like a vicious dove [yewtail/ratmask]

words: 700 tagged: yewtail and ratmask notes: here we go!

Exhaustion was heavy in his paws. Each step felt slow, ponderous. He had spent a majority of the night awake, dealing with a crotchety old loner who had wandered intolerably far into their territory. It hadn’t been enough to simply chase the old tom away. He’d kept coming back, leaving evidence of stolen prey in his wake. And he’d risen early in the morning to oversee patrols and such. Now, returning to camp at last, he had no desire but to succumb to sweet sleep. He approached the high stone. He could see his lichen curtain. Just beyond it, he knew his nest would await him. The stone under his paws was rough, yet worn smooth by countless paws. Magpiestar moved one of his massive paws, brushing against the rock. Tens, hundreds of leaders had stood in this space – coming before him. They had stood before their clans, before every clan, a symbol of strength and endurance. But today, he didn’t feel like a symbol of strength – only a crumbling image of what had once been.

Magpiestar had aged years in a moon. Physically he was still quite imposing. And why shouldn’t he be? He was a tom in his prime. Unlike some others who had suffered grievous injuries – broken or destroyed limbs, marring scars, lost eyes – he had only the smaller scars to tell of battles won and lost. They were trophies, a pride more than a fall. They marked him for what he was, or what he had been. He’d been a warrior, young, eager to rush into battle with the innocence and misplaced patriotism of youth. That had faded, in the past moons. It had become near unrecognizable. But then again, in the past cycles of moons, Magpiestar had lost himself – had lost Magpiethorn as he had once been. He had gone from warrior, to deputy, to leader. Everything had changed, and yet the river – his river – still flowed. It was as if someone had sped up time, the sun flashed only momentarily in the sky. Days sped past. But Magpie was stuck in slow motion, reaching pathetically for days and times that were already long gone. It was pathetic, self-pitying truly. Willowbreeze would have been ashamed of him. But it was true. And in these times, when the quiet surrounded him, he couldn’t chase the thoughts away. He’d glamorized his future. He knew this to be true, now. He’d dreamed from kithood of power and majesty. He had dreamed of standing atop the Highrock, of the adoration of his clanmates, of the jealousy. He’d dreamed of fatherhood. He’d dreamed of assigning patrols, of the command, of issuing orders, of punishing those who had wronged him. He had dreamed this with the thirst for vengeance that only a kitten can have, before any sort of wisdom or intellect had yet had the chance to settle in. These thoughts had faded, but the ambition had pulsed strong.

Now that he had his heart’s past desire, he didn’t feel majestic. He didn’t feel adored. It was quite the opposite really. Willowbreeze’s shadow hung over him, blocking out the light of the sun. Each turn reminded him of his fallen mate, of the bright spot of life that had been lost. Doubt niggled its way into the back of his mind, settled there like a cancer. It waxed and waned, but never disappeared. Each day brought new fears. He feared failure, rejection, destruction. These were normal fears, to be expected of anyone, yet they hung over him, throbbing in his chest. He counted each day, wondering how long it would take the clan to whisper among themselves – to ask each other whether Magpiestar was truly the right tom to lead them. Perhaps it was foolish, perhaps blind. But it existed all the same, striking uncertainty in his heart. He shook his head. Worry weighed on him like a stone, dragging him towards impossible depths. He should have been able to smile. The old tom collapsed into his nest, curling up. He could feel sleep already beginning to wash over him, to blot out those horrible thoughts and images. He let his eyes fall closed, let darkness begin to surround him.