He was crawling through the brambles. No, limping was a better word to describe his feeble staggers. But under his matted, bloody pelt burned a furious fire — a fire that would keep on burning as long as his soul was alive, a fire of furious hatred.
Hatred. It was a word that spoke for itself. No love, no caring, no life. That was what he'd become. Well, almost. He had two kits — two young kits by the names of Bramblekit and Tawnykit.
Bramblekit was who he would place his pride upon. The dark brown tom was just a copy of himself, after all, with the same tabby stripes and penetrating amber eyes.
Tawnykit was the tortoiseshell she-cat, the weaker of the two, but one with his blood all the same.
And Goldenflower. How could he forget her? She was his former mate, the mother of Bramblekit and Tawnykit. He just hoped that she realized that he'd never loved her, just used her to get kits. A part of him — the weaker part, the past part — felt sorry for fooling her. But the kits would become strong apprentices, he knew, and they would soon join him in his race to defeat the ThunderClan deputy, Fireheart. Or was he Firestar now, since Bluestar had become so weak and feeble after his betrayal.
Oh, he hoped so. Then he'd take greater pride in killing that former kittypet once and for all.
But how? It was not some easy question, like of how he would thrust his past ThunderClan life behind . It was the question that plagued him every living moment, every second he rested. How was he going to get revenge on that mangy ginger crow-food eater? He wondered if he could catch Fireheart off-guard, like while the tom was taking a stroll. As simple as it might be, Tigerstar knew he could not do that. He was weak, defeated, and tired, whereas Fireheart was strong, fresh, and pumped for battle.
He concluded that it would be a sure suicide to present himself alone in front of the ThunderClan deputy. Cinderpaw's herbs only lasted so long on his scratches. Scratches. The ones Fireheart had given him. The ones of his most recent fight, which he'd lost so humiliatingly quickly. His body still burned like fire —the fire of Fireheart — whenever he thought about it.
He needed revenge. It wasn't a choice.
So that night, he rested by the stream. He scooped out fish to eat. He rested with water cleaning his pelt.
He didn't feel a layer of disgust from all this. Because underneath his corpse, a fire burned — a fire that would not let him get any more wet or cold than he already was.
After the next two days, he decided to get a look on what was happening inside the ThunderClan camp. Curiosity and rage had taken a hold of him; he wanted to see if Fireheart had really moved up the social line. And when a ThunderClan patrol found him in the woods, he didn't hesitate to run his claws across a tabby throat.
Oh, the humiliation. Oh, the hatred. Oh, the agony.
He thrashed in vain, feeling his lives slip away from him like fish in water. He yowled calls he did not hear; The fiery blood pounding in his ears had taken control.
There was Firestar, a blurry shade of ginger. And there was Scourge, the small black blur with claws sharp as the sharpest thorns. Tigerstar wanted to snarl defiance at the black cat that was his murderer. Not ever had he predicted his end to come this way — he didn't die at the blood of Firestar, but instead at the feet of that young kit called Scourge.
The world was getting blurry. He tried to lift his head, but couldn't. He wanted to yowl at the unfairness of it all, but didn't have the breath. How could he die when he hadn't even fought Firestar yet?
He knew that this was not the end. No, this was be far from his own true demise. He would haunt those joyful stars until his soul ebbed away. He would continue to seek revenge on Firestar, the cat who he had failed so poorly to kill.
But Scourge? He had the strangest feeling that Firestar would take care of that twolegplace dog.
A second time. A failure again. And to add a bonus, he'd lost both of his sons. No, he amended. I've got Hawkfrost here right beside me, plotting revenge on Brambleclaw. That was true.
Out of all his kits, only one — Hawkfrost — had decided to (officially) join him in revenge against Firestar. And now that he was dead and such a complainer, Hawkfrost was just as useless as his other kits: Mothwing: the dimwit didn't even believe that Tigerstar existed, so that cancelled out all his communication with her. A pity, too. She was a medicine cat. Brambleclaw and Tawnypelt: too loyal to their leaders. Pah. He would get revenge on them as well as Firestar. He would make them beg to join him.
But how? He was back at his first question. How was he, a furious spirit, supposed to hurt cats in the living world?
His communication with his sons had given him an idea. What if... Tigerstar dared not hope, but if that plan worked, then he would have cats attacking the clans from within; he would be invincible.
Oh, the humiliation. Oh, the hatred. Oh, the agony.
He thrashed around, feeling his life slip away from him like fish in water. He was rooted in the spot with jaws clamped on his throat, suffocating him into a deeper blackness than ever before.
Firestar killed him. Not the other way around. But his pelt still burned with need for the revenge he would never get.
He knew that this was the end. Well, at least I've managed to pick off some cats... He was barely conscious to anything around him, but he could still feel hateful stares boring all around into his pelt.
He was going to join Hawkfrost, wherever that might be.
He fell through the only branch holding him to the present world.
And he burned vengeance all the way through.
A third time I've failed... and my last breath... is now...