STOP I LOVE THEM ALL SO MUCH IM CRYING AND SOBBING. also with my editing function messing up, wish me luck for any typos. we die like womenWhen she interrupted him,
Kier’s mouth stayed open, the sound of whatever name he’d been about to say dying on his tongue. After a few moments, he closed it and held her stare with a smile — a dangerous one. No one had ever refused a name he’d given, let alone named themselves — especially not when they were
her. Treason still coiled around her like a visible shroud, made all the more tangible and deadly by her sister’s recent birth — everyone knew he had killed their mother and let them live; everyone knew Sablemaid had given her kits near-treasonous names, and he’d let her; everyone knew Cascadepaw was given special privileges. And here she was, taking that privilege and undermining him with it. In that dangerous silence, hot rage fluttered in his chest like moth wings — the sort of rage that was so red-hot it felt faint and gentle and subtle. The sort of rage that had once had an apprentice flung into Ratsneer’s waiting jaws. He sat there, and he smiled, and he listened. As she gave herself her own name in honour of her mother — her
mother, as she sat there and looked him, her saviour, her
benefactor in the eye. He was angrier that he’d been at the second trial when Duskhaunting had been unable to kill her mother, as she was unable to do anything of use. He was angrier than he’d ever been — angrier than he’d been with Kate after Eris’ miscarriage, because where that had had grief and guilt and hurt and confusion caught up with the screaming hate, this was just pure, raw anger. Anger unaffected by any personal feelings — anger at its most perfect. It seemed Primrosetuft would haunt him for as long as her daughters lived under his roof.
But he couldn’t do anything. He sat there and his paws almost trembled against the cold stone with the sting of the threads round his legs — he needed her, and he couldn’t make himself look humiliated and petty and hysterical by lashing out at her, because then they would all imagine some terrible weakness in him and in NightClan, some weakness that was explosive and paper-thin, and that was the opposite of what he wanted. He couldn’t do anything. For the first time since he had fashioned for himself a tyranny, he was immobilised. And yet, though he felt a little betrayed by Cascadepaw, the
amount was surprising — because it wasn’t tremendously large. Frankly, he had to admire her, too; it took gall to so brazenly assert herself and stand up to him. He found it quite attractive. He almost shivered. He hated her; he wanted her dead; she looked radiant defying him.
And still he smiled.
A long time passed. If she’d taken authority from him, he took it back with the sheer length of time he made the Clan, made
her, sit there in silence. And through it all, he smiled. Even when she closed her eyes, he smiled.
Until, finally, he calmly turned his head to find a particular Executioner in the crowd. “
Ratsneer,” he greeted him quietly, so pleasant and calm, still smiling. It was the sort of voice a parent would use in in a nursery when a child’s just fallen asleep — so quiet, so soft, broken a little around the edges by the hush of it. “Ratsneer, would you come here please? Thank you.” He turned his head back to the new warrior in front of him. The rest of the Clan hardly dared shift, or breathe, or exist; they just watched. It felt horribly, excruciatingly uncomfortable, the thick awkwardness tight with terror precisely because no one knew what was happening. They never knew what was happening. That was where the hair-greying stress of NightClan came from: no one ever knew what any night would bring, how long good will would last, what hour their head could be on the chopping block. Things changed in an instant. And now, the infallible sister, the court favourite, had fallen.
Leveretpaw had limped up quietly to sit beside Oleandercurse, breathing
excuse me's and
sorry's through the crowd and ignoring the warning growls; he couldn’t do much to protect her, but he could try. His side brushed against hers reassuringly, eyes not leaving the scene in front of them. His head was ducked down nervously, but still he stayed. For her.
Finally, Kier broke the silence that had again fallen. “Rosecascade.” He had a nice voice when he wasn’t shrieking. A voice that stroked and flattered. “Pretty name. Such a pretty girl you’ve grown into, too.” His smile widened, still close-mouthed. “About time you had a mate.” He turned his head to smile up at Ratsneer beside him; the difference between strong Executioner and frail little leader was startling. “Don’t you think, Ratsneer? You’re about the same age, aren’t you?
I know,” he tossed his head to the side and turned back to Rosecascade, laughing, “she-cats always say ‘ohh, I don’t want to be paired up with some old codger.’ And quite right, too. Your looks would be wasted on someone like that. You need someone who will
appreciate you. Someone who,” he broke off with a laugh, a guilty one, glancing up at Ratsneer again like he was saying something untoward that would make a lady blush before looking back and darting his eyes up and down Rosecascade's body; now, belittlement, misogynistic ridicule, was a threat shrouded in a harmless, innocently entreating smile, “might let a poor soul share. I’ve always wondered if there isn’t something insatiable under that prim exterior.” He laughed again. “Well, I suppose Ratsneer will find out. Lucky fellow. No, yes, I insist — I’m really growing rather fond of that idea. You and Ratsneer. Yes, I think it’ll be a fine match.”
