A/N: Fun news! As of posting this chapter, Arc 1 of Spottedfur's Pride is complete! There's still one actual chapter left, so I'll save my commemorative ramblings for when that one gets posted - but I really, really never thought I'd see the day I'd get this far in this fic.
It's just a silly little cat story, yeah, but one I've put a lot of heart into, both in what's been posted and what's to come (as of right now, SP's outline has 33k words and counting!). Spottedpaw and Dawnpaw have existed since February of 2017, though the story has changed a lot around them - SP is one of the most ambitious things I've ever worked on, and getting to share it with the world makes me really happy. I never thought I'd be capable of writing something longform, with so many moving parts, like this, especially not solo!
I hope you stick along for the ride, and thank you to everyone who has! Enjoy the penultimate chapter of Arc 1!
The molly didn't blink, eyes remaining blown open — even when one looked cut, cleanly, in two, the wound snaking down her face like twin branches.
To her credit, Stormstar didn't cry.
Stock-still, paws planted firmly in the snow, she took her punishment. Even with one bloodied, her eyes were stone.
"—ncompetent!" Falconstar screamed, grief thick in her throat, as Spottedpaw hid his face in his paws, downturning his ears in a feeble attempt to block out the howls — "What did I tell you?! What did I tell you?!"
Jaw clenched, sympathy cold, Stormstar said nothing.
"Give him to me! I want to see what you let your fox-hearted deputy do to my son!"
At Stormstar's side, the black IvyClan tom added, "Firwhisker was immediately exiled when the body was f—"
"I'm talking to Stormstar!" Falconstar snarled, lashing another set of bared claws into the snow, right at Stormstar's feet, and the tom went silent. "Why didn't you have him demoted the second he laid his claws on us?! You're a StarClan-damned coward and my son's blood is on your paws!"
At that, Stormstar faintly nodded, only to receive a snapped "look at me!"
Spottedpaw couldn't bear to listen, but even with his ears clamped, and Comfreywing's thick pelt around him, the screams rang loud and clear.
"Where is he?! Where is he?!"
It wasn't right.
The sound, once more, of claws tearing fur. Wordlessly, Falconstar screamed, raining down lashes, for it was all her limbs could do.
It wasn't his place to listen — it was no cat's place to listen.
ElmClan had seen Falconstar fight. They'd seen her stand high in the middle of the battlefield, with old scars digging grooves into her thick, windswept fur. They'd seen her claw, scratch, and bite to train her kits — they'd seen the sharp glints in her eye in Tinyclaw's, Heronpaw's, alike.
There was a fire in the molly's heart, that everyone knew, but it was a low simmer, restrained by the wind. Though aggressive, she kept a cool head — miraculously so, when Tawnyfur and Maplepelt had been slain before her eyes.
Now, that fire surged upwards, taking the branches, trees, with it. No blade of grass, no leaf on a tree, was spared from its hunger…
…but, all the same, the chill of leaf-bare snuffed it out with ease, and when the flames flickered out, nothing but miserable slabs of char remained.
Spottedpaw peeked over his paws, smothering his muzzle, to find Falconstar now with her head tipped to the dirt, paws trembling, warmed not even by her rival leader's blood.
As if waiting for her to stand, Stormstar made no move to even wipe the stains from her fur.
From where he was curled, Spottedpaw could only make out one thing: Stormstar's pelt, and the redness running down it, plastering fur to skin.
Monster, he thought, distantly, seeing blood beading on blue-gray fur, she's a monster.
All he could think, looking at Falconstar, even as she stuck her nose in the dirt like she was bowing at Stormstar's feet, even as she muttered past the molly that StarClan would protect her son, was how easily she'd do the same to him.
Her deputy blinked down at her, their tail draping flatly against the snow. Daisyheart's amber eyes were dark with sympathy as they gently stepped away from their leader, giving the molly space as they met Stormstar's gaze.
