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Tigerclaw has his coronation in public.
He does not wear sleek black cloth with leather armor, as is traditional for Shadowclan kings and queens. He wears a dark purple velvet cloak lined with ermine, drapes himself with obsidian and amethysts. His steps are not quiet; his boots click on the hard floor.
He does not wear Nightstar’s crown, though even Brokenstar wore the same crown as Raggedstar and Cedarstar before him and Houndstar before him. Tigerclaw’s crown looks like the crown of Bluestar of Thunderclan, made of thick gold and set with nine stars made of diamonds. He sits on a throne, and has the priest come up to him to give the blessings of kingship, and then Tigerstar places the crown on his own head.
It promises the breaking of a pattern. It promises prosperity. It promises that Shadowclan will be as rich and well-fed as Thunderclan has always been. When the priest takes charcoal and runs it across Tigerclaw’s cheekbones, when Tigerclaw is renamed Tigerstar, there are many in Shadowclan who cheer.
Blackfoot is among them. It catches in his throat like ash, like a fish that you didn't do a good enough job removing the bones from, but to be silent when all others are cheering would be costly and would accomplish nothing.
Tigerstar’s coronation promises prosperity. It promises the end of a pattern that was set all those centuries ago, when Shadowclan was allocated the least fertile land, the least fruitful trees, and the most dangerous hunting grounds. Tigerstar’s coronation pays no respect to Shadowclan tradition, no respect to community, and — for all of the gaudy diamonds in his crown — no respect to the stars. To much of Shadowclan, it is a promise that they too will be wealthy and prosperous. To Blackfoot, it is an announcement that Tigerstar is a Thunderclan warrior by birth and by upbringing, and he understands nothing of Shadowclan.
Tigerstar finds time to learn of every warrior and apprentice in the clan, speaks to them of their accomplishments with pride in his voice. It's easy to see how he wins people. He doesn't bother to do the same for the elders, the new mothers, the young children. Sometimes Blackfoot suspects that he is the only one who has noticed.
Tigerstar’s speeches are about strength in war, about purity; he speaks of making Shadowclan great, of restoring its power among the four clans. He speaks of legacy, but only in terms of what Shadowstar gave to us and what we will give to our children; never in terms of tradition or of holding on to what makes Shadowclan itself. He walks loudly. He speaks loudly. He does not bother to keep to the shadows.
He seldom hunts, but when he hunts, he brings home deer and pheasants and turkeys, animals that have never been plentiful on Shadowclan land. Blackfoot half-suspects that Tigerstar hunts in other clans’ territories; how else can he find so much meat? He does not say this out loud — to doubt Shadowclan’s newfound strength and plenty or to doubt Tigerstar’s ability would stop him from reaching Tigerstar’s inner circle; to do both would spell his doom.
Blackfoot cheers for their king, stands behind him with his chest out and knives at the ready, looks unafraid and powerful, takes up space in a way that goes against every ounce of warrior training he ever received. Tigerstar names him deputy, his heir and his right hand man.
Blackfoot accepts the honor and the badge with dignity and that night he kneels beside his bed and prays to the stars, not for strength but for endurance, not for power but for the ability to carry on.
Tawnypaw runs away to Shadowclan, even knowing only what Thunderclan says of her father. Tigerstar dotes on her, calls her his pride and joy, gives her the finest sword and the finest bow and arrows and the finest armor, trains her in fighting himself.
Blackfoot sees Bramblepaw on patrol, sees him look across the Shadowclan border with hope written in every line of his body, and worries. Blackfoot worries a lot, these days.
Tigerstar aligns with Riverclan, folds their people into Shadowclan’s numbers and their land into Shadowclan’s territory. They feast on fish. Leopardstar sits at Tigerstar’s left and Blackfoot sits at his right and neither of them speak of what is on both of their minds.
Blackfoot speaks to new mothers, promises them safety for their children. He speaks to young children, promises them a life with their clanmates strong around them. He speaks to elders, promises them security and care and long life. He speaks to the clan healers — the healers’ apprentice ran away, but Runningnose endures, and Blackfoot promises him that the clan will follow the will of Starclan, in the end.
Runningnose stares into his eyes for a long moment and then nods and turns away, satisfied with whatever he saw there. Blackfoot calls off the search for Littlecloud. “Runningnose is enough for us,” he declares, and does not say Littlecloud will come back when it's safe for him in Shadowclan, and that will happen soon.
Tigerstar raises one eyebrow and tells him, “You do not want to destroy those who have turned traitor to our clan?”
Blackfoot meets his eye and says, “We are better served spending our resources on the traitors in our camp than on the ones long fled.”
Tigerstar smiles, and nods, and stays on his throne, and doesn't appear to realize that he himself murdered his own clanmates and then turned to the service of a clan not his own, or that Blackfoot was not speaking of Mistyfoot and Stonefur.
Tigerstar has him execute Mistyfoot and Stonefur.
Blackfoot delays as long as he can manage, sharpens his knife’s blade to razor sharpness and gives a long speech to the clan about purity and the strength in Shadowclan blood, fully aware that nearly half the warriors in the clan were once rogues. He pretends not to notice a flash of red hair between the trees, pretends not to notice Stormpaw and Featherpaw being hurried out of their holding cell, pretends not to notice when Mistyfoot vanishes with them into the forest.
