (heartbreakingly) considered the closest thing to a best friend he had, but the anger had always done a fine enough job of masking all that up. But with Pantherpaw, he just felt truly… hurt. So hurt that he couldn’t understand that was what he was feeling — it felt like being sick, like itching. Kier was remarkably self-aware, but when it came to the emotions that were so childlike, that were so innocent, they felt foreign enough to fill him with fear; it almost certainly went back to his childhood, to all the feelings that had locked themselves up safe and sound as he grew and changed, and that sometimes opened the door and resurfaced and flooded him with the uncomprehending, wide-eyed grief of a five moon old kit. He had trusted Pantherpaw. Eris hated tears, they made her skin crawl, and so he had cried to Pantherpaw instead — and she had used it to catch his skin and hook it. She had taken a confession and wound it into blackmail. Their night hadn’t been special, but he’d at least thought they had shared something — and instead, the peasant girl had come out on top. And it hurt.

Kier met her hiss with one of his own, open-mouthed and with his ears pinned back, louder, guttural, more dominant; a warning one, one that spoke of what would happen if she spread that story about, the two of them staring each other down like snakes who couldn’t quite take the final plunge. She couldn’t risk the kits, he wouldn’t risk the kits — and so the damned safety net around her grew. But if she thought Kier hated her, she was wrong. When he hated how someone had made him feel, it was almost like the one who had inflicted it was immune — the self-hatred was amplified, and all that surrounded the other was betrayed grief. As furiously angry as Snowblister made him, it was the same for her. Kier’s affection, when thrown back in his face, became not hate, though he would kill them with such mock joy to win the battle and save face and conquer the traitor who thought they could best him, but child-like sorrow. And after the death, the guilt would follow; he would boast and laugh and play to the crowd so extravagantly, but in the night, his eyes were hollow and staring. It had been just the same with Harley. And every betrayal pushed him further and further into that stunted kit, pushed him into cowering hiding while he paraded to cover it up. The only one he could trust was Eris; the pain Pantherpaw had given him the one time he was stupid enough to lower his guard and believe someone else could ever care proved that.

As she scrabbled at his paw, his leg, his chest, Kier kept his grip on her, staring down at her with wide, hungry eyes and a look of pure, silent, manic delight. Captivation. He drank in the sight of her, relished it. At her choked whimper, he leaned down, tilting his head so his ear was closer to her. “What was that?” he asked round a glistening grin, letting out a little titter. He pulled back again, resumed his delirious, fox-hungry staring. Her scrabbling reopened the faint scratches Duskpaw had dug into his foreleg when she was in her mother’s grave and inflicted new ones, and still he didn’t move, just stared down at her like he was longing to see how long she could last before she ran out of air and he had to let her go. Any second now. Here it was, his eyes widened further—

And then faint movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention. His gaze flicked down to her stomach, and for the first time he saw them kicking at the soft flesh. Her fear, her pain, her squirming, the unspeakable feeling when he saw the first of her tears — suddenly, they weren’t vindicating things; they were hot-chested guilt. It was like he came back to himself, or like the concern he truly felt for Pantherpaw grabbed the high of sadism and yanked it down, dispelled it like thick mist. Kier scrambled off her, eyes wide and startled — “are you alright?” he blurted, wild-eyed and bewildered, that horrible, familiar panic he’d felt the night Eris had miscarried their kits filling him again like a dam had broken. It was just— it was just a threat. It had just been a threat. He hadn’t meant to— to— He was just—it was theatrics— “I’m sorry,” he blurted out again, like it would change anything, paws kneading in terror at the stone floor and eyes huge, hunted, helpless — this couldn’t happen again. It couldn’t happen, that his family’s violence would take everything pure from his life. “I’m sorry— I didn’t— Pantherpaw, I wasn’t—“ He paced back and forth in frantic fear, paws working over each other whenever he stopped. Suddenly, he closed the gap that had opened up between them and, half-crouching close and messy behind her, desperately lapped at her neck fur with his tongue, ran a frantic paw over her swollen stomach, like calming her down, soothing her, comforting these kits that were theirs, would make— He wanted to cry; a lump formed in his throat, one borne of the pure disbelief, the impossibility, of this panic. This had already happened once— it couldn’t— “You’re alright,” he told her, but it wasn’t any sort of comfort — it sounded like he was begging, like he was trying to force a lid back on something far beyond that point. It wasn’t Pantherpaw in front of him anymore, it wasn’t Pantherpaw he was staring down at with such blind, too-young fear; her black fur was brown and striped, her lip had a scar over it. “You’re alright, you’re alright — I shouldn’t have done that, I’m sorry.” Already the worst case scenario was freezing him up — with Eris, there had been no question, absolutely no question: his kits or his mate, and he had chosen his mate. But he didn’t want to choose this — he didn’t want to choose between kits and a girl, even if she had betrayed him. For a moment, he had frozen in place, staring in fear at the opposite wall with his chin on the top of his Pantherpaw’s head; now he startled back to life and looked back down at her frantically. His paw was still resting on her stomach; the kits hadn’t stopped kicking.