"Deliver us Heronpaw's body." They spoke, the usual lighthearted lilt to their mew absent, or perhaps a more apt description, dulled. "We'll take care of our cats here." Ears swiveling upwards, their voice softened. "You do the same."
"I'm sorry." Stormstar murmured, her icy disposition finally broken as she shook her head. "I-I'm so sorry—"
"No."
Spottedpaw knew, even without seeing their face, there was the usual sunshine in Daisyheart's eyes.
"Sorry catches no prey."
ElmClan's deputy was old enough to be Stormstar's parents, perhaps older than even them — in the air, their silence lingered. Their disposition, as ever, sunny yet surefire, with a weathered poise not even enemy Clans questioned.
Visibly, Stormstar faltered, eyes searching, until Daisyheart purred.
"I'd let you patch your scars up here in camp, but… you understand. Run along, now."
…
Spottedpaw didn't get it, but he supposed a cat as old as Daisyheart understood mercy far, far more than their bloodthirsty leader did.
He was sure, behind that sunny mew, there was as much rage in their heart as there was Falconstar's… but Stormstar had seen enough punishment, flecking blood on the snow as she nodded, paws quivering as she turned, taking one last torn gaze at ElmClan's camp, then disappeared.
With that, the spell had been broken, and there, the commotion began.
Falconstar's mate, her son, both bounding right for her, Tinyclaw pulling her head into his paws as she wordlessly moaned. Pinestripe and Silvercloud rushing to join them. Daisyheart, flagging someone down with their tail. Jaytail padding to the nursery, preparing for a hard conversation with he and Pebblefoot's kits. Marigoldstripe nudging Brackenclaw to her feet. Sorrelpaw lingering in the middle of camp, staring wide-eyed from Brightclaw, over to Spottedpaw, who Dawnpaw was tugging Thymepaw and Nettlepaw over to meet. Dappleflower jumping up to her paws, urging the apprentices away from her son as she and Mottleheart guarded the medicine den.
"Spottedpaw—" the tortoiseshell molly turned, and Spottedpaw had never felt smaller than his parents than in this moment, "Spottedpaw, are you alright?"
The tom only stared down at his paws, cleaned in the medicine den's water supply for the first time this morning.
He felt like he was going to sink into the dirt— so badly, he wanted to. He could hardly lift his head to face his parents, face tucked into his paws, staring only at the distant bustle through camp, none of his parents' worried pacing reaching him beyond blurs of brown and ginger..
"—d they hurt you?" A lone, hazy mew broke through.
It was a simple question, yet even parting his jaws to answer was more effort than he could scrap together.
Despite it, his tail thwapped the den's floor with anxiety, eyes screwing shut.
No.
Please stop talking to me.
I'm sorry.
Their silence was palpable, and he could picture the looks on their faces perfectly. Dappleflower's ears, small like her son's, turned back, golden eyes blown open, pupils slitted by nerves — Mottleheart's jaw drawn tightly shut, ginger patches on his fur bristling, something between pity and disappointment in his gaze.
They would hate me if they knew.
They would…
"Excuse me." A third voice cut in, a low, gentle mew. "May I speak to you both in private?"
Rarely, if ever, had Spottedpaw been the center of attention in such a way. The closest point of comparison he could think of was his first Gathering, after his apprentice ceremony: when Falconstar called out his name, and in turn, so did the rest of the forest, cats he'd never even seen before cheering for him — they didn't know who he was, but they showered him in acclamations nonetheless, the DuneClan apprentice by his side goodheartedly rubbing his cheek, while Sorrelpaw made it a game of shouting louder than anyone else.
This was different— he was surrounded by Clanmates, loved ones, in his own camp, but he couldn't feel comforted in the least.
Killing Heronpaw was to spit in the face of those Clanmates: that horrid, massacre-leading system he'd cut off at the source— or so he'd told himself when he unsheathed his claws.
He didn't regret it. Even as he curled in on himself, trying his hardest to disappear into the bushes, even as Heronpaw's gaping throat flashed in his mind, he didn't regret it.
