make the lord of murder, overlook (c)

Silverhawk did not come bearing food. The last guard shift should have fed Wolfpaw, and so it was not his duty--and besides, he was of the opinion that Wolfpaw could feed himself. His paws and jaw still worked, even if every step he took needed to be watched. No gift (or insult) of meal softened his arrival, which came on swift, heavy paws. He could not quite contain his upset anymore; at least, not right now. Between losing his position on the council very recently and now--now---this, it was too much for even the iron strength of Silverhawk’s composure to bear. There was a bristle set between his shoulders as he approached Wolfpaw, and his pupils were constricted to tight slits. His claws flexed when the pads of his paws made contact with the ground, pulling mud up between them. Once, hard, his tail lashed.

And then he was in front of Wolfpaw. Yellow eyes stared, blinking in a manner almost ghoulish in its examination, up at him. Silverhawk stared back. He did not say anything immediately; rather, he let the seethe rolling off his features speak for him, though he did not know if Wolfpaw cared for that silent language any longer. Briefly, his eyes slid to the side to study the hole that had been dug out of the wall. He ought to stop that before Wolfpaw carved himself an escape behind the backs of his wardens. And what did it matter if he let the antic go, anyway? Silverhawk was already in poor favor with his leader, and surely half the Clan as a result. There was no regaining his once-good standing. And moreover, when he looked to Wolfpaw again, he could only see a kit in front of him. A memory of his brother doing the same when he was young, a memory Silverhawk had forgotten, pressed around in his brain. He clenched his teeth and sighed between the tightness.

”Wolfpaw,” he said eventually, with a roughness to his voice that was unusual of him. Silverhawk’s tail snapped sharply to the side again. Where did he begin? He wanted to tear into Wolfpaw for this. Wolfpaw made him look like a fool. If there had been no garnering good-will for himself before, there was certainly no path forward in that regard now. He looked like an idiot, incapable of monitoring or training his brother, of all apprentices; he looked negligent. Silverhawk was half-tempted to swing a heavy paw over Wolfpaw’s ears.

But he didn’t. He stayed himself. He squeezed his eyes shut and made himself sit back on his haunches instead. He reopened his eyes and found his voice again. ”Why didn’t you say anything to me?” were the words that came out. ”How you feel about the rogues, about--have you passed out like that before? Do you even know why that happened?” Beneath the frustration that was over-evident in his tone, there was a hum of concern, too. Silverhawk was furious, yes, but he was also terrified. He did not know if his little brother was okay, if he would be okay again, and he felt powerless to do anything helpful. "You should have said something. I could have helped you."

Another sigh pushed its way out. SIlverhawk shook his head and tipped himself down slightly to be closer to eye level with Wolfpaw. [color=#845D56]”You should have been more careful,” he said, quiet, conspiratorial, angry. [color=#845D56]”You can’t attack a cat like that when you’re being watched. By a full-grown warrior, no less. What were you thinking?” Silverhawk paused, and his eyes grew narrow. ”Were you thinking? If you weren’t, you’re going to have to start.”

Wolfpaw wasn’t speaking sense. Silverhawk had wanted to deny the accusations of mind-sickness levied against him, to believe that it was just a complication, a confusion, but--stars, what was he even saying? Who was this mysterious she Wolfpaw mentioned with a spit, who apparently infested his mind? And to claim he was thinking! What absurdity. Only a cat truly delusional could believe any intelligent thought had been put into that reckless action. Silverhawk watched his brother shift, watched tension and a swallowed growl course through his body before his muscles unwound again, his jaw popped. He sighed and leaned down slightly to be closer to eye level with Wolfpaw. His brother. What was going on in Wolfpaw’s head? What had led him here?

”Wolf,” he spoke slowly, but not necessarily with patience. His tail snapped again. ”It’s fine if you don’t like them. There are plenty of our Clanmates that I don’t like.” Were there any he would rather see dead? Silverhawk considered for a beat. He supposed there weren’t any he hated strongly enough to see to their deaths himself, but perhaps he wouldn’t have been upset if an accident claimed them. He shook his head and refocused. ”But you can’t just--blindly make attempts on a Clanmate’s life. It doesn’t matter how you feel about them.” The frustration in Silverhawk’s voice was exchanged for a more blatant concern with his next addition. ”If you do something like this, no one is going to forgive you next time. You have to get yourself together before you get your name--if you get your name, now. You do this as a warrior--” Silverhawk thought about the calamity that had arisen around Redice and how older warriors had hurled that name toward his brother on the day Quillsplash and the trio of apprentices returned to camp. There was no point in mincing his words. ”Do this as a warrior and they’ll kill you.”

The words hung in the air until another sigh left Silverhawk again. He hadn’t let go of an earlier concern, and he saw the opportunity to focus in on it now. ”Wolf… who is ‘she’?” He asked quietly. ”Has someone been threatening you? Did someone give you these ideas, that our Clanmates aren’t safe?” The idea that someone had gone behind his back to breed these ideas in Wolfpaw, had given him this intense mistrust, even threatened him into it--it made Silverhawk’s claws flex, pressing into the ground, though not with the same viciousness Wolfpaw’s did. ”Tell me who. Tell me anything.”