And then he felt what he had been dreading, so faint, so faint that it flooded fresh, trembling terror through him; there was no disgust like there might usually have been — it was too late for those games. “You horrible girl,“ he pleaded, the words sounding fear more like desperation than insults, eyes finding hers in half-choked earnestness, “tell me that wasn’t a contraction.”

As Pantherpaw rolled to her paws, Kier scrambled to his own, panicking backwards. Kier… Kier! “Yes!” he blurted out, just blindly staring at her stomach, eyes wide and wild, “that does happen to be my name!” Do something! “What can I possibly do?” he exclaimed, backing away again — there was no anger in his voice, just sheer, overwhelmed terror. He looked like his body wanted to flee but his mind, his fragmented, incomprehensible, soft-hearted loyalty, wouldn’t let him. “I don’t know the first thing about— about BIRTH!”

And then something changed.

For a moment Kier was silent, and in that moment of silence he looked like he was thinking. Like he was coming to some existence-altering conclusion. He frowned down at the stone floor. And when he looked up again, his voice was indignant, like he’d been lied to, like he’d been deceived, like he’d been fooled into some outdated way of thinking. “But— no, you know, I trusted the medicine cat with Eris — I’m not making that mistake again. She can deliver all the Inferior kits she wants; she’s not delivering mine. I’ll do it myself.” His newfound resolution brought him to Pantherpaw’s side, his gaze flitting over her body as he spoke like he was assessing variables, like the panic was giving way to maths, to numbers, to percentages. “If she can make it up as she goes and have some semblance of success rate, I can do it better — a hundred times better. They’re half a moon early — so what? They have a strong mother; they’ll live. They’ll be fine.” The die was cast; his determination solidified — for better or for worse, he wasn’t going back on it now. Overflowing with that purpose, that dedication, Kier pressed his muzzle to Pantherpaw’s forehead in a platonic kiss less reassuring than it was wilfully determined. His terror dissipated, replaced by the utter forced, bluffing confidence that had won him a crown — he didn’t know what he was doing; he’d feel his way through this like he did everything else, taking advantage of opportunities and making things up on the spot. Adaptability, that was what earned kingdoms. And that was what would allow him redemption now — he couldn’t save his and Eris’ kits; he could save these. He would adapt to the circumstances, make it up as he went, and guide them through this. His whole demeanour seemed to change, voice calming to that sort of stern, inarguable gentleness a matron carried. He was bluffing, but if Kier had anything, it was these three things: an utter hubristic belief in his own abilities, optimism strong enough to conquer terror, and an unparalleled talent for lying.

He stroked a paw along Pantherpaw’s back, soothing and rhythmic, trying to ease her back into her nest. “Before anything else, my dear, you need to lie down. Relax. A kit feeds on his mother’s stress, and there’s no reason in the world for you to be so. This is all perfectly natural — she-cats around the world do it every day, don’t they? And you’ll be no different. In an hour from now, you’ll have a litter of perfectly healthy kits, hungry from their exertions. A bit smaller than average, but they were always going to be with us for parents, weren’t they?” He laughed, flashing her a grin that looked halfway between contained anxiety and genuine softness. Anything he felt for Pantherpaw now was utterly platonic, and perhaps that was why he was taking such a hands-on role — he didn’t love her, didn’t care for her at all beyond some irreconcilable sense of responsibility, but he would help her through this, like odd, inconceivable friends. Any other she-cat that bore his kits, he would throw to the wolves and only come into check afterwards if they had survived the birth; but with her, somehow, in some way, he had already aligned himself with the concept of these kits — of her — as family. Maybe he just felt he owed her this for what he’d done to her mother. He’d always told himself he would kill her. Now, he knew he had been lying to himself, trying to reconcile his betrayal with the reality of his fond weakness.

