And like that it had ended. Quicker than he’d been expecting, too.

KIER! Startled out of his mind, Kier fell out of bed. Lying on his side, stunned, on the stone floor beside Sagebristle’s nest for only a second, he scrambled onto his stomach, half pushing himself up and staring wide-eyed at the den entrance. Then, finally, as Moonblight began to speak again and proved it hadn’t just been a hallucination while he had been in the depths of illicit transgressions with Sagebristle, Kier hissed a curse and scrambled up more fully, frantically shaking dust from his fur. And then he cursed again, and again, and again, in rapid-fire succession, all the while Moonblight was speaking; he ran his paw down his own cheek, stopping to tap his claws anxiously against his teeth as his eyes darted about, thinking in a panic. It was the equivalent of madly trying to find and pick up all his clothes scattered across the floor while the stairs creaked the seconds down beyond the door. And then, finally, Moonblight had stopped speaking. Kier fell quiet, listening. Knowing he was out of time, and with a sinking feeling eating him alive, Kier pressed his nose to Sagebristle’s forehead in the silence one last time, though now it felt more like an order than intimacy, and told her with quiet forcefulness, “stay in here.” He could have said something like stay in here or I’ll kill the kits I know you’ve remembered, but for whatever reason, he didn’t; his heart wasn’t in it. Truly wasn’t in it. Really, he felt quite sick about all this — quite… stricken.

For moons he’d been wishing Moonblight would come back, that he would come back and find him with his mate and he would get to see that look on his face, get to gloat and preen, nevermind what Sagebristle felt — never mind what Sagebristle felt. Now, it felt almost bittersweet. It would be sad to see it all go, to have to let it go. He’d miss it, really he would. Whatever else could be said of Sagebristle, he liked her; they’d always had a connection, had always been equals, however hateful, and he’d come to grow fond of always having her there, even if they never talked of anything of consequence. He liked her company. They were better off platonic, he’d quickly worked that out, though it hadn’t stopped anything once he’d committed to the game — but they really could have been great friends.

Oh, well. It was just another thing to miss and move on from; he was good at that. Very good at putting things behind him and pretending they didn’t ache. Very good at pretending loneliness wasn’t a sad, unloved kit in his heart.

“Well — Moonblight!” he greeted, as cheerily casual as he could manage; really, he felt quite nervous about all this, quite reluctant. He’d thought— well, he’d thought he’d have longer. And he hadn’t really prepared for the unpleasantness of this; in his mind it would be fun, and he could— well, he would make it fun. But it wasn’t as genuine as he would have liked. There was a slight quiver to him that wasn’t all pleasure. Kier slowed from where he’d padded out of Sagebristle’s den, leaning against the entryway like that would block his view of her if she decided to poke her head out. His fur was mussed; clearly he’d just been in bed — which, when Kier was usually so obsessive about being overworked, was unusual in itself. More than that, he smelled of someone very much not his mate. He gave Moonblight a beaming, welcoming grin. “You’re home early! Really, we weren’t expecting you.”

Oh, he could already feel this was falling apart: Laertes was meant to be away when Moonblight came back with his siblings, so that Kier could ease him into the idea and reassure no harm would befall them; and instead he would see them, and he was sick — Kier was sure of that now, and it made his stomach buzz with silent, overwhelmed indecision. He hadn’t had a chance to say goodbye to Sagebristle yet, and he had been enjoying himself after the successful League raid, everything had been good, and now Laertes was sick, and—

And that was why he abandoned all the previous plans he’d been building for weeks, the plans that had made him nurture Sagebristle’s amnesia in the first place. The stage wasn’t set yet. It wasn’t ready. And, as adaptable as Kier was, he could also be extraordinarily petulant when something didn’t go precisely as he had envisaged it in his mind — and this wasn’t what it was meant to be. The puppets, the script, the actors — they weren’t right. This tantrum building within him felt like a panic attack, tight-chested and frustrated and bewildered and afraid. They had to start again— they had to go back to their places in the wings— it wasn’t ready yet. Moonblight had to go. He had to go and come back.

His eyes roved around the camp, but even that felt scripted, not quite genuine, like he wasn’t quite seeing anything. When they landed on Laertes’ sisters, he was too quick to say, “ah, you’ve brought them — good! That only took you,” he laughed, an unfunny sound; if he could have checked his wristwatch, he would have, but instead he just darted a slightly tense look around, “months! I’d— you know, I’d hoped we’d have some sort of banquet ready for when you came home — and I’m sure we don’t have a nest ready for you. There was a blight, you know — ha! Blight! — on the moss, in storage, and it all went horribly black. It’s been hell trying to get any new… stuff.” He hoped to whatever gods there were that Sagebristle wouldn’t slink out behind him and have some sort of emotional lovers’ reunion in front of him; he was suddenly feeling terribly vulnerable, on the other side of the cavern to most of his guards, hemmed in by Moonblight in front of him and Sagebristle somewhere behind. “So, I tell you what — much as it pains me, perhaps you ought to spend the day outside and come back tomorrow night. Mm? It shouldn’t be too difficult — you’ve been living on the road for weeks, haven’t you?” He smiled, every bit the generous host trying to usher an unwelcome visitor out the door, still trying to keep a wide distance between himself and Moonblight so he wouldn’t catch Sagebristle’s scent on him; if Moonblight came closer, Kier would step back, until he would end up walking backwards round the whole cave to keep space between them. “Yes— I think that’s the best idea. Thank you for the kits, we’ll take care of them — and, we’ll see you when you get back!” He offered him a truly guiltless grin, like they were just going to fluff the pillows and play charades while he was gone — boring things; he wouldn’t miss out on anything. Off he should go.

