Post by dumpster on Sept 14, 2020 21:13:09 GMT -6
raggedthroat
redwoodclan
a coarse-coated, ancient, scarred tom cat with hateful yellow eyes.
reluctant elder
male
177 moons
A p p e a r a n c e
Despite his ancient age, Raggedthroat has remained unnervingly strong and has only gotten slower with age rather than weaker. Old injuries and their aches and pains have finally managed to slow this bulky tom’s step to a degree, but he stubbornly fights against such pangs in his body and refuses to admit to its existence. His thick, coarse, wild ginger coat hides his newly stooped posture for the most part… but even a coat as untamable as Raggedthroat’s can only conceal so much.
His thick pelt and massive jowls have spared him several grievous injuries in his lifetime, but not from all – if the thick, ridge mess of scar tissue that resides where his throat met his chest was anything to go by. It’s correctly assumed that the permanent rasp to his breath is due to this ancient wound… though Raggedthroat knows of no others still living old enough to remember its origin.
When Raggedthroat comes to mind, the first thing others generally picture is his unforgiving and perpetual scowl. His face is marred with deep frown lines, his muzzle lined with hairless scars, his ears tattered from not one but two wars, and his yellow eyes filled with hate born of countless losses.
His thick pelt and massive jowls have spared him several grievous injuries in his lifetime, but not from all – if the thick, ridge mess of scar tissue that resides where his throat met his chest was anything to go by. It’s correctly assumed that the permanent rasp to his breath is due to this ancient wound… though Raggedthroat knows of no others still living old enough to remember its origin.
When Raggedthroat comes to mind, the first thing others generally picture is his unforgiving and perpetual scowl. His face is marred with deep frown lines, his muzzle lined with hairless scars, his ears tattered from not one but two wars, and his yellow eyes filled with hate born of countless losses.
P e r s o n a l i t y
angry, demanding, destructive, impatient, scornful, stubborn
brutal, pitiless, irreverent, hardworking, iron-willed
an·gry: having a strong feeling of displeasure or hostility.
Similar // wrathful || Raggedthroat knows no sadness or pain, no fear and no joy... only a deep and sustaining anger that's kept him warm through many cold seasons. He wasn't always so angry, but more than a hundred moons have passed since he's felt warmth born of happiness rather than fury.
de·mand·ing: requiring much skill or effort.
similar // punishing || He remembers when he first knew that their Clan was doomed. He remembers when he first felt that he could do something about it - the first time he took action into his own paws... he remembers each of his many apprentices; even those that failed him... and those that did not survive. To this day, Raggedthroat remains demanding of his peers, and many youths consider it a blessing that he no longer mentors.
de·struc·tive: tending to refute or disparage; negative and unhelpful.
similar // antagonistic || Raggedthroat ruins almost everything that he touches in some form or fashion. His influence has led to the early demise of more than one member of his own family; those that survive of his lineage still find themselves effected by his hateful, consuming presence. Raggedthroat finds it virtually impossible to maintain positive relationships with those around him and has wounded spirits, senses of pride, ambitions, and hearts of many.
im·pa·tient: having a tendency to be quickly irritated or provoked.
similar // crabby || Where others might have grown more patient with moons upon moons of time on their shoulders, Raggedthroat became drastically less-so. He is direct, despises idle chit-chat, and has been known to snap and insult others if they don't manage to get to the point quickly enough for his tastes... or if they simply talk too much. He is generally given a wide berth due to his unfailingly sour moods.
scorn·ful: feeling or expressing contempt or derision.
similar // contemptuous || age might have granted others the wisdom to know when to hold their tongues, but for Raggedthroat, it merely made him all the bolder. He takes particular delight in making a mockery of weakness in others; failures find themselves met with delighted cackles and jeering remarks. He is the sort of tom that would find kits falling over to be hilarious.
stub·born: having or showing dogged determination not to change one's position on something in spite of good arguments to do so.
similar // headstrong || He is not a tom that is known to be easily persuaded... of anything or by anyone. He had determined that anyone outside of RedwoodClan is an enemy and a threat to their prosperity and longevity... and while he is able to do less about this than he would like in his old age, he happily and readily advocates for aggressively guarded borders and for warriors willing to kill to protect their homeland and its inhabitants.
bru·tal: savagely violent.
similar // abominable || Raggedthroat has not survived as many battles as he has by fighting fairly or with honor. As he has told many, 'Honor is for the Dead.' He is known to use dirty tricks and unnecessarily brutal tactics to win fights. He has blinded, he has maimed, he has crippled, and he has killed... all in the name of RedwoodClan - all to try and appease the monster of rage and grief that resides inside of him.
pit·i·less: showing no pity; cruel.
similar // cold-hearted || He has grown colder with each moon and more detached from whatever sense of empathy that he used to possess. In its place is a cruel indifference to any misfortune suffered by those around him. Death no longer phases him; he resigned himself to the fact that in war there would need to be sacrifices, and sometimes the sacrifice would be grave. Having lost everything but his Clan - Raggedthroat is determined to ensure that RedwoodClan will never fall before his inevitable passing.
ir·rev·er·ent: showing a lack of respect for things that are generally taken seriously. similar // impertinent || Having outlived more leaders and deputies than he cares to count, Raggedthroat finds it difficult to hold much respect for their positions - especially when they refuse to follow his advice. Once his prodigy was passed up for the position of deputy, Raggedthroat decided that perhaps such titles were useless.
hard-work·ing: tending to work with energy and commitment
similar // unflagging || While old wounds have slowed his steps from the brisk trot he used to boast to a mere purposeful stride, Raggedthroat has not stopped. His nest might be located within the elder's den, but Raggedthroat is most often found attaching himself to patrols and clinging to his old warrior duties with stubborn claws.
i·ron-willed: implacably determined on a course of action; resolute.
similar // passionate || Unfailingly patriotic in nature, Raggedthroat knows in his heart that one day - one blessed day - he will eventually give his life for his Clan... but he refuses to go gently into that good night and rages against the very idea of his mortality and will continue to do so until he feels assured of RedwoodClan's safety and longevity.
Similar // wrathful || Raggedthroat knows no sadness or pain, no fear and no joy... only a deep and sustaining anger that's kept him warm through many cold seasons. He wasn't always so angry, but more than a hundred moons have passed since he's felt warmth born of happiness rather than fury.
de·mand·ing: requiring much skill or effort.
similar // punishing || He remembers when he first knew that their Clan was doomed. He remembers when he first felt that he could do something about it - the first time he took action into his own paws... he remembers each of his many apprentices; even those that failed him... and those that did not survive. To this day, Raggedthroat remains demanding of his peers, and many youths consider it a blessing that he no longer mentors.
de·struc·tive: tending to refute or disparage; negative and unhelpful.
similar // antagonistic || Raggedthroat ruins almost everything that he touches in some form or fashion. His influence has led to the early demise of more than one member of his own family; those that survive of his lineage still find themselves effected by his hateful, consuming presence. Raggedthroat finds it virtually impossible to maintain positive relationships with those around him and has wounded spirits, senses of pride, ambitions, and hearts of many.
im·pa·tient: having a tendency to be quickly irritated or provoked.
similar // crabby || Where others might have grown more patient with moons upon moons of time on their shoulders, Raggedthroat became drastically less-so. He is direct, despises idle chit-chat, and has been known to snap and insult others if they don't manage to get to the point quickly enough for his tastes... or if they simply talk too much. He is generally given a wide berth due to his unfailingly sour moods.
scorn·ful: feeling or expressing contempt or derision.
similar // contemptuous || age might have granted others the wisdom to know when to hold their tongues, but for Raggedthroat, it merely made him all the bolder. He takes particular delight in making a mockery of weakness in others; failures find themselves met with delighted cackles and jeering remarks. He is the sort of tom that would find kits falling over to be hilarious.
stub·born: having or showing dogged determination not to change one's position on something in spite of good arguments to do so.
similar // headstrong || He is not a tom that is known to be easily persuaded... of anything or by anyone. He had determined that anyone outside of RedwoodClan is an enemy and a threat to their prosperity and longevity... and while he is able to do less about this than he would like in his old age, he happily and readily advocates for aggressively guarded borders and for warriors willing to kill to protect their homeland and its inhabitants.
bru·tal: savagely violent.
similar // abominable || Raggedthroat has not survived as many battles as he has by fighting fairly or with honor. As he has told many, 'Honor is for the Dead.' He is known to use dirty tricks and unnecessarily brutal tactics to win fights. He has blinded, he has maimed, he has crippled, and he has killed... all in the name of RedwoodClan - all to try and appease the monster of rage and grief that resides inside of him.
pit·i·less: showing no pity; cruel.
similar // cold-hearted || He has grown colder with each moon and more detached from whatever sense of empathy that he used to possess. In its place is a cruel indifference to any misfortune suffered by those around him. Death no longer phases him; he resigned himself to the fact that in war there would need to be sacrifices, and sometimes the sacrifice would be grave. Having lost everything but his Clan - Raggedthroat is determined to ensure that RedwoodClan will never fall before his inevitable passing.
ir·rev·er·ent: showing a lack of respect for things that are generally taken seriously. similar // impertinent || Having outlived more leaders and deputies than he cares to count, Raggedthroat finds it difficult to hold much respect for their positions - especially when they refuse to follow his advice. Once his prodigy was passed up for the position of deputy, Raggedthroat decided that perhaps such titles were useless.
hard-work·ing: tending to work with energy and commitment
similar // unflagging || While old wounds have slowed his steps from the brisk trot he used to boast to a mere purposeful stride, Raggedthroat has not stopped. His nest might be located within the elder's den, but Raggedthroat is most often found attaching himself to patrols and clinging to his old warrior duties with stubborn claws.
i·ron-willed: implacably determined on a course of action; resolute.
similar // passionate || Unfailingly patriotic in nature, Raggedthroat knows in his heart that one day - one blessed day - he will eventually give his life for his Clan... but he refuses to go gently into that good night and rages against the very idea of his mortality and will continue to do so until he feels assured of RedwoodClan's safety and longevity.