But the weight it tied to his paws was something he never could have prepared for.
I did the forest a favor. If any sane cat was given the chance to kill Firkit, or Robinpaw, they'd take it.
The Sheepclaws and Fogpaws of the world would be devastated…
…but I didn't do it to be thanked.
That weight, still, was his burden to bear. There was no turning back time.
I don't need any of these cats' gratitude anyway, do I?
The day passed in a haze. If he ate prey, he tasted none of it, and if he spoke, he couldn't recall a word he'd said, but he didn't leave Comfreywing's den.
He's in shock, he heard the medicine cat inform his parents, please, leave him to process this on his own.
He didn't know if he'd use that word for it, but with every twitch of his whiskers, he smelled blood, and as the sun rose higher in the sky, casting midday shadows, he winced away from the taller, thinner ones, hoping to StarClan for the snow to just melt already, for leaf-bare to leave him.
Comfreywing muttered platitudes. Sycamorepaw delivered moss— they both knew he didn't need it, but her mentor doted all the same.
At a point, Heronpaw's body was delivered, with cobwebs covering Stormstar's weeping right eye. The white-and-blue tom was thinner, sharper, in death than in life, limbs stiff, death-wound wrapped in sparse leaf-bare flowers, stems, out of respect— but they offered little comfort, except perhaps assurance that Falconstar wouldn't claw open Stormstar's other eye.
The leader was quick to undo the wrappings all the same, dissatisfied with her rival's pity, face twisting into horror, disgust, to finally see the state of her son.
More petals adorned his face, plastering sickly to the scratches Firwhisker had left. Despite Stormstar's — or Pearleaf's, or perhaps Thistlecloud's — efforts to clean the body, discolored patches of now-brown blood remained, clotted into the tufts of his cheek, his neck, right above where Spottedpaw's claws had gouged it apart.
Brightclaw bundled the wrappings into his paws, saying nothing to Stormstar, his mate not even uttering a curse as the IvyClan leader left in the direction she came, offering no further apologies.
Dirty petals peeked out from between the tom's toes, as Falconstar finally tore her gaze away from her son — a few tail-lengths from his parents, there sat Tinyclaw, perhaps, in his young warriorhood, deeming it improper to mourn directly, or perhaps uncaring. Spottedpaw couldn't make heads or tails of it, but, interrupted by Falconstar's call, he found no reason to think on it further:
"I ask for StarClan to look down on my son." She spoke, muzzle to the bright, chilly sky, overcast in dull clouds, but sunshine poked through just enough to pepper the slurried ground in gold. "He has given his life defending his convictions and his Clan, and served them until the very end."
Pinestripe, Heronpaw's mentor, no doubt wishing this ceremony could've been performed under any other circumstance, settled at Tinyclaw's side, brushing his flank with his tail. The smaller tom only spared him a glance, before returning his attention to his mother as she spoke.
"His life was taken from him too young, by the scum of the forest." Falconstar spat, voice turning low, the line between grief and fury far too blurred to ever walk again. Each sentence rumbled the heartache in her chest, but her claws, still painted in Stormstar's blood, tensed into the dirt. "Let StarClan receive him as Heronthroat. Let the Dark Forest receive Firwhisker, and let ElmClan never forget what was taken from them this sunrise."
Heronthroat.
Did martyrdom make a warrior?
Spottedpaw didn't know, but he could sense the answer in his Clanmates' pity-filled gazes.
He knew the superstition, but couldn't stop himself from slipping in and out of consciousness during the vigil, catching the sky grow dimmer through the leaves, watching cats prod around Heronpaw's body in shifts. Patrols came and went— Sycamorepaw gathering herbs in the afternoon, Moleface and Cloverfoot taking the sunhigh's hunting patrol alone, then Silvercloud, Antthroat, and Nettlepaw joining them by sunset — all weaving around the splayed centerpiece of camp, exchanging no words, rather solemn dips of the head, with Heronpaw's mourners.