“I’ll be back — thirty breaths in the time I’m gone. Mm? Slow ones — deep.” He demonstrated, raising his upturned paw slowly till it touched his inflated chest as he drew in a breath. “No need for any more than thirty.” Touching his nose again to Pantherpaw’s forehead, he ducked out of the nursery. As soon as he was out, he stopped and stood there for a moment, like he was going over a list in his head, mouth moving slightly as he breathed the words; no time for fear, for bewilderment — he always worked best when he had a task. Seeming to reconcile himself with the list, he gave his head a tiny nod and hurried over to the medicine den. Paying no mind to being neat, he pawed poppy seeds, borage leaves, and windflower roots out of the nooks, scattering other herbs over the den floor; bundling them into his jaws, he was out as quickly as he had arrived. He stopped on the way back to the nursery only to drop the leaf wraps at his paws and give an order to the nearest cat that no one was to come in — that it was strictly off limits; the pregnant queens would have to find somewhere else to bed down, he didn’t have a care in the world for them and their hardships. To the same cat, he tacked on another message, one to be relayed to Eris — he’d be occupied for an hour or two, nothing to worry about, he loved her, he’d tell her everything later. And then he was back in the nursery; back beside Pantherpaw. “There we go — twenty-nine, mm?” He settled behind her head, giving her a comforting smile; the herbs were laid out at his side. Easing his paw around to her chest, he encouraged her to lie down against him, the back of her neck supported upright. “Good girl,” he praised quietly from behind her; turning his head gently to the side, he stuck a few poppy seeds to his paw pad and, turning his head again and brushing her neck fur out of his eyes with his other forepaw, offered them in front of her. “Good girl,” he murmured again with a smile she couldn’t see, brushing his paw comfortingly down the side of her neck.

Kier groomed the back of her head rhythmically, reaching around to massage her stomach with his paw. “If I learned one thing on my travels,” he went on with that same calm, gentle confidence, “it’s that nature will make itself known — your kits will tell you when you need to push, not some healer counting contractions. Listen to your body, my dear; it will guide you through this. You’ll be alright. And I’ll be here the whole time.” If he thought about how the ache in his heart was for Eris, if he thought about how this could have been her instead of Pantherpaw, how this could have been their happy future with the League never casting their shadow over their lives, he would break down then and there — so he forced it out, buried it. He’d sob and wail later, all those wounds re-awoken and picked clean from where they barely lay beneath the surface to begin with. This should have been Eris; it wasn’t. He would have given these kits up to any god if it meant they could be his and Eris’, or at least he told himself he would; but they weren’t. And they never would be. His kits were dead; these weren’t. For now, Pantherpaw was here; she had to be at the centre. He’d help her through this. He’d failed Eris — they would never have this happy future. He’d redeem himself now. It all came back to that old grief. Every single thing in the world did.

H-have you ever helped a she-cat birth? For a moment, the question plunged him back into that terrible night — the trail of blood on the dusty ground behind Eris, the sick, growing stench of it; her utter silence as the night dragged on, while he wept and stumbled over his own helpless, pacing steps in the background; your mate or your kits, I can only save one; I’m sorry, Kier, but you have to choose. Pantherpaw shifting against him snapped him back to the present like she’d shocked him, the memory melting around him like blood. “No,” he replied, forgetting for a moment that he was supposed to be reassuring her. There was only numbed, emotionless grief in his voice, like it had happened but it didn’t matter anymore, it couldn’t matter. The litter of little bodies he’d buried by himself, sobbing alone in the misty, empty, freezing night, that he’d left to the cold, unfeeling earth when they should have been against their mother’s warm stomach, when Eris should have been purring over their living kits instead of too locked away in her own uncomprehending, staring loss to leave her nest — the senseless unfairness of it… They couldn’t matter. He’d never repressed his grief — he’d drowned in it; he still did; what other reason for this war was there? But now, just for a few hours, he had to. Suddenly, the only place he wanted to be was by Eris’ side, to cry and to be held — he felt nothing for this girl. But this was his redemption; this was his she-cat. He’d get her through this, if only because he couldn’t do it before. “No, not successfully. But you’re as different as it’s possible to be — you’re healthy and strong,” he gave her the tiniest determined shake from where he lay behind her, his forepaw wrapped around her with such gentle force, “and our kits are going to be fine. They’re going to be better than fine — they’re going to be fierce, clever survivors. Better still than that — they’re going to be beautiful. Name a thing more natural than birth,” he rasped his tongue quickly over the back of her head, “there’s nothing. Excuse my crassness, my dear, but you were made for this — whatever else I say, that much really is the truest thing in the world: your beautiful body was made for this.” He gave her a lick more brisk than before, like he was cutting off the sentimentality and returning to business. “You’ll be fine.”