H i s t o r y
“He’s going to be trouble, that one,” an old molly chortled as she looked down at the mess of kits nestled in at her daughter’s belly. A squalling tom kit with a tangled, ragged pelt had caught her eye—he was fresh out of the womb and just cleansed of muck, and he was so angry already. While the other kits mewled for milk, it seemed that this one with his scratchy little voice was doing his best to issue complaint after complaint… “Reminds me of you,” the old molly snorted as she licked her daughter’s forehead.
“Ragged little thing, isn’t he?” the young queen purred, “That’s it, then—Raggedkit,” she named the feisty little kit, nudging him to a part of her belly away from his siblings so that his flailing limbs would stop pushing his littermates away from her milk, “I won’t have you being a bully,” his mother declared.
“It wasn’t my fault! We were playing, and—” his voice shook as large, round eyes shifted about between his mother’s paws.
“I told you, Raggedkit, I told you so many times! Never leave camp!” rage and fear filled her words as she prowled about before her son, muzzle twisting into a grievous scowl. “Do you have any idea how serious this is, Raggedkit? Your brother may not make it,” his mother spat. A breath hitched and shuddered through her as she shut her eyes tightly for a moment, ginger tail lashing behind her. “What were you thinking?” she breathed.
“I wasn’t! It was his idea!” Raggedkit protested. Guilt and fear coiled like a snake inside of his belly. Was it his fault? He hadn’t stopped him – he’d just kept going with him. When had they even left camp? It was just a haze of joy and freedom in his mind… a fog promptly cleared by the growls of a young, ambitious, and hungry fox.
Raggedkit and his brother ran, but… he’d been faster.
His brother scowled at him from across the training hollow. His breaths came in heated pants, and his tail stood tall and bristled behind him. Raggedpaw frowned as he hitched a paw up to wipe the thin streaks of bright red blood free from the bridge of his nose. They weren’t supposed to be fighting with claws out, but that wouldn’t have stopped his brother… His resentment for Raggedpaw had become consuming.
“What’s your problem?” Raggedpaw mrrowled, hackles prickling as he pinned his ears.
“You are,” his brother spat.
A knot of anger twisted inside of him. It wasn’t his fault. If he had been the slower of the two, it would have been Raggedpaw savaged by the fox instead of his brother; perhaps it would have been his training delayed by nearly two moons, instead. He hadn’t done anything wrong – his brother just wasn’t fast enough.
“Do I look like a fox to you?” Raggedpaw glowered.
“Close enough,” his brother returned with venom.
Raggedpaw was sure that he was going to die.
His paws felt cold and his limbs were growing more difficult to move. It had happened so fast – their batch of warriors (and not quite warriors, as the case was for himself) had been dispatched to deal with an irate badger that had taken up residence too close to the Clan’s training grounds for comfort with its foul temperament… flushing it out hadn’t gone according to plan.
They hadn’t known that it was a mother with kits – not until she came rampaging out of her den and tore through their group with a sense of ease gifted through maternal rage and desperation… Raggedpaw had been fast enough to stop her from rending the belly of one of the young warriors of their group… but he hadn’t been fast enough to avoid her. Her teeth tore at the young tom cat’s throat.
I wonder what my name would have been, his thoughts drifted as a sticky pool formed beneath him.
“H-he saved my life, please—” a distant voice sounded out somewhere above him, “there has to be something we can do, please—please don’t let him die!” the voice begged.
“Oh, Stars…” a soft wretching sound followed the words, “I’ll try—!” the second voice said.
Raggedthroat… he supposed it was fitting, and the silver-lining of his injuries was that it made observing his vigil in silence all the easier – save for the rasping breaths that sounded out from his particular branch high above their camp. It had taken him over a moon to recover as much as he hand… far too long, in his mind. Every day had been filled with the satisfied, smug sidelong looks from his brother. He didn’t doubt that the other tom wished him dead… it merely made him all the more determined to survive and regain his strength.
He knew that it was wrong to gain pleasure from his brother’s ire – but after moons of being blamed for each and every misfortune in his brother’s life…? It was a feeling that Raggedthroat found himself less than reluctant to revel in. Now and then during his vigil, the newly scarred tom cat would shift his eyes to where he had last seen his brother, still an apprentice, scowling up at him… but then someone else’s gaze met his own.
She was standing there in the deepest part of the night. Her eyes shone up at him and glimmered in the moonlight, and Raggedthroat knew that he hadn’t imagined it when she smiled up at him.
“He hasn’t stopped talking about it, you know…” Petalfur confided in him with a soft smile as she thought of her brother. “He’s really grateful—we all are.” Bright green eyes shifted to him and Raggedthroat found himself standing taller under her gaze, “I keep thinking about how close it was… for everyone,” he didn’t need to meet her eyes to know that they fell to the thick, knotted ridge of scar tissue that remained from his gruesome wounds. “Does it hurt?” she said.
“Sometimes, yeah…” he admitted in a rasp, “It’s fine, mostly, I just sound like a sick fox and I can’t really turn my head the same ways,” Raggedthroat laughed and shook his head. His scar began to tingle – almost as though the knotted band of flesh could tell that the pair were discussing it.
“Oh it’s not that bad! You do do this growly-sort-of-snore now, though… loudly.” Petalfur teased him.
“Tch, doesn’t everyone?” Raggedthroat’s muzzle wrinkled into a sheepish smile.
“No! Not like this!” the molly at his side broke into snickers, “Here, I’ll see if I can…” she trailed off, bright eyes drifting skyward as she scrunged in preparation to mimic his distorted snoring.
“You really don’t have to—” he tried.
“SHGhhrnnckck…!” Petalfur practically swallowed her tongue trying to copy Raggedthroat’s wretched snore.
“I do not sound like that!” the young warrior protested, yellow eyes widening as he rounded on her, “That… that sounded like a bear cub strangling on a rock!” his voice threatened to give out with his surprise and incredulity.
“I’m pretty sure that it’s worse than that,” the molly at his side grinned in agreeance, looking him over with a note of mischief in her eyes before she raised a paw to bop him on the nose. “You’re pretty cute when you end up on your back, though… must be some good, deep sleep,” Petalfur purred.
“… the dreams help,” Raggedthroat began hesitantly, struggling to get his voice to obey him. “Those have been pretty good, lately…” he murmured.
Her smile widened as she basked in the warmth his eyes shone her. “Mine, too,” she said, touching her nose to his.
“He’s infuriating!” Raggedthroat raved as he paced through their private place in the woods, pausing intermittently to tear chunks of bark off of the trees and their roots. “It never ends with him; he’s just so spiteful!” he spat. Each day it seemed that his brother’s hatred of him would grow… he’d never known that when they’d run into the woods that day so long ago that his brother would become someone that he hated so much – a face that would fill him with such irritation each time he saw his lips twitch and curl.
“Then be better than him! Ignore him, Raggedthroat!” Petalfur implored him butting her forehead up against her mate’s to try and soothe the furious wrinkles in his brow. “I know that’s easier said than done; I heard about what happened on that hunting patrol the other day…” she frowned.
“He intentionally sabotaged my hunt!” Raggedthroat steamed and turned his head away from her. “Someone could have gone hungry because of that—his problems with me are… are ridiculous and unfounded and unfair; I can take that just fine when it’s petty things like burrs in our nest—”
“I don’t really appreciate that part…” Petalfur agreed quietly with a mumble and a rolling of her eyes.
“But my duties, too? It’s… it’s—ggnnh…” the bristling tom cat gave up with a growl and a stiff arching of his scarred neck. He stood there glowering at some far off place until he felt Petalfur’s dappled form leaning into him and sinking into the wildness of his pelt. Shutting his eyes, Raggedthroat’s scowl deepened for a time before it finally began to abate. As his rasping, angered breathing steadied, the sound of her tentative purr filled his ears… “I’ll try,” he said finally, still seeming quite sour about the whole situation, “I’ll work separate patrols – ignore him…” his jaw shifted, jowls clenching down on his grudge, “… as best as I can.” Raggedthroat added gruffly.
“I think you’ll be kept plenty busy, soon…” Petalfur began, her voice lowered to a conspiratorial murmur as glittering green eyes turned up to meet Raggedthroat’s furious yellow ones. “… what with having to help me set up a new nest in the nursery,” she nudged his brawny shoulder with her own.
“In the what—?” Raggedthroat’s head whipped about to face her, maw hanging open at the news.
She smiled, she laughed… and for just a moment, Raggedthroat forgot about all of his anger.
