I don't like how the writers killed Blackavar off for no particular reason in the film adaptation, so this is my attempt to make some sense of it.
The earthen ceiling trembled with the reverberations of the industrious digging of the Efrafans above. There were a thousand of them up there, all hard eyes and snapping teeth. They were close to breaking through.
Blackavar pressed back against the wall of the Honeycomb, hidden behind great twisting roots, as Bigwig herded the others into the deep burrows. He kept still and silent, unnoticeable, part of the warren itself. Hazel-rah would never approve of his intentions, would dismiss them as foolhardy and liable to get more of them killed than necessary, and Bigwig would back his chief. Admittedly, it was a foolhardy idea and it would get Blackavar killed. He still made his choice. It grated horribly against something deep in his gut to disobey rabbits he respected so highly as Hazel-rah and Bigwig, but he'd made up his mind.
He wouldn't hide while Bigwig gave his life protecting his people. He'd had enough of cowering, of ducking away, of fearing the next blow. He wouldn't be dragged back to Efrafa. Wouldn't fall again on the Council's false mercy. No—he would die fighting. If he was lucky he might take an Efrafan or two with him.
Bigwig glanced back to check that the Honeycomb was empty.
Blackavar crouched, silent, not daring to so much as breathe.
Bigwig disappeared into the deep burrows. There was some shuffling and then a rush of soil as he collapsed the tunnel after him.
Blackavar let out a breath. That was the end of it. There was no changing his mind now. A strange, numbing calm began to overtake him, beginning in his chest and spreading through his limbs. There was an odd freedom in what he was doing. He would be dead soon, and these last few moments were his.
He didn't know what would come of Hazel-rah's plan, but their small warren couldn't hold off the Efrafans forever. (A season ago it wouldn't have occurred to him to doubt his chief. There was a part of himself he hated for missing the absolute certainty of Efrafan discipline.) Woundwort's Owsla had the determination of the fiercest hunting hounds. They would break through, there would be carnage, and at the end of it all Blackavar was determined to be lying dead instead of suffering the torment and humiliation of another capture. And before he met his fate, he would draw blood.
He felt his own blood rise, heat and lightning under his fur, and he stood from where he crouched. The vibrations of digging were closer; loose soil fell from the roof of the great burrow. He moved closer. He was ready for them.
The dull thud! of earth collapsing resounded throughout the warren, and at a point down the tunnel sunlight broke through. A massive shadow moved, eclipsing the light for a heartbeat or two, and then the vibrations of heavy footsteps traveled through the earth. A strong, unmistakable scent invaded the burrow. The scent was of rabbit, but Blackavar couldn't tell if it was only his imagination that made it rank and heavy as a fox's.
General Woundwort.
Blackavar's heart quickened. A blow, even just one, against the greatest tyrant of them all. The last thing he could do to sever himself entirely from Efrafa. That was something to die for.
He watched, for just a second, as the General approached. No one had ever won a fight against the General, and Blackavar didn't fancy himself an exception. No one could match the General's size and power. Ordinary rabbits' claws were blunt for digging, but he kept his sharp as any cat's. He killed with his teeth like a weasel. He was not natural—he was more than a rabbit. It was not a fight that could be won.
Blackavar couldn't afford to wait. He needed to make his first blow count because he wouldn't get a second. Once the fight began, the General would close with him and he'd be finished in an instant.
"General!" He shouted the title like a challenge, nothing left of the honorific it should have conveyed, as he lunged out of the shadows, straight for the tyrant chief's throat. His teeth crashed together too soon as the General boxed him away, crushing him to the ground with great forepaws. Blackavar came away with little more than a mouthful of bristly fur, but a thin line of foul-tasting blood met his tongue. A fierce, vindictive satisfaction burned in his chest.
But it was short-lived as the General struck down again, raking his claws sharper and deeper into him than even the police, wrenching a choked scream from his throat. Pain rang through his whole body, radiating from the bleeding gashes in his flank, haunch, shoulder. The metal-death scent of blood drowned out everything else from his nostrils, making him lightheaded; the earthen run spun around him as he collapsed to the floor. The General didn't hesitate to finish the fight: He buried his teeth in Blackavar's throat and tore.
It was over quickly, but it didn't hurt as badly as it might have. Wasn't drawn out. Didn't sting his pride. Blackavar had been dead from the start—he'd made his peace with it.
The wound he'd left the General was shallow; it did little harm. But even if it meant nothing, even if his death achieved nothing, he'd still fought back against Woundwort himself.
It was still worth it to, just this once, bite back.
Straight-up forgot I wrote this lol. Figured I might as well post it.