After the battle, after the trip to Summerclan, Druzyprince had gotten worse, and half of his time was spent asleep. When he was awake, he was slow and sluggish, drowsy and nauseous, though he always attempted to brush it off. He had moved back to the Royal Guard's den, taken his usual place in the very back, turned away from the others, and it was there that he laid while Moonblight — a member of the Royal Guard, one he hardly knew at all — had stumbled into camp. 

KIER!

Just as it had startled Kier, the shout had awoken Druzyprince as well, and his head shot up, though he lowered it again at a wave of dizziness, vision spotting until it was completely dark, only briefly, before clearing up again. He wouldn't have bothered to get up at all — he was on bedrest, and there were things Kier could handle himself (besides, it wasn't like he was the only guard in the camp) — but the tom's next words sparked a flame of interest and, with a grunt, he rose to his paws, unsteady, and paused to balance. I've done my part of the deal, now keep the end of yours! He paused to poke his head out of the den, eyes still bleary as they focused on Kier first. He stepped further, head tilted at his words, brows furrowed. He wasn't aware of any deal between them, though he supposed that would explain why he hadn't seen Moonblight around, but usually — he tried not to be upset — Druzyprince was present for them, an added intimdating force, a threat towards agreement, a clerk. Finally, eyes mostly clear, he lifted his head to look towards Moonblight, the confusion tinged with interest still on his face. My kits and my mate. 

He slunk through the quickly gathering cats, breaking through the front not only to get a closer look but to stand by Kier's side, just in case, but then his eyes found — he paused, standing straight and still and alert, eyes widening. In the hands of a guard were his sisters, rough and worn and not supposed to be here, though he noted they were unharmed, but it didn't stop the fur rising on his shoulders, and neither did it stop the fiery, accusatory look he cast towards Kier. He stepped forward again, "what is going on?" He asked, voice husky, "what are they," he jabbed his head for emphasis, but it only made a pain blossom behind his eyes, "doing here?" He closed the distance between him and Kier, voice no more than a confused whisper, "they aren't supposed to be here. What are they doing here?" 

There was a panicked, stricken look to him, fur raised, ears flattened, eyes wide — not only because his sisters had been kidnapped, brought here, to Nightclan, but because they would recognize him, and surely his parents would come get them (was that what Kier wanted, to bring them here?), and because they were supposed to be left alone, Druzyprince had made that deal long ago. 

The russet and black she-cat had been curled snugly in her nest. Her dreams had carried her to her own fantasies of paradise. She had been lost in vibrant, distant lands only to be snatched back into horrid reality at the sound of a familiar voice cutting through the nearly silent camp. Her body shuddered -- startled. In seconds, she was on her feet -- eyes wide, tail fluffed, ears flattened back against her dark russet head.

She blinked her green eyes to adjust them, and she could see that other clanmates had been woken by the commotion as well. Falconfright followed suit with them into the camp. Her eyes darted around, finally finding the source.

Kier in front of his den, Moonblight standing indignantly, and Sagebristle emerging beside Kier. It was easy to put together what had been taking place between Kier and Sagebristle. The rest, she did not know much of. Despite having no involvement, her heart thundered with adrenaline. Her brain was clearing of the sleepy fog. She watched, unsure of how this was all going to play out or where she needed to stand for that matter. Who was in the wrong here? For once, the reporter found something she knew nothing of.

Sagebristle.

The sight of his mate seemed like a breath of fresh air, a means of catharsis for him. There was a calm that seemed to wash over Moonblight like waves on a beach as she approached behind Kier...wait. His brow furrowed in confusion. Something wasn't right. Why was she coming from his den, and without guards? Why did she look at him like such, as if he was barely a stranger? He had never seen Sagebristle react like such; she had always reacted some way or another, whether with anger at his perceived stupidity or ridicule, the kind of teasing and ribbing that only two cats who had grown up together would have. He had expected her to call out his name, to look as relieved as he was that they were both okay, even a sense of affection glowing in her eyes...but there was nothing. There was also a lack of kits; his blood ran cold.

He knew she had given birth. He had heard from others, traded in kills for bits of information. Three kits, kits with names he had yet to hear. Kits he had hoped to see, standing by her side. Moonblight knew something was wrong, something was very, very wrong.

"Where's the kits?" his voice fought to keep still, to keep from wavering as the look of relief slowly transformed into panic. "Sagebristle, where are the kits?" His voice was firmer now. He took a step forward towards her, uncertain of why she was acting like this. "Are you okay? Is everything okay?"

It was clear that no one else was in his sight other than his mate right now; even Kier was dismissed to the role of a background character rather than the antagonist of his life. All he needed to do was make sure she was fine, the kits were fine; he'd find a way for them to get out of here if that was the last thing he'd do.

---

Despite being one of the kits that were actually kidnapped, Nour seemed...unfazed by it all. Instead of fear or trepidation or wailing about missing her parents, she was in fact, rather calm. Curious, even. Perhaps having lived too long as royalty had made her foolish, naive even, but it was clear there was no sense of naivete in her gaze, only the entitlement that came with being a princess. The world was her kingdom and all were her servants after all. There was no fear for her life or for her well-being; oh no, Nour had gotten rid of that half a lifetime ago.

In fact, it wasn't really Nour who had done the deed. No, it was Laertes, or was it Druzyprince now? The moment she was dropped to the side, she found herself prancing about, exploring NightClan's cave with a newfound curiosity, as she peered at the cats nearby. She found herself trotting up to the russet she-cat, her head tilted to the side, her bulging eyes and rat-like stare made her seem even more eldritch than usual.