Get Cascadepaw, please! For one, brief moment of instinctive irritation, he wanted to argue, to turn her down and cut off her protests and turn her back to the job at hand — he could do it, and she’d have to put up with it. With all the other queens in NightClan, they got what they were given — special requests were uniformly turned down; have the kits and have them taken, that was all they had to do. That was their only role. He didn’t like being given orders, even if the order ended with ‘please.’ Even out there, he was less chivalrous than the other toms — if he were feeling in the right mood, he might bow and adhere to a she-cat’s demure wishes, might go fetch her something and smile as she took it, playing the gentleman for a bit of fun, and because he liked the way they held his gaze and batted their lashes at him; but most of the time, he’d laugh at them if he were in a jovial mood and wave them on with a hiss if he weren’t. But with Pantherpaw, he stuck to the old doctrine: refuse a birthing she-cat nothing. With the others, he rolled his eyes and asked how long it could possibly take when one went into labour, glancing up at the moon through the cenote and giving his tongue an irritable click. With her, feeling her contractions against his own body, he didn’t doubt her very real pain for a moment. His flash of anger settled and melted away like prickling water, leaning back slightly to avoid being clipped in the jaw as she swung her head back and forth. He was about to agree—

What if they aren't okay? Kier, what are we going to do? As she buried her face in his chest, Kier growled without sound, stiff against her, lips drawn back slightly, his temper returning amid the whirlwind of fear; as handsy as he was, physical touch from someone else still made him queasy. He didn’t hold her. “If they aren’t okay, there is no ‘we’,” he snapped; panic — not feeling in control — made him furiously angry, and now his fur was prickling. He hated feeling afraid, he hated feeling powerless, and the grief of it, the raw terror that made his mouth dry and his chest clench with static, made him hateful. It was the only way to push others away, to ensure he was alone, and in any other circumstance he would have disappeared into his den and curled up in the empty silence until he stopped being scared, like he had after Eris’ miscarriage. But he couldn’t do that now, and the strangled feeling of obligation felt like a noose around his neck — he couldn’t hide, and the fear had nowhere else to go but the static ends of his fur. “I’m not a fortune teller — how should I know? How can I possibly know?” Without really meaning to, he drifted his paw up to hold her shoulders as she hid herself in his fur. “What’s the point of being all doom and gloom — they’ll be fine. It’s your job to believe that. I can’t have these kits for you, and thank god I can’t — this is up to you. To your capabilities and your will. I know you’re not a coward — you’ve withstood a trial, you’ve withstood your mother’s death, you’ve withstood me. You are one of the strongest she-cats in this Clan and you’re going to bring our kits into the world with that same stubborn strength.” As brusque and brutal as it was, delivered in a stern, borderline angry voice, it really was meant as comfort. Kier just didn’t coddle — if he hadn’t taken over NightClan, she’d have been trained as a soldier; now she had to be that soldier. That was all there was to it. “Now enough of this.” He passed his tongue over her fur again, gentler this time, holding her a little more loosely, a little more tenderly, against his chest. “You’re being silly. Aren’t you excited to meet your kits? Mm?” He looked down at her, face still hidden in his fur, stroking his paw up and down the back of her neck. “Just hold onto that, you terrible girl.” It had almost become a nickname, stubbornly fond.

And then, beginning to ease himself out from under her — she’d leaned back more as the next contraction hit — he added, “I am but your servant, Pantherpaw. I’ll go fetch your dear sister for you, shall I?” Giving her another brief lick between the ears, he slipped out of the den to find Cascadepaw, muttering, “like some cuckold courier pigeon.”

It didn’t take long to find her. “Cascadepaw,” he greeted coolly as he padded up, not letting himself rush within sight of her like some frazzled milksop, “your sister is asking for you — the kits are coming early, you know, and she’s rather in a panic.” He gave her a little grin, meant to be nonchalant; but no matter how unbothered he tried to seem, it was clear that he was deeply anxious. “I hope you’re ready to be an aunt.” He turned back to the nursery, beckoning for her to fall in beside him — and then suddenly turned back. “Oh — and fetch some of that,” he searched around for the word; usually he was so good with his herbs and plants, so he really must have been a bit thrown off by all this, a bit befuddled and distressed, “borage,” he finished at last, “that you brought in to the medicine cat the other day. Bit early, I know, but— well, maybe it will be a good luck charm. An omen. Milk before birth, birth before milk, chicken, egg.” He smiled, trying to crack a joke, but it didn’t reach his eyes. As he waited, he just stood there slightly hunched, like he was in pain, or like he was just so stiff that his back was liable to snap at the slightest touch. Then, as she rejoined him and he walked with her back towards the nursery, the stiffness didn’t abate; it was in every step, in the way he held his head. He was nervous. “A girl needs someone’s paw to hold,” he went on, still fighting to seem blasé and above all this, “and she’s squeezed mine to the bone.” He grinned again, a wisp of air escaping through his teeth, and waited for Cascadepaw to duck in ahead of him, holding his paw out with that instinctive, slightly mocking deference. It was so ingrained that he hardly thought anything of it. Slipping in after her, he didn’t go back to lie behind Pantherpaw; he took a seat just to the side of the entrance, shoulders hunched, looking uncomfortable and like he would rather have been anywhere else but was too stubborn to leave. He’d see this through, even if he had to cover his eyes. She wasn’t his mate, but it was still his job to be there when an important mistress birthed — for anyone else, the news could be relayed to him while he lay in bed with Eris, to be waved off dismissively; for an occasion like this, if only to avoid any outside speculation that the kits weren’t his, he’d be present. If it had anything to do with comfort, with secret, near-platonic affection, he wouldn’t say so. He rearranged his paws and cleared his throat awkwardly, not looking forward to the long night ahead.

