the other side [C]

The small tom sighed as the gentle rain soaked into his fur, plastering his pelt to his skin as it fell. A steady, gentle drizzle to mark his first day as an apprentice. How exciting... Nightpaw usually rather liked the rain, but he was already dreading his first time out on the territory. There was just so... much. And anything could be lurking in the marsh. He nodded at the tom's advice and shivered. The comment just reminded him of how many seasons he'd have ahead of him. He wasn't ready for that. He wasn't ready for any of it.

"M-me too." Nightpaw agreed, sounding a lot smaller than his six moons. He hated that. He'd give anything to be the big, tough ShadowClan warrior his Clan wanted, to prove himself as more than his namesake, more than some kit hiding in the corner of the nursery, but he couldn't. For some reason, he couldn't just suck it up. His paws stirred with anger.

And Silverhawk seemed to have perfect timing, of course. What are you so afraid of? What was he so afraid of? Nightpaw didn't know. His whole life, he'd been terrified - and for what? StarClan, it was frustrating. Nightpaw wished they could focus on training so he could get out of his own head. He'd never been outside of his own cursed head.

He slipped on the wet marsh, mud staining his white paws, and hissed quietly. This sucked. This so unbelievably sucked. And he could feel Silverhawk's eyes on him as the warrior fell into step beside him, burning with a curiosity that he tried his best to keep out of his voice. Nightpaw knew he wanted an answer.

A stretch of silence. In that moment, it was just the quiet patter of the rain, the spare croak of a frog, their pawsteps in the mud. Nightpaw didn't want to answer his mentor. He wasn't sure he would ever feel comfortable with the tom. But he had to try, didn't he? "I - I, um, don't know, really." He admitted, the sound of his own voice surprising him. "That's kind of the problem, I suppose. I don't know how I'm supposed to..." Nightpaw trailed off, realizing he was starting to open up to Silverhawk. Wasn't he scared of that, too? Nightpaw swallowed, his claws flexing as he decided to just go through with it.

"I don't know how I'm supposed to be some big, strong warrior when I can't even talk to my own Clanmates. It's so frustrating. I don't know if I'm... cut out for this." His eyes widened as the words left his maw, his ears pinning back against his head. Please don't laugh.

One. Nightpaw's heart leaped. A horrible feeling stirred in his stomach. His fears weren't appeased by Silverhawk's deceitfully reassuring words, that charlatan act that Nightpaw couldn't quite sniff out. They weren't quelled by any means. But maybe the small apprentice had let himself feel just a bit safer with his new mentor. The strong tom scared him, but maybe, just maybe...he could trust him.

The warrior wanted him to be better. He didn't laugh; he didn't snarl, he didn't let slip how much he didn't want the failure that was Nightpaw for an apprentice. So maybe Nightpaw trusted him. Only a little bit. Not with his most private fears or thoughts, and certainly not with his life, but maybe he would listen to this cat. Maybe he would try - for him.

Until his muscles froze themselves in place and his legs locked up and he couldn't move. Attack me? How? As a Clanmate, with claws sheathed? Or like a real battle - a real fox? Would Silverhawk hurt him? Nightpaw didn't disguise the fear in his eyes, not now that his mentor wasn't looking. His emerald gaze always seemed to hold some sort of doubt, but now real panic paced within them, his pupils darting to and fro. Nightpaw couldn't talk or utter his acceptance of the challenge - not that he wanted to. Did Sablestrike make a good choice? StarClan, Nightpaw didn't trust that tom, either.

The image of the fox, snarling and merciless, filled his mind, and the ruddy tom felt himself all the more paralyzed, his whiskers quivering like a kit's. Fear and anxiety mingled in his veins and turned his blood to ice, to steel, halting his vascular system even as his tiny heart sped up. He was sure Silverhawk would be able to hear it. He was sure it would go on beating right out of his chest. A sudden certainty filled him: he couldn't do this.