"Well you don't look like much but you'll do," she announced, as if dubbing the cat her knight, "mind giving me a ride up there? They said my brother's here somewhere and I need to find him and kick his...well, if I tell you the plan it won't be such a secret plan anymore."

by jove i think i’ve done it, i’ve written my longest ever reply


As Moonblight marched closer, Kier backed away, smiling up at him until his flank bumped into the stone outer wall of Sagebristle’s den. My kits and my mate. He let out a nervous titter at the contact with the wall, trying to edge slightly to the side so he could slip out and dance anxiously away the second Moonblight showed any sign of being distracted from looming over him. I’m not going to ask you again. “Of course,” Kier replied fawningly, slimily, though there was the sticky hint of slyness even as he dipped his head subserviently. Even as he bowed and scraped, as he had done to gain power in the first place, there was still that ominous undertone of untrustworthy acquiescence, of smiling, clear-eyed submission that would lead to a rickety bridge and a fall into a plunging, misty chasm, all because you’d taken the friendly stranger on the side of the road at his word when you’d asked for directions. “Right away. Though, there might be a slight problem with… well, really, both of those things.” He showed his teeth, but it wasn’t quite a grin; it was triumph. Kier’s destructive affection for Moonblight had waned; now he was two heartbeats away from ordering his throat to be ripped out. Kier’s power has grown exponentially since last they’d seen each other; if he didn’t fall in line, if he didn’t bow, his head would be the thing falling. They were so close to the grand finale, to the great reveal— anticipation shook the very air, robbed it of its oxygen— his eyes widened with hungry glee, his lungs filled, his smiling mouth opened—

And then Laertes was in front of him. When he jabbed his muzzle towards him, Kier did a tiny double take, his demeanour instantly changing; from where he was still backed up against the wall, the air between him and Moonblight thick and hot, he managed to turn slightly, back scraping against the wall. He was still in his shadow, but he could look at Laertes a little more — desperately, with a hint of frantic pleading on his face, his head drawn back slightly as he stared at him with such accusation. Accusation enough to sting — or maybe that was just the sting of a liar caught in a lie. Oh, this was all falling apart. He had so many things he had to de-escalate at once, so many things going on — Moonblight, Laertes, Sagebristle at any minute now; Pantherpaw had just given birth; Snowblister was probably lurking somewhere waiting to capitalise on this bewilderment. With Laertes in front of him now, demanding answers, didn’t know whether to lie or tell the truth or how much to lie. It was all just disintegrating. But one thing at a time — that was all he could do. His voice was different when he spoke to Bermondsey’s son — soothing, gentle, run through with genuine care, despite its slight breathlessness as he sought to explain this one thing, with fitting attention and earnestness, in a line-up of a thousand before he had to turn his attention to the rest. This one thing, and then the next, and the next, and the next, trying to keep all the strings untangled with his claws. “Before you came to NightClan,” he began with that breathlessness, eyes locked with Laertes’, “before I had any idea of what had happened between you and your parents, I made a deal with Moonblight — my kits had just died and I was furiously angry. Eris blamed the League and she wanted to hurt your father — we both did. So I sent Moonblight to find your sisters — not to hurt them, Laertes, but just because— kits for kits, you know.“ There was something desperate in him now, more desperate than with Moonblight. He was lying — the poison accidentally in Laertes’ system was proof of that: Kier’s vendetta wasn’t going away. He had been presented with an opportunity and he had still taken advantage, no matter how it might have hurt Laertes. Even he couldn’t contend with his own vindictiveness. It had infected him. He licked his lips, talking fast from his awkward position, half propped up on his back paws against the stone wall, not able to properly move. “If I was given the chance to make the deal now, I wouldn’t — I wouldn’t betray your trust. I know how you care for your sisters. But I was grieving.” And now his voice, his eyes, were plaintive, pleading, trying to make him see his perspective. “It was a ridiculous idea, I’d forgotten all about it — we’ll take them straight back. I’m sorry, Laertes.” He stared into his eyes. He was the only one he ever said he was sorry to. “Grief warped me beyond recognition. I was— I was doing it for my mate. I would have done the same for you if you’d asked it of me.” Perhaps it was a hideous thing to say; to Kier, gazing pleadingly into Laertes’ eyes, it was devotion.

More than anyone else in the world, Kier cared about what Laertes thought of him. He knew Eris couldn’t be dissuaded, knew that no matter how bad, how terrible, he was, she’d keep on loving him; their trust in each other was implicit and mystical and unfathomable. Otherworldly, or so deeply of this one. But Laertes… Every day of his life, he lived in terror that he would change his mind. That he would finally see the truth — all that Kier was, all that he made him do — for what it was and turn his back on him. He felt sick with it, with that desperate need to retain Laertes’ love. It was like his moral compass — he needed it. No matter how devoted Laertes seemed, that fear still ate at him — one day it would change; one day he would leave him. And then where would he be? Without him? He was the backbone of his humanity, his purest comfort, his goodness. He needed him. He loved him.

And, really, it was hell trying to keep the terms of all his deals in line with one another — sometimes a betrayal of one point was unavoidable. Necessary. Kier had made the deal with Laertes, the one about leaving his sisters out of it, so long ago — surely there was a point when the lease ran out. A statute of limitations. He meant it when he signed his name to contracts — if there was guilty fine print that said how long the deal would last for, it was their fault for not paying closer attention. A businessman had to work. He cared for Laertes — but that far trumped his loyalty to any one specific deal. He was loyal to him, not to the terms of their agreement. Kier was, fundamentally, devoted, earnest, committed; and Kier was, fundamentally, a traitor and a liar. The two weren’t mutually exclusive. He was loyal to the person, not the contract — they just had to understand that. That was his steadfast love. He was a creature of loopholes and spontaneous amendments.