The fresh-kill pile grew hearty for leaf-bare, as it was perhaps all ElmClan could do to keep itself occupied, keep distances respectful from Falconstar and her family. Falconstar, Pinestripe, never took prey, and Tinyclaw only accepted a single mouse from his father, only to tear 'til it was more bone and sinew than meat. Under any other circumstances, Brightclaw would have chided the tom, but Spottedpaw figured he had more to worry about.
Eventually, through a pawful of Comfreywing's poppy seeds, dusk came, frost darkening against the forest floor, sparse snowflakes touching Heronpaw's body— only serving, really, to wet the ruff of his collar, beneath the dimmed lavender stripes of the sky. As night grew closer, Falconstar called out for her cats, to sit proper vigil for the slain apprentice.
Before he fell asleep once more, aided only by the herbs, he could catch the shadows of his Clanmates sitting, circling camp, Heronpaw's body obscured by the shapes of cats with their heads hanging low in silence.
The poppy seeds gave him no dreams, and he was thankful for nothing more.
When he roused, it was almost sun-high, and light, even through the thin gap between the pair of crags forming the medicine den's entrance, stung the young tom's eyes. Moss had been tucked, rudimentarily, beneath his paws, around his belly… he always wondered where Comfreywing and Sycamorepaw found such supplies, in leaf-bare, and it twisted his heart to imagine the alternative of them wasting their meager stock on him.
A wordless groan escaped his muzzle. StarClan, he'd slept hard, his eyes threatening to shut once more even through the glaring sunlight.
"We didn't want to wake you up," a voice purred, and there Sycamorepaw was. Thymepaw's sister, the medicine cat apprentice, a tufted, pale tortoiseshell-and-white molly who was always happy to drag her friends into the healer's den like it was a new sleepover spot, despite Comfreywing's chiding. "Comfreywing and the elders are still out burying Heronpaw. On our side of the river. We normally wouldn't do it there, but Falconstar asked. I think it's the place she and Brightclaw became mates, or something."
Numbly, Spottedpaw nodded.
"You hungry?" Sycamorepaw turned to face him, with the ever-casual jade glint in her eye, like this was another one of her sleepovers, and not…
"Yeah," Spottedpaw lied, motioning to wash himself, surprised to find, still, no tang of blood on his paws.
"I can grab you that huge-ass crow on the fresh-kill pile. I think they caught it for Falconstar's family, but I can haggle."
"StarClan!" Mewling out a laugh, one Spottedpaw didn't even think he was still capable of, he shook his head. At the purr, he found Sycamorepaw's ears perked, mirth in her eyes. She'd done her job. "The mouse on the edge. Just the mouse on the edge."
Rolling her eyes, Sycamorepaw rose to her paws. "Alright, fine."
As she padded off, Spottedpaw found himself grateful: for a cat who the world hadn't stopped turning for.
Medicine cat work had left the young molly swamped, so she made it a point to prod at her friends whenever possible. Anything to make stacking herbs and memorizing plant mnemonics less boring.
Partway through padding to the fresh-kill pile, there returned a hunting patrol — Nettlepaw, with a bundle of small, dirt-sodden rodents in his jaws, as his mentor proudly mentioned to the young molly that her apprentice had located a burrow of voles all by himself. Still, minus a small blackbird missing its wing, dangling from Silvercloud's jaws, that was all the prey the group had to offer.
Nettlenose set down his catches, and Spottedpaw's gaze followed the flicker of Sycamorepaw's tail, just in time to mentally prepare himself before the molly grabbed her friend and practically dragged him over — and, like routine, Sorrelpaw's head perked up from her spot chattering outside the nursery, then Dawnpaw's, who called out for Thymepaw on the way…
"Are you doing okay this morning, Spottedpaw…?" Nettlepaw asked in a quiet mew.
