From the moment he opened his eyes, Zadimus knew he was destined for something greater than himself. The dark recesses of the Bloodclan kitting den and Viessa's fleeting presence did nothing to sway him, neither did the fact that he was tucked away where no one could see him. After all, it was just the way Bloodclan did things. He would get his chance, he knew. All he had to do was wait. Once he was three moons old, he would be welcomed into the to-be Fighter's ranks.
But until then, he thought, a mischievous smile spreading across his lips as he stood—shakily, though he would never admit it—and padded over to his Promised.
"Get up!" he yowled, kicking her dark grey side.
Angra made the tiniest noise of discomfort and rose, her lavender blue eyes boring into him with unspoken curses. "What do you want, Zadimus?"
The orange-eyed tom snickered and said, "To practice my fighting skills. Get in a cowering stance!"
She calmly raised a brow at him, not moving a whisker. "If you wanted to practice fighting, you would ask Kellam. Why don't you do that instead?"
Before Zadimus, his indignant anger bubbling up, could snap her ear and teach her a lesson, as was custom, Shade hissed, "Angra! You can't do that! You'll get in trouble!"
As his Promised turned her head to look at the midnight she-kit, Zadimus spat on the ground at her paws. The two may only be half-sisters, but they always seemed to come to each other's aid and spoil his fun!
Angra just flicked a tufted ear and replied, "Fine." She then turned back to look at him. "But I still think that Kellam would be a better sparring partner than me. I am, after all, the she-cat spawn of an addendum."
Zadimus growled; he hated it when he was reminded that his promised had been birthed from one of them. "Shut your eagle-brained mouth, whelp!" he snarled, wanting to claw the smug look right from her eyes. But he couldn't; it would seem juvenile, a waste of beauty. That was, after all, the only reason she was his Promised—her looks. And she had just demoted herself, so reacting in such a way would be pointless.
Angra shrugged and laid back down, wrapping her tail over her face and returning to a slumber. Zadimus spat on her for good measure and stomped over to their current caretaker, a black and white Hunter named Tabitha that was to be expecting her own kits in some moons' time. "Give me some milk, she-cat!" he demanded, swiping her stomach. Hard.
The amber-eyed Hunter winced at the blow and shakily mewed, "As you wish, Zadimus." She lowered herself for him and closed her eyes, knowing what was coming.
Zadimus cried a yowl for the other toms to join him at his side—a terrible, battle-like screech—and lead them in their attack. Their suckling was more like digging their teeth into her stomach, and they raked their tiny claws down her abdomen as they chewed her up. When she whimpered in pain, they bit down harder, scored deeper, kicked harder. It was only custom, after all, to show even the adult she-cats that they were the one's in charge. By the time they had drunk their fill, Tabitha was covered in bleeding scratches and bite marks. She said nothing as they returned, covered in her blood, to their violent play.
Zadimus had just gotten Kellam in a death-grip when a towering shadow suddenly covered them all. He looked up, leaving his claws in place around the ginger's throat, and saw Balsam, Ecthrois, and the Scourge standing in the opening of the kit's den.
The Scourge was coming to see him!
Making sure to dig his little claws in deeper and bring up more blood, Zadimus grinned at the arrivals, but said nothing. One did not speak to a Fighter—or the Scourge for that matter—unless spoken to.
When Zadimus got a better look as the walked in, Scourge Blood looked young for a cat of such a title. He'd heard queens' tales of Blood, the Scourge that killed his predecessor while still a to-be and took over Bloodclan in the stead of his brother—Death's—betrayal, but he'd never seen the Scourge for himself. Now he was, and it was the most important moment of his life!
"Tabitha," Ecthrois growled, moving swiftly over to the Hunter and kicking her. "Get out."
The black and white queen nodded and scurried away, moving as fast as she could manage. Once she was gone, Blood looked at Balsam, his stance so regal.
"Balsam," he said cooly, voice as smooth as the walls they lived in. "Where is this kit you told me about?"