And much as it might have made him sigh, might have made him weary, this was his and Eris’ war. His conscious brain could tell him all the ways it was illogical, all the ways it would end in ruin, and he wouldn’t listen — because they had hurt them, hurt her. And it went beyond that, explained why he still wanted more when they already had Kate; went beyond even his devotion to Eris’ wishes — it was rooted in his youth, in his own narcissistic need to conquer and usurp and make things his own, in his dissatisfaction with how his life had gone in the League — it was his father’s fault that he’d needed to kill him to join Aspenstar — that compelled his obsession with dominating them. His insane, burning grief at the loss of his and Eris’ kits; his kithood trauma; his love for Eris — it all melded into some melting pot of violence, a melting pot one could take their pick of motive from and always find it dripping with selfishness, with blindness, with confusing pain. But now, even as Laertes looked at him with that betrayal, there was no regret, no pain, not here, not now, not in this heady concoction of fallout — he was gleeful, he was triumphant, he was high on the burning height of his own power. His blown pupils were proof of that. Sometimes, in the weeks before the raid on the League, he had doubted his own actions, his own vendetta against the League — not because it was wrong, but because he knew there would be terrible consequences, some unthinkable blowback, and it would be coming soon. Because he had been impulsive. Even then, there wasn’t precise regret — he wanted the League dead; he wasn’t sorry he had ordered it. But there was, in this world after the ash had settled, a certain… Perhaps it was just the acceptance of a general: he knew the fallout was inevitable, and he wasn’t sorry for it — but sometimes, when he’d been lying beside his mate in the dreary mid-day light, it had tired him. But not now. Now, what had been uncertain and doubtful and frightening had become utterly vindicated. His confidence had grown to unprecedented heights — he had bested Bermondsey; he had robbed him of his kits; he was a god. All his feelings were amplified to pure fire, pure semi-erotic passion; he could feel every electric hair on his pelt, and yet he was part of the cosmos itself — this little life was nothing. His chest was thick with the purest form of joy, with rage repaid tenfold, with the utter success of everything he’d ever set his sights on. He had never failed, not once, not once in his life — he’d wanted this; he’d gotten it. His belief in himself had been paid back; how could he ever have doubted himself? He never would again. And he could have— oh, the things he could have done in his trembling joy were unspeakable. He was desperate to be alone with Eris. But both these things were true at the same time: he wasn’t sorry for what he had done, and he was sorry for what it meant for Laertes. He hated Laertes’ father; he loved Laertes. He was gleeful; his chest ached with remorse, if only for one cat in all the world. Everything he said to Laertes, if not the words then the emotions, was true — the way he looked into his eyes, that was true. He was lying; he was truthful. goldcrest

And then movement beside Laertes caught his attention, and he had to move onto the next thing. Kier turned his head more, just enough to see Sagebristle pad out of the den — and now the show resumed. Like Laertes didn’t exist at all, Kier turned his head back to Moonblight from where he’d been gazing at Sagebristle, giving him a nasty grin. With reptilian slipperiness, he ducked down and dipped out from in front of Moonblight, slinking around to stand beside Sagebristle. He smiled at Moonblight from beside the other tom’s mate, his eyes narrowed with something between cruelty and pure pleasure. “Oh, yes, she’s fine,” he replied, his voice equal parts high, needling cheer and sly double meaning; and from the way they stood beside each other, that meaning was clear — they shared a little inside understanding. “She’s been well looked after in your absence, very well looked after.”

But as Moonblight drew closer, there was something about Kier’s eyes that became almost defensive; he stayed still and stiff, his eyes not leaving the other tom even as all of Moonblight’s attention moved away from him — and maybe it was that lack of attention that soured him so terribly. As he watched Moonblight approach Sagebristle from beside her, Kier felt anger. He felt jealousy. Maybe he was a little wilfully oblivious, because as much as the reasonable part of him knew Sagebristle’s memories had all but returned, saw the barely-hidden disgust in her eyes and the anger tensing her body when she lay beside him, the part that was happy, that was lonely, was all too eager to push that aside and smile through and pretend they really were the happy family — not in a way that had anything to do with love, just in a way that had everything to do with friendly delusions. So as he watched them now, he felt jealous not because he loved Sagebristle, she was nothing next to Eris, but because he liked her — she was his… his… whatever to visit in her den and have her groom him between the ears like a kit, she was always there, she was a comforting, constant presence; she was his. If one will allow his narrator to translate what he was actually feeling but failing to realise, it was that Sagebristle was his friend. And he didn’t have any. Aside from his wife and the kit he had manipulated since childhood. And all his feelings had gotten twisted and confused, as they always did, through the physical intimacy they’d shared, and he couldn’t understand that what he was feeling was just sad, confused, child-like jealousy at seeing someone else coming in to break up his sleepover and his friendship and take her away from him. But the thing is, a child’s jealousy is one of the most hateful things in the world; and when the one feeling it is a child only in an emotionally stunted sense, when the one feeling it has kits as hostages and an army, the red, twisting, violently wounded jealousy in their heart, the jealousy that felt equal parts lost and stricken, like a staring, uncomprehending kit, becomes indescribably dangerous.

And when Kier felt jealous, whole kingdoms were brought down. You wanted to be anywhere else but there.