faeish She gave herself freedom; he took it back. She gave herself a name; he gave her a husband. She got two steps ahead; he dragged her back and took a step for himself. The reply was clear:
You. Don’t. Win. She would never have agency; she would never have will; she would always be an item on NightClan’s mantle. He had protected her before —
how could he now interfere with the responsibilities and duties of marriage? How could he do Ratsneer that disservice when he would now own her in Kier's stead? It was a clear, brutal punishment: he was taking her out from under his wing and throwing her to the wolves. She’d annoyed him a step too far. He didn’t stop to think one bit about Ratsneer’s feelings, if he had any — he was just a thoughtless brute for him to move around the board; if Rosecascade’s discomfort mattered a tremendous amount to Kier, Ratsneer’s didn’t matter at all. He’d do it. He’d have to. It wasn’t a question. All his energy was going into Rosecascade’s feelings. Everything was still cheerful and upbeat as he continued. “Of course, my dear, you’ll still have to do your duties
here. I still have need of you. More need than ever, in fact. But the early days of marriage — oh, I know how those can be. Take a week to get to know your mate. I won’t mind at all.” He gave her a smile; it didn’t reach his eyes as they stared into hers. “Happy blessings, Rosecascade. What a wonderful thing, to have named yourself. Not many here can say that.” The smile held. “Not even I.”
Any protests would fall on deaf ears; she could throw herself around his paws and he would step over her. Kier turned his head to find Duskhaunting in the crowd. “Isn’t that good news for your sister? And now you’re the odd one out again — one with kits, one
married. What are you? Best find something quickly, my dear.” The joy was still in his voice, but the hot irritation was clear: if he’d been lenient before, if he’d been patient, he wouldn't be anymore. That was over. Rosecascade had done precisely what she’d once resented Duskhaunting for and thrown the family under the bus. She’d screwed up. Now none of the three were safe. They were back where they’d started. The clemency he’d given to Rosecascade now no longer extended to Duskhaunting. It didn’t matter that, truly, when it came down to it,
she was his favourite, the one he felt the deepest bond with since their little outing to the grave her mother was now rotting in, the one he was strangely
fond of for no selfish, lustful reason. Now that Rosecascade had irritated him, he’d do away with the cat he actually liked just to spite her — never mind his own feelings, his own guilt, his own regret; they always came second to his vindictiveness anyway. At first he’d considered Laertes for Rosecascade’s match, but even then he wasn’t willing to part with him, wasn’t willing to
use him like that; Laertes was still his Achilles heel, his soft spot, the one person in the world beside Eris that cut straight through to the reality of his heart, and if it wasn’t care for Laertes that kept him from throwing him to the wolves, it was a certain jealous possessiveness — he was his; he couldn’t be some she-cat’s. Better someone meaningless, like Ratsneer. Some disposable soldier. Plus, Laertes would have been too gentle with her, would have cared and fussed and apologised, and he would have resented Kier for it; he was already on thin ice after that mess with his sisters. No. Ratsneer was the best option. He wouldn’t have any such gentleness for her.
Kier smiled around at the sisters, at the crowd, and let out a breath that was all warm satisfaction. “What a happy night.”
Sitting beside Oleandercurse,
Leveretpaw finally found the courage to nudge her; the tension was still taut and explosive, but the attention was off the crowd for just a second — long enough to get a few words in. “Congratulations!” he whispered excitedly, shaking her slightly in his enthusiasm, voice quick as he snatched the few, precious seconds. He wanted more than anything to throw her a party, but Kier would probably do that himself, in that section of the underground world cats like
him weren’t allowed in. “What a pretty name! Pretty scary, like I said! And! You got promoted at the same time as Casca— Rosecascade! That’s got to be auspicious! Even if it was… a little unconventional.” Even if she was upstaged by the cruel drama, he meant. But he was trying to cheer her up. His smile didn’t falter, though his eyes kept darting from Kier through the crowd of cats back to his best friend. “Poor thing, though,” he breathed. “I feel sorry for her. I’d hate to be married to Ratsneer.” Now, though his cheek was almost resting forgotten against Oleandercurse’s temple, his eyes were snagged on Rosecascade. It was like a train wreck; his heart bled with sympathy, but he couldn’t look away. He was mesmerised by the horror. “Poor thing,” he breathed again.
But none of it really mattered. The look on Oleandercurse's face when she'd received her name, when she'd turned to look for him in the crowd — for him. His heart had glowed and he'd smiled back at her, mouthing a silent
congratulations and doing a brief, stupid little dance before she turned away again. She was getting everything she'd ever wanted, and he was happier for her than he could say. He wanted
her, he'd never have her, but he could watch her have this. And it was almost enough. To be there beside her in her best moments — to one day be her best man at a wedding, to give the speech and the toast at the reception. Almost enough. He was in love, but it was enough. He shifted closer to her as the horror played out in front of them, his sad, silent eyes caught on the scene. Oleandercurse wouldn't care; Leveretpaw would care for her.
At first, when Ratsneer had been called up,
Sneakysnap had been excited. She’d sat up straighter, craned her neck to look at him, dug her claws into the stone eagerly; a little grin had spread across her face. There would be violence. He’d get to kill something — someone. And then the violence that came wasn’t the violence she had been expecting, and her face contorted into hot rage — rage tinged with something else. She began to growl; a few warriors sitting around her glanced at her and shifted nervously away. She hardly noticed; her glare was locked on Rosecascade and Ratsneer. This lady — this perfect, proper, demure lady — didn’t deserve him. The ‘something else’ she couldn’t name in the hot blur of indignation feared, as much as Sneakysnap could fear, that that perfect, proper, demure ladyness would be delicious to Ratsneer, that he would like it like one liked a pretty butterfly just to pluck its wings off.
Lashing her tail, she stood and stormed out of the cavern. Kier let her go. She didn't matter.
