Were Stormtail and Dappletail ever mates? In canon, it’s implied that they had a thing for each other, even when Moonflower was still alive (Stormtail my beloathed).
It could have been a mere brisk autumn draft, but Fireheart guessed the elders’ tension was from whatever pain his question upturned. Pelts prickled. Ears flicked back. Halftail’s namesake lashed as much as it could. Even gentle old Patchpelt’s eyes flickered with dark emotion.
“You’ve said nothing wrong, little ant,” One-eye purred, voice low, yet assuring. “It’s only that Bluestar’s father was… well…”
“A slitprick,” came Halftail’s sudden, quiet growl.
“Yes. A slitprick.”
Fireheart glanced over at Bluestar across the clearing, the leader sunning in the rosy dawn light with Whitecloud. At length, he murmured, “How so?”
One-eye puffed through her untidy whiskers. “Bluestar’s parents were much like your own, minus the foolishness. Lovely, respected molly and the finest warrior the Clan could offer, except instead of having our Lady Pathcarver’s wisdom and Lord Twilight’s discretion, they had dandelion fluff for brains and the aloofness of distant fog.” The ancient molly shook her head. “Our matriarch back then warned the poor girl to not get attached to him, he wasn’t the sort to be a mate or father, yet she was dazzled by his charm.”
“Too many of us were as well, in fairness,” Patchpelt offered. “She was one of the few to see through him.”
Another low grunt from Halftail.
“In fairness,” One-eye echoed with a nod. She returned to the young warrior. “Something changed when Silverface announced her pregnancy. Sure, he’d gifted her prey often enough, but there was something rotten about it, like an old elm catching the attention of a termite queen. Then Bluekit and Snowkit were born, and the visits stopped.”
Fireheart’s heart dropped. He glanced over at another corner of the clearing, where Tigerclaw and Goldenflower engaged in a restrained tussle. Swatting her forehead with a great paw, the massive tom kicked up leaf-litter as his equally-massive mate grappled him in place and nipped at his ears. From this distance, Fireheart couldn’t quite make out his father’s meow of surrender, but it ended the play-fight. Goldenflower flopped to her side in blissful satisfaction, her purr quite audible as she pulled her mate’s face down to hers and groomed the unkempt fur tidy. Fireheart couldn’t fathom Tigerclaw leaving Goldenflower, even if she turned into a fox or became a kittypet. He reckoned his father would sooner find a way to join her than give her up.
“She wasn’t entirely alone, mind,” One-eye continued. “She had the matriarch and her friends and family. And someone else. Morningstar—Morningclaw then—had fancied her for moons, so my brother told me. The pain cut deep, but when it hurt a little less, Morningclaw offered his support. He was more of a father to the girls than their sire ever was.”
Patchpelt opened his mouth, but halted himself, glancing over at the dozing leader.
One-eye resumed her account. “Took a fair few moons for the hurt to go away, though, when Stormtail tried to court sweet little Dappletail.”
Fireheart felt Halftail’s growl rumble his paws and shake his whiskers.
“What did your sister have to say about that ordeal?” the old molly prompted him, tapping her tail-tip against his flank.
Halftail half-chuffed, half-spat in response. His anger had an alarmed Fireheart leaning back a bit. “Said that rotted path led nowhere good.” He licked a paw and half-heartedly swiped it over one ear. “Said a lot worse, but not when the molly was around.”
“Older warriors and younger warriors can court just fine,” One-eye said to Fireheart. “Leopardfoot herself was a fair bit younger than her mate, but we all looked out for each other, come Lord’s summer or Lady’s winter. But courting a young warrior still shedding their kitten-fluff while your own kittens are wondering why you won’t play Sunningrocks battles with them?” She spat like she was trying to hack up a hairball. “I’dve eaten his tail if I were Silverface and made him tell everyone at the borders why it was gone.”
“There wasn’t a lot we could do,” Patchpelt said. “Save for keeping him and Dappletail apart and barring him from Gatherings. He was still a good warrior.” At a sharp glare from Halftail, the patched tom hurriedly added, “Don’t get me wrong, his heart was rotten, but that in itself isn’t a punishable offense. The most we could do was keep an eye on him and hope he learned in the depths of his own shame.” He shook his head. “I don’t think he ever did - not soon enough to matter, anyway.”
Halftail gave a curt nod and rested his head on his paws. The fury emanating from him didn’t decrease.
“And even if Dappletail never saw sense for herself, she was at least talked into it,” One-eye went on. “She had her litter sired by some prettyboy from yonder and the slitprick lost interest in her soon as Brindlekit and her siblings came into the world.”
Discomfort prickled at Fireheart’s paws.
“Then Silverface died.” Finality weighed down her voice.
“Too young,” Patchpelt muttered at length.
No one else dared break the silence until One-eye continued. “I’m not sure who was more furious: Goldenflower when Bluestar left you in the forest, or those girls when Stormtail gave his eulogy. They could’ve chewed his claws off.”
Fireheart tried to imagine the pain to breed such rage and failed.
One-eye opened her mouth, did not say anything, then closed it again. Patchpelt’s eyes were downcast. Halftail’s tail lashed even harder.
“Then what?” Fireheart prompted.
The silence felt heavier than thunder and rain.
“Then the slitprick died.” Halftail growled, the dark fur on his spine bristling. “And a good riddance it was.”
Fireheart simply nodded. It wasn’t wise to prompt that anger any further.
