Swiftpaw's Chance: Chapter 1
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After the howling stops, after the snapping teeth and flashing claws vanish, after the forest goes deathly still, there are two bodies on the forest floor. The air smells like blood and dog and death.
And Swiftpaw opens his eyes.
His vision is blurry, edged in red, and every fibre of his being is pulsing pain with the beat of his heart, but he is alive. He lifts his head, turns to look at his flank, where the worst of the pain seems to be radiating from.
There’s nothing left.
All of his fur, in a wide swath that seems to cover most of the back half of his body, is completely gone. So, it seems, is most of his skin, leaving his back a glistening red slab of meat pumping blood onto the grass. A few thin strips of shredded flesh lay loosely across the wound; one or two has peeled back and hangs down to the dirt. As he watches, a fly lands on his back, right in the bloody, pulpy mess of it all, and Swiftpaw can’t even lift his tail to flick it away. He shifts his hind leg slightly and catches a flash of white, smeared in red, where the bite went down to the bone. Bile rises thick and choking in his throat and he turns his head, emptying whatever is left in his stomach onto the ground.
It’s excruciating, the heaving of his flanks aggravating his wounds and the acid burning up his throat. By the time it’s done Swiftpaw can’t even lift his head anymore. He lays on the ground, his vision mostly obscured by blades of grass and dead leaves. In the corner of his eye he sees white and black and red, and manages to turn his head towards it. It’s his tail, or half of it, ending in a bloody, trailing stump. Dimly he wonders if that can be fixed, but the thought is slippery and distant. His tail is on the ground. It’s not attached to him anymore. That seems odd.
Swiftpaw notes, half a thought, that he might be dying. There’s a distant sort of feeling, there, heart racing and breath catching, something rushing and all-consuming, but it’s happening to someone else, and Swiftpaw can’t grasp it. He turns his head again, focuses on blades of grass in front of his nose. They aren’t moving. Nothing is. The forest is deathly still. Swiftpaw thinks he might be asleep, now. Possibly dead.
But beyond the grass, there’s something else, something red against the greens and brown of the forest, and under that, ginger and white.
Brightpaw.
He’s awake again. Swiftpaw can’t tell if she’s breathing. He tries, for a moment, to lift his head, but all that gets him is half a second’s glimpse and more pain when he thuds back down.
“B-Brightpaw,” he whispers, his voice scraping raw in his throat.
He has to get to her.
He moves one paw, gets it underneath him, tries to push up. His leg shakes, shakes, shakes, and for one second he lifts up some, and then falls again. Everything hurts.
“ Brightpaw. Brightpaw. ”
Slowly, Swiftpaw stretches one paw towards Brightpaw, then the other. Absently, he notes that his claws have been torn out on his right paw. It feels like the same sort of numb wrongness as his severed tail—something that should be attached to him is not. That’s the hard part, not the pain of it. Not when everything hurts. Swiftpaw blinks the thought away and digs his existing claws into the earth and pulls himself forward, dragging his body through the dirt.
The sound of tearing flesh mixes with the white-hot agony searing down his side mixes with the sound of his unhinged howl. For a blinding moment the world is nothing but pain, pain, pain. There’s blood in his mouth, coppery and thick.
He has to get to Brightpaw.
This time, when he stretches out his paws, Swiftpaw is more careful, lifting his body up as much as he’s able, pushing weakly with his hind legs, and it hurts, hurts, hurts, but he doesn’t tear himself apart, so it’s okay.
“I’m coming, Brightpaw,” he breathes. “I’m coming, please, hang on.”
Inch by slow, agonizing inch, Swiftpaw makes his way across the clearing towards the other apprentice. With every pull he tells himself one more, one more , until finally, somehow, he collapses for the last time right in front of Brightpaw, eyes closed, breathing for a long moment.
When he opens his eyes, it’s worse.
Not for him—Brightpaw. The whole left side of her face is a mess of blood and tissue, her ear hanging by a thread. Somehow it looks worse than the ruin that is Swiftpaw’s back. Her eye. Her ear . It’s all wrong.
And it’s all his fault.
Swiftpaw presses his muzzle against her face as best he can. “Brightpaw. Brightpaw, I’m so sorry, I'm so sorry, please, please-“
She’s breathing. Barely. But it’s there, stirring the fur on his face.
He pulls himself up one more time and throws one foreleg across her shoulder. Burying his face in her fur, Swiftpaw has just enough clarity left to make sure he doesn’t crush her windpipe and cut off what’s left of her meager air before he succumbs to the darkness again.
-0-0-0-
The next time Swiftpaw struggles back into the waking world, the air smells fresher, cleaner, though his mouth still tastes like blood and bile and dog.
He opens his eyes.
He’s in the medicine den. More importantly, he’s not with Brightpaw anymore.