@ian i’m bringin you in whether you want it or not (and goldcrest bring in duskgirl if you like!! <3 that’s an ORDER)

She couldn't help but wince. Right where her sister had given her an encouraging lick, was the same spot that Kier had just drew blood to her face. No matter, there was no time to think about that, because another contraction rippled through her stomach and she found herself gasping in shock. "Cascadepaw." Pantherpaw found herself whimpering softly, fearfully even. Not only was she now full of fear for the fact that the kittens inside her were coming rather early, but also full of fear too.

The kittens were coming, and they were the only things that kept her and her sisters safe from the cruel claws of Kier. Of death.

Panic set in again, and her breathing became uneven. She was also bringing kits into this world that were of a monster... of Kier. Yet, here he was with her, showing her some type of comfort, of kindness.

She was confused, oh so confused and panicked.

"It's too soon..." She mewed again, her face constricting into a wince from the pain. "I'm scared..." She whispered this time, hoping that only her sister could hear, and understand that she was scared of more than just the birth. She was scared of so much, it was easily seen within her eyes.

The moment Kier had approached Cascadepaw, rambling about kits and borage and hands to hold, whispers spread like wildfire. Kits, they said, and there's no medicine-cat in sight. Duskpaw heard everything, of course, ears pricking towards the hushed words, waiting for them to sink in. Kier's kits, they all spoke of, hardly a mention of Pantherpaw's name at all — she was a nameless face, another mistress, a peasant girl he had hooked up with some bored, lonely night, someone to give him another line and be forgotten about later. Everybody knew of what happened to the mother of his first litter, even if it was obvious it wouldn't happen again. At least, not with Pantherpaw. Still, worry crept up on her like a ravanous beast, sinking claws into her gut and heart, making her breath skip and hop uncertainly. She hadn't been called. Of course she hadn't, she wouldn't know what to do (though, somehow, Cascadepaw did? She didn't dwell on it), but all she could imagine was hearing the news at a later date, when the hours dragged on far longer than they should have — she didn't make it, was all Duskpaw could think of, too many complications, to much blood loss, she wasn't ready, she wasn't strong enough. They whipped around her mind like a flurry of equally likely, terrifying scenarios, and before she could think of anything else she had barged her way towards the nursery, shouldering through the entrance and skidding to a halt in front of the scene from where she'd half run inside. 

Her ears flicked backwards, folding down, and her legs shook with apprehension. "Pantherpaw," she breathed, voice caught in her throat. She had hardly spoken to her sister at all, a mix of awkward, fearful mistrust and guilt, paired with an unfair anger — how could Pantherpaw be having his kits, after everything. Duskpaw could never understand, and she wasn't sure she wanted to. 

Bumbling further in, she crouched beside Cascadepaw and in front of Pantherpaw, face contorted in tearful fear. She didn't address Kier, she didn't look at him at all, eyes and mind focused only on Pantherpaw. "Hi. You — you'll be alright, it's alright. It will all be over soon, and then you'll have wonderful, healthy kits at your side," she could feel the painful heat radiating off her sister, and Duskpaw leaned back to give her space, realizing that perhaps crowding wasn't good at the moment. She swallowed her anxious tears, but everything about her still trembled. "Do you need anything? Something to drink, something to bite? I'll fetch you whatever you need, name it." 

Pantherpaw shifted a slight bit, feeling Kier's impatience and irritancy at the situation. Stress made her grind her teeth, the pain of each contraction rippled through her stomach and body. Her green eyes shifted from Kier then, to Cascadepaw. Her sister seemed to be trying her best to comfort her worry, and the sudden closeness she had with her once more seemed almost a relief. How she missed her sister, the way she shushed her and told her everything would be alright. Her brows furrowed, and it was then at that moment she had a quick thought of Duskpaw, but said nothing of it. When was the last time that the pair had spoken? Did Duskpaw even talk to Cascadepaw? Everything in their life had been so complicated, so... miserable since their mother had been taken to that forsaken prison.

Then came Kier's voice, rushing her along all over again. Though, Pantherpaw had never had kits before... she was sure that it was a process that was unexpected and unpredictable. Her sharp green eyes focused on him as her sister doted around her licking her cheek. Something was in her eyes, a certain look. One might almost see it as a dark and hate-filled one. Yet, it only lasted for half a second.

