Ripred had miscalculated.
He has long since stopped raking his claws on the smooth of the obsidian, long since stopped snarling obscenities and smashing his locked fangs against the wall. His skin sits tightly on his bones.
Oh, it is a familiar feeling. The starvation, the anger. The dried blood and the knowledge that he had one job, and he did it wrong.
The helplessness.
They had thrown him in this pit to humiliate him. To say, Look, we beat you, the invincible rager. The Bane had come to laugh and gloat the first couple of days. To shout his pent-up rage at Ripred, to beat him without consequence. Then to revel in his own superiority. The comforting knowledge that finally, he had the upper hand. Finally, Twirltongue had said that leaving "the fallen rager" alone to languish in his own failure as death approached was humiliation enough.
So Ripred is alone now.
He had thought his fangs would've gone through his brain by now. An agonizing death, for sure. But it might have been quick enough. Quicker than starvation, anyway.
Ripred had miscalculated. His teeth had locked instead.
He will die here. Unless, by some miracle, somebody comes looking.
He had sought to die, once. When the Garden had swallowed his family whole. When all that he had labored for, the future he had thought in reach, had come crumbling apart like that accursed dam. He had run from all that would keep him safe — into battle, into starvation, into lethargy, he had run aimlessly until he could not run anymore. No foe could best him. He could not hold himself from sustenance, a momentary purpose. A chance to forget. He would confine himself to pits where he would languish, not moving to gnaw down his fangs. He had grown thin and scrawny in those days. Those that saw him said he had the face of a madman. In a way, he hadn't been especially different from Hamnet.
So it is a familiar situation. He has felt the starvation and the clash of teeth and the utter helplessness before.
He will die in this pit, and it is a damn shame. Ripred isn't content to die. He has not been content to die like this in ten years. He has— had a lot of things that he had to see through. Razor would have been his go-to replacement among the rat pack, but Razor is dead, too. Maybe Clawsin can take up the mantle. Or maybe it will all crash and burn once more. It's a damn shame — that everything might crumble again.
But he is in this pit now because he had miscalculated. He had thought himself capable of reining in the Bane. He had thought that miserable brat would fold as soon as Ripred had him with his back against the wall. Only he had miscalculated. He hadn't considered that the Bane might actually have a decent following. That the gnawers would listen to what he had to say. Or, what Twirltongue puts in his mouth.
The Bane had been expecting Ripred. His voice had matured and he found a couple of big words to roll around his mouth. Given a little speech, too. About Ripred's treachery to the rats and torment of him. About how Ripred was a vile, pitiful traitor who somebody needed to show up. And who is that? Not you, my dear Pearlpet, is it?
The Bane's eyes had bulged, he'd thrown a tantrum, and then sicced his army on him. Eager to show their loyalty, the gnawers had pounced. Ripred had torn through about a couple hundred of them before they had him outnumbered.
So. Ripred had miscalculated.
He's in the pit now. Barely a living creature comes by. Sometimes, he can smell some stingers a ways off. But always far away. No food, no water. A bit of rest to dull the pain. And nothing to do but, in fleeting moments, think and wonder.
Maybe if he had been kinder to the Bane, he would not be in this pit now. Gregor had meant for him to be the pup's parent. But Ripred spent the last ten years coming to terms with the fact that he was no longer one. That pain is still there. The dregs of what had sent him aimlessly through the Underland in an attempt to die still linger. They find him in the night. In the pits. He's no good with pups. Not anymore.
He had lost his purpose once. Everything he was. Wanted to tear it all away. He'd miscalculated. But he'd found, in his search for death, that something had to change. That he had been right — that there was something truly messed up about one misstep every other year causing war and death and grief.
The pit is desolate. It is so lonesome. And it is something of a concession, but Ripred had not wanted to die in a place like this. Somewhere isolated and confining, with no visitors.
But he had miscalculated. So he sits in this pit now.