But he was infinitely gratified about one thing: Sagebristle stayed standing beside him. What did that say about them? About her loyalty? What did that say to Moonblight? He certainly wasn’t doing himself any favours by walking in here so violent and angry — he was everything Kier had told Sagebristle he was. The lie wasn’t a lie at all; he was a monster. His stomach thrummed with smug, cocky appeasement that warred with the seething, roiling, barely contained jealousy. He was sick with it. He didn’t like to share his playthings. Sagebristle belonged to him — because he was hurt; because she was his friend. “Well,” he suddenly announced from close beside Sagebristle when she still didn’t answer, and it was clear that he was drawing the curtain on their greeting; it had left a sour taste in his mouth. He used the same words as he always did, but his voice was different — humourless, abrupt, faintly angry. “My, my, what a happy reunion. Yes, a happy reunion for the happy couple — why don’t you tell him all about that, Sagebristle?” He turned his head to smile at her. And then, suddenly, he was laughing, his chest shaking. “You know — it really was a happy accident!” He could have snatched Sagebristle closer, as he often did with she-cats — could have held her to him by the neck, by the waist. But instead, Kier draw his tail with such possessive tenderness down her flank, her spine, looking at her with a fond, lingering smile dripping with meaning. “When I found her, it was all gone — you, your kits, me. Even me. Hit her head, you know. Such a,” he laughed, stroking Sagebristle again, this time with his paw against her cheek; his eyes still hadn’t left her, his head tilted affectionately where he gazed at her, “silly little accident. But a pleasurable one. Mm?” He smiled. “We did have some lovely times.” He looked back at Moonblight, quick and nasty. It was the crueller touch precisely because of its gentleness — precisely because Sagebristle let him do it, no firm grip needed.

And then the smile was gone completely. “She’s not yours anymore,” Kier sneered, his paw dropping from Sagebristle’s cheek like she suddenly meant nothing; he leaned in towards Moonblight, any pretence of joviality dropped as he slunk closer. Now he just wanted to antagonise him, hurt her, stab and infect so they carried him with them always, even when they left. He knew how this ended; he just wanted to stab himself into the heart of them first. “I’ve been keeping her bed warm ever since you went away — yes, and she loved it. She’ll tell you she didn’t, but in those early weeks, oh, she fell in love with me. You can take her back, you can leave with her, you can go and build your happy little home, but I’ll always be there.” He whipped his head around to Sagebristle, slightly hunched, slightly defensive again, despite how certain he was about what he was saying — he knew it; it just made him desperately angry to think she might try and dispute it to herself, for Moonblight. There was no refinement in his voice now that the ruse was over; it was all just hissing emotion. “And you can’t lie to me. You can lie to him all you like, but your body didn’t lie, Sagebristle. It was hungry for me.” He stared at her for a moment longer, gaze burning, and then looked back to Moonblight. “She’s learned her place. All she-cats enjoy being there once they’ve been put in it.” He almost spat the word put, his hackles prickling slightly. And then, suddenly, Bermondsey’s brat, who he had been fully aware of the whole time like an incessantly nagging fly at the edge of his vision, utterly snapped his patience. “Will someone get that miserable little chit,” he shrieked, “out,” his voice rose louder, almost shattering around the hateful highness of it, “of my sight?” He meant Nour, and it was an order to Falconfright — to anyone. Lock them up, he wanted to scream till his throat was torn, but because Laertes was still there, he held back, shook around it instead. amongthefallen  Enderwoxxu

It was because this was all happening in public — that was why he had become so erratic. If it were the monumental thing it was supposed to be, an audience would be joyful — but instead Laertes was watching, and the crowd was silent, and he suddenly hated the limelight with every cell in his body. Falconfright, Tigersight, Bearspots — as all of the warriors padded out to peer curiously at the scene, every new addition made his heart pound and his throat strangle with hunted anxiety. They all wanted his blood. He calmed a second later, smoothing the fur on his forehead with a shuddering, unsteady breath and turning his attention back to Moonblight — but it wasn’t really calm; it was the most burning anger he’d ever shown. He trembled with it. “So maybe it isn’t the brightest idea to present me with ultimatums,” he hissed unsteadily at Moonblight, little more than a cold, quiet breath. “One look from me and the daughter gets her neck snapped. And then, why not! We’ll go for the sons. Perhaps it’s the most merciful option — yes, perhaps it’s the most merciful. They won’t be happy to see you, anyway!” It came out almost in a singsong, theatrical sort of voice, like a taunting announcement so confident in what it was saying — or so desperate to be confident, to know it was true, that all of this hadn’t just unravelled, that he hadn’t been left completely bereft. But still his voice shook; for the first time since the first trial, he was losing his cool. “The traitor returned — who would want a father like that? No, I think you’ll find they like me rather better than they like you. I’ve been there for them, Moonblight.” He drew closer, his head thrust forward to look up at Moonblight and his neck strangely twisted, like a wolf might show his throat. “For their first time out of camp and the time Cornkit had a little nightmare and the first time they ate solid meat — I was there. I was there,” he repeated in a hiss, now almost muzzle to muzzle with Moonblight despite the size difference, his grey eyes wild with hate, “and then I was in your mate’s bed in the evening.” sunlight achromatic

Sagebristle remained silent and still for the entirety of Kier's monologue, watching passively. She didn't react when he touched her, when he spoke of the things they had done before and after the return of her memories, when he shrieked about the mysterious child that Moonblight had brought back with him. It took every ounce of self-control in her body to stay still, to not recoil or plead for absolution from the tom she'd betrayed both unknowingly and purposefully. The first real reaction she had was in response to the mention of her children- a daughter, and two sons. She knew as much from Duskpaw, and she even knew their names. But hearing Kier speak Cornkit's name aloud... her jaw tightened, and she forcibly swallowed. The ruse was up. She knew, Kier knew she knew, and Moonblight knew what she had done.