Duskpaw rushed in, and relief flooded her. At least, she would have her sisters here. They weren't Primrosetuft, but they were truly all she had. She felt a deep pain in her, this time it was not from the contractions. It was the pain of seeing her two sisters here for her once again. She'd been avoided, mainly. Left alone, but she never knew why. Confined to the nursery she had no idea what was going on in the every day lives of her siblings. Day in and day out, she laid in this nest. Restless, fearful, and always angry. Always dealing with Kier. Always arguing with him, always finding a new hate for the tom. He was the reason they were here, he was the reason she was in labor now! Perhaps if he hadn't... her eyes seemed far off for a moment, Kier butting in as Duskpaw asked her questions. It seemed to trigger a replay of the scene that had happened earlier in her head. She seemed distant, eyes staring ahead as she remembered the sound of his claws smacking her face.


Her body jolted. Brought back to reality by the touch of Kier, her ears pinned back. So many confusing emotions rushed through her as she tried to make herself some how small, but failed. His tongue drug across the scratches along her cheek, as if to make a point. They stung, and she found herself squeezing her eyes shut against him. Go away. Please just go away. She thought. Pantherpaw knew he wouldn't though. Whatever sick game he was playing at, he was good at it.

Her breath had quickened, adrenaline surging through her as she tried to focus. It was almost impossible, the tension in the room was so strong she could hardly breathe. Another contraction rippled through her stomach, and suddenly, she felt this strong need to push. So.. she did, and as she did, she attempted to tune them all out.

Within seconds, the first sac slipped out and the first kit came into the world.

Kier's world.

we can do a family thread now after this one if you guys like <33 set a few weeks later when the babs are a bit older <3 i can make it unless someone else wants to <3 they’re finally here!!!!!!! tl;dr: kier renames panther. as a treat <3

At first, Duskpaw’s refusal to react to him had driven him mad. Now, he knew how to read her. The little furrow to her brow, the hitch in her breathing — as he stared at the side of her face, he grinned, so pleased with himself and with her, and let out a little titter. It was almost better when they wouldn’t give him the big shows, when they made him work for it, when they teased and taunted and enticed him with titillating little hints that were morsels rather than feasts. He loved the effect he had on Duskpaw; fear looked good on her.

And then she was speaking again. Poppy seeds? No, that’s not good — they’ll make her drowsy. At her hussy-ish second-guessing of him, Kier’s lips drew back in an affronted, hissing snarl. “WHO has medical experience here?” he snapped back. “Me or you? Shut up, Duskpaw.” The order was sharp and hateful and humiliating. He was only ever so immature with her. As the sister went on, Kier stayed lying beside Pantherpaw, possessive not because he wanted her but because he just didn’t want Duskpaw to have her. “Yes, well, all I’m saying is I rather think a fair amount of attention-seeking comes into it,” Kier muttered sneeringly, conceding to Duskpaw’s gentle scolding; it was a weakness he didn’t know he had, like a dragon that could be stroked behind the neck to make it settle down — if a she-cat explained something with tender, authoritative deference, his fur lay flat and he backed down, like a Catholic-raised boy who wouldn’t argue with a nun. “All that screaming — it can’t hurt that badly. If no one were here to fuss over them, I doubt they’d make so much as a peep.” As he spoke, he turned his head back to Pantherpaw, idly grooming about her ears with soft strokes that contrasted so strangely with the cruelty of his words. But he was always a hypocrite; he might have thought Pantherpaw wasn’t in any pain at all, that she was just putting on a show, but he was still going to cave to chauvinism and play the begrudging gentleman.

Pantherpaw curling in on herself beside him snapped his attention completely from Duskpaw. He perked up, following her to lean over her, ears pricked up in interest. Instinctively, he moved his paw to her stomach, brushing over it back and forth with his eyes wide and watchful; surprisingly, he wasn’t disgusted in the least, wasn’t nauseated — he looked exhilarated, fascinated, enthralled. He’d thought he’d wrinkle his nose and wander over to take a seat behind Cascadepaw to avoid throwing up, back turned to the scene until it was over, listening blindly and trying to block out the feminine sounds; instead, he was mesmerised. He’d always liked medicine, the marvel of bodies — and he’d done this. Some part of him had melded with Pantherpaw and he’d done this. It was thrilling. “Excellent!” he exclaimed, laughing in excitement as her contractions began in earnest, still holding Pantherpaw to him. “Very good girl! Well done, my dear.” And then, with a heady rush of triumph that felt like nothing he’d ever felt before, the first kit was born. “See, Duskpaw?” he laughed on the same breath, shooting her a look over her sister’s head, cocky as could be. “Fine as anything. Cascadepaw, be a dear and take care of that first kit. It rather takes the allure out of fatherhood when they’re so terribly messy; I’ll see it when it’s clean.” He turned back to Pantherpaw, praising and encouraging, ignoring the firstborn kit until it was more presentable. As the waves of pain continued rolling through Pantherpaw, Kier, still so undone by the addictive, drunken triumph of the scene, drew her impossibly closer. He felt dizzy, hazy. “You know,” he whispered in her ear, just a breath. “It’ll be a shame. You looked so becoming pregnant. Maybe we can have some more fun another time, mm?” Head still bowed with Pantherpaw’s, Kier’s eyes crept to the side to lock with Duskpaw’s, a slow little grin spreading across his face. Then, with the breath of a laugh, he let her go and dragged his gaze from Duskpaw’s, not wanting to interfere with the wonders of birth.