His ears rang at a piercing level; it took all of his conscious effort to draw breath and force his heart to keep beating. “No, no—” his voice was quiet and broken at first, and then when the old queen before him started to shake her head, Raggedthroat screamed, “NO!” spittle flying from his lips. “They—” the wild-eyed tom cat felt dizzy. She’d been fine—he’d just seen her… her smile, the way the tiniest of her teeth shown whenever she laughed… she’d been laughing. “—They weren’t due, not for… not for…” his heart began to pound in his chest. “How did this—I can’t… I can’t breathe,” Raggedthroat rasped, nostrils flaring as his maw hung low to accommodate his panicked, confused, enraged panting.
“Sometimes… these things happen, Raggedthroat, I’m so—” she tried.
“NO! No, it doesn’t! It doesn’t just happen—she was… she was fine…!” he sobbed, his voice breaking as his legs stiffened to try and support him. “There was nothing wrong…” he breathed, yellow eyes fixating on the deathly quiet nursery before them.
“Something went wrong; I’m sorry, Raggedthroat,” the elder queen pitied him.
“Why—why wasn’t she saved?” the bristling tom cat demanded, grief and confusion making his voice oddly quiet. “I… I was saved, how—how was this harder? Why didn’t they save her?” he began to growl.
“Because your survival was a miracle, and I’m sorry, but miracles are in very short supply,” the molly quipped, doing her best to defend the efforts of their medicine cats… even if they hadn’t been successful.
“It’s no miracle,” his lips curled around the word almost mockingly as he turned away from the old queen, “It’s just a curse, now.”
Petalfur had been Good… genuinely kind. She’d brought out the best in those around her, and so it didn’t surprise Raggedthroat when most of the Clan helped with her funeral. For a time, they all sat in silence… then, little by little, as the sun set and the stars began to glimmer above the canopy, his clanmates departed. Even her brother left – unable to meet Raggedthroat’s eye… not that he had sought it. He hadn’t been able to look away from the mound of dirt that covered her. It seemed so small… he didn’t remember her that way.
“Raggedthroat…?” an unexpected voice cut through the silence in the clearing. The grizzled tom cat issued a raspy breath in response. “I—I’m so sorry, I…” his brother stuttered and sniffed and tried again, “I used to… pray… for moons… that you’d be as miserable as I was, but I—I didn’t know that it…” the haunted, guilty tone of his voice only succeeded in churning the pit of anger inside of Raggedthroat, “I didn’t know it’d be like this,” he admitted sorrowfully, “I’m so sorry.”
He sat where he was for a time. His bones and his fangs felt white hot with anger.
“Raggedthroat? Are—are you…?” he tried.
“I wish you’d died to that fox,” Raggedthroat broke his silence without looking away from Petalfur’s gravemound, “I wish you’d just died.” His voice rose from his chest with a shuddering fury.
“I’m sorry, I—” the words offended him.
“Leave.” Raggedthroat choked out, “Leave, or I’ll finish what the fox started.” He vowed.
He never saw his brother again.
The moons rolled on; time never healed his wounds, but Raggedthroat found that he could cover his seeping emotional pustules with a notoriously stern nature and a fierce temper. His name became a feared one to hear at apprenticeship ceremonies, and later on when Coyoteleap approached him, he knew that it wasn’t really love between them when she asked him to give her kits. It was simply duty.
“How is she?” he asked stiffly as the medicine cat departed the den.
“Tired, but strong… There’s three little ones – all healthy,” came the report.
“It’ll do.” Raggedthroat’s thick-jowled maw dipped in an affirmative nod. He knew that his partner had been hoping for a larger litter, but he was willing to sacrifice numbers in favor of health… there was always next season to try again, after all. The coarse coated tom pushed himself to his paws and shook off with an almost satisfied sort of grumble, turning to leave.
“A-aren’t you going to see them?” came the confused inquiry.
Raggedthroat paused, deep frown lines knitting into his brow as yellow eyes shifted to the source of the question. “No,” he said in a way that seemed to challenge the other cat for a rebuttal, “why?” he mrrowled.
“They’re—well, they’re your kits, and—” they stuttered.
“They’re RedwoodClan’s kits,” Raggedthroat returned.
He came to love them despite himself. By their fourth moon, Raggedthroat was as involved as most RedwoodClan fathers were… albeit in his own gruff sort of way. He lacked patience, but he cared enough for them to make an effort… it made the loss of Dustykit all the more painful.
“I told you! I told you so many times!” Raggedthroat snapped at Foxkit and Tansykit. The pair were huddled together inside of the nursery, shivering in their nest that once held three siblings… and never would again. “What were you thinking?” he demanded.
“W-we just wanted to chase crickets…” Tansykit sniffed.
Raggedthroat’s jowls flexed and worked and crunched down on words clawing to be spoken. Crickets… he thought, fur prickling.
Dustykit was dead because they had wanted to chase crickets.
“Can’t you save him, Dad?” Foxkit tried, looking up at him with hopeful, pleading eyes.
“No,” he admitted in a choke, “No, I can’t—we don’t know where the owl flew, and even if we did…” anger shook his voice and Raggedthroat had to work his jowls again before he could continue, “It’s too late, kits. It’s too late to save him, and it’s too late to be sorry about this,” Raggedthroat frowned down at them.
“Do not leave this nursery again,” he told them, forcing his eyes away from them before he felt sickened at the sight of two where there should have been three.
She was tough regarding their loss – tougher than he, at least… She led their family by example and threw herself back into her duties the moment her kits were free of the nursery, and six moons later, when their two surviving kits were well into their apprenticeship, she came to him again. “The Clan needs more warriors, Raggedthroat,” she told him. There wasn’t a question in her voice; if he had declined her advances, she would have sought out the next on her list… but she knew that he wouldn’t deny her. Their respect for each other was too great – and he knew that she was right. Tensions were rising; ThistleClan had begun to grow in numbers… he could feel something coming in the air. It choked him sometimes.
“We’ve given the Clan more warriors, haven’t we?” he frowned.
She shook her head, lips pursed in a way that told him that perhaps she merely shouldered her grief differently… perhaps it was still in there, tucked away and buried far deeper than their son. “Not enough; I would like you to give me kits,” Coyoteleap urged him.
“Alright,” he rasped, eyes growing distant as he looked to some far off place beyond her, “alright, I’ll give you kits.” He said.
There had been five kits in their second litter in total, though one of the pitiful little things never drew breath. “I’ll name the mollies—you name the tom,” Coyoteleap told him with a heavy sense of satisfaction in her voice.
“There’s only one tom,” Raggedthroat pointed out wryly, his muzzle twisting with amusement.
“Well, I didn’t see you pushing any of them out; you’re lucky I’m letting you have a paw in naming them at all,” his partner snorted and tipped her chin higher, shifting to proudly display the four wriggling little forms at her belly. “For the she-kits… Dandelionkit and Daisykit,” she said, gesturing to two cream coated writhers, “and Dawnkit,” Coyoteleap nodded to the silver streaked red tabby kit among the litter.
“Fine names…” he murmured, yellow eyes falling upon the smoky, fiery red pelt of the tom kit as he suckled hungrily at his mother’s belly. “Hornetkit,” he said. “That’s Hornetkit.”
“Why aren’t they back yet?” Raggedthroat almost snarled to the unfortunate sentry in front of him, “They knew the weather was getting bad; if she’s out with that tom again, I’ll—” his nostrils flared as he managed to howl louder than the winds that made the redwoods creak around them.
“I’m sure it’s nothing! They’re probably just out getting in a bit more practice before their assessments! Foxpaw did the same thing the other day—” the sentry tried in vain to settle the worries and fury of the grizzled senior warrior before him. “They’re probably just hunkered down somewhere and—” he misspoke.
“Hunkered down, I’ll bet… I’ve never liked that tom—if Tansypaw isn’t back soon, I’m going to find her!” Raggedthroat declared in time with a clap of thunder overhead.
A misshapen and elongated shadow stretched across the camp’s clearing from its entrance. “H-help!” a youthful voice cracked. “We were—she… she fell, I—” the young tom cat released a cream and silver hide that was too familiar to Raggedthroat. His paws carried him over and before thought was put to action, he raked his claws across the youngster’s face to send him stumbling backwards, hissing and snarling savagely as he came to stand protectively over Tansypaw’s body.
“Stars above!” a voice cried.
“Is she—?” another echoed.
“What happened?” a third whispered.
“—says she fell…” came the reply.
Yellow eyes fell to his daughter’s corpse… her neck lay at a strange angle and blood collected at her lips. Hate filled him, and the blood and ribbons of flesh and fur collected by his claws did nothing to quench the burning flames inside of him.
What would her name have been?
He didn’t look away from Foxtooth as he sat his vigil in the treetops, as Raggedthroat had done himself so many moons ago. He felt pleasantly old watching on as his progeny breathed in the nighttime air and filled his lungs with a new sort of breath – gasps of air full of pride… a warrior’s breath. He had feared with the deaths of Dustykit and Tansypaw that perhaps each of his first children were doomed in some way… the relief he felt as he sat beneath his son’s tree looking on full of pride left him speechless for a time.