The black tabby Fighter started to walk towards him, and Zadimus felt his heart swell with pride. Blood wanted to see him! Finally, he was being recognized, and before everyone else, even!
He was just about to leap up and bow to his Scourge when Balsam walked right past him…
And picked up Shade.
Shade!
That worthless pile of crowfood is nothing! he wanted to shriek, to warn them that they were missing the true potential in the room! What did she have that he didn't? He was a tom, superior in every way! Son of Drachen, the third-in-command! She was just a she-cat whelp! The daughter of a fourth-rank Fighter and half-sister to an addendum's spawn! An addendum's spawn!
But Blood, oh, he smiled! Smiled! Why? Why would someone as important as him smile at the sight of such a pitiless pile of eagle-scat?
"So this is your daughter?" the black-striped leader crooned when Shade was placed at his feet, looking up at him with frightened blue eyes.
"Yes, Scourge," Balsam replied. "She fits the description of Scourge exactly, as the legends foretold."
Legends? Legends! So some worthless she-cat was the stuff of legends and not him! Zadimus felt his hatred for her grow, and Kellam started choking at the force of his clenching paws.
Blood sighed and bent down, his wickedly grinning muzzle right in front of Shade's face. "Then she will be my Bride, just as The Tribe of Endless Killing foretold." He winked at her. "Our reign will bring forth a new, glorious age for Bloodclan, little she-cat."
Shade just blinked, quaking at the sight of such a massive tom, and hung limply as he snatched her up by the scruff and carried her away.
That was the last anyone saw of Shade.
…
It had been almost a moon since the day that Blood had come to take Shade away, and Zadimus never forgot about it. Not only was it the day that he'd been tossed aside like a worthless she-cat, but it was the day that Angra finally lost her protection. Once Shade was gone, there was no one to stop him from doing whatever he wanted to her when she defied him. In fact, Kellam and Drace often joined him when he beat her—anywhere but the face, of course—and he, in turn, banded with them when they did the same to their Promised. It was such a lovely pastime that Zadimus almost didn't notice the fact that he had been overlooked.
Almost.
"Zadimus, come on!" he heard Kellam call, and the dark brown kit jerked his head up to see the ginger and white tom standing at the entrance to the den. "It's the day!"
Oh yeah. The day.
Pulling himself to his paws, the black-striped tom padded out of the den that had been his home for the past three moons and joined the rest of the kits as they stood right outside. He flicked his ears back at the increased sound of the pounding waterfall, but it wasn't too bad after a while.
Ecthrois was waiting for them, Drachen and Balsam standing at his side. The three highest-ranking Fighters. Zadimus raised his head proudly, taking great pride in being the offspring of the second-ranking Fighter.
Drachen looked down at him with hard, dark blue eyes, and the edge of his lip slightly curled upward. Zadimus thought it must be because of the fact that he was seeing his famed son for the first time—according to the queens, he had eliminated his three siblings while only a quarter-moon old. They'd gotten in the way, it was said. It had taken the others much longer to rid themselves of their competition. Apparently, the amount of toms had been greater than that of the she-cats this kitting.
"Welcome, toms," Ecthrois rumbled, completely ignoring the seven she-kits standing mutely aside. "Today is your first test of worthiness. That is," he added with a sly look down at Zadimus. "Other than killing off your siblings to attain the best chances of reaching this far." A few of the other toms looked back at him, but Zadimus didn't mind. In fact, he relished the attention and grinned menacingly at them. They soon averted their eyes. "You shall enter the Scourge's den for your Trial," he continued, as if nothing had happened. All eyes returned to the dark gray tom. "Should you get lost, no one will come for you. The same is true for if you die." He narrowed his stormy gray eyes and grinned wickedly. "The Tribe of Endless Killing will have you, if that happens."
Zadimus scoffed as a few of the kits shivered, the fur along their backs sticking up. Weaklings, he thought, rolling his orange eyes. They probably won't survive.