Despite their enthusiasm, the lot of them all looked downtrodden — exhausted. Spottedpaw couldn't blame them in the least, reckoning he hardly looked any different.
"Mmmh…" He mrrowed noncommittally, washing his pelt, "I'm still tired."
"I don't blame you! That was so horrible!" Sorrelpaw cut in, eyes brimming, whiskers alert. "Did Firwhisker do anything to you?"
As Dawnpaw lightly thwapped Sorrelpaw's side with her tail for asking such a question, Spottedpaw went quiet.
He couldn't tell the truth. He could never tell the truth — but he didn't know how well he could lie, either. He'd always been a quiet cat, with a low voice, spending most of his time lost in thought… Did that help his case here, or not?
Worry built in his chest, before he swallowed it back down. It was fine: no cat was going to suspect him, not when Stormstar told them everything, and paid for it with an eye.
Firwhisker was exiled — a fate worse than death, to some. Exile meant being banished from StarClan's watchful eye, away from Clanmates to help you… if you got hurt and couldn't hunt for yourself, that was it, and no other Clan would take you in and risk causing problems with the one who banished you.
Firwhisker was the only cat who could prove Spottedpaw's guilt, and he was gone from the forest, or at least couldn't have had any intention of coming for him — so it was…
…fine, right? He would be okay? One day, this would all feel far away, his untold tragic past… and maybe one day, he'd let it slip in the elder's den, faraway enough for them to all laugh about it…
…but in the present, with ten eyes softly focused on their friend, he went for the safe answer.
"I don't… r-remember, really."
"Regardless…" Thymepaw frowned. "It sounds like it was awful. I'm so sorry."
…the dark ginger molly at her side, however, had no such tact. "What was IvyClan like?" Sorrelpaw prodded. "Oh, oh, oh," she fumbled over her words, "do they really have cat skin in their dens and deathberries behind the medicine cat's ear?"
Spottedpaw blinked. "Um—"
"Sorrelpaw, stop it…" Dawnpaw mewed, ears downturning with embarrassment.
"I'm just wondering!" Sorrelpaw whined.
Sycamorepaw purred, adding, "I'm wondering too, honestly…"
"Sis, you've met with IvyClan medicine cats!" Thymepaw chided.
"It was dark, I couldn't confirm or deny deathberries."
Dawnpaw and Thymepaw snapped at the mollies for their disrespect, while Nettlepaw kept his muzzle tucked into his chest fur to muffle his laughter.
Really, Spottedpaw found more comfort in that than them asking any further questions. Amongst themselves, the apprentices bickered, until Pinestripe appeared to tug Sorrelpaw and Thymepaw away for training.
(Dappleflower, there for her apprentice, had an implacable look in her eye at the sight of her son, but said nothing to him.)
From there, the group dissipated on its own. Daisyheart wanted to ask Nettlepaw about the vole burrow, Comfreywing and the elders finally returned from the riverside to steal Sycamorepaw's attention, and Moleface came to interrupt Dawnpaw for a bout of solo training.
…it felt wrong, being alone, then. Yes, the world continued to turn, and apprentices would hunt and spar, as they always did…
…but Spottedpaw had no paw in it.
Like he was too fragile to handle — he saw it in Cloverfoot, when the white tom came to visit, more to share tongues and prey than pull his apprentice back to any of his duties, and he sure as StarClan saw it in Dappleflower and Mottleheart, who seemed content leaving their son in Cloverfoot, Daisyheart, and Comfreywing's paws.
As the days passed, Spottedpaw finally trodded out of the medicine den to sleep with his fellow apprentices again, and Comfreywing only offered a purr, a "glad you're feeling better, Spottedpaw," and Sycamorepaw a lighthearted, "aw, you like Dawnpaw better than me? Hey, tell my sister I say hi!"
Dawnpaw mentioned that she'd kept his nest untouched, guarded from Sorrelpaw and Nettlepaw, who had their own nests, thank you very much — and Spottedpaw was grateful for the gesture, but really, it only made his corner of the den feel colder.