“Can we go to bed, now?” Hornetpaw, newly named not so long ago himself, yawned, “I’ve got training—”
“No, Son,” Raggedthroat chastised him in a rough whisper, scowling down at his younger progeny. “Your brother has just become a warrior; it’s a proud moment.” A fluffy tail whipped about to slap against his younger son’s flanks in reprimand. “He’ll sit his vigil until dawn—and we’ll sit here right along with him at the foot of his tree,” the senior warrior informed his younger kits. “We’ll all do the same for both of you, one day,” the grizzled tom murmured, pride blooming in his chest. This was what he and Coyoteleap had dedicated moons of their lives to accomplishing… more warriors for RedwoodClan… and it was what he had never been able to do with Petalfur – watch their offspring earn their names. His heart panged painfully in his chest at her memory, and Raggedthroat forced thoughts of her crooked smiles away as he returned his yellow eyes to his son’s red pelt high in the trees.
Both Dawnpaw and Hornetpaw knew better than to issue any further complaints… instead, the two that remained from the harsh cold season that had claimed their sisters merely shifted in place and resigned themselves to a long and sleepless night spent beneath their older brother’s perch and under their father’s critical eye.
“Quickly! Quickly, hurry!” a panicked shriek rang out as a set of paws bolted and scrambled into RedwoodClan’s camp, “ThistleClan is attacking—the river!” the voice cried.
Raggedthroat spat out the half-chewed bit of squirrel that had been in his mouth. Foxtooth was on that patrol… so was Hornetpaw. The rough coated tom cat heaved himself to his paws, “With me, warriors!” he bellowed out. He didn’t wait for Mothstar’s approval – he had never needed it before. With several others behind him, Raggedthroat thundered ahead of RedwoodClan’s reinforcements, desperate to reach the river in time to save his sons.
He reached it in time to see a too-large portion of Foxtooth’s throat torn from him, and to see the waters run red beneath his son… redder than his pelt – redder than they had any right to be. He yowled, he screamed… he howled, and he charged.
Raggedthroat had never purposefully taken a life before… but it felt right to do so, now.
He leapt onto his son’s attacker as Foxtooth lay in the water, his life’s blood draining from him, eyes widened with panic brought on by death. He missed the twitching of Foxtooth’s muzzle; as well as any last words he might have wished to share… there was too much chaos in the fighting.
Raking his claws through the pelt and deep into the flesh of the ThistleClan cat, Raggedthroat continued roaring until his voice ran hoarse and gave out. He kept clawing and fighting until his claws were bloodied not just with his enemy’s, but with his own from the sheer strain of his rage, as well. His fang found their mark when the fight left his son’s killer, and Raggedthroat took his time in pulling flesh, muscle, arteries, and life itself from the cat beneath him.
It was his first true kill – and it was his sweetest.
When he felt a touch at his flank, Raggedthroat whirled about to savage the countenance of whichever ThistleClanner had interrupted his retribution… but it wasn’t a ThistleClanner. It was Hornetpaw. His living son let out a startled shriek and stumbled backwards, blinking to try and rid the blood from his eye, only to find that even more found its way there from his new wounds… the worst he’d suffered in the fighting.
It took several seconds for Raggedthroat’s eyes to return from their feral state… when they did, he didn’t go to Hornetpaw.
He went to Foxtooth and he curled himself over his son’s lifeless, throatless form.
Foxtooth’s vigil had passed in silence, and Hornetpaw had shivered beside him, his paternally inflicted wounds barely treated. As the dawn broke and sunlight began to filter its way through the forest, Raggedthroat’s thickly muscled jowls began to shift. He could hear Hornetpaw testing each breath; trying to see if that would be the breath that gave him courage… it never was.
“Why didn’t you run back to alert our Clan, Hornetpaw?” Raggedthroat’s unforgiving yellow eyes fell upon his son as the troubled apprentice began to shift under his gaze. “You’re much faster than Rootwhisker…” the scarred tom cat continued in a low mutter.
“I wanted to fight by Foxtooth; I wanted to make you proud,” Hornetpaw admitted with a hitching and a quivering of his shoulders.
“How can I be proud, Hornetpaw? Foxtooth is dead.” Raggedthroat snapped at the almost-warrior before him. “What did you do? Really?” his rage seeped forward, unchecked and unfiltered, “You suffered nothing!” Raggedthroat dared, knowing that he wouldn’t be contradicted. “Your…” he paused, muzzle and brow scrunching in turn, “your real training begins tomorrow,” he told Hornetpaw.
His second son never truly recovered.
The fact that Hornetpaw had a mentor and had had one for moons didn’t dissuade Raggedthroat; in fact, he interfered as often as he possibly could.
After the complete and total loss of his first litter, Raggedthroat was determined that at least one of this second litter might survive… that at least one of them might become a senior warrior someday; his sights were set upon his second living son; Hornetpaw.
“Faster!” Raggedthroat snarled as he lunged forward to claw at what portion of the tree’s trunk resided just below his son’s haunches, “Do you think any enemy will wait for you?! Get up that tree!” the harsh tom cat howled. His son tried his best, but a few scratches and bleeding snicks still marred Hornetpaw’s haunches as Raggedthroat’s punishing paws scrambled threateningly upwards along the training tree’s trunk… worse still was the suffocating feeling of guilt that he could never escape.
What if he had been the one to relay their distress call? Would his brother have lived? He’d never know… part of him felt, as Raggedthroat drilled him relentlessly, that it wouldn’t have mattered in any case.
Even if Foxtooth had lived, they would have both found themselves underneath their father’s paw once more.
He never stopped striving for his father’s pride – and even though it came to exist in abundance for a time, he never felt any of it… not even as Raggedthroat sat beneath the tree that he shared with his sister when he became Hornet-tooth, as his brother had. His father’s yellow eyes made his stomach twist; sometimes he wished that either Dandelionkit or Daisykit had survived their first winter in his place. He would have been spared Raggedthroat, then.
Far beneath them, Raggedthroat sat tall within RedwoodClan’s clearing, staring up at what remained of the fruit of his loins. How were there only two where once there might have been eight? His frown lines deepened as his thoughts drifted… an owl, a fall, a winter, and a fight… Such simple and inescapable things had taken so much from him – from RedwoodClan. His eyes tore themselves away from Dawnblossom and Hornet-tooth and flew to the warrior’s den where he knew his partner, Coyoteleap, slept… with the coming of New-Leaf, they would try again, he decided…
Their third litter would be their greatest yet.
Ambition coiled with the veritable python of rage that resided permanently inside of Raggedthroat in recent moons; they would make RedwoodClan strong again… their progeny would ensure that their enemies quaked with terror at the very idea of entering their forests or facing their warriors. He would teach them… as he thought of what they might accomplish, of the lives that they might claim for vengeance and pride, Raggedthroat’s chest swelled.
He wasn’t happy, no… but it was the closest he had felt to happy in long moons.
“Aren’t we getting a little old for this?” Coyoteleap’s brows raised incredulously at her partner… her mate, as she had come to view him. “You’re nearing seventy moons, Raggedthroat—and I’ve just come upon sixty…” the silver streaked she-cat tried.
“I could do this into my nineties,” Raggedthroat stated confidently.
She might have laughed if she hadn’t known him to be serious.
“This is it for me,” she told him, “Don’t ask me for another litter,” she warned him, relenting with a sigh and nodding her head to him. One last litter… she wondered if any among them would earn their warrior names, as only Foxtooth, Dawnblossom, and Hornet-tooth had. She could pray, she supposed… but she had never put stock into the practice before. It felt silly to, now.
The kits came in Green Leaf, four in total – with a single stillborn among them expertly and quickly disposed of. The survivors were named Tigerkit, Lionkit, and Cougarkit… strong names for strong, healthy kits.
“Just look at them,” Raggedthroat purred proudly moons later as the kits played and tumbled about with their nursery friends, “One of them will be deputy one day, then leader – just you wait,” he said. Cougarkit cackled with delight as another she-kit named Heatherkit pounced at her soft tummy.
He was right, sort of.
One of the kits did become deputy… it just wasn’t one of his.
“Retreat!” came that cursed command.
“Rally, you bird-brained cowards! Rally, or I’ll kill them all myself!” Raggedthroat bellowed, shoving one of his clanmates as they tried to follow the order to fall back. Raggedthroat thought of his lost children as he charged; of Dustykit and Tansypaw, Dandelionkit and Daisykit… of both Fox-tooth and Hornet-tooth who had died in the very river that they were fighting for… His rage was explosive. Fear inspired. For some, the idea of Raggedthroat’s ire was worse than whatever a ThistleClanner could do to them. Bit by bit, they turned. They fought… they even won where they otherwise would have retreated.
But lives were lost – lives that wouldn’t have been lost if RedwoodClan had fallen back and waited to fight another day.
The cost had ceased to matter to Raggedthroat. All that mattered was victory.
When the peace talks began, he had scoffed. What was the point of peace after so many seasons at war? After countless cats had spilled their blood over the river and its contents? He was enraged by the compromise that ThistleClan and RedwoodClan came to. Mothstar began to look withered and weak in his eyes… they all did.
“I still think that Lionpelt or Tigerstripe would have been the better choice,” Raggedthroat rasped, muzzle wrinkled with even further disappointment as the aged Mothstar named Heatherstream as deputy. His last litter had grown up alongside their new deputy; Cougarpetal viewed her as a close friend and confidant… Heatherstream was good natured, fair and judicious.
Perhaps that was why he never favored her.
“I’m sure you do,” the rickety old molly snorted at Raggedthroat, shaking her head. “But I want peace for RedwoodClan… peace and prosperity, not more war,” Mothstar held her ground as the gruff tom cat badgered her. She should have known that when he settled to share tongues with her that it certainly wasn’t out of the kindness of his heart. “Heatherstream will be good for our Clan, I can feel it in my bones.” She said.