She could see the fury that overtook Moonblight, the stiffness of his movements and the murderous gleam in his eyes. She expected something, some kind of rage aimed at her for what she'd done. The concern she found there instead splintered her, and Sagebristle took a step back- the first movement she'd made since exiting the den. He should be disgusted with her- he should hate her. At least then it would take away the burden of hating herself. Because Kier had not lied. Before she knew, she had thoroughly enjoyed her time with him, and even afterwards, with the disgust she felt towards him... her body's reactions to him had betrayed her on more than one occasion. She should've viewed Kier with the utmost hatred- and she did, but there was the lingering effects of the weeks of physical proximity, the remnants of trust and friendship, even if it had all been a lie.

The return of her memories had not been a panacea for the positive view of him, and it should've been. Sagebristle was furious at the world, at Kier, at Aspenstar, at Phantomfox, at Jasper, at Moonblight, at herself. If she didn't cling to the rage, she would have nothing left but a hollow emptiness. It was all too much, and she longed for some semblance of peace, of quiet, like the kind she'd had with Moonblight for a few short moons before her world had turned upside down. But it was a peace she couldn't have now. If she accepted this gentleness from Moonblight, she would break down. She would forget what she needed to do. And so she stepped away.

"I'm fine, and so are they," she said, more sharply than she intended. "Thanks for the concern." Her eyes met his, a swirl of confusion and fear and determination. She gave him a long look, one she hoped Kier wouldn't be able to read from his side angle, pleading with Moonblight to drop it. Let it go, step back, leave her alone.

Kier stared into Moonblight’s eyes unblinkingly, the corner of his mouth twitching with expectation, with hate, with thrumming excitement, barely breathing, so ensnared in the blind, waiting adrenaline of the moment that the tiniest rise and fall of his chest and the minuscule movements of his pupils were the only sign that he was still conscious at all—

And then he was moving past him.

For a moment, Kier looked completely bewildered, like he’d just been awoken from a dream — almost hurt. He licked his lips, frowning in a wounded sort of uncomprehending anger and turning to follow Moonblight with his eyes as he went to Sagebristle. He began to breathe again. “What, that’s it?” Kier exclaimed, a little disbelievingly hysterical in his disappointment, in his hurt. If there was one thing Kier was obsessed with, it was attention — and if there was one way to wound him, to drive him insane, it was ignoring him, not giving him the rise he wanted, acting like all the time, all the effort, he’d put into something didn’t affect you at all. He was quiet for a second as he listened to Moonblight speak to Sagebristle and watched her reply, and then he was talking again, still with that uncomprehending anger, like he’d been left out of the joke, like he had to cover all his bases of reaction just because he didn’t understand what was happening. “I said all of that and you’re just fine with it? What else do I have to do? If you think this is the way to get your kits back, Moonblight, you’re sorely mistaken.”

And then Moonblight was turning back to him. And the relief, the vindication, the rush of sighing glee, because he was the centre of attention again, warred with the flash of fear at the look in his eyes. He stepped back involuntarily. He’d expected more reaction, less icy anger — more fire and violence, less calculated hate, and frankly, it was… Even to him it was off-putting. He’d misjudged this one. Kier stepped back again, over and over as Moonblight drew closer. And then, suddenly, he got himself back under control and stopped, lurching to a dead stop. He looked up at Moonblight, not letting himself retreat no matter how unnerved he was, no matter how afraid. “Well…” he replied, and the nervous, slimy tremour splintered through the ice; the part of him that would have bowed and simpered to his brother warred with the brutality of his power. “I think I’ve rather said it as best I can. There’s not much else to say, is there?” He laughed, but it sounded more forced than his usual effortless grins. Kier raised his chin, eyes still locked with the other tom’s. They became almost pitying as he continued, his head inclining slightly like he was sharing an understanding companionship with him. “I do love to gloat, Moonblight, but truthfully, I’ve had better. If it hadn’t been for the promise of what it would do to you, I wouldn’t have gone back after the first time—“ Now the grin that speared across his face was more genuine, eyes lighting with a sick sort of excitement. Even the slight twitch he often had to him when he was close to Moonblight, like he kept half-blinking, half-wincing, half-bracing himself for a beating that never came, dissipated for a second in the glee. “Or the second. Or the third.” He tittered, shoulders shuddering, and suddenly swept away from him.

If there was one thing Kier hated, it was being embarrassed, showed up, feeling small — he had gotten himself a crown so he would never have to feel small again, and so this, oh, this made his blood boil just beneath his skin in a whole new way. All his warriors, his apprentices, his nursemaids, his deputy — they could doubt him now, turn away with the illusion of their great dictator shattered, but he’d have them back; he’d kill a hundred to show up ten — shock and awe, sheer violence, and him, there, at the top, a thousand times closer to the heavens than he was before.

No one ever got the better of him.