"Let's go," Drachen ordered gruffly, turning around and walking towards the large cave entrance to the back right of their home. Zadimus followed eagerly, his head held high and his gaze condescending, leading the troop of kits as they made their anxious trek to the Scourge's den. This would likely be the first and only time they'd ever see it—cats were forbidden to enter Blood's dwelling place once they survived their Trial unless specified to do so by the Scourge himself. Zadimus vowed to never forget what he saw.
The looming archway soon hung above them as they padded into the vast area. Stalactites and stalagmites sprouted from the floor and ceiling, some even fusing together in places like gnashing teeth. The pools of blood-red water that dotted the cavern rippled with their passing pawsteps, the faces of the Tribe's members laughing and hissing silently at them from within, intent on weeding out their prey.
As they walked past a large row of the spears that blocked their vision of the other side, Zadimus saw Blood's hulking form shadowed across a massive pool through a crack in the rocks, cradled safely within the fangs. He was standing upon a hilled rise in the center of the pool, hacking his claws down the body of an eagle, with more blood-meat set aside. Viscous crimson blood flowed down the slope to join with the gory basin below, and the writhing forms of the Tribe's cats scrambled over each other within the liquid to get the closest to the butte as they could, their gaping maws open greedily for the source of their power.
It was a bit… disturbing. Zadimus had to look away.
"Here," he heard Balsam call, and the tom-kit jerked his head up from his paws to look at the black tabby tom. He was standing in front of a hole in the stone floor, its depths as inky black as the darkest moment of a Black-Moon night, possibly even blacker. The kit peered into its darkness with narrowed eyes, unsure of what to make of it.
"You will each enter into the Tribe of Endless Killing's lands," Balsam barked, his deep voice booming through the cavern. "And face what they have planned for you." He leveled his gaze at them. "The Tribe always takes at least one, and only the strongest generations pass through with just that. Those, and the generations destined for a time of greatness." He sat back, rolling his shoulders in nonchalance, though Zadimus felt as if the words were somehow a farce. Certainly there was more than one weak, useless cat among them? "The Scourge says that the Tribe has prophesied you as such, so I guess you're in luck."
Zadimus heard a few of the other kits sigh in relief, and he rolled his eyes at them. Of course, they would need a prophesy to keep them safe! he thought disdainfully, puffing with scorn and shaking off his prevous questioning. I, on the other paw, am destined for greatness!
Ecthrois and Drachen boredly took their leave of them, padding silently away and leaving them with the third-ranking Fighter. Balsam just looked at them cooly. "So then, who's first?" he said with a chilling smile.
Zadimus was about to volunteer when his stupid Promised, Angra, started walking forward to stand at the lip of the hole. "I'm just going to go ahead and get this over with," she grumbled, dropping in and leaving everyone in stunned silence. Even Balsam was rendered speechless. The all just stood there, some gaping, until he narrowed his eyes and cleared his throat to say, "It seems that the Tribe will have to teach that one a lesson."
He didn't have to elaborate further; the other kits knew the stakes. As soon as he finished speaking, they began tumbling over each other, trying to reach the hole before the others. Zadimus triumphantly rammed all the others aside and made it first, plunging head-long into the abyss.
As soon as he crossed over the lip of the hole, the feeling of total helplessness came over him, stabbing into his mind and body with ice-cold fangs. The dark brown tom barely crawled away from the entrance hole before the others started falling, hitting the freezing tunnel floor below with wet smacks. He could see nothing, could barely hear the sounds of their—though the number of kits behind him seemed only three strong—frantic squeaking. If he wasn't so terrified, he would've spat at them for their ineptitude. As it was, however, he could barely get on his own paws.
It felt like he was walking through the thickest snows, the way his legs moved. It was infuriating among the ever-constant drone of destitution along his spine. On the good side of things, he was moving farther away from the others, and that meant he'd have a greater chance. He could strike first.