“That’s just the arthritis,” Raggedthroat grumbled.
“Are you sure she won’t be too much for you? You should think about joining me in here, you know,” Coyoteleap tilted her head to her mate as he groomed her pelt.
“You shouldn’t even be in here,” Raggedthroat countered her with a snort. She was too young to retire – barely eighty moons to his ninety… but with every moon that passed, it seemed that the pain in her paws grew worse and worse. Once a proud and prominent hunter, Coyoteleap avoided even walking to the prey-pile in an effort to avoid the pain.
“I still think that you should let the young bloods handle the mentoring,” she said.
“I’ve mentored more kits than I’ve sired,” the grizzled tom cat snorted.
“I’m very familiar with that number – unless you’ve got something to tell me?” the crippled she-cat teased him. With another snort, Raggedthroat gave her shoulder a nip. “Just don’t let her tire you out too much, OK? You might not be up to grooming me if she does,” Coyoteleap chortled.
In the end, it was Berrypaw that she should have been concerned for.
She wasn’t moving.
“That’s enough of that, get up, Berrypaw—” Raggedthroat frowned as he gave her shoulder something between a nudge and shove. Her body shifted, and Raggedthroat’s eyes fell to the dark red streaks oozing from her ears. “Berrypaw,” he said, this time louder. A large, cruel paw set to jostling her shoulder once more… her maw drooped open. “I said get up, Berrypaw, no grandkit of mine sleeps during… training…” the roughness to his voice began to falter. He took a step back.
He’d killed her.
He stood there for a time; he wasn’t sure how long… eventually another training group came upon them. “Stars, what happened?!” a voice cried. The other mentors rushed to inspect Raggedthroat’s fallen apprentice; he stood where he was, staring at her unmoving form until another mentor stood before him to try and gather his attention. “What. Happened.” they spoke loudly and slowly, trying to draw him out of the state of shock that held him.
“We—we were… practicing evasive maneuvering…” Raggedthroat rasped, his jowls flexing and working on his confusion. Why hadn’t she moved? She was supposed to move—she should have… His eyes fell to his paws.
He’d done something terrible.
Cougarpetal was never the same after losing Berrypaw, and by leaf-fall, Raggedthroat found himself burying his daughter next to her kits… only Berrypaw had survived the kitting of her litter, and then she had been taken from Cougarpetal, too… He didn’t blame her.
He knew where the blame fell.
Moons later when Dawnblossom’s kits were ready for mentors – he refused to take on either of them. “That’s a shame,” she’d said, but he could see the relief that washed through her eyes. He joined Coyoteleap in the elder’s den for a time… then Mothstar finally perished. Heatherstream became Heatherstar… and a new war followed not long after – not of her making, but of LichenClan’s.
Lionpelt was lost first, then Tigerstripe… Rushtail died barely a moon after receiving his warrior name. Bit by bit, his family dwindled… very quickly, his hatred grew. “I’ll kill him,” he vowed, burying Dawnblossom after her patrol had been ambushed by LichenClanners.
He came out of retirement and joined the battles. His claws and fangs gained renown once more, and Raggedthroat even found himself leaving lasting, terrible wounds on the figurehead of his rage – Sagestar. The satisfaction he felt upon hearing that the other old bastard had passed as a result of their fierce fight was indescribable… but it still wasn’t enough – another mad cat took his place, and she was young… He had to do something.
He would give RedwoodClan the perfect warrior; the perfect soldier. A savior. Someone to continue his crusade to protect their Clan against all enemies.
He took an apprentice once more – not one of his relatives, though Mottlefoot’s son, Maplepaw, had begged him…
He made a monster out of Beaverpaw. With record time, the hulking color-point found himself realigned and suited for the purpose of war. He taught him everything that he knew… and when Gorseheart found his life stolen from him, Raggedthroat was sure that Beavergaze would be made deputy of RedwoodClan, and that all of his hopes and dreams of assuring their future’s safety would be realized with the coming of Beaverstar…
He was outraged when Heatherstar named Finchtail as deputy.
“What is wrong with you?! Are you addled? I made you the PERFECT deputy!” Raggedthroat snapped at Heatherstar, only to be met with her distant and dignified stare for a time. “Do you even care for this Clan?! Not once have you allowed us the offensive! How are we to gain the advantage, Heatherstar?” he demanded.
“I hold respect for your many moons and your counsel, Raggedthroat, but I won’t choose someone that would merely lead us deeper into war,” she said.
“War is upon us whether you like it or not! Why would you not give the Clan the strongest among them?” his teeth began to bare themselves.
“Because I have not forgotten Mothstar’s vision, Raggedthroat!” she finally snapped at him. “Some among us haven’t given up on peace,” Heatherstar glared at him.
Heatherstar found her peace in death. Finchtail became Finchstar, and again Raggedthroat dared to hope that perhaps Beavergaze would take his rightful place as the future head of their Clan… a kittypet was called up, instead. He had laughed, assuming it was a joke… and he had laughed again in the future when the news of the rockslide and the poor cat’s premature demise reached his ears.
“You’ve grand purpose still, Beavergaze,” he told his favored prodigy, “you need no title to see it through,” Raggedthroat rasped.
RedwoodClan would be safe.
“Ragged little thing, isn’t he?” the young queen purred, “That’s it, then—Raggedkit,” she named the feisty little kit, nudging him to a part of her belly away from his siblings so that his flailing limbs would stop pushing his littermates away from her milk, “I won’t have you being a bully,” his mother declared.
“It wasn’t my fault! We were playing, and—” his voice shook as large, round eyes shifted about between his mother’s paws.
“I told you, Raggedkit, I told you so many times! Never leave camp!” rage and fear filled her words as she prowled about before her son, muzzle twisting into a grievous scowl. “Do you have any idea how serious this is, Raggedkit? Your brother may not make it,” his mother spat. A breath hitched and shuddered through her as she shut her eyes tightly for a moment, ginger tail lashing behind her. “What were you thinking?” she breathed.
“I wasn’t! It was his idea!” Raggedkit protested. Guilt and fear coiled like a snake inside of his belly. Was it his fault? He hadn’t stopped him – he’d just kept going with him. When had they even left camp? It was just a haze of joy and freedom in his mind… a fog promptly cleared by the growls of a young, ambitious, and hungry fox.
Raggedkit and his brother ran, but… he’d been faster.
His brother scowled at him from across the training hollow. His breaths came in heated pants, and his tail stood tall and bristled behind him. Raggedpaw frowned as he hitched a paw up to wipe the thin streaks of bright red blood free from the bridge of his nose. They weren’t supposed to be fighting with claws out, but that wouldn’t have stopped his brother… His resentment for Raggedpaw had become consuming.
“What’s your problem?” Raggedpaw mrrowled, hackles prickling as he pinned his ears.
“You are,” his brother spat.
A knot of anger twisted inside of him. It wasn’t his fault. If he had been the slower of the two, it would have been Raggedpaw savaged by the fox instead of his brother; perhaps it would have been his training delayed by nearly two moons, instead. He hadn’t done anything wrong – his brother just wasn’t fast enough.
“Do I look like a fox to you?” Raggedpaw glowered.
“Close enough,” his brother returned with venom.
Raggedpaw was sure that he was going to die.
His paws felt cold and his limbs were growing more difficult to move. It had happened so fast – their batch of warriors (and not quite warriors, as the case was for himself) had been dispatched to deal with an irate badger that had taken up residence too close to the Clan’s training grounds for comfort with its foul temperament… flushing it out hadn’t gone according to plan.
They hadn’t known that it was a mother with kits – not until she came rampaging out of her den and tore through their group with a sense of ease gifted through maternal rage and desperation… Raggedpaw had been fast enough to stop her from rending the belly of one of the young warriors of their group… but he hadn’t been fast enough to avoid her. Her teeth tore at the young tom cat’s throat.
I wonder what my name would have been, his thoughts drifted as a sticky pool formed beneath him.
“H-he saved my life, please—” a distant voice sounded out somewhere above him, “there has to be something we can do, please—please don’t let him die!” the voice begged.
“Oh, Stars…” a soft wretching sound followed the words, “I’ll try—!” the second voice said.
Raggedthroat… he supposed it was fitting, and the silver-lining of his injuries was that it made observing his vigil in silence all the easier – save for the rasping breaths that sounded out from his particular branch high above their camp. It had taken him over a moon to recover as much as he hand… far too long, in his mind. Every day had been filled with the satisfied, smug sidelong looks from his brother. He didn’t doubt that the other tom wished him dead… it merely made him all the more determined to survive and regain his strength.
He knew that it was wrong to gain pleasure from his brother’s ire – but after moons of being blamed for each and every misfortune in his brother’s life…? It was a feeling that Raggedthroat found himself less than reluctant to revel in. Now and then during his vigil, the newly scarred tom cat would shift his eyes to where he had last seen his brother, still an apprentice, scowling up at him… but then someone else’s gaze met his own.
She was standing there in the deepest part of the night. Her eyes shone up at him and glimmered in the moonlight, and Raggedthroat knew that he hadn’t imagined it when she smiled up at him.