Nursemaids told the kits in their care that Kier’s ears were so fine he could hear blood vessels scraping together. He did nothing to dispel the frightening rumours and everything to cultivate them — he knew everything. He heard everything. He saw everything. This little show wouldn’t change that, not in the long run. He could have ordered ten fighters to descend on Moonblight, on Sagebristle too — could have watched them disappear beneath a writhing mass of vicious bodies, could have looked down at them after, all torn apart and skinless like they’d been dipped in a piranha tank. Could have mounted their bones on the wall. Could have? He would. Oh, he would. Moonblight wanted to kill him; he wanted to kill Moonblight; before this year was out, they’d kill each other. They’d lie on the ground beside each others, claws still tangled, bodies streaked with blood down to the marrow. But not now. The stage wasn’t right. Such an adversary didn’t die like this, under the ground in the shadows with only one cat he loved to see — he needed a spectacle. Kier had a thing for spectacles. For mind games. For performance art. And this wasn’t right. One of his apprentices was worth ten of Moonblight — brainwashing like that didn’t grow on trees; it had taken time, and with the frustrating matter of how long it took for kits to cook in their mother’s bellies, there wasn’t yet an endless stream of new pawns just waiting to have their heads filled. He hated Moonblight, but he didn’t underestimate him; if he killed even one apprentice, that was a price too high. No. He’d die, and he’d die spectacularly — but it wouldn’t be tonight. Kier could be patient; all his life he’d been nothing but patient. He had patience in the place of a soul. He could live with a little loss of status in the meantime; he could live with cats whispering and snickering behind their paws because he’d shown weakness. Weakness today was a thousand pleading sobs tomorrow — and the whispers would turned to knees in the dirt when the whips came down on their backs and two more prized skulls were added to his throne, terror multiplied precisely because he’d bided his time and caught them off guard.

So, as Kier turned his back to Moonblight and waltzed away from him, he continued to titter — until, finally, he turned back to him in front of his lines of warriors. “So go away, Moonblight,” he told him, not with anger, but with weary cheer, like they’d had a wonderful time together but he really ought to have been heading home — didn’t want to outstay his welcome. “Take your little used goods with you, or leave her here — go plan your revenge in whatever little hovel you can make for yourself, and take her to bed like that’ll wash the smell of me out of her, and fill all that betrayal with anger,” he suddenly let out a breath, like he was tired of this, his brows upturned and his eyes pleading, “but go away. Oh— and the kits stay here. Yes, a mercy really — it would be so much harder if you had to actually look into their little faces and see that they didn’t know you from a stranger. Yes, from a stranger. One day, Moonblight, you’ll look back and realise I truly was doing this out of the goodness of my heart.” He gave him a thin little grin. It turned sour a second later. “But for now, get out. You are not a NightClan cat, you will never be a NightClan cat — the only thing you’ll be is rot for the pines if you’re caught within hearing of the border.” Now he turned to Sagebristle, smiling at her pleasantly past Moonblight and giving her a courteous little dip of his head. “If you’d like to stay, my dear, to be close to your little kits, you’re more than welcome — I expect I’m not welcome in your bed anymore but I always like to be proven wrong. If not, if you follow your mate into his noble exile, I’m afraid the same rules apply to you.” He clicked his tongue and looked her up and down. “Pity — you weren’t much but you were better than a kick in the teeth.” Then he turned his smile back to Moonblight, brows raised expectantly like he was seeing him off. “Alright? Is there anything else?”

Despite the apprentices and warriors at his back, he was still within striking distance of the other angry tom.

i was listening to 'lost' by crim3s the whole time while writing this and i really think it adds something to the ultimate vibes of a tragedy, highly recommend

Kier saw Moonblight lash out, and all he had time to do was widen his eyes before he was smashed against the cold stone. This was what he had wanted, what he had fantasised about all those weeks — but nothing about this was as it was meant to be, and it caught him by horrible, unwilling surprise. A kithood of abuse had left him with one mantra: don’t fight back. It ends quicker that way. It makes them less angry, and then they stop. He went still; he went quiet; he took the beatings and only rolled slowly, shakily onto his side when they grew bored of pitiful little Kiernan, not even good for a bit of fun. But months of being at the top of the pyramid had instilled within him a violent pride, and that warred now with that old, learned adage: he squirmed furiously, kicking out at Moonblight with his hind paws, trying to push back with his front ones even when it was clear it was useless, it was hopeless. But eventually, old instinct won out, as old instinct always will: Kier stopped fighting, and he turned his head away, and he squeezed his eyes shut, and he took it. You're pathetic. When Moonblight leaned down, Kier’s head was still turned away; his hot breath washed over his cheek, over his eyes still squeezed shut, over his pinched expression that looked like he wanted to stop listening but never could. When the former Royal Guard went on, however, Kier’s temper won out over his conditioned fear — was it Moonblight standing over him when his eyes were closed, or was it his brother, his sister — and he rolled his head to hiss up at him. His voice was spitting hate, aiming wildly at any sore point, any weak point, he could find; he couldn’t fight, but he could make a last ditch effort with his tongue, try to weasel out something that might sting. “I didn’t have to manipulate her, Moonblight, she was begging for it. And the only one who hasn’t been happy these past moons is you. Pathetic is the cat who’s never achieved anything in his life — look at you. Dumped in NightClan and now you’re being driven out, great lumbering refugee because of me, because of ME. I revolutionised NightClan. I took the momentum of empire and drove it higher. I created a kingdom of fanatics. All you’ve done is sulk like the cuck you are — maybe if you put a little of your commitment to that into commitment to some higher purpose, you wouldn’t be a mateless, kitless, homeless joke.” A hiss whispered through Kier’s teeth; he leaned up, drawing closer to the other tom’s face, straining against him. “That’s not pathetic.”