He stayed rooted, still and unmoving in the backdrop of the foggy marsh as the birds and frogs cheered the pair on. His first real training session. A reality check - attack or be attacked. Kill or be killed. And he couldn't move. He couldn't speak. He wanted more than anything to lash out, to pounce, or to tell Silverhawk to stop, to hare back to camp, and instead he chose neither.

He couldn't do this.

And finally, finally, his jaws parted. His own voice almost made him jump. It was so small, so meek, and choked with panic, the threat of tears. Maybe nothing had happened yet, but he wanted off this ride. "I can't."

Nightpaw flinched when Silverhawk finally did turn, hating himself for the involuntary muscle spasm. He'd been half-expecting the tom to pounce - his large paws swiping at Nightpaw, his maw twisted in a snarl. Instead, the warrior just looked at him, bearing his teeth in not a snarl but a charming smile. The small apprentice blinked, feeling the adrenaline rush into his bloodstream as the entire situation came to a halt, leaving his heart racing and an overwhelming sense of relief crashing down on him. Oh. He tried to take a deep breath and calm himself down, but panic still held him in its grip. Even at Silverhawk's nudge, it kept him frozen there, still as stone.

It made him angry.

The other apprentices made it look so easy. Fernpaw, effortlessly jumping to his sister's aid; the other apprentices coming and going from their dens, boasting of victorious spars and plump catches, all the battle moves they were perfecting and the praise they got from their mentors and it just made Nightpaw so angry. Was it so hard? Was it so difficult to participate in this one simple exercise? Silverhawk wasn't sending him to fight an enemy warrior; he wasn't making him spar with some bloodthirsty apprentice, or sending him to hare after a fox. He had simply said: attack me, or I'll attack you first.

And that was how the world worked, after all. Did he really expect to be sheltered his whole life? Never sighted by a hawk or an owl? Never sent into battle? When the day finally came, would he freeze up just like this, easy prey for a fox kit?

Silverhawk was right, and it made Nightpaw furious with himself. Ashamed, really. It burned beneath his pelt and made something unfamiliar stir in his chest. Something white-hot and violent. He scarcely felt Silverhawk's gentle tail-tap against his flank, let alone hear anything he said. The blood rushing in his ears was much too loud. Green gaze blazing, he watched the tom start to walk away, and stayed still to stew in his anger.

He hated himself. The older cat's tail swishing casually behind him seemed to taunt him. Silverhawk was a strong and loyal warrior, and Nightpaw could at least try to learn something. Because his mentor was right: it's not that he couldn't do it; he simply wouldn't. And if Silverhawk thought he was weak or a coward, he would be right.

Before he was even aware of his own movement, Nightpaw was rushing forward, leaping toward Silverhawk with paws outstretched and a shrill yowl flying from his maw. He barely felt in control of his body - he felt outside his body, really, as though someone else were moving him. The small tom crashed into Silverhawk's flank with the full force of his weight, a messy and uncoordinated attempt to tackle the warrior. He was surprised at the way Silverhawk's body seemed to give beneath his small white paws; had it been the element of surprise that gave him that advantage? Certainly it wasn't his strength. Nightpaw was weak and small and didn't pose a threat to a mouse. He knew that. As the muscular tom moved from the force of his apprentice's tackle, Nightpaw felt himself crash to the ground, his hind legs scrabbling for purchase in the mud.

And it didn't feel good, and he didn't feel any better about himself. Instead, one word echoed in his mind as he thrashed about in a pitiful attempt to find his footing in the slippery marsh: pathetic.

Pathetic. Nightpaw wasn't expecting any other word to leave Silverhawk's lips. But he was met only with a glimmer of satisfaction, a terrifyingly wide smile. The little tuxedo blinked, his own surprise meeting Silverhawk's. He did...good? Did he? It hadn't felt like it. He watched the large tom quietly as he hauled him to his paws, scruffing him like he was some kind of kit. Nightpaw didn't shake the mud from his fur, not yet, too nervous for the consequences that he was sure were to come.

