under the knife || gravelpaw

[LYNXTOOTH.]

an excursion alone into the moors, just two, father and child; a petition to which gravelpaw's mentor easily acquiesced. (he supposes any cat would appreciate the afternoon off, which makes these private training sessions easier to come by... keeping his claws in the boy, for lack of better phrasing. he smirks at the unintended pun.) lynxtooth does not check to see that gravelpaw follows. he expects obedience and that is what he gets. gravelpaw, blessed heir, is never one to stray.

they'll come to a clearing: battle training, lynxtooth's favored focus. his children are soldiers, and they will be good ones. born for a purpose and he will see them succeed.

he turns, at last, to see gravelpaw — there is something missing that he has noticed more and more lately. irritation sparks beneath his pelt. all the effort he puts into them and still, why will neither of them act like his heirs?

"where is your head these days?"

some blend of worry and accusation that only a parent can master; concern for the child but concern, as well, for the preservation of what is his. golden boy, loyalist. "i could swear," he says with a sigh, "there was a time you were excited for apprenticeship. you have excelled — one of the best in windclan. but that look in your eyes, as though this does not matter — "

another sigh, almost a scoff but not so cruel as one. " ' one of the best ' will not suffice. you know that. you are my son. " it is not vicious; it does not even intend to be mean. he does not speak to gravelpaw as he might to slatepaw. no, he is gentle, earnest, urging — do you know what you carry on those young shoulders? get up, child. it is a legacy. it is mine.

they have work to do. the massive tabby raises a paw, claws unsheathed. "come on, then." gaze narrows, seeking fault. "the stance i showed you last time. let me see." has gravelpaw been practicing?


@GRAVELPAW
. . . tags.​

 

[GRAVELSNAP]

When Lynxtooth comes to collect them, the apprentice follows without complaint. They are many things—nervous, critical, meticulous—but loyalty tops the list. Their father is not a perfect person, of that they are nearly certain, but he is still their father. The same blood rushes through both their veins. And he loves Gravelpaw, especially when they do things correctly.

They snap back to attention when the large warrior asks them a question. Where is their head at? Confusion clouds their face; their brow furrows, they aren’t sure what he means, but they feel the need to apologize. "I-" They’re cut off by the ginger tom’s next words, an accusation laced within that tone. Showing concern and cruelty both, that’s Lynxtooth—some days, Gravelpaw isn’t sure which one they’d prefer.

They aren’t given another chance to get a word in until he’s wound himself down a bit, seemingly run out of words to voice his displeasure. "You are my son." And that’s the truth, isn’t it? No matter what Gravelpaw does or says, he is the chosen heir to a bloodline. He bears the responsibility of bettering himself, becoming one of WindClan’s soldiers—no, the best WindClan soldier. "I will… do better," he says, and snaps his mouth closed with a click of teeth.

His father demands a stance of him, and the black-splashed tom falters. Unsheathes his claws, wide-eyed and focused on the long, sharp claws of his father. "Is it like this?" He questions, settling into a defensive crouch. It doesn’t feel right—it isn’t correct, and he pins his ears back once the realization hits him. "No, I’ve got it wrong. I’m sorry. Can you show me again?" His heart feels like it might try to burst from his chest, rabbiting against thin ribs, and Gravelpaw sucks in a deep breath. Disappointing. He’s disappointing his father.
​

[ DEATH OF A DREAM ]​

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[LYNXTOOTH.]

"i will ... do better."

a promise, always broken. still. this time, maybe. lynxtooth sighs; all he asks for is followed instruction — can it really be that difficult?

gravelpaw slides into a stance, and lynxtooth sighs again, this one more frustrated — guttural. gravelpaw sounds pathetic. "not a lick of confidence," he says. " 'is it like this?' you tell me. are you a windclanner or aren't you?" but gravelpaw has already given up, sniveling and quaking like their brother.

he'll reach out with claws extended, aiming to clock the apprentice upside the head and send him toppling. "of course it's not right," he says coldly. "look at you. unsteady."

look at him indeed. unsteady, uncertain, so much more a child than a soldier, after all this time. what is lynx doing wrong?

another sigh; lynxtooth takes pity.

miserable dispay, but if his golden child needs molding then he will mold — he supposes it's reasonable that they did not leave the womb of that kittypet bitch fully-formed. they are not warriors yet. he has time.

at least this one tries; at least this one shows respect.

"pay attention this time," he says, and slips into the stance. "my hind legs — note the spacing. for balance. you must be steady in battle. core engaged."

he rises, repeats: "now let me see."

. . . tags.​

 

[GRAVELSNAP]

At the very least, Gravelpaw understands his father’s motives. Or at least, it makes sense in his head. He and Slatepaw must be strong, loyal soldiers of WindClan, and rigorous training and discipline is the best way to achieve that. Slatepaw is just soft, Gravelpaw thinks. He’s not meant to be a soldier, and maybe that’s okay.

His stance is all kinds of wrong, but at least he puts in the effort of making an attempt. He receives a harsh smack for that effort, though, and goes easily to the ground. Unsteady.

Climbing to his paws after being so quickly knocked to the ground is humiliating, and he flinches on instinct when Lynxtooth speaks again—preparing for another blow to the head. When it doesn’t come, though, he lifts his chin high enough to look the ginger tom in the eye. His father wears his disappointment like a second skin, and Gravelpaw’s lip curls at the sight. It stings more than the slap. "I am a WindClanner," he says between clenched teeth, "you made me one."

And for that, Gravelpaw is grateful. Hearing of the other clans, their aggressive, backstabbing ways, has made him glad to have been brought up in the clan of the fields. He can’t imagine himself being a warrior of a clan like RiverClan, the fat-bellied fish-eaters. His father, he realizes, has saved him from a fate worse than death, worse than disappointment. He’s been saved from being weak like them.

But Lynxtooth is right—he doesn’t have the confidence to be a warrior of the clan yet. He needs to do better, to make his father proud, for once.

He copies the stance that the warrior demonstrates, trying to keep his center steady. Leaves space between his hind legs, braces for another cuff. It’s an awkward stance, though that’s likely just because he isn’t feeling the adrenaline rush that comes with a true fight.
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[ DEATH OF A DREAM ]​

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