“He hasn’t stopped talking about it, you know…” Petalfur confided in him with a soft smile as she thought of her brother. “He’s really grateful—we all are.” Bright green eyes shifted to him and Raggedthroat found himself standing taller under her gaze, “I keep thinking about how close it was… for everyone,” he didn’t need to meet her eyes to know that they fell to the thick, knotted ridge of scar tissue that remained from his gruesome wounds. “Does it hurt?” she said.
“Sometimes, yeah…” he admitted in a rasp, “It’s fine, mostly, I just sound like a sick fox and I can’t really turn my head the same ways,” Raggedthroat laughed and shook his head. His scar began to tingle – almost as though the knotted band of flesh could tell that the pair were discussing it.
“Oh it’s not that bad! You do do this growly-sort-of-snore now, though… loudly.” Petalfur teased him.
“Tch, doesn’t everyone?” Raggedthroat’s muzzle wrinkled into a sheepish smile.
“No! Not like this!” the molly at his side broke into snickers, “Here, I’ll see if I can…” she trailed off, bright eyes drifting skyward as she scrunged in preparation to mimic his distorted snoring.
“You really don’t have to—” he tried.
“SHGhhrnnckck…!” Petalfur practically swallowed her tongue trying to copy Raggedthroat’s wretched snore.
“I do not sound like that!” the young warrior protested, yellow eyes widening as he rounded on her, “That… that sounded like a bear cub strangling on a rock!” his voice threatened to give out with his surprise and incredulity.
“I’m pretty sure that it’s worse than that,” the molly at his side grinned in agreeance, looking him over with a note of mischief in her eyes before she raised a paw to bop him on the nose. “You’re pretty cute when you end up on your back, though… must be some good, deep sleep,” Petalfur purred.
“… the dreams help,” Raggedthroat began hesitantly, struggling to get his voice to obey him. “Those have been pretty good, lately…” he murmured.
Her smile widened as she basked in the warmth his eyes shone her. “Mine, too,” she said, touching her nose to his.
“He’s infuriating!” Raggedthroat raved as he paced through their private place in the woods, pausing intermittently to tear chunks of bark off of the trees and their roots. “It never ends with him; he’s just so spiteful!” he spat. Each day it seemed that his brother’s hatred of him would grow… he’d never known that when they’d run into the woods that day so long ago that his brother would become someone that he hated so much – a face that would fill him with such irritation each time he saw his lips twitch and curl.
“Then be better than him! Ignore him, Raggedthroat!” Petalfur implored him butting her forehead up against her mate’s to try and soothe the furious wrinkles in his brow. “I know that’s easier said than done; I heard about what happened on that hunting patrol the other day…” she frowned.
“He intentionally sabotaged my hunt!” Raggedthroat steamed and turned his head away from her. “Someone could have gone hungry because of that—his problems with me are… are ridiculous and unfounded and unfair; I can take that just fine when it’s petty things like burrs in our nest—”
“I don’t really appreciate that part…” Petalfur agreed quietly with a mumble and a rolling of her eyes.
“But my duties, too? It’s… it’s—ggnnh…” the bristling tom cat gave up with a growl and a stiff arching of his scarred neck. He stood there glowering at some far off place until he felt Petalfur’s dappled form leaning into him and sinking into the wildness of his pelt. Shutting his eyes, Raggedthroat’s scowl deepened for a time before it finally began to abate. As his rasping, angered breathing steadied, the sound of her tentative purr filled his ears… “I’ll try,” he said finally, still seeming quite sour about the whole situation, “I’ll work separate patrols – ignore him…” his jaw shifted, jowls clenching down on his grudge, “… as best as I can.” Raggedthroat added gruffly.
“I think you’ll be kept plenty busy, soon…” Petalfur began, her voice lowered to a conspiratorial murmur as glittering green eyes turned up to meet Raggedthroat’s furious yellow ones. “… what with having to help me set up a new nest in the nursery,” she nudged his brawny shoulder with her own.
“In the what—?” Raggedthroat’s head whipped about to face her, maw hanging open at the news.
She smiled, she laughed… and for just a moment, Raggedthroat forgot about all of his anger.
His ears rang at a piercing level; it took all of his conscious effort to draw breath and force his heart to keep beating. “No, no—” his voice was quiet and broken at first, and then when the old queen before him started to shake her head, Raggedthroat screamed, “NO!” spittle flying from his lips. “They—” the wild-eyed tom cat felt dizzy. She’d been fine—he’d just seen her… her smile, the way the tiniest of her teeth shown whenever she laughed… she’d been laughing. “—They weren’t due, not for… not for…” his heart began to pound in his chest. “How did this—I can’t… I can’t breathe,” Raggedthroat rasped, nostrils flaring as his maw hung low to accommodate his panicked, confused, enraged panting.
“Sometimes… these things happen, Raggedthroat, I’m so—” she tried.
“NO! No, it doesn’t! It doesn’t just happen—she was… she was fine…!” he sobbed, his voice breaking as his legs stiffened to try and support him. “There was nothing wrong…” he breathed, yellow eyes fixating on the deathly quiet nursery before them.
“Something went wrong; I’m sorry, Raggedthroat,” the elder queen pitied him.
“Why—why wasn’t she saved?” the bristling tom cat demanded, grief and confusion making his voice oddly quiet. “I… I was saved, how—how was this harder? Why didn’t they save her?” he began to growl.
“Because your survival was a miracle, and I’m sorry, but miracles are in very short supply,” the molly quipped, doing her best to defend the efforts of their medicine cats… even if they hadn’t been successful.
“It’s no miracle,” his lips curled around the word almost mockingly as he turned away from the old queen, “It’s just a curse, now.”
Petalfur had been Good… genuinely kind. She’d brought out the best in those around her, and so it didn’t surprise Raggedthroat when most of the Clan helped with her funeral. For a time, they all sat in silence… then, little by little, as the sun set and the stars began to glimmer above the canopy, his clanmates departed. Even her brother left – unable to meet Raggedthroat’s eye… not that he had sought it. He hadn’t been able to look away from the mound of dirt that covered her. It seemed so small… he didn’t remember her that way.
“Raggedthroat…?” an unexpected voice cut through the silence in the clearing. The grizzled tom cat issued a raspy breath in response. “I—I’m so sorry, I…” his brother stuttered and sniffed and tried again, “I used to… pray… for moons… that you’d be as miserable as I was, but I—I didn’t know that it…” the haunted, guilty tone of his voice only succeeded in churning the pit of anger inside of Raggedthroat, “I didn’t know it’d be like this,” he admitted sorrowfully, “I’m so sorry.”
He sat where he was for a time. His bones and his fangs felt white hot with anger.
“Raggedthroat? Are—are you…?” he tried.
“I wish you’d died to that fox,” Raggedthroat broke his silence without looking away from Petalfur’s gravemound, “I wish you’d just died.” His voice rose from his chest with a shuddering fury.
“I’m sorry, I—” the words offended him.
“Leave.” Raggedthroat choked out, “Leave, or I’ll finish what the fox started.” He vowed.
He never saw his brother again.
The moons rolled on; time never healed his wounds, but Raggedthroat found that he could cover his seeping emotional pustules with a notoriously stern nature and a fierce temper. His name became a feared one to hear at apprenticeship ceremonies, and later on when Coyoteleap approached him, he knew that it wasn’t really love between them when she asked him to give her kits. It was simply duty.
“How is she?” he asked stiffly as the medicine cat departed the den.
“Tired, but strong… There’s three little ones – all healthy,” came the report.
“It’ll do.” Raggedthroat’s thick-jowled maw dipped in an affirmative nod. He knew that his partner had been hoping for a larger litter, but he was willing to sacrifice numbers in favor of health… there was always next season to try again, after all. The coarse coated tom pushed himself to his paws and shook off with an almost satisfied sort of grumble, turning to leave.
“A-aren’t you going to see them?” came the confused inquiry.
Raggedthroat paused, deep frown lines knitting into his brow as yellow eyes shifted to the source of the question. “No,” he said in a way that seemed to challenge the other cat for a rebuttal, “why?” he mrrowled.
“They’re—well, they’re your kits, and—” they stuttered.
“They’re RedwoodClan’s kits,” Raggedthroat returned.
He came to love them despite himself. By their fourth moon, Raggedthroat was as involved as most RedwoodClan fathers were… albeit in his own gruff sort of way. He lacked patience, but he cared enough for them to make an effort… it made the loss of Dustykit all the more painful.
“I told you! I told you so many times!” Raggedthroat snapped at Foxkit and Tansykit. The pair were huddled together inside of the nursery, shivering in their nest that once held three siblings… and never would again. “What were you thinking?” he demanded.
“W-we just wanted to chase crickets…” Tansykit sniffed.
Raggedthroat’s jowls flexed and worked and crunched down on words clawing to be spoken. Crickets… he thought, fur prickling.
Dustykit was dead because they had wanted to chase crickets.
“Can’t you save him, Dad?” Foxkit tried, looking up at him with hopeful, pleading eyes.
“No,” he admitted in a choke, “No, I can’t—we don’t know where the owl flew, and even if we did…” anger shook his voice and Raggedthroat had to work his jowls again before he could continue, “It’s too late, kits. It’s too late to save him, and it’s too late to be sorry about this,” Raggedthroat frowned down at them.
“Do not leave this nursery again,” he told them, forcing his eyes away from them before he felt sickened at the sight of two where there should have been three.