Swiftpaw manages to lift his head a bit, croaks out, “Brightpaw?” The words burn, and they're barely louder than a whisper, but Cinderpelt’s face appears in front of his almost immediately.
“Swiftpaw! Thank StarClan, you’re awake!” she mews.
“Cinderpelt? Where’s Brightpaw?” Swiftpaw rasped, but the medicine cat doesn’t seem to hear him. She’s already ducking away.
She returns in a moment holding some dripping moss that she lays in front of Swiftpaw. “Here. You’ve been asleep for two days, you’re probably thirsty.”
And Swiftpaw realizes that he is , so he spares a moment to lick at the moss, swishes water clumsily in his mouth and spits. It’s colored a dull pink, and the blood taste isn't quite so strong in his mouth anymore. Swiftpaw gets another drink, swallowing this time, and Cinderpelt brings more soaked moss.
It’s several minutes of licking pathetically for water before Swiftpaw stops feeling like there was a drought inside of him, and he nudges Cinderpelt’s next offering away gently. “Where’s Brightpaw?”
Cinderpelt’s eyes go dark and worried. “In her nest, behind you a bit. Don’t try to look, Swiftpaw, you did more than enough damage already dragging yourself through the forest to her.”
Swiftpaw falls clumsily back down from where he’d tried to scramble and see Brightpaw. The itch is still there, though, the burning need to see her, to know she’s alright.
“She’s doing fine,” Cinderpelt continues. “Woke up a pawful of times the last couple days, never for more than a few seconds, and finally woke up and ate some prey yesterday. Cloudtail’s been here day and night for her—he’s sleeping by her nest now, actually. It’s just past dawn.”
Now Swiftpaw really wants to turn around and look at them. Cloudtail? Cloudtail is here? By Brightpaw’s side, day and night, like he deserves that. Swiftpaw doesn’t know exactly where the rage comes from or why it’s directed at Cloudtail, but it burns hot and all-consuming in his belly. If Cloudtail hadn’t been made into a warrior, none of this would’ve happened. If he’d been a better warrior, he would’ve noticed them sneaking out and stopped them. He doesn’t get to mope beside Brightpaw now. He wasn’t there for her, He didn’t have to try to defend her against a dozen savage dogs, he didn’t get dragged from a tree, unable to do anything, nothing in the world but pain and dogs growling and Brightpaw screaming -
“Cinderpelt?”
Swiftpaw jolts back to himself violently. Dimly, he’s aware that he’s breathing hard. Cinderpelt is crouched in front of him, clearly torn between answering the voice at the front of the den and staying with him. He meets her eyes and nods, slowly. Cinderpelt hesitates again and stands up.
The voice comes again and Swiftpaw is instantly at attention.
“Cinderpelt? Hello? I’m back from dawn patrol, is….is everything okay?”
Longtail. Longtail’s here. “Longtail, I was just going to come get you, it’s-“
“Swiftpaw,” Longtail interrupts. “Is he—is he okay?”
Swiftpaw lifts his head again, forces himself to speak as loudly as he can. “Longtail.”
His voice cracks in the middle and it’s barely any louder than before, but Longtail darts around Cinderpelt’s body in a flash and stops dead.
“Swiftpaw,” he breathes, and then he’s there.
Longtail wraps himself around Swiftpaw with a gentleness Swiftpaw never even thought him capable of, except for the part where he presses his nose hard into Swiftpaw’s fur, carefully avoiding his wounds. It hurts a bit, nonetheless, but Swiftpaw can’t be bothered to care as he pushes his own face into Longtail’s neck as best he can.
“Swiftpaw, thank StarClan,” Longtail whispers, “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, this never should have happened, I’m sorry.”
And Swiftpaw apologizes too, his words muffled in his mentor’s fur, “I’m sorry, Longtail, it was stupid, I’m sorry, I’m sorry .”
He can’t even imagine it. He loves Longtail, of course he does, his mentor who’s trained him for moons and moons, and he knows Longtail loves him too. He thinks about his mentor combing the forest calling for him, finally finding him in the clearing. A bloody, broken, barely-alive ruin.
“I should’ve been there,” Longtail says fiercely. “I should’ve been here , Swiftpaw, I swear, Fireheart talked me into one dawn patrol, I never should have gone, I wanted to be here when you—in case-“
Swiftpaw aches. “It’s not your fault,” he says, as vehemently as he can. “It was my choice, my idea, I made Brightpaw come along, it was all me .”
Longtail doesn’t respond, really, but his tail curls tighter around Swiftpaw and the tension in his body ratchets up. Before either of them get a chance to say anything more, Cinderpelt clears her throat.
“I went to fetch Fireheart and Bluestar. They wanted to know when you were awake. I tried to tell them to give you a moment, but, well. They’re heading over now.”
Swiftpaw recognizes it for what it is: a warning to pull themselves together a bit. He doesn't think anyone in the Clan could blame him or Longtail for the display, but he’s still glad for the chance to at least appear like he has some control.
