There had been a time, not too long ago, when Leveretpaw had loved kits — he’d always been the one to volunteer to clean out the bedding in the nursery when no other apprentice had wanted to do it (woman’s work), assuring Inferiors that he could do it and that he didn’t mind at all, and really they didn’t need to tell Kier. Apprentices didn’t do chores — that was for the warriors, the future-less dullards of the Clan too old to be good for anything more than labour back-breaking enough that they wouldn’t last a year or two at this rate anyway; Kier couldn’t just massacre or arrange accidents for the whole Clan, so hard labour was as simple and palatable a death sentence as any — but he was weird enough, enough of a pariah, that the other apprentices scoffed and muttered foul jokes, but they didn’t tell. He wasn’t meaty enough prey. There were no kits in the nursery, just queens preparing for birth or recovering from it, but he still enjoyed their company and their gentle talk, enjoyed the comforting milk smell. Sometimes they’d groom his ear fur, or ask softly if he’d eaten, and share a bit of their meal with him. It made his heart burst with a strange, warm grief, being surrounded by a den of mothers who loved him, and he’d spend as long as he could in there, in the warmth and the safety and the compassion, nestled in the middle and listening to stories. Once or twice, he’d even managed to see inside the dens where they actually kept the kits, the dens where one nursemaid presided over a whole litter in the place of the actual mother. They were always very strict about doing everything themselves, bedding and all — there could be no unapproved influences on the growing minds of the kits outside the teachings of the nursemaids and, very occasionally, when he made the rounds for a few distasteful minutes in which he exchanged a few pleasantries and vague questions with the maids and looked down at the mewling little bundles with a smile that was all faint queasiness and fear, Kier. But Leveretpaw, with his unfailing politeness and nervous ears and shy smile, had made himself a favourite of a few of the nursemaids, and, just between the two of them, he sometimes changed the kits’ bedding while they snuck out for a stretch and a meal from the freshkill pile. His life in NightClan since the ascension had been a thing of misery and fear, but, aside from Oleanderpaw, that had been the one soft, glowing point.

Now, ever since the trial and especially since the battle, he couldn’t see them even if were able. He wasn’t welcome. He was worse than a traitor: he was a joke. The nursemaids had awkwardly turned their heads away from him; paws had reached out to draw kits back inside when he’d smiled sadly at them; Inferiors had been sure to duck inside the nursery before he could and say things like don’t worry, we’ve got this and I’m sure there’s something else you could do. Sometimes with a compassionate smile, sometimes with open, toothy mockery; there was nothing an Inferior liked more than seeing someone above them stripped that little bit lower. And beneath it all, he carried the greatest terror of all: that he would end up pregnant himself. That on top of all of it, the ridicule and the scorn and the violence, he would lose what little he had left and become the lowest of the low. He was a Reporter in name only, an Inferior in every way that mattered — and if that were to happen, he’d have the final vestige of self stripped away from him. He’d be just another stupid she-cat in the nursery. Now, kits held nothing but misery, nothing but fear and sorrow, for him. He was so lonely. He was so scared. He was so bitter.

And then here came Cascadepaw — untouchable Cascadepaw. Sister-in-law of royalty, or whatever she and her sisters were. He’d gone on trial the same time as her mother had, but did she care about him? Even though he made it out of there alive, did anyone care that he was suffering? That part of him was still sitting there in silent terror upon the podium, blood wetting his paws? No. No one did.

He watched her as she passed with a silent, heavy, icy glower over the top of his nest, not at all surprised that she hadn’t noticed little old him but resenting her all the same for it. When she finally saw him and launched into her apology, Leveretpaw stayed silent, barely blinking. He stayed silent till it stretched out to a tense, violent awkwardness, broken finally by Cascadepaw’s next round of deferential babbling. Even though she was paying him attention, it was just because he was tom. It wasn’t real attention. That made the bitterness coil tighter in his stomach. “What could you do?” he finally muttered, quiet enough to hold corrosive acid but too quiet to do damage, turning away pointedly and flopping back down in his nest, cheek resting against the moss and body curled uncomfortably where he couldn’t move his back leg. That was all Leveretpaw was: too much of something, too little of something else — never enough for anything, never following through. Even his resentment would be brushed off as sweet, dumb Leveretpaw — who ever heard of anger living in such dove-grey softness? His breath stirred the moss, coming weak and lethargic, like even breathing was a misery. Even this kindness he had to push away; he didn’t deserve it, not after what he was doing for Bermondsey. “You’re too much of a princess to fetch moss. Haven’t you heard? You’re moving up in the world.”

He still wasn’t looking at her, his voice dull and quiet and sullen against the muffling moss. He squirmed down deeper into his nest, wanting to hide completely from the world, from all these eyes that wouldn’t care, that wouldn’t blink twice, if he just disappeared completely. Oleanderpaw probably wouldn’t even notice. What did it matter to her if the friend who lived in her shadow was gone one night? She had them… Didn’t matter if he was hopelessly in love with her, didn’t matter if he would die for her, didn’t matter that he almost had — it was always about them, never about him. She was his best friend, he was happy with that — but what was he to her? He’d always been happy to take affection from his peerless understanding of her, to take I’m glad I have yous from shut up and leave me alone, you loser freak; he’d known, that was all that had mattered, and he’d found it so funny, had never been wounded by it — he was her best friend too, he knew that. And then, one night, one random night, he’d looked over and seen how beautiful she was — and that one realisation had ruined everything. Ruined his happiness with their stupid, innocent, unspoken friendship, their inseparable companionship. He wished more than anything that he could go back to before he’d thought it at all, when they’d just been two kits, two apprentices — when he’d just been the lackey, the advisor who spoke the language of Oleanderpaw when no one else did, who carried her three pink fur coats and her handbag and was happy with that. Because now it was all tainted. He wasn’t the friend who’d watched her with a fond, platonic smile as she tried her luck with older apprentices, or looked on anxiously and kneaded at the ground as she embarrassed herself, or carried her things when they went on Oleanderpaw-dictated adventures he never had a say in. Now he’d grown into a NightClan tom. And it had broken his heart. His soft, gentle, quiet heart — he more than anything wanted to cry in disgust and fear at the state of it.

Even his nest hadn’t been changed in a few days; he wasn’t worth the quota of fresh moss. It was stale and too warm. Leveretpaw’s throat tightened around his own meanness; this wasn’t him, this wasn’t his heart. And yet that horrible ache in his chest that it gave him felt like some hopeless rebellion, like punishment — if they didn’t want his softness, then he’d give bile instead. Even if it hurt him more than it did them. Even if he was the only one it stung with his own pain, with the overthinking and the guilt it gave him in place of sleep. Dark rings had formed under his eyes because of it.

Finally, though, the guilt won out. “Thank you, though,” he breathed, so soft, so quiet, that it was almost lost to the moss. His back was still to her. “I am a bit. Thirsty, I mean. And you don’t…” The meanness came back in a rush of sudden, miserable anger; his voice choked tearfully around it, and that only made him angrier — because he was pathetic. “You don’t have to be so stupid. You can look me in the eye — I’m not any different to you or any of your stupid sisters.” Even though he wasn’t looking at her either. He wiped his nose forcefully with the back of his paw, sniffling hatefully in his nest.