Yes, a voice whispered into his ear, its voice both bodiless and echoing, a hag-like cackle in its tones. Choose to run. Choose to kill. Choose to do others' will…. What will you choose, little Zadimus?
The dark brown tom felt the sensation of burning sun envelop him as the voice finished its rhyme, almost worse than that of the frozen impotence, and he yowled in pain, curling over himself to screech into the floor. His ears suddenly pounded with the heightened sound of his own shrieks, and he thought they would bleed from the knife-like stabbing of the high-pitched waves. The voice snickered around him, and soon others joined it, relishing his pain and seeming to press up against him with real bodies. The hot sting of humiliation coursed through him for the first time in his life, adding to his agony, and Zadimus felt his rage rise up to the surface to the point of explosion. He would not take this!
With a roar, he lunged upward and snapped his teeth into the shadows, his claws extended to maul the spirits with all that he was worth. His jaws caught on flesh and fur, and the kit felt a berserker rage take hold of him. His muscles seemed to stretch and pop with the red-hot twangs of power that suddenly radiated from them. His jaws seemed to expand as his teeth and claws lengthened into spears. His eyes felt like they were being stretched back into his face, and he slowly began to gain his sight, now able to see a blurred cat's form among the endless darkness. Howling a battle cry, Zadimus dug his teeth in further as he hurled his weight forward to send the cat into a plummet, raking his claws across its pelt like a crazed maniac. The smell of blood permeated his nose, its warm gush running rapidly through his paws and mouth, and the Bloodclan kit snarled in triumph, rearing his head back. His red-tinted vision now clear enough to see the outline of a neck, Zadimus dove for it with his crimson-covered jaws opened wide. His opponent struggled weakly, completely nullified by his onslaught, and the kit felt the rhythmic pulsing of blood into his mouth slowly ebb, his eyes closed, into nothingness. Then, breathing heavily from his adrenaline rush, Zadimus stepped back to observe his kill.
It was Addanc. Oops.
Well done, Zadimus, the voice whispered in his mind, and he immediately got back into a crouch, growling at the unseen enemy, his muzzle dripping blood. You will do nicely. Quite nicely….
And then it was gone. Just like that.
Zadimus huffed, licking his lips. If he'd known that killing someone would get the Tribe to leave him alone, he would've done it before they tortured him. As it was, he was at this point now, and he couldn't change the past. Shrugging at the predicament, and glad for his new crimson eyesight, the kit began walking through the tunnels.
As he traveled, he noticed that now that his battle-rage had worn off, the crushing weight of helplessness had returned. It was incredibly hard to put one paw in front of the other, and Zadimus found himself having to lick the blood out of his fur to stay focused. It didn't help matters that his eyes wanted to close shut and his legs wanted to give out on him, send him crashing to the ground. He did not want to get lost. He did not want to die in this reeking place. He had to get out of here. Soon.
It wasn't as hard as when he'd first come down the hole, he thought as he trudged. After all, it could be worse. He could've been in Addanc's place had someone else come along….
A flash of fur darted across his vision, and Zadimus turned to see Angra at a run, chased by some beast of shadowy black. He grinned cheekily, content to let her die. Maybe then he'd get a respectable Promised! He kept going, determined to find a way out of the Tribe's lands, and came across a few others. Kellam had taken a form that Zadimus assumed was similar to his—a hulking, dog-like beast with glowing red eyes. It would certainly explain some of the odd quirks he felt. When he later saw him from afar, Drace had also taken the form. Good for him, Zadimus guessed, though if either of them had graduated to such status before him, he would slit their throats in the night once they returned to Bloodclan.
"Oh hey," he whispered to himself, his voice sounding surprisingly scratchy to his own ears. "Lookie here."
What looked to be a lightness to the black sat ahead, almost hidden by a bend in the rock, and Zadimus eagerly made his way towards it. The pressing weakness seemed to ease as he drew closer, his eyes and legs becoming freer and more awake. Even the bulging pressure of his muscles began to dissolve as he finally stepped out of the dreaded place.