Longtail extracts himself from Swiftpaw enough to nod, but doesn’t move from where he’s curled around his apprentice.
“Hey,” Swiftpaw whispers, in the bare seconds before their leader and deputy arrive, “Is...is Brightpaw okay?”
Longtail looks away quickly. “It, uh...depends on what definition of okay you’re working with there, bud.”
That’s when Swiftpaw knows it’s bad.
“Fireheart, Bluestar,” Cinderpelt says in greeting. Swiftpaw turns his head, but whatever energy possessed him when he saw Longtail is gone now, and he’s forced the res it on his forepaws.
“Swiftpaw,” Fireheart says warmly. “How are you feeling?”
Swiftpaw flicks an ear nonchalantly. “Okay.” Longtail flicks him with his tail and Swiftpaw can feel his mentor’s dirty look. He looks down. “It hurts a lot,” he admits quietly.
Fireheart nods and his eyes go over Swiftpaw to something behind him. “Cloudtail, good you’re awake. Is Brightpaw-?”
“She’s sleeping,” Cloudtail says, not gently. There’s a quiet sound Swiftpaw barely hears, and the warrior adds, “Well, she was. Hey, Brightpaw? You awake?”
Another noise, louder this time, then a mumbled, “Maybe.”
Rage churned in Swiftpaw’s belly again. He pictures Cloudtail curled around Brightpaw, protecting her from the waking world, like he had any right when he wasn’t there . A small voice in the back of his mind told him he wasn’t being fair, but he could barely hear it over the rushing sound of blood in his ears. Longtail’s tongue rasped gently over the back of his neck, the combination of comfort and stinging pain where his skin pulled around his wounds bringing Swiftpaw back to the medicine den. Fireheart was speaking.
“-and I think it’s well past time these two be made warriors.” Fireheart finished firmly.
Beside him, Bluestar was cold, and when she looked down at him Swiftpaw saw her eyes were clouded. A jolt of icy fear ripped down his spine at that as she turned a glare on her deputy.
“You want the traitors to have their warrior names?” she snarled. Swiftpaw flinched. “Fine.” She stalked over to Brightheart, and Swiftpaw craned his neck as much as he could, only managing to see Bluestar’s back, a flash of ginger and white between her legs.
“This one shall be known as Lostface,” Bluestar said. “A reminder that StarClan abandoned them both in their hour of need. That StarClan has abandoned us all.”
For a long heartbeat the den was silent. Swiftpaw tried to comprehend it. Brightpaw. Lostface. Lostface. Bluestar couldn’t , not after everything they’d done, after it was her fault , her decision to make Cloudtail a warrior and ignore the two of them. Her cold eyes and her cruel snarl, condemning them for the path she forced them to take. How dare she? Swiftpaw flexes the claws on his left paw and wishes that he could walk, that he could stand up, that there was enough of him left to even swipe at Bluestar’s leg. He is on fire, burning up inside. He’s never wanted anything so badly in his life as much as he wants to tear his leader apart.
He would. In that moment, if he had half a chance, Swiftpaw would tear out her eyes and rip off her ears, sever her tail and cut her back to ribbons. There is nothing but hatred in every atom of his body. If it meant the rest of his days as a warrior, if it meant his life , he would do it. But not even the endless fire consuming him from the inside out is strong enough to lend Swiftpaw his legs.
“Bluestar,” Fireheart says quietly. “You should reconsider-“
“Lostface?” Cloudtail blurts, finding his voice at last. “That...that’s an insult! Bluestar, you can’t -“
“I can, and I have. StarClan can have her as Lostface, or they can not have her at all.”
Brightpaw— Lostface —is silent. Swiftpaw is more desperate than ever to see her face. Bluestar stalks away from her and comes to stand in front of Swiftpaw.
“This one,” she begins, and Swiftpaw’s body rumbles in a quiet growl that burns. He is not a this one , he is Swiftpaw, he is a warrior, he is going to tear Bluestar apart. “This one shall be known as Dogscar, a reminder of his mistakes, his disobedience, and our noble ancestors who would not save him.”
Swiftpaw’s vision whites out. “How dare you?” he howls. “You can’t do this to her! To us ! This is all your fault! This is all your fault !”
Somewhere, in his body, Swiftpaw is aware that he is in agony, is aware of voices around him calling his name, is aware of what he is saying and doing and that it will not end well. The Swiftpaw he is now, though, is made of fire, and he will not stop.
His own voice sounds far away when he screams, “ I’m going to kill you! ” He might say it more than once, or maybe the echo is all in his head. He doesn’t think it matters. He doesn’t intend to stop.
Wide, cloudy blue eyes swim into his vision. Swiftpaw feels his claws catch in fur, sinks his teeth in, and this time the blood that fills his mouth is not his own.