He kills Stonefur. He apologizes, in a whisper, as Stonefur dies. Stonefur doesn't forgive him, looks up at him with nothing but hatred. That is most likely for the best, all things considered. Blackfoot prays for longer than usual that night.
There is a Gathering. Thunderclan and Windclan, it seems, refer to the new Shadowclan as Tigerclan. Tigerstar laughs to hear it. Leopardstar worries at her lower lip and darts her eyes from face to face. Tallstar speaks very little, and mostly of new apprentices and new children.
Bluestar is half-mad and wears no crown; her deputy is a boy, a former soft-hand, by the name of Fireheart. He is small for a Thunderclan warrior, and wary, and he is nearly as tense and guarded when he watches Bluestar as when he watches Blackfoot. He looks at Tigerstar levelly, and with nothing but hatred. Tigerstar speaks of him derisively as Rusty; Blackfoot follows suit in his speech, but calls him Fireheart in his mind. He would have done well in Shadowclan, once.
Russetfur keeps the youngest apprentices off of the front lines of battles and helps mentors grieve. A girl of ten is killed in a hunting accident; Shadowclan has a long memory of hunting in marshes, but no knowledge of hunting deer. Blackfoot stays at Tigerstar’s side and Russetfur comforts the girl’s mentor, her mother, her sister.
Brokenstar forced their children into apprenticeships far too young. Nightstar never took those children out of their apprenticeships; it would be unfair to their mentors, he said, and the apprentices shouldn't be forced to give up their badges and armor so soon. Very few apprentices wanted to return to childhood, although any who did want to were allowed to do so.
Some of those too-young apprentices would still be children now, if Brokenstar had never been king. Some of them are dead and buried. Tigerstar does not place their new children into apprenticeships until their time. Blackfoot thanks the stars for small mercies and speaks with the mothers of dead children and new infants and promises them that there will not be a second Brokenstar. At night he prays that he is telling the truth.
Blackfoot prays a lot, these days.
There is a gathering at the full moon, and Fireheart of Thunderclan arrives crownless and alone. He does not say what happened, or did not happen, to Bluestar. When Deadfoot of Windclan asks, he clarifies that he is still the deputy, and here in Bluestar’s place, and he does not say where she is or what has happened that she could not come to a gathering.
He speaks of new growth, of springtime, of new apprentices and new mentors made. He looks Tigerstar in the eye as he speaks of how Bramblepaw, his own apprentice, has grown in strength and skill, and Blackfoot can feel his respect for the boy grow as Tigerstar seethes.
Bluestar dies, and Tigerstar challenges Fireheart to a duel for the throne of Thunderclan.
By Thunderclan law the claim is legitimate; Tigerstar is Bluestar’s former deputy, and Fireheart is young and inexperienced and was still a new warrior when he was named deputy. Tigerstar has Blackfoot and Russetfur stand behind him with spears, calls it a display of Shadowclan’s strength and not of his own paranoia. Russetfur looks Blackfoot in the eye as they get into position. Blackfoot does not nod; it would be too visible and would indicate too much. There is no question of the stakes of the duel — Tigerstar would never have dueled to first blood.
Tigerstar lunges first; Fireheart dodges and dodges, slips around Tigerstar’s attacks. Tigerstar is a Thunderclan fighter; he telegraphs his moves and strikes hard before he strikes gracefully. Fireheart is almost a Windclan fighter, dodging rather than blocking and moving quickly around attacks rather than attacking himself.
Fireheart is skilled, but Fireheart is also young, and Tigerstar was a warrior since before Fireheart was ever born. Tigerstar gets his sword to Fireheart’s throat and Fireheart’s eyes flash with something like terror —
— and Blackfoot’s spear goes through Tigerstar’s chest.
Fireheart stands panting, ready to dodge. Blackfoot takes the crown from Tigerstar’s head and hands it to Fireheart.
“It’s heavy,” Fireheart says, with something like wonder, though if the crown is was heavy on Tigerstar's head, Tigerstar never seemed to mind or care. Fireheart does not place it on his own head. He looks up at Blackfoot. “You killed your leader. Why?”
Blackfoot could smile down at the man. He doesn't; it would seem patronizing, and rightly so. “No. You won your duel fairly, and the crown of Thunderclan is yours. Shadowclan has lived in terror long enough,” he says, and sets down his spear. “Go back to camp, Firestar.”
“That isn't my name yet,” says Fireheart, but his face goes warmer and less wary, his posture less closed-off. “I thank you, Blackstar,” he says, without irony; “Thunderclan thanks you.”
And he leaves with the crown in his hands and his sword back in its belt, and Blackfoot turns to Russetfur, and they stand there for a long moment with their arms around each other before Blackfoot sighs and lets go and calls Runningnose to prepare the body for burial. Nobody speaks. There is nothing to say, just yet.
Blackfoot has his coronation in public.
He does not wear velvet trimmed with fur; he wears black cloth with sleek leather armor. His footsteps are quiet. He does not sit on a throne and have the priest come to him; he kneels on the ground before the priest and closes his eyes and lets charcoal be spread across his cheekbones. The priest takes the crown that Nightstar wore before him, and Brokenstar and Raggedstar and Cedarstar before him, and winds the silver circlet through Blackstar’s white hair.
It promises a return to tradition. It promises a return to what made Shadowclan strong.
And when Blackfoot is renamed Blackstar, his clan cheers for him.