It was night; the stars glittered brightly overhead. The effect was nearly blinding! Zadimus tightly shut his eyes and slid to the floor, covering them with his paws until it didn't hurt so much. He then eased them out from under their protection, wincing as they adjusted to the drastic difference in lighting, until he was able to stand again.
Looking back at the small tunnel entrance, Zadimus could've sworn he heard the sound of cackling emitting from it, and he felt the hot stinging of anger run through him. Turning completely around with an open-mouthed snarl, he charged back into it, ready to rip apart the spectre that had dared laugh at him! A few tail-lengths in, however, Zadimus was bowing under the tremendous influence of the Tribe, and he was forced to flee at a limp.
What they said was true. No cat really could return to the Trial.
…
Zadimus stood, looking upward with hard eyes, the other kits spread out in a line to either side of him, as he faced Blood once again. There was an empty place to his left—Addanc's—and several more besides that. Only little over half of them had survived.
"Congratulations, young ones," the russet tom said with a half-smile. "You've survived."
Zadimus stretched up proudly, displaying the blood on his muzzle like a trophy. "Not all of us, mighty Scourge," he boasted, momentarily forgetting about tradition in his shining moment.
Luckily for him, Blood seemed unperturbed. Rather, he looked proud of what his next generation of Fighters had accomplished, a wry smile lighting his face. "Yes, not all of you." With a quick squint, the Scourge added, "The first kill, I see. Well done, young Fighter. I'm sure the Tribe of Endless Killing has something special planned for you."
A flood of warmth ran over the tom-kit, and he smiled brightly. Blood thought that the Tribe had something special planned for him! He really was going to be a tom of legends! The Tribe had chosen him to be the one to give them their first sacrifice! He must be the greatest cat of all time!
When he puffed out his chest and stood tall, the almost-inaudible grumbling of the other kits around him could be heard, and he whipped his head around to dig his teeth into the nearest one's ear. Zul squealed in pain, lashing his ringed tail and pulling sharply away. The Scourge acted as if nothing had happened.
"You will all now embark on your quest to adulthood. Toms will join the older toms in the to-be Fighter's ranks, proving their mettle in the Sporting Den and gaining their strength to advance to full Fighter rank. She-cats." He paused, looking down disdainfully at the females. "You will go to the to-be Hunter's den and—well, since you are only good for making more Fighters—do all that you are told."
The she-cats bowed their heads to him and scurried away, joining the Hunters and their incompetent hissing greeting. Zadimus looked to his brethren in turn, his gaze settling on each of them as they faced him with proud eyes. All except Irvine did, that is. The soft gray tom averted his gaze like, and Zadimus spat.
"First one to be used for target practice," he whispered cruelly to Kellam, and the two snickered loudly. The other tom's eyes grew wide, but he didn't look their way.
"Now," Blood said, continuing with his speech. "Follow me to your new lives. Glorifying Bloodclan awaits."
Zadimus's mouth twisted in a sly grin as he headed the line and entered the Fighters' Training cave. The smell of blood was beyond refreshing.
He chuckled to himself; he was going to like it here.
A quick look at our friendly neighborhood Zadimus' backstory, which is also posted on my deviantart (ht tp :fav . me /dbvxubj). This was going to originally much longer one-shot, but it's been sitting around for so long, and I'm still trying to bang out the last of Greyleaf's Journey, that I figured I might as well give yall a little treat. 3
Comments are seriously appreciated! Please feel free to ask as many questions about Zadimus as you want. Comments really do make my day and encourage me to write more, and my lack of them on new Greyleaf's Journey chapters is honestly a big part of why it's been so hard to get any content out. Even just saying such a simple thing as "Nice story!" really helps out and puts a smile on my face! 3 I love and appreciate all my supporters!
Written December 2015