As the labour continued, at the back of his mind, with a desperately stricken longing that ached and curled in his gut, he thought of Eris. He never let himself think of kits with her now, never let himself imagine or hope, however idly, whether in a stolen second during a meeting or in the early hours of the morning as he held her to him; he was more than happy, unfathomably happy, with the life he had with her — he was as dizzyingly in love as he had ever been, and the miscarriage had only added a further deepness to it, a selfless, unshakeable devotion that was the most grown-up thing about their heady love affair. He had accepted almost as soon as she’d miscarried that they’d never have kits; he was alright with that, never wanted her to feel badly, like she hadn’t given him what he wanted — he was happy to grow old with her, just with her. He wanted her to know that. And yet now, just for that moment, as he watched Pantherpaw bring their kits into the world, her cries faded to muffled, heavy near-silence and he allowed himself a second of selfish grief. Just a second. Not because their relationship needed kits — the first time had been an accident, as it had been with Pantherpaw; they were both still so young — but because if anyone were having kits with him, he wished they were kits he truly loved. Wished they were hers. Then the sound rushed back in and he put away the heartbreak, the selfish yearning, to where it usually sat on its vulnerable shelf. He would never let Eris see it. He would never let her despise herself for what she couldn’t give him. All he needed — all he wanted — was her. Just her. Only ever her. But he worried that she wouldn’t believe him.

As more of the kits were born, he finally asked whether the next one was a boy or a girl. And over and over, the answer came back ‘girl.’ A silent raise of his brows, a twitch of his whiskers, and a disbelievingly irritated little exhale through his nose were the only signs that he wasn’t pleased as he turned away again, back to focusing on Pantherpaw. He repositioned himself where he still lay against her, holding her a little more loosely. It wasn’t precisely anger — it was just a “well…” By the fourth girl, he stopped asking. “My,” Kier commented cheerily as the kits kept coming, crass as ever and mildly, pleasantly surprised, “it’s a wonder such a small thing as you could have fit all this in. Small mercy, I suppose, that you did birth early — we might have had a nasty surprise.” She might have been torn open, he meant. There was also an underlying, unspoken meaning to it: with Eris, he had chosen her over the kits when he could only save one. He wouldn’t have made the same choice with Pantherpaw. It was lucky she survived naturally, because Kier wouldn’t have done her any favours had it been up to him. That knowledge hung between them like taffy, utterly meaningless to Kier in his joy; it hadn’t happened, so what did it matter? He would have killed her — he didn’t.

And then the last kit was born — and at long last, it was a tom. “Well,” Kier laughed, standing immediately and letting Pantherpaw drop unceremoniously from where he had been letting her lean against him as he wandered over to inspect the kits. “You certainly are good at having girls. Must be your mother’s genes.” It might have been a half-insult — it might have been meant as one. But the way he was looking down at them was pure, smitten-eyed love. Softness. “Near half a dozen daughters.” Unexpectedly, Kier’s voice had broken slightly; it came out tender and disbelieving and emotional. His eyes didn’t leave them. He hadn’t yet allowed them to be given back to their mother; as they mewled and crawled about blindly, Kier collapsed heavily into a crouch, all his world faded into the six kits on the ground in front of him. It was all about him and them, not Pantherpaw. A little shyly, he put his paw out so they could clamber and squirm over it, looking down at them with that adoring, besotted, hazy smile. “They’re perfect. Hello, beautiful things.” Really, Kier had a secret: he loved his daughters. He loved them more than his sons. He loved having daughters. He would be the perfect father to a girl. They were the first kits he’d really cared for since he’d buried his litter by himself in the misty empty freezing night, sobbing alone. Kier laughed, tearful and embarrassed about the tears, so overwhelmed from stress that this moment of pure emotion, of success, of relief, nearly ruined him. “So many girls,” he repeated, laughing and brushing away tears sheepishly with the paw that wasn’t occupied with the kits. It didn’t sound like a bad thing at all. They weren’t the kits he wanted, not his and Eris’, but they were still his. Insignificant, meaningless accidents on the side, no royal standing, no expectations, no responsibilities as his heirs —and from that disregard flowed an easy, calm, soothing, warm love. The unknowableness of Kier. it was clear already that he’d be a doting father; his first litter were entirely forgotten in that moment, the old nothing compared to the new. One kit, a little black, dappled she-kit, crawled over to him and squirmed half up his forepaw; Kier helped her up the rest of the way with his other one, so unexpectedly gentle. “Hello, sweet girl,” he greeted gently with another soft little laugh. Finally, he picked her up softly by her scruff and padded carefully back to Pantherpaw, dropping her against her stomach to suckle. He didn’t order Duskpaw or Cascadepaw to bring the others, just expected them to follow; there was a sacred, tender unbreakableness of the moment, like he couldn’t physically be cruel. He settled against Pantherpaw’s back.

