The Heart Of A Warrior

Chapter four: The Pit

   They were a long, long way from the camp. More specifically, from the nursery- with her littermates sleeping beside her, and Redwing's fluffy tail tickling her ear fur- even Brackenkit's annoying snoring.

   She shut her eyes tight and breathed a heartfelt prayer to Starclan: Please, let us all be safe. Let Redwing be okay, Brackenkit and Snowkit too. Watch over us and guide our paws.  The silver moon rested its gaze upon her with a cold smile, as if promising that it would only get worse. She couldn't see it, but felt its icy gaze pricking the fur along her spine, sending a cold shiver along with it. Her eyes still shut, she tried and focus on something, anything, anything but her family. She fell into the rhythm of the pounding pawsteps of the cat who held her firmly, the cat's heartbeat, her own.

   She peeked open her eyes, just enough to catch a glimpse of what was turmoil was unfolding. The only thing she could see was a blur of legs- and she could smell the scents of four, maybe five cats. Gingerkit had given up on trying to fight against the strong jaws that gripped her scruff long ago. Countless times she had tried to wriggle her way out, but the fangs holding her sank deep enough to hit a nerve. When she felt the sharp pain she stopped squirming and hung limply. As if she had a chance: even if she could wriggle free, no way would she be a match for these large, full-grown cats. Maybe I could outrun them... impossible. She didn't know where she was, let alone the way back. Besides, to do that, she would still face the problem of getting out. Then there were her littermates to think about... no, she would just have to do whatever they ordered her to do. At least for now.

   They traveled on through the damp forest. If she strained her head enough to look upwards, she could see the twinkling dots up in the sky. They seemed to whisper encouragement, but she felt hopeless. Though she pretended she was not, Gingerkit was still, well, a kit. She couldn't possibly escape on her own. Maybe Redwing would come and save them? Though she knew better and was still four moons, she wanted to believe in those nursery stories Redwing had told them. She especially loved the one of the cat with the fur of flame, who burst from the blood-stained tree to leap onto a small, black cat with fangs around his neck, ending the small cat's life and saving the clans. But those were stories- nothing like that happens in real life. But she couldn't help but hope.

   She was knocked roughly as the she-cat holding her stumbled on the thick roots of a short, stubby tree. Her captor's grip on her loosed for a heartbeat as she grunted and strained to pull her forelegs out. The she-cat hissed with annoyance and embarrassment, shaking her muddy paws, and Gingerkit felt the rush of warm air tickle her neck fur, making it itch immensely. However, her captor recovered her footing and straightened up. He chin up, she strutted forward. Gingerkit snorted at this, and immediately regretted it as her captor, with little patience left, tightened her grip and flung her from side to side, Gingerkit still secure in her jaws. She fell silent.

   The scents shifted, as if the cats were spreading out. Now Gingerkit could see through her captor's legs, at the soggy and icky ground below. It was covered in small puddles with patches of green grass in between, and the cats plodded on through the marsh, their paws making loud squishing sounds whenever they got stuck in the mud and had to tear them out. Whenever they put a paw in a "mudhole," as Gingerkit came to call them, water hopped from it and splattered everywhere, staining hers- and all the other cats- pelts gloppy, wet, and brown. Though she was getting splattered too, it was a sort of revenge. She liked that thought.

   Gingerkit scrunched up her eyes as a glob of mud hit her in the face. She would have liked to spit at the she-cat, but after thinking it through she decided another shake wouldn't feel too great on her already-aching scruff. So she just toughed it out and plucked random thoughts from her mind. Such as that vole she cat tried earlier, and that terribly annoying blade of grass that pricked her nose during the night, making her sneeze even more often than Redwing's tail had. And that was saying something.