Don't pick the prickly pear [Pearpaw]

Pearpaw would be the last cat to admit that he hadn’t slept comfortably—the apprentice’s den seemed roaring loud in his ears. He’d woken up long before dawn and just remained curled up with his nose tucked under his tail. He needed to sleep—if he didn’t rest then Stoatclaw was bound to be disappointed in him. The mere thought made his stomach flip with horror, and he squeezed his eyes shut tight and waited. Waited, waited, waited—but sleep never came, and before he knew it he heard a rustling at the entrance and was lifting his head in time to see Featherstone.

His heart sank, Great—now I’ll have to run around the territory with Featherstone.

Pearpaw felt an unusual well of shyness creeping through his patched pelt. He picked his way carefully over the sleeping bodies of his denmates, taking extra care not to prod on Kinkpaw’s tail since she was closest, before he loped out of the den. Pearpaw swallowed a yawn, amber eyes darting toward the pile, “Okay, I’ll try to bring something back for the pile too.”

That’s what apprentices were expected to do right? He quickly snatched up a small mouse and devoured it in rapid bites. His paws didn’t tingle with excitement so much as slight apprehension—Stoatclaw had been unpopular with many of the Clan since his public disowning of Peachpaw. He hoped that Featherstone wasn’t one of the cats on Peachpaw’s side, or at the very least if she was that she’d avoid the topic altogether. It wasn’t Stoatclaw’s fault Peachpaw was an embarrassment.

Pelt crawling, Pearpaw scrambled to stand next to his mentor. Why was she so excited? This was routine for her right? Pearpaw glanced over his shoulder dubiously, wondering if he could ask the leader to apprentice him to his father instead—but no, if Pearpaw couldn’t manage to become decent through Featherstone’s training he’d just see his father on the side. He didn’t have faith in her, but then he didn’t have faith in himself either. No cat could compare to Stoatclaw.

“I’m ready to go,” Pearpaw meowed—as if it weren’t obvious.

Why was she acting so happy? Pearpaw stared at Featherstone—discomfort was making the fur along his back feel like crawling. He hadn’t done anything, was she pleased that he had eaten so quickly? No, that didn’t make sense. That was stupid, why would that inspire anything in the mentor at all? Maybe she was just pleased at his obedience? This apprentice thing is going to be easier than I thought it would be…

Were all mentors this easily pleased? Or just his—the thought filled him with worry. If his mentor had extraordinarily low standards how was he ever supposed to meet Stoatclaw’s standards? The patched cat paused briefly to peer at the bush of the warrior’s den. He thought he could see his father’s striped pelt in the branches—was he awake and listening to Featherstone? Pearpaw winced, jerking away from Featherstone uncomfortably at her touch—what was the point of this sort of training?

What is she planning to teach me with gestures like that, Pearpaw thought, puzzled as he padded after her. Pearpaw was careful not to fall behind the she-cat, and tried to keep up with her talking. How many subjects can she cover in one day? It’s no good just listening to her tell me how I should do these things. Will she show me? Am I expected to fill in the gap?

Well, he was Stoatclaw’s son. Pearpaw almost blundered straight past the she-cat when she stopped, freezing stiffly at her signal and staring from the tip of her tail up to her face. What now?

After a moment’s hesitation—was he supposed to follow her?—Pearpaw crept after his mentor. He stopped next to her, peering ahead with his heart hammering in his chest. Cats! Strangers! Automatically the hackles rose along his spine and his tail grew round and thick as his pelt stood on end. He had to swallow to stop himself from letting out an instinctual low growl. An enemy patrol, what do they do?

“Nothing—at least in this particular case,” Pearpaw forced his fur to lie flat—though his tail was still fluffed up. He turned amber eyes back onto his mentor, continuing in a soft voice. “If they were marching through our territory you’d probably confront them—or… well maybe not. I’m not certain. I have no battle training, so I’d be sent back to warn the Clan right?”

Stoatclaw had not been shy of putting his children through made-up scenarios like this when they were younger. Pearpaw was certain his answer was correct, and he added softly, “It might be advantages to get the drop on them with a bigger patrol—if it was alright with Falconstar. Father says ThunderClan deserves the most territory in the forest, since we’re the strongest Clan.”