She was tough regarding their loss – tougher than he, at least… She led their family by example and threw herself back into her duties the moment her kits were free of the nursery, and six moons later, when their two surviving kits were well into their apprenticeship, she came to him again. “The Clan needs more warriors, Raggedthroat,” she told him. There wasn’t a question in her voice; if he had declined her advances, she would have sought out the next on her list… but she knew that he wouldn’t deny her. Their respect for each other was too great – and he knew that she was right. Tensions were rising; ThistleClan had begun to grow in numbers… he could feel something coming in the air. It choked him sometimes.
“We’ve given the Clan more warriors, haven’t we?” he frowned.
She shook her head, lips pursed in a way that told him that perhaps she merely shouldered her grief differently… perhaps it was still in there, tucked away and buried far deeper than their son. “Not enough; I would like you to give me kits,” Coyoteleap urged him.
“Alright,” he rasped, eyes growing distant as he looked to some far off place beyond her, “alright, I’ll give you kits.” He said.
There had been five kits in their second litter in total, though one of the pitiful little things never drew breath. “I’ll name the mollies—you name the tom,” Coyoteleap told him with a heavy sense of satisfaction in her voice.
“There’s only one tom,” Raggedthroat pointed out wryly, his muzzle twisting with amusement.
“Well, I didn’t see you pushing any of them out; you’re lucky I’m letting you have a paw in naming them at all,” his partner snorted and tipped her chin higher, shifting to proudly display the four wriggling little forms at her belly. “For the she-kits… Dandelionkit and Daisykit,” she said, gesturing to two cream coated writhers, “and Dawnkit,” Coyoteleap nodded to the silver streaked red tabby kit among the litter.
“Fine names…” he murmured, yellow eyes falling upon the smoky, fiery red pelt of the tom kit as he suckled hungrily at his mother’s belly. “Hornetkit,” he said. “That’s Hornetkit.”
“Why aren’t they back yet?” Raggedthroat almost snarled to the unfortunate sentry in front of him, “They knew the weather was getting bad; if she’s out with that tom again, I’ll—” his nostrils flared as he managed to howl louder than the winds that made the redwoods creak around them.
“I’m sure it’s nothing! They’re probably just out getting in a bit more practice before their assessments! Foxpaw did the same thing the other day—” the sentry tried in vain to settle the worries and fury of the grizzled senior warrior before him. “They’re probably just hunkered down somewhere and—” he misspoke.
“Hunkered down, I’ll bet… I’ve never liked that tom—if Tansypaw isn’t back soon, I’m going to find her!” Raggedthroat declared in time with a clap of thunder overhead.
A misshapen and elongated shadow stretched across the camp’s clearing from its entrance. “H-help!” a youthful voice cracked. “We were—she… she fell, I—” the young tom cat released a cream and silver hide that was too familiar to Raggedthroat. His paws carried him over and before thought was put to action, he raked his claws across the youngster’s face to send him stumbling backwards, hissing and snarling savagely as he came to stand protectively over Tansypaw’s body.
“Stars above!” a voice cried.
“Is she—?” another echoed.
“What happened?” a third whispered.
“—says she fell…” came the reply.
Yellow eyes fell to his daughter’s corpse… her neck lay at a strange angle and blood collected at her lips. Hate filled him, and the blood and ribbons of flesh and fur collected by his claws did nothing to quench the burning flames inside of him.
What would her name have been?
He didn’t look away from Foxtooth as he sat his vigil in the treetops, as Raggedthroat had done himself so many moons ago. He felt pleasantly old watching on as his progeny breathed in the nighttime air and filled his lungs with a new sort of breath – gasps of air full of pride… a warrior’s breath. He had feared with the deaths of Dustykit and Tansypaw that perhaps each of his first children were doomed in some way… the relief he felt as he sat beneath his son’s tree looking on full of pride left him speechless for a time.
“Can we go to bed, now?” Hornetpaw, newly named not so long ago himself, yawned, “I’ve got training—”
“No, Son,” Raggedthroat chastised him in a rough whisper, scowling down at his younger progeny. “Your brother has just become a warrior; it’s a proud moment.” A fluffy tail whipped about to slap against his younger son’s flanks in reprimand. “He’ll sit his vigil until dawn—and we’ll sit here right along with him at the foot of his tree,” the senior warrior informed his younger kits. “We’ll all do the same for both of you, one day,” the grizzled tom murmured, pride blooming in his chest. This was what he and Coyoteleap had dedicated moons of their lives to accomplishing… more warriors for RedwoodClan… and it was what he had never been able to do with Petalfur – watch their offspring earn their names. His heart panged painfully in his chest at her memory, and Raggedthroat forced thoughts of her crooked smiles away as he returned his yellow eyes to his son’s red pelt high in the trees.
Both Dawnpaw and Hornetpaw knew better than to issue any further complaints… instead, the two that remained from the harsh cold season that had claimed their sisters merely shifted in place and resigned themselves to a long and sleepless night spent beneath their older brother’s perch and under their father’s critical eye.
“Quickly! Quickly, hurry!” a panicked shriek rang out as a set of paws bolted and scrambled into RedwoodClan’s camp, “ThistleClan is attacking—the river!” the voice cried.
Raggedthroat spat out the half-chewed bit of squirrel that had been in his mouth. Foxtooth was on that patrol… so was Hornetpaw. The rough coated tom cat heaved himself to his paws, “With me, warriors!” he bellowed out. He didn’t wait for Mothstar’s approval – he had never needed it before. With several others behind him, Raggedthroat thundered ahead of RedwoodClan’s reinforcements, desperate to reach the river in time to save his sons.
He reached it in time to see a too-large portion of Foxtooth’s throat torn from him, and to see the waters run red beneath his son… redder than his pelt – redder than they had any right to be. He yowled, he screamed… he howled, and he charged.
Raggedthroat had never purposefully taken a life before… but it felt right to do so, now.
He leapt onto his son’s attacker as Foxtooth lay in the water, his life’s blood draining from him, eyes widened with panic brought on by death. He missed the twitching of Foxtooth’s muzzle; as well as any last words he might have wished to share… there was too much chaos in the fighting.
Raking his claws through the pelt and deep into the flesh of the ThistleClan cat, Raggedthroat continued roaring until his voice ran hoarse and gave out. He kept clawing and fighting until his claws were bloodied not just with his enemy’s, but with his own from the sheer strain of his rage, as well. His fang found their mark when the fight left his son’s killer, and Raggedthroat took his time in pulling flesh, muscle, arteries, and life itself from the cat beneath him.
It was his first true kill – and it was his sweetest.
When he felt a touch at his flank, Raggedthroat whirled about to savage the countenance of whichever ThistleClanner had interrupted his retribution… but it wasn’t a ThistleClanner. It was Hornetpaw. His living son let out a startled shriek and stumbled backwards, blinking to try and rid the blood from his eye, only to find that even more found its way there from his new wounds… the worst he’d suffered in the fighting.
It took several seconds for Raggedthroat’s eyes to return from their feral state… when they did, he didn’t go to Hornetpaw.
He went to Foxtooth and he curled himself over his son’s lifeless, throatless form.
Foxtooth’s vigil had passed in silence, and Hornetpaw had shivered beside him, his paternally inflicted wounds barely treated. As the dawn broke and sunlight began to filter its way through the forest, Raggedthroat’s thickly muscled jowls began to shift. He could hear Hornetpaw testing each breath; trying to see if that would be the breath that gave him courage… it never was.
“Why didn’t you run back to alert our Clan, Hornetpaw?” Raggedthroat’s unforgiving yellow eyes fell upon his son as the troubled apprentice began to shift under his gaze. “You’re much faster than Rootwhisker…” the scarred tom cat continued in a low mutter.
“I wanted to fight by Foxtooth; I wanted to make you proud,” Hornetpaw admitted with a hitching and a quivering of his shoulders.
“How can I be proud, Hornetpaw? Foxtooth is dead.” Raggedthroat snapped at the almost-warrior before him. “What did you do? Really?” his rage seeped forward, unchecked and unfiltered, “You suffered nothing!” Raggedthroat dared, knowing that he wouldn’t be contradicted. “Your…” he paused, muzzle and brow scrunching in turn, “your real training begins tomorrow,” he told Hornetpaw.
His second son never truly recovered.
The fact that Hornetpaw had a mentor and had had one for moons didn’t dissuade Raggedthroat; in fact, he interfered as often as he possibly could.
After the complete and total loss of his first litter, Raggedthroat was determined that at least one of this second litter might survive… that at least one of them might become a senior warrior someday; his sights were set upon his second living son; Hornetpaw.
“Faster!” Raggedthroat snarled as he lunged forward to claw at what portion of the tree’s trunk resided just below his son’s haunches, “Do you think any enemy will wait for you?! Get up that tree!” the harsh tom cat howled. His son tried his best, but a few scratches and bleeding snicks still marred Hornetpaw’s haunches as Raggedthroat’s punishing paws scrambled threateningly upwards along the training tree’s trunk… worse still was the suffocating feeling of guilt that he could never escape.
What if he had been the one to relay their distress call? Would his brother have lived? He’d never know… part of him felt, as Raggedthroat drilled him relentlessly, that it wouldn’t have mattered in any case.
Even if Foxtooth had lived, they would have both found themselves underneath their father’s paw once more.
