private FORGED IN FIRE — flintpaw

[GRANITEPELT]

The yellowcough has finally left Flintpaw’s body. Granitepelt wastes no time in calling his son into the mire with him. He’d asked some other cat to inform Scalejaw—he doubts the dark she-cat cares for this, but he’s a lead warrior, and Flintpaw is his to form, to shape, no matter what delusions Chilledstar fills her head with. He no longer trusts Scalejaw to do what needs to be done with Flintpaw, who has more promise than his other kits—not after the accusations, the blatant disrespect. Who knows what nonsense she’ll fill his kin’s head with while she takes him out for her idle patrols and hunting sessions?

The slate-pelted tom turns to study Flintpaw, ears flicking forward to catch any signs of weakness. So far, so good—he seems a little weaker, but that’s to be expected after spending so long in the medicine cat’s den. “Your mother has taken good care of you. Now it’s time for you to prove you were worth the lungwort she used on you.” His tone is cool, his words clipped. “Don’t think the Clan will forget about you getting two doses so easily. It’s up to you to prove you deserved to live over the weaker cats.” He flicks his tail. “Are you ready for a spar?”

Whether Flintpaw says they are ready or not, Granitepelt crouches, his claws unsheathing. Without warning, he charges the younger cat, aiming to swipe his claws along Flintpaw’s right shoulder.

[ @FLINTPAW ]

, ”​

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[FLINTWISH]

It seems only right that Granitepelt be the one to chisel Flintpaw into shape. Scalejaw is a fine mentor, but Flintpaw does not find her comments against their father easily permissible; he is tired of ShadowClan's suspicions, especially now that Granitepelt walks among them as a lead warrior. And besides, Flintpaw had always dreamed of being apprenticed to Granitepelt– they would never pass up an opportunity to train with him, especially when he was the one to initiate the invitation in the first place.

They trek to the mire and Flintpaw is excited in earnest. He'd looked upon them, before they were cured, with such great disdain for their obvious weakness that it had shattered Flintpaw's world. They'd spent so long vying for his affections in their short life. To lose it all because of an illness they couldn't control– an illness that Starlingheart brought into his den –had been... horrible. So the fact that Granitepelt chooses to take them out now elates them, though they hardly show it. Flintpaw's face is as stony as ever, all of their excitement tightly pressed into the diamond of their chest and never allowed beyond it.

It's only when Granitepelt speaks that Flintpaw feels as though his perspective is warped. His cool, clipped tone; the blame so explicit in his words; Flintpaw stares at their father with some new emotion in their dual-toned gaze. He knew that the rest of ShadowClan hated him for being cured– they must hate him; for he would have hated any other cat who was offered such a gratuitous portion. Did... did Granitepelt hate him for it, too? "...What?" He asks the question before he realizes it. His uncertainty cuts whatever is tethering him to his awareness; Flintpaw is soon boring deep through his own skull, each racing thought one more step down a spiraling staircase, trying to register what Granitepelt is saying to him; trying to still grasp the wings of excitement soaring away from him–

and then there are claws in his shoulder.

The pain is not instant. Before pain, there is shock. When had he moved? Granitepelt had been in front of him in one beat, and scoring his flesh in another. His claws are out. Why? In his brief spars with Scalejaw, they'd never trained this way. It hurts. Finally, the surprise washes out and allows the stinging to ebb; the wound was not deep, but it was more than a mere scrape.

He has spent too long standing there dumbfounded. Flintpaw catches their father's eye, deep and green and snakelike, as they finally find their footing and step back, out of his reach. They are used to playing on the defensive. They almost sputter about not being ready yet, but it is clear to them that Granitepelt would not care for such squawking excuses. So, instead, he clenches his jaw, ears flattening to his skull as he pushes forward, shoulder aching, and aims to land a similar blow on Granitepelt's flank. His claws are milk-white; sharpened by their lack of use. If they found purchase in his father's pelt, it would be sure to sting.

𝐌𝐘 𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐋 𝐁𝐄𝐂𝐀𝐌𝐄 𝐀 𝐇𝐀𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐑 ✧ 𝐈 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐅𝐄𝐄𝐋 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑

• 

• 
  
  — flintkit . flintpaw
  — he / they / she ; apprentice of shadowclan
  — short-haired solid blue tom with low white and blue/green heterochromatic eyes
  — "speech" ; thoughts
  — chibi by dreamydoggo
  — penned by meghan

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[GRANITEPELT]

She trills, “…What?”, just before the claws hit her shoulder. Granitepelt snorts, his breath whistling in his nostrils. “Do you honestly think those cats will forgive you for taking another’s life? They blame you for Halfshade’s kits being motherless. They blame you for Heavybranch’s early death.” The tips of his claws are red with his kit’s blood. He smiles, watching the surprise crease Flintpaw’s face.