Pearpaw stared at his mentor—the hackles along his spine and especially around the neck were bristling again. Not because he was startled this time, but because he was furious. The young cat’s eyes flashed with rage, he bared his teeth and found a million protests rising to the tip of his tongue. There was so much rushing through his mind at once that he couldn’t think of a word to say. He wanted to screech at her, but he swallowed the words and turned his head away to glare furiously at the RiverClan cats across the border. The tom’s lips curled up in a sneer, and he felt his heart pounding.

How can what she says be right? Stoatclaw is the wisest cat in all the Clans! How dare she say that? Pearpaw sullenly thought of just abandoning the she-cat at the border. How silly she’d look, if he ran back to camp to spend all his time with Stoatclaw instead of her! Ha! She’d look the fool for not being able to keep track of her apprentice for even one day, he could just say she left him behind and he got confused.

Then again, the idea of Stoatclaw’s disappointment at him for “losing his way” in the territory, even if it was the first time, was too much to bear. Pearpaw sullenly stalked after his mentor, trying not to imagine how satisfying it would be to pounce on her and bite her really hard on the tail for what she’d said about his father. His mind churned over what she’d said, but kept getting caught on the words “it is very unwise” so that he threw the rest of it out when his anger was rekindled twice as strong.

It felt like it was stretching between the two of them. Was he going to end up hating his mentor after all? If she was so callous about Stoatclaw then he couldn’t see himself ever liking her. He didn’t understand how another cat could look to him and see anything but how great Stoatclaw was. He was a fantastic warrior—strong, loyal, smart, wise—there was no reason to ever want to insult him. Unless they’d been tricked into pitying Peachpaw or something.

“Who says there has to be five Clans in the forest anyway?” Pearpaw finally hissed—it was the most animation that he’d shown since starting his training. If it hadn’t been clear how upset Featherstone’s words had made him before he was certain it had to be now. “If we all stuck together and hunted as one we’d all likely have more food—more protection against those against us. When one Clan’s territory suffered we could lean on the territory of another. So then if terrible things happened we could survive—my father is not unwise.”

Feeling rather smug—ha! He’d showed her—the tom stalked past his mentor and raked his claws angrily over the trunk of a tree. Stupid Featherstone! Stupid Peachpaw! This was all her fault, she’d probably specifically gone out of her way to make sure his mentor would end up hating him by pitying her! Would she ever stop ruining his life?

The young cat yowled in surprise when he was pinned, and froze in place. For a moment Pearpaw was more outraged than he could ever remember feeling—not call his father unwise!? She’d said the words herself! He combed angrily through the conversation, wondering if he’d misheard—but no. He was certain of it. She’d said it had been unwise to assume that Clan size could change the way territory was laid out, which was essentially saying that the cat who had thought of it was unwise. Pearpaw swallowed the retort though, merely narrowing his eyes and feeling his fur prickle with anger.

A well-behaved apprentice, I didn’t attack her or anything! I just defended my father! Pearpaw thought furiously, but he was half expecting the she-cat to cruelly bury her claws in his pelt. When he was let up he shot her a puzzled glance and rasped his tongue over his shoulder, It wasn’t my opinion anyway. I don’t have the right to an opinion, I haven’t earned it yet.

Head down, Pearpaw followed his mentor through the forest. He felt the urge to spit at her when she spoke again about the five Clans. Even so, he glanced away with a shrug of his shoulders—he didn’t think that sharing a den with another apprentice from a different Clan would be so bad. Maybe they could learn from one another? Or even have competitions! Of course, he didn’t speak the words allowed. He swallowed them, he’d learned what words amounted to for Featherstone. She thought him stupid, he was sure of it. She probably hated him.

The tom felt the fur along his shoulders bristle with the comment about Fourtrees. With effort he swallowed his anger, forcing his fur to lie flat and his voice to go toneless—as though every emotion had been quashed from him. Before he had spoken quietly, but now he made sure that there was no inkling of personality in his words, “I wouldn’t let my father down by being a failure at my training. I know my worth is nothing until I prove it by becoming a warrior.”

The tom quietly curled his tail around his paws and closed his eyes. He felt a sudden wave of misery swamp him but he didn’t dare speak it out loud. The cat wasn’t sure what emotions were considered a disappointment to Featherstone anymore beyond anger. He didn’t want her to take him back to camp and force him to look Stoatclaw in the eye knowing full-well that Kinkpaw had gone through the territory just fine on her first venture.

“I’ll do everything you tell me to,” Pearpaw murmured—he was desperate to prove himself. He’d live up to Stoatclaw’s legacy, or he’d get himself killed trying.