He was beginning to recognize the adrenaline pulsing through his veins. It felt good. He didn't like it one bit. Again. Fight back. He didn't have time to react before he was pushed back down to the marsh, his pelt even more slick with the cold mud that painted the grass. He gritted his teeth, hanging on to the anger from before. I can't give up now. I can't let him down. I'm doing so good...

He let his rage build. All the times he'd felt weak, pathetic, small - they flashed through his mind, making his hackles raise and his fur bristle. Was this what he'd been missing out on? Nightpaw struggled against his mentor's strong paws, trying desperately to stand once more - but it was no use. His amber gaze flashed with a mixture of determination and irritation. Do it again.

Chest heaving with the effort, Nightpaw threw his weight against the muscular tom again, but it hardly moved Silverhawk. He'd have to try something else. But he couldn't lash out with his paws, or he'd slip and fall; he'd have to think of something else. He'd have to use his teeth. "Let...me...go!" Nightpaw shouted, sounding small as usual. He snapped his head to the side, teeth sinking into thick grey fur as he bit down into Silverhawk's forepaw. In the heat of the moment, he didn't think to soften his blow for his fellow ShadowClan, the threat seeming all too real. The fur in his fangs and the small beads of blood that welled up where he pierced brought him a sick thrill. For once in his life, he felt like he had some kind of power.

Nightpaw used Snap, dealing 6 damage and costing 7 SP!

Nightpaw
20 / 20 HP
53 / 60 SP (-7 SP)

Silverhawk
44 / 50 HP (-6 HP)
120 / 120 SP

There was that fear again. Nightpaw's heart nearly stopped when Silverhawk met his gaze - his eyes a bit wild, his smile a little too real for a cat who was bleeding. Something dangerous gleamed in his eyes. Maybe Silverhawk was as dangerous as he'd thought. Any semblance of an apology only died on his lips as Silverhawk spoke, as though encouraging him to keep his teeth sharp and his claws unsheathed. He felt a pang of regret as he watched his mentor place weight on the injured paw gingerly - but maybe he shouldn't have. It didn't change the satisfaction that warmed his pelt as he watched the tom bleed, and it didn't change the way that he was beginning to crave the metallic taste in his mouth. Was this how it felt for the normal apprentices?

Silverhawk didn't give him time to think too much about it. Before he knew it, he was being knocked off his paws again, the slick ground rushing up to meet him as he fell. He gritted his teeth against the impact. And there was that panic again, too - the feeling of helplessness as the tom sank his fangs into the soft give of his scruff, pinning him there. Silverhawk was much too heavy to throw off. Think, Nightpaw, think. There had to be a way to get out of this. He thrashed wildly, doing his best to try to knock the warrior off balance, but it was pointless. The tuxedo's pelt was more mud than fur now, all the white parts of his pelt turned brown. Nightpaw gritted his teeth in frustration. "You must really like picking on cats a lot smaller than you, huh?" He growled, his words punctuated with sharp breaths and heavy pants. "Go on, you don't have to be gentle." Nightpaw spat - deep down, Silverhawk probably would want to draw blood. An eye for an eye and all that. Was this how he trained with Wolfpaw, too?

Use your size to your advantage. He was small, scrawny even; Silverhawk was big, muscular. The fight seemed outmatched. But if he could just catch Silver off guard again, maybe he could get up on the tom's back and attack from there. Nightpaw took a deep breath, a small moment of calm in the chaos as he tried to prepare himself. Then he gathered his weight and threw his body upwards. Please work. He reared backwards, his head slamming against Silverhawk's skull. It made a sickening crack as his head banged into his mentor's. White pain exploded across his vision, and Silverpelt seemed to swirl around him. He took a moment, the taste of blood in his mouth (his own, this time) sharp and metallic. Had he bit his own cheek? He was free from the tom's grip, sure, but he was momentarily stunned. The ground seemed to swim beneath him as he tried to gather his senses. Bad idea. Silverhawk had probably already recovered; Nightpaw braced himself for the blow he knew was coming.