He never stopped striving for his father’s pride – and even though it came to exist in abundance for a time, he never felt any of it… not even as Raggedthroat sat beneath the tree that he shared with his sister when he became Hornet-tooth, as his brother had. His father’s yellow eyes made his stomach twist; sometimes he wished that either Dandelionkit or Daisykit had survived their first winter in his place. He would have been spared Raggedthroat, then.
Far beneath them, Raggedthroat sat tall within RedwoodClan’s clearing, staring up at what remained of the fruit of his loins. How were there only two where once there might have been eight? His frown lines deepened as his thoughts drifted… an owl, a fall, a winter, and a fight… Such simple and inescapable things had taken so much from him – from RedwoodClan. His eyes tore themselves away from Dawnblossom and Hornet-tooth and flew to the warrior’s den where he knew his partner, Coyoteleap, slept… with the coming of New-Leaf, they would try again, he decided…
Their third litter would be their greatest yet.
Ambition coiled with the veritable python of rage that resided permanently inside of Raggedthroat in recent moons; they would make RedwoodClan strong again… their progeny would ensure that their enemies quaked with terror at the very idea of entering their forests or facing their warriors. He would teach them… as he thought of what they might accomplish, of the lives that they might claim for vengeance and pride, Raggedthroat’s chest swelled.
He wasn’t happy, no… but it was the closest he had felt to happy in long moons.
“Aren’t we getting a little old for this?” Coyoteleap’s brows raised incredulously at her partner… her mate, as she had come to view him. “You’re nearing seventy moons, Raggedthroat—and I’ve just come upon sixty…” the silver streaked she-cat tried.
“I could do this into my nineties,” Raggedthroat stated confidently.
She might have laughed if she hadn’t known him to be serious.
“This is it for me,” she told him, “Don’t ask me for another litter,” she warned him, relenting with a sigh and nodding her head to him. One last litter… she wondered if any among them would earn their warrior names, as only Foxtooth, Dawnblossom, and Hornet-tooth had. She could pray, she supposed… but she had never put stock into the practice before. It felt silly to, now.
The kits came in Green Leaf, four in total – with a single stillborn among them expertly and quickly disposed of. The survivors were named Tigerkit, Lionkit, and Cougarkit… strong names for strong, healthy kits.
“Just look at them,” Raggedthroat purred proudly moons later as the kits played and tumbled about with their nursery friends, “One of them will be deputy one day, then leader – just you wait,” he said. Cougarkit cackled with delight as another she-kit named Heatherkit pounced at her soft tummy.
He was right, sort of.
One of the kits did become deputy… it just wasn’t one of his.
“Retreat!” came that cursed command.
“Rally, you bird-brained cowards! Rally, or I’ll kill them all myself!” Raggedthroat bellowed, shoving one of his clanmates as they tried to follow the order to fall back. Raggedthroat thought of his lost children as he charged; of Dustykit and Tansypaw, Dandelionkit and Daisykit… of both Fox-tooth and Hornet-tooth who had died in the very river that they were fighting for… His rage was explosive. Fear inspired. For some, the idea of Raggedthroat’s ire was worse than whatever a ThistleClanner could do to them. Bit by bit, they turned. They fought… they even won where they otherwise would have retreated.
But lives were lost – lives that wouldn’t have been lost if RedwoodClan had fallen back and waited to fight another day.
The cost had ceased to matter to Raggedthroat. All that mattered was victory.
When the peace talks began, he had scoffed. What was the point of peace after so many seasons at war? After countless cats had spilled their blood over the river and its contents? He was enraged by the compromise that ThistleClan and RedwoodClan came to. Mothstar began to look withered and weak in his eyes… they all did.
“I still think that Lionpelt or Tigerstripe would have been the better choice,” Raggedthroat rasped, muzzle wrinkled with even further disappointment as the aged Mothstar named Heatherstream as deputy. His last litter had grown up alongside their new deputy; Cougarpetal viewed her as a close friend and confidant… Heatherstream was good natured, fair and judicious.
Perhaps that was why he never favored her.
“I’m sure you do,” the rickety old molly snorted at Raggedthroat, shaking her head. “But I want peace for RedwoodClan… peace and prosperity, not more war,” Mothstar held her ground as the gruff tom cat badgered her. She should have known that when he settled to share tongues with her that it certainly wasn’t out of the kindness of his heart. “Heatherstream will be good for our Clan, I can feel it in my bones.” She said.
“That’s just the arthritis,” Raggedthroat grumbled.
“Are you sure she won’t be too much for you? You should think about joining me in here, you know,” Coyoteleap tilted her head to her mate as he groomed her pelt.
“You shouldn’t even be in here,” Raggedthroat countered her with a snort. She was too young to retire – barely eighty moons to his ninety… but with every moon that passed, it seemed that the pain in her paws grew worse and worse. Once a proud and prominent hunter, Coyoteleap avoided even walking to the prey-pile in an effort to avoid the pain.
“I still think that you should let the young bloods handle the mentoring,” she said.
“I’ve mentored more kits than I’ve sired,” the grizzled tom cat snorted.
“I’m very familiar with that number – unless you’ve got something to tell me?” the crippled she-cat teased him. With another snort, Raggedthroat gave her shoulder a nip. “Just don’t let her tire you out too much, OK? You might not be up to grooming me if she does,” Coyoteleap chortled.
In the end, it was Berrypaw that she should have been concerned for.
She wasn’t moving.
“That’s enough of that, get up, Berrypaw—” Raggedthroat frowned as he gave her shoulder something between a nudge and shove. Her body shifted, and Raggedthroat’s eyes fell to the dark red streaks oozing from her ears. “Berrypaw,” he said, this time louder. A large, cruel paw set to jostling her shoulder once more… her maw drooped open. “I said get up, Berrypaw, no grandkit of mine sleeps during… training…” the roughness to his voice began to falter. He took a step back.
He’d killed her.
He stood there for a time; he wasn’t sure how long… eventually another training group came upon them. “Stars, what happened?!” a voice cried. The other mentors rushed to inspect Raggedthroat’s fallen apprentice; he stood where he was, staring at her unmoving form until another mentor stood before him to try and gather his attention. “What. Happened.” they spoke loudly and slowly, trying to draw him out of the state of shock that held him.
“We—we were… practicing evasive maneuvering…” Raggedthroat rasped, his jowls flexing and working on his confusion. Why hadn’t she moved? She was supposed to move—she should have… His eyes fell to his paws.
He’d done something terrible.
Cougarpetal was never the same after losing Berrypaw, and by leaf-fall, Raggedthroat found himself burying his daughter next to her kits… only Berrypaw had survived the kitting of her litter, and then she had been taken from Cougarpetal, too… He didn’t blame her.
He knew where the blame fell.
Moons later when Dawnblossom’s kits were ready for mentors – he refused to take on either of them. “That’s a shame,” she’d said, but he could see the relief that washed through her eyes. He joined Coyoteleap in the elder’s den for a time… then Mothstar finally perished. Heatherstream became Heatherstar… and a new war followed not long after – not of her making, but of LichenClan’s.
Lionpelt was lost first, then Tigerstripe… Rushtail died barely a moon after receiving his warrior name. Bit by bit, his family dwindled… very quickly, his hatred grew. “I’ll kill him,” he vowed, burying Dawnblossom after her patrol had been ambushed by LichenClanners.
He came out of retirement and joined the battles. His claws and fangs gained renown once more, and Raggedthroat even found himself leaving lasting, terrible wounds on the figurehead of his rage – Sagestar. The satisfaction he felt upon hearing that the other old bastard had passed as a result of their fierce fight was indescribable… but it still wasn’t enough – another mad cat took his place, and she was young… He had to do something.
He would give RedwoodClan the perfect warrior; the perfect soldier. A savior. Someone to continue his crusade to protect their Clan against all enemies.
He took an apprentice once more – not one of his relatives, though Mottlefoot’s son, Maplepaw, had begged him…
He made a monster out of Beaverpaw. With record time, the hulking color-point found himself realigned and suited for the purpose of war. He taught him everything that he knew… and when Gorseheart found his life stolen from him, Raggedthroat was sure that Beavergaze would be made deputy of RedwoodClan, and that all of his hopes and dreams of assuring their future’s safety would be realized with the coming of Beaverstar…
He was outraged when Heatherstar named Finchtail as deputy.
“What is wrong with you?! Are you addled? I made you the PERFECT deputy!” Raggedthroat snapped at Heatherstar, only to be met with her distant and dignified stare for a time. “Do you even care for this Clan?! Not once have you allowed us the offensive! How are we to gain the advantage, Heatherstar?” he demanded.
“I hold respect for your many moons and your counsel, Raggedthroat, but I won’t choose someone that would merely lead us deeper into war,” she said.
“War is upon us whether you like it or not! Why would you not give the Clan the strongest among them?” his teeth began to bare themselves.
“Because I have not forgotten Mothstar’s vision, Raggedthroat!” she finally snapped at him. “Some among us haven’t given up on peace,” Heatherstar glared at him.
Heatherstar found her peace in death. Finchtail became Finchstar, and again Raggedthroat dared to hope that perhaps Beavergaze would take his rightful place as the future head of their Clan… a kittypet was called up, instead. He had laughed, assuming it was a joke… and he had laughed again in the future when the news of the rockslide and the poor cat’s premature demise reached his ears.
“You’ve grand purpose still, Beavergaze,” he told his favored prodigy, “you need no title to see it through,” Raggedthroat rasped.
RedwoodClan would be safe.