Like the Spottedpaw they'd befriended was gone — having his throat slashed out with Heronpaw.
If they noticed, they didn't show it. There were borders to patrol, prey to hunt, dens to clean, and herbs to gather. Always, their sun-high hangouts were interrupted by the adults eventually — Brightclaw dragging Sorrelpaw away to spar with him and Falconstar, Sycamorepaw prodding her sister about something or other, the deputy assigning Nettlepaw to every other hunting patrol…
…finally, it was just Dawnpaw and Spottedpaw.
Spottedpaw's claws flexed. It had only been a few days, now, but he still felt useless. How much he wished Cloverfoot would do something with him — he didn't feel relaxed, or well-rested, at the special treatment. He felt othered, like the shadow in the back of the apprentice's den was just that and nothing more. An odd shape to tiptoe around, for it would surely dissipate if brought into the light…
Evidently, though, he wasn't the only one in thought. Dawnpaw was staring off into the trees, expression murky.
"…Spottedpaw, can I ask you something?" She asked.
"Of course." He mewed.
Dawnpaw blinked. Her whiskers hung low — a troubled expression that felt wrong on the usually peppy, strong-hearted molly.
"Am I a bad cat?" She finally asked.
…What?
Of all cats…?
"Huh?" Spottedpaw raised his head, turning to face her. "Why would you be a bad cat?"
"The vigil." Dawnpaw said. "Tinyclaw said that I was fidgety, that… that I should pay more respect to Heronp—" She stopped herself. "—H-Heronthroat. That we were friends… but…"
She dipped her muzzle, tinged in pale fur. "We weren't friends. Not like… you, and me, and all of them, are friends." Her paws kneaded the dirt. "… Honestly, I—"
Cutting herself off, she swallowed, like the words hurt to push out.
"I'm glad he's dead."
Spottedpaw was silent.
Warriors didn't often understand their apprentices. The past pawful of days, for Spottedpaw, had been living proof of that.
Heronpaw drew blood when he trained… because he was a promising young warrior, obviously. No matter what he did, he'd go whining to Falconstar about it, safely wrapped in her big, bushy tail, where no cat in the forest could criticize her little darling.
To an adult, two apprentices sparring was enough sign of friendship, even if it was arranged by their mentors, even if it left scars. He's just a kit. Don't blame him. Never mind the fact he was the oldest of the group: judging Heronpaw was judging Falconstar, and judging Falconstar was judging ElmClan itself.
Even brushing aside the circumstances — violence ElmClan cats knew from the moments they were weaned off their queens' milk, perhaps even earlier — what apprentice wouldn't be thankful a cat like that was gone?
"…I-I'm sorry—" Dawnpaw croaked.
"No." Spottedpaw's ears perked up, and he groped for consolation. "N-no, don't be. Cats die. Like…"
…internally, he lamented his inability to use his words. He didn't have the heart for frilly sayings, or easy comforts, like Daisyheart or Comfreywing did.
Beneath his paws, the snow was still melting. Newleaf would be soon… or something resembling it. He'd take moons of cold, murky, brown dirt over another patch of frost any day — but he really did wish the trees would bloom again. The leaf-bare hadn't been harsh, as far as the weather went, prey ran fine and no cats had gotten anything worse than cracked pawpads… but on every other front, it was unbearable.
"…like the seasons. Leaves on trees. We live in a forest."
Solemnly, he blinked up at the branches, stripped clean of life.
"…it's nature."
He concluded, bluntly, feeling a bit embarrassed. Daisyheart probably would've been able to wax poetic about snowfall, about flowers blooming in newleaf, about leaf-bare's withered roots digging into the earth, but Spottedpaw couldn't paw for more than that.
Still, Dawnpaw had to find some meaning in his words, as she shut her eyes, flattened her ears, and touched her nose to his cheek.
Her exhale of relief rustled his fur.