And then Moonblight’s claws were back on his face, drawing blood. Kier closed his eyes again and went back to silence, trying to protect them; he didn’t want to end up like Aspenstar. His face was set in a stubborn, hateful wince, but he didn’t make a sound; he never did. He never would. That was the last thing he had that was his. The longer he was under Moonblight, the longer everything in his mind began to fall apart: the misery crept in, and the kithood flashes, and the utter wrongness of everything about the night, until his chest felt hollow of rage and full of child-like suffering. Pathetic. The repetition of the word hit him harder the second time; he flinched involuntarily, eyes still closed. Until he threatened Eris, with a nastiness in his voice that reminded him of how he himself had sounded when he’d used Sagebristle, there had been bitter suffering, bitter grief, but no fear; now, the fear flooded. His mother would take Eris’ life for Kier’s; his sister would do it; Moonblight would do it — it was cowardice, it was dishonour, it was so soullessly senseless, and the terror of it tore his ribcage open. It gave fresh life — fresh, real meaning — to the sudden burst of anger. If he wasn’t going to kill Moonblight before, he was going to now. He had turned himself from a nuisance to triumph over into a threat to be doused in poison and left for the crows. “What am I waiting for?” he hissed, finally opening his eyes and turning his head back to look up at him; blood trickled into his eyes and turned the grey to red. “The same thing you are, Moonblight — the right time. And when it’s here, you can take as many lives as you like — they all can. But I’ll survive. I always do. And you only have one. You think you want to die now, but you’re just as much a cockroach as I am — you want to live. You want to keep going. The world could be over, you could be the last thing left in existence, and you’d want to live. For what? They don’t understand,” the words came out in a hiss more violent, more hateful, more emphatic than before; he meant them, all of them, “but we do. The second you get out of here, you’ll take all that hate and you’ll use it to live. And that’s what I want, Moonblight — the right time. Because when it’s here, I’m going to kill you,” he leaned up again, eyes locked with his and mouth twisted, “and it’s going to be a worthier death than underground with no one to care. Your little sister, your foster daddy in the League — yes, I know about him,” his voice was high, needling, breathy, all mockery and loathing, “what a shame you just stole his kits — they’ll make a proper audience. And how your kits will cheer.”

A Guard tore Moonblight back — and then another, and another, and another, till he was hauled up and back by his scruff, by his spine, like a wild horse rearing with its head in a lasso. The second his grip loosened, Kier was scrabbling, fighting back even if it was far too late, desperate to be free. He kicked out with his hind paws and rolled over, scrabbling to his paws inelegantly and half-rushing, half-stumbling back to the watching crowd. He coughed, trying to catch his breath as Moonblight was subdued, the warriors trying to pin him to the stone floor and restrain him; Speedyraptor had him against the spine, Sneakysnap’s jaws were tearing into his throat like she was trying to find the artery and hold it between her teeth to still him. Kier coughed again, half turning away as he held his paw to his mouth and tried not to draw attention to himself; he drew his paw back and felt a rush of uncertain fear as it came away bloody. Finally, enough quiet fell that it was clear the crowd was waiting for him to speak — he always did. He didn’t want to — he couldn’t — but he was always one to bow to an encore. Putting great care into keeping his steps steady as he padded back to Moonblight, he stood over him, looking down at him. He opened his mouth. For a moment, when he tried to talk, the words came out too thick, weighted around the hot, wet blood swimming in his mouth and bubbling past his teeth. He stopped, turning his head to the side and spitting it out. He tried again; his mouth was still full of blood, and it dribbled down his face from the wounds inflicted by Moonblight, but he could make himself heard. He would always make himself heard. “Get out,” he told him, and his voice was so quiet. So terrifyingly quiet. With the Guards holding Moonblight down like he were in a straitjacket, Kier reached out and slowly, so slowly, brushed his claws up his chest, his throat, finally finding his chin. He gripped it between his claws, tilting his head back until he was forced to look up at him with such demeaning power. He almost didn’t trust his legs not to buckle against the sight; they trembled violently. “Get out, and come back with an army.” It was nothing but icy, mocking hate: no one else loved him. Everyone that did was here. There would be no army. Kier’s eyes lingered on his as he looked down at him, like somehow this moment of intimate, hateful silence held such a strange significance — and then he let go, and he turned away.

Sneakysnap was the first to release him, leaping around to snap at Moonblight’s tendons. A half dozen others joined her, slipping from the shadowy crowd. The meaning was clear: run fast. Don’t stop running. If they caught him, they’d suck the marrow from his bones and bring them home for his kits to sharpen their teeth on. The audience of NightClan had been well-trained by trials, by terror, and now that familiar shout went up, that snarling word that echoed off the stone walls and filled the cavern with violence and shadows and oppression and no lick of redemption: “traitor! Traitor! Traitor!” The word would follow Moonblight for as long as he ran, like the hunting horn behind a fleeing fox. The crowd parted like a dark sea, leaving only one avenue open for the former Guard: the moon-silver path up to the camp entrance. Brat stared from among the crowd, a silent, wide-eyed innocent, her uncomprehending eyes darting between her father dripping blood and the noble tom driven to madness who had done it. 

“Traitor!”

“Traitor!”

“Run, traitor, run!”

Sneakysnap nipped at his heels; Speedyraptor snapped at his flank. He was outnumbered.

Padding away from the scene, ignoring Laertes for fear of his own shame, not giving Moonblight the dignity of being watched as he was chased out into the yawning abyss of his ruined home, Kier drew his lips back as he passed Sagebristle, not stopping. “Follow him, don’t follow him.” Blood bubbles popped between his teeth and stained them red. Kier was frozen in a strange state of hate; everything was simmering, burning, and everything was numb. There was only this. There would only ever be this. There were no smiles, no grins; he was hate incarnate. “You make no difference to any world either way. Traitor’s tramp.”

The chorus continued in the background, rising to a Colosseum frenzy as Kier turned from Sagebristle and padded away in bloody silence: Traitor. Traitor. Run.

Run.

Run.

NightClan was beyond saving. It was a tyrant's ruin.