Molefoot stood outside of camp, occasionally shifting in an attempt at keeping his paws from freezing. He glanced up, catching Ruffledwing's eyes and looking away quickly. He wanted to be happy, he truly did, but the thought that the earth over Flamekit's grave was still fresh haunted his thoughts and the image of his little body, torn apart by a faceless and nameless warrior, was burned into his eyelids. He was having a hard time believing that it had really happened at all.
The day after the raid, when the Clan was still recovering from their losses, Mottledstar had decided to make the older apprentices warriors. Starlingpaw - she was Starlingfeather now- had been named while she was still unconscious, and her name had been chosen according to the belief that her odds of survival were low. Molefoot, Ruffledwing, and Starlingfeather. Briarfang had looked like she was crying, her normally mean-looking eyes hazy with emotion, and Snowtail had crept out of the medicine den to look distinguished and proud of Ruffledwing. Then he, Ruffledwing, and Gingerface had gone back to celebrate in grieving silence over Starlingfeather's still body. The dark-colored tom sighed from where he was holding vigil, his breath coming out to cloud against his muzzle, and Ruffledwing looked over to him, his tired eyes curious. If he weren't meant to be silent, Molefoot would have talked with Ruffedwing. As in, really talked, like they used to. He had so much to say, but, thinking again, maybe he didn't want to tell Ruffledwing these things. He was almost afraid of the other tom mistaking his weakness and need for a friend as... something more... and that scared him. So he flashed a look of cool 'okayness' at his friend, staring out into the forest.
It felt like frost was settling on his fur when he finally moved, his eyes feeling hollow and dry from lack of sleep. He could see the pale pinkness of the sun rising over the trees, and the muscles in his shoulders and back screamed at him to at least relax a little. He refused, wincing inwardly. He didn't move even after Ruffledwing broke from his similarly statue-like state, padding into the camp with his tail dragging along the ground. He took a deep breath, closing his eyes. It was warming up, and he wished he could stay in this moment for a long time. He was numb and cold, but warming. He wished he had at least gotten to talk with his little brother, just once... And poor Ruffledwing, and Snowtail... Starlingfeather was alive but sleeping, and Molefoot didn't know if or when she'd wake up. It felt like the whole Clan was conjoined in some sort of mourning, and his chest swelled with the thought of it.
Briarfang came out to get him, and he reluctantly broke his still silence to follow her. The sun had risen, casting long shadows into the still-waking camp. Ruffledwing was nowhere to be seen, and Briarfang was quick to explain that he was in the medicine den when Molefoot inquired. He didn't ask further, already knowing. The Clan seemed subdued- Spottedheart was rousing Mudpaw and Ivypaw, who were dragging their paws behind her, and Eagleclaw tiredly gave out commands, his eyes showing his age. Thrushwing was taking the fattest piece of prey he could find on the pile to his still-grieving mate, and paused to brush against his surviving son with a look of affection and pride before continuing on his way.
Briarfang sat him down by the freshkill pile, nudging him towards a stagnant puddle. He parted his jaws, just noticing how dry his mouth was, and lapped at the water gratefully, ignoring the stale taste in favor of something wet in his throat. He glanced over, stomach protesting at the thought of even trying to eat the vole that his former mentor was placing beside him. But he obediently took a bite, the meat tasting like bile against his tongue. He swallowed, pushing the rest of the tiny animal towards her. She frowned, but finished it off. "Molefoot," she started, and he shook his head. He wasn't ready to hear this- he knew what she would say. She'd relate to her own experiences of losing her children, and she'd tell him that it would get better. He didn't want to hear that- he wanted to wallow in the raw pain for a while. He wanted to be angry and he wanted vengeance for the tiny scrap of fur that had never gotten a chance at life. Molefoot refused to let Briarfang help him or speak to him, instead choosing to drag his paws towards the apprentice's den, only to remember that he didn't sleep there anymore. He felt even more tired at the thought of having to collect moss for a new nest, simply collecting the nesting materials from the apprentice's den and moving them to the warrior's den. He curled up, the drying pieces of moss tickling his nose, and fell asleep, his dreams dark and empty.
Eagleclaw looked grim, his tail swishing as he padded ahead of them. Molefoot kept low, instinctively shrinking back when they reached the GoldClan border. The anger in his gut kept him padding forward, hatred glinting in his eyes. Ruffledwing padded beside him, long fur just barely brushing his, but Molefoot didn't think about it. He was focused, intent on his goal.
GoldClan wouldn't expect an attack so soon after raiding FeatherClan, especially since it was the night before the Gathering. The nearly-full moon shone down on them, lighting their path through the forest with cool blue light. Snowtail was almost glowing from where he was padding between Spottedheart and Briarfang. Practically all of the warrors in camp were going- just Gingerface, Thrushwing, Ivypaw, Mudpaw, and Lightfoot remained in camp to take care of the remaining kit and Starlingfeather. And, of course, Mistberry. Even Mottledstar, old and frail, was with them, his eyes determined and his tail held high. FeatherClan would show them exactly who lead the forest.