As he looked down at the kits from where he was curled up along Pantherpaw’s back with a completely subconscious closeness that had everything to do with pride at the kits and with her and nothing to do with any affection, a wide-eyed, awed, almost uncomprehending wonder on his face, his mind returned to the argument he’d been having with her just before the birth. It felt suddenly silly, insignificant. But one thing still rang true, purer than before — she needed a new name. She would have gained one eventually — soon, really. She was well due. It was unbecoming for a royal mistress to have so plain a name; she needed a little badge of honour, a little title to set her apart as something untouchable and dignified. And what better thing could she have done to earn it than bring him these six kits? A thousand words wisped behind his eyes, some too old, some too crass: regent, dowager, matron, regal; dainty, mistress, concubine. Before, he had mocked her parents for giving her a name that so obviously referenced her pelt; now, it felt like a tender homage. She’d given it to their kits; they both had. The right thing to honour, but prettier, more ladylike, more noble. “Sable,” he breathed, brushing his muzzle against her ear, eyes half-closed. “Sablemaid. There, that’s a prettier name. A name befitting the mother of kits with Royal blood. Mm?” He brushed his muzzle over her ear again, eyes opening as his gaze drifted back down to the kits at her stomach. For the first time, there was possessiveness in it as he looked down at them. Reaching a paw across Sablemaid’s stomach like she wasn’t there at all, he ran it so gently over his kits, a touch like air, careful not to displace them. “My girls,” he whispered. For the first time, the son hardly mattered.

It had been a long process, or at least Pantherpaw had felt that way. Her body ached, she was exhausted. Her green eyes however, dull, remained on the kits that Kier coddled and cooed at as they wriggled around. Instinct was to rush over, take them from him, pull them to her belly. Her claws dug into her nest, ears back as she quietly awaited what her entire being so longed for. Finally, he put one against her belly and a small bit of relief entered her body. Then the others were brought to her and she let out a breath that she had no idea she had been holding. Pantherpaw bent and nuzzled them, one by one. Carefully licking their ears lightly. There was so many... yet.. she felt so tired and had little energy. All she wanted to do was close her eyes and drift...

Then she felt Kier against her once more. She blinked, and her eyes turned to look at him, twisting so that she could. His nose brushed her ear, and it triggered the instant memory of the time they had together that had led them where they were now. A shiver spent through her body, her face growing hot as she felt the familiar companionship they had once shared. His cries echoing in her ears, long gone now was the soft Kier he had shown her that night. Yes, she had in a way, seduced the tom to ensure that her life and her sister's lives would stay in tact. Yet, she'd be lying if she had ever said she never had feelings for him, or that her feelings were entirely gone.

Sable. He spoke into her ear, his breath warm and toxic. Why did her body melt so? Then he continued, and the feeling that had been creeping into her mind, body, was gone in an instant. Sablemaid. Confusion set in, quickly and instantly replaced with shock. Her name, her name was gone. Something her mother had named her the moment she had laid eyes on her. She was named for her pelt, for her eyes, for her muzzle shape.

When her gaze finally moved to Cascadepaw, to Duskpaw, it was not a look of happiness or anything near. It was a look of fear. Kier had not only now stripped away her entire identity, he had isolated her from her remaining family, he had taken the support of her clan away, he had taken everything away from her. Now, he owned her. The name was not a mark of warrior hood, it was a mark of ownership.

Then Cascadepaw spoke, but she wanted to wail. Wanted to beg her sister to stay. There was a turmoil of emotions coming through her, confusing and swelling.

No. She wanted to be alone, more than she wanted any type of companionship.

"Can... can I be alone with them?" She asked, her voice croaking as she did. Fearful that Kier would deny her this. "I'm... tired." She continued carefully, her eyes looking down to the squirming kittens at her belly.