Perfect? || Warrior Cats Fanfic

🌿Chapter II: Falling From Grace

Swanfeather was half-asleep when she heard the sound of her parents hissing. Their attempt to keep quiet was in vain, because she could hear what they were saying easily.

"I can't have a daughter with half a face," Weevilpelt hissed at his mate.

"What do you suggest we do, then?"  Tidenose said, anger in her meows. "Tell Driftstar to exile her from the clan?"

"I don't know, but she's not mine anymore." Weevilpelt stated before leaving. "She's not a Whitefur cat anymore."

Swanfeather jumped up out of her pile of ash. "What?" she mewed, but only her mother—well, Tidenose, looked at her scornfully. "Mother, what does father mean?"

Tidenose didn't look at her. In fact, she acted like she wasn't even there. Like she was a bug making noise. She quieted down and walked into the clearing, completely distraught. Carrying brambles, moss, and leaves towards the entryway of Riverclan's camp, Swanfeather saw Daystorm leading Rhubarbleap, Beakcall, Floodpath, and Crookedthroat outside. Swanfeather mewed out to Beakcall who flinched and quickened his steps. Swanfeather trotted over to him, happy to see her mate again. "Beakcall!" she mewed. "Daystorm, may I borrow my mate for just a second?"

Rhubarbleap looked over her sister with sinister eyes. "I apologize, but, Beakcall is Swanfeather's mate. Can I help you?"

Swanfeather looked at Rhubarbleap and hissed at her. "Silence yourself, you're speaking to a Whitefur cat."

Again, silence.

"Could you leave us for a moment, Daystorm?" Beakcall said, slightly agitated. Daystorm's brow furrowed. "Be quick. Do not keep the camp waiting. You heard Driftstar's words. We must rebuild the camp as soon as possible."

The cats continued on. Beakcall spoke in a worried tone. "What?" he hissed quietly, as if he didn't want to be seen with her.

"Oh, Beakcall," she whined to her mate. "Everyone refuses to even look my way anymore. What should I do?"

Beakcall seemed tense, fur sticking up; looking around. "Swanfeather, I need to tell you something." he said, not looking her in the eyes. "I believe we should go our separate ways."

"What?" she said, eyes wide. "Is it because of my face? You don't love me because of my face, do you?"

"Of course not. You're beautiful." Beakcall said, but Swanfeather was not stupid. She could hear the grit in his teeth as he uttered the words. It hurt more than what he actually thought of her. What she actually meant to him.

Ugly.

She backed away from him, only more hurt. Thunder struck in her ears. Pain filled her heartbroken soul. To him, she meant nothing. The clan couldn't look at her, and neither could her parents or mate. Those who would, gave looks of disgust and pity.

She stormed off, too hurt to say anything. Too ugly for him to look at.

A beast.

Over the next moon, her new, unpleasant lifestyle was setting its sights on her. When she went to eat, the pile had nothing left for her. If there was extra prey, it'd go to the apprentices or kits. She had to do her own hunting, and even so her body wasn't used to it. She usually had toms lined up with fish for her and her friends and wasn't very good at it, so she either caught nothing, or was forced to scarf down crowfood from the dirtplace. After a while, the rotten taste was numb to her. Her once healthy figure became malnourished. She'd constantly bathe herself,hoping that once she emerged, everything would be better again. Her so-called "friends' ' ditched her for her sister— the runt of the litter, the lowlife sibling, completely took over her life. Beakcall and her were spending time more, Her old friends clung to Rhubarbleap like flies to crowfood, always going hunting and grooming each other's pelts. It was as if she and Rhubarbleap had switched places–and every time she glanced over, an icy glare of satisfaction was sent back. The cold taunt could be felt shivering down her underfed body.

Her parents acted as if she was never born into the Whitefur family. They both approved and celebrated Rhubarbleap and Beakcall's relationship the same way she had when she introduced the tomcat to them. Neither of them mentioned Swanfeathers name.

Speaking of which, Rhubarbleap and her miscreants would pick on her, calling her awful names like Scorchedfeather, Ashfeather, and her least favorite—Half-Faced. Rhubarbleap's bullying felt like deathberries were being etched into her brain every day. With a miserable fall from her glory, she could only fantasize about the fire sweeping Rhubarbleap away instead of the lost kits.

If she didn't feel any more worse than she already did, it was the clan meeting. Riverclan cats gathered around the rock, waiting for Driftstar to speak, scars all over the leader's body after sustaining a rat attack.

Swanfeather couldn't hear or pay attention to the ceremony because she was lost in her own thoughts. She felt the warmth of another cat beside her and flinched. No other cat had touched her since her resurface from the murky waters, believing she'd be bad luck.

A 3 moons old kit, in fact, the only kit to survive the fire, was Sundewkit. The ginger tomkit's pelt sparkled in the sun, much outshining her dirty fur. Swanfeather didn't want to scare the kit with her terrifying face and so she hid, but the kit only faced her. Swanfeather ushered the kit to return back to Dipperjaw's paws, but the kit caught a glimpse of her face. Sundewkit froze. Swanfeather lowered her head while the kit rushed back to Dipperjaw, the queen giving her a disgusted look before calming her kit down. Swanfeather's heart dropped. Just by existing, she scared a kitten. Not that she wasn't surprised at all. That's when she heard Driftstar's words.

"Swanfeather." Driftstar said, looking directly at her. "You will be known as Scorchedface."
Nobody said a word. Swan—er, Scorchedface was confused. Wasn't this a warrior ceremony for the apprentices? Why was her name changed?

That's when everyone began to whisper and murmur.

Scorchedface. A constant reminder about her unappealing body.

Driftstar began to name the apprentices, but those words were only mixed up in the rapid mind of Scorchedface. She had hit rock bottom. No one loved her. A cat that was born to be adored—simply thrown to the side.

A runt.