Molefoot thought he scented something amongst the leaves, but ignored it. It had smelled like Frost, but even the thought of her now made him angrier. He shouldn't have wasted so much time thinking about her. If he hadn't, Flamekit might have lived... Though, he knew it was silly, he chose to believe that.
Mottledstar raised his tail up high, turning to them with a serious frown. "The camp is through here," he said, his voice quiet. "There are usually two guards- Eagleclaw and I can handle them. Snowtail, I want you, Briarfang, and Ruffledwing to wait outside, and see if you can find an alternative way in. If any of them try to run, you catch them and teach them a lesson, hm?" Then he took a breath. "Stay away from the nursery. Enough young blood has been shed." Then he turned, heading off through the brush.
The rest of the patrol waited until Spottedheart - who was watching the leader and deputy- gave them the okay. Snowtail's party obediently waited behind; Molefoot heard them spread out after a moment. Mottledstar was holding a small gray tabby down beside the entrance to the camp, his muzzle stained red as he kept the tom from crying out for his Clan's help. Eagleclaw was in a similar position with a tom Molefoot half-recognized as Birdwing. Immediate disgust clouded his mind. He didn't want to know any of them. GoldClan was as surprised as had been planned, the FeatherClan cats setting upon them quietly and furiously, like a sudden storm. Molefoot leaped at the first cat he saw, a ginger-and-white tom, snarling. The cat beneath him yelped, startled and panicked, and the warrior dug his claws into his sides, feeling grim satisfaction when there was a resulting cry. Within moments, the entire Clan knew they were there, and there were high-pitched shrieks of outrage and fear. The one queen he saw was backing far into the little hollow they used for a nursery, her amber eyes stretched wide.
Molefoot released the tom beneath him, turning to attack the cat he felt at his back and stopping when he recognized Cherryfur, her blind green eyes full of fury. He moved out of her way, allowing her to pass and fall on Oakwhisker, who was trying to pull Spottedheart off of a skinny apprentice. He watched her gouge deep scars into his shoulders for a heartbeat, then snarled, tackling a ginger she-cat who was rushing to help. She turned with flailing claws to attack him, but he kept her pressed, chest-down, to the ground, raking his claws down her sides until she howled in agony. The smell of blood drifted to his nose and he felt a small thrill in his veins, grunting when the she-cat pushed him off and set upon him, her eyes wild with pain and anger. They tussled for a long moment before she broke away, panting. Molefoot yowled after her as she ran, and he hoped that Briarfang got her, cursing her for the sharp pain he felt in his shoulder.
A cat crashed into him, and he whirled, sinking his teeth into gray-and-white fur. He heard a high-pitched cry of pain, the voice warbled and annoying, and satisfaction surged in his blood. Dovepaw writhed under him, her yellow eyes full of hatred and her claws stinging as they scpred his shoulders and sides. He growled, releasing his hold on her shoulder to engage her, rearing up on his hind legs to crash down on her with his full weight. Dovepaw rolled out of the way, and he grabbed her by the tail, the thick fur of her tail nearly choking him. She shrieked and turned, swinging her claws at his face. Blood sprayed into his eyes and he howled, stepping back. She saw her chance and jumped at him, latching onto his scruff and scrabbling for a hold on his shoulders. Molefoot felt fur against him and jerked back, hearing Snowtail helping Cherryfur rather than seeing him. The weight on his back and the sting of teeth in his scruff forced him to roll, crushing the apprentice under him. He heard a light grunt of pain, but didn't get up until she let go of his neck. When she did, he turned, pinning her. "I bet it was you," he snarled, and Dovepaw looked up, dazed fear and anger on her face. Molefoot dug his claws into her chest, and she screamed. "You took him," he snarled in emphasis, tail lashing. He'd heard her there, heard that stupid annoying voice outside the apprentice's den that night. There was no dout, none. The chaos around him seemed to slow down, until Dovepaw was all he could see. He blinked the blood out of his eye, ignoring the thick irritation in favor of leaning forward, until he could feel her rough, uneven panting against his muzzle. "Filth like you don't deserve to live."
The dark warrior opened his jaws wide, then sank his fangs deep into the younger she-cat's throat. Dovepaw let out a garbled cry of shock, her back claws scrabbling against his chest. Fiery pain lit up his nerves but he didn't let go, blood fitting his mouth. The tabby struggled for several moments beneath him before falling still. Even then he didn't let go, his voice gurgling out around her blood, until he knew she was dead. Then he stepped back, spitting out the thick, salty liquid in his mouth. Her eyes were open wide and staring up at the sky, glazed. Her mouth was still open and set in a snarl, or maybe a cry of pain. Molefoot felt a sharp, cold thrill run through him, looking at the apprentice dead at his feet. The knowledge that she had been living just moments ago surged through him, leaving a strange sort of power in his blood, and he tilted his head back, letting out a fierce, savage cry.
His heart felt sated, but he couldn't relax just yet. He turned, leaping back into the heart of the battle. His Clan still needed him.