“As I suspected. Scalejaw is not training you sufficiently.” He skulks, pacing in a half-circle, movements cumbersome and pantherlike. A bit of light catches the shadowy green of his eyes. “Do you think your enemies will not use their claws on you? And it will hurt far worse, for they will not have any love for you like I do.” Spoken coldly, heavy as stone, but it’s as close to an I love you Flintpaw will ever get from his father.

Perhaps the kit knows that, deep down. Perhaps they do. Granitepelt smiles with satisfaction as Flintpaw’s resolve crosses his expression. His jaw is set, clenched, ears flattening, and he charges. His movements are clumsy, but Granitepelt does not evade the attack. A sharp pain pierces his flank, and blood begins to weal in steady lines from the wound his son has left upon him. “Well done. Do not be afraid to draw blood.” He will attempt to whip a paw upside Flintpaw’s head, using their proximity to land a semi-forceful blow, if successful. “How does it feel, when you see your claws cut another cat?”

, ”​

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[FLINTWISH]

Do you honestly think those cats will forgive you for taking another’s life?

Granitepelt asks him this in words tarred and sugared. The blame is acrid as it washes down his throat; a hard piece of gristle in a rotten meal. He's felt the guilt since he'd become lucid enough to carry it, but hearing Granitepelt confirm that what he feels is real makes his blood run cold. Cold like knife blades; cold like fire eating flesh; cold like the sting in his shoulder, seeping sticky red. The weight of Heavybranch and Halfshade pile upon him though he is wounded, and at the end of it all, he is not even up to Granitepelt's standard in his battle training. Flintpaw's excitement to spend time with her father has long been thoroughly squashed. Instead, she is heavy, doused in kerosene, waiting for a spark to fly as their claws clash.

But... he loves her?

No. He has love for her. Flintpaw's eyes narrow, vexation sweeping them off their paws. No smile forms upon their muzzle. Instead their lips pull back into a snarl, pearly fangs sharp and straight as military gravestones. Granitepelt does not even attempt to evade the attack that Flintpaw execute, and for several heartbeats some sort of anger marches through each artery. Even when their claws find purchase in his pelt, even when their claws are tinged red like his, it does not ebb. Flintpaw's breaths come heavy; their angular shoulders pulse with each intake. They swing their low-hanging head back to face Granitepelt. But as soon as they do, a paw strikes their jaw and sends them stumbling.

Blood wells in his mouth where teeth had come in contact with tongue. Flintpaw immediately hates the taste of it, the way it clusters and crowds the back of his throat. It tastes like the diseased phlegm he'd been hacking up not so long ago. But Granitepelt praised him– and his question draws some sort of pitch-black passion from the heart of the young reflection.

"It feels good," Flintpaw answers, spitting frothy pink saliva onto the mire just to get it off his tongue. And it does feel good. It feels good to cut into Granitepelt; it would feel good, he imagines, to cut into any other cat who had ever beaten him down. Starlingheart would disapprove, he thinks, but maybe she wouldn't– after all, if Granitepelt felt this way and she loved him, maybe she didn't care. A small, unhappy smile twitches to life at the corners of his black lips. "I...." she trails off, lost for how to elaborate, ears twitching. "Yeah. It feels good." So get back here and let me try it again.

Flintpaw circles as their father had before, waiting for an opening to punch through with claws unsheathed. When he sees his chance, he pounces again, hoping to once again score claws down his pelt. It's less precision and more passion, but at least he's trying. It's a good thing, isn't it?

𝐌𝐘 𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐋 𝐁𝐄𝐂𝐀𝐌𝐄 𝐀 𝐇𝐀𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐑 ✧ 𝐈 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐅𝐄𝐄𝐋 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑

• 

• 
  
  — flintkit . flintpaw
  — he / they / she ; apprentice of shadowclan
  — short-haired solid blue tom with low white and blue/green heterochromatic eyes
  — "speech" ; thoughts
  — headshot by me, signature by dreamydoggo
  — penned by meghan

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[GRANITEPELT]

Granitepelt watches fury replace the surprise in his kit’s mismatched eyes. Good, he thinks, letting his claws sift through the soft marsh floor. Flintpaw tells him it feels good to whet his claws against another, to wet them with his enemy’s blood. He does not stop to consider the implications—he, enemy, opponent, father, he is all of those things and more.

The gray warrior appraises his son, who turns her flashing blue-and-gold gaze onto her sire, whose mouth twitches into a small mimicry of her father’s smile. Blood, filmy and pink, leaves his mouth like magma, bitter and foamy as his words. Granitepelt watches the reddish foam soak precariously into the swamp under them. Then, Flintpaw’s paws leave the earth again, body less streamlined but thrumming with power and energy. “Remember that feeling, Flintpaw. Remember it well."

This time Granitepelt flattens himself to the ground, attempting to evade the blow and send Flintpaw flying over him. Should Flintpaw’s attack still hit, his claws will graze the older tom’s spine, pulling fur and flesh up and into the air—but Granitepelt will not stand still this time. He rises to his paws, turning swiftly to slash in the general direction of his child’s chest area. The attack, if landed, will be less powerful than the first, surface-level damage.

, ”​

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