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Tigerstar was quite a bit like Brokenstar.
This is to be expected, Blackstar tells himself. He had not yet learned his lesson about following dictators off a cliff like a lemming, had not yet had the time to change or grow. He had not yet trembled before StarClan as his name was stripped and rebuilt, as he faced the reality of his mistakes and vowed to do better. Brokenstar was a monster and Tigerstar was a monster. Of course a deputy eager to prove himself, eager to strengthen his Clan, surrounded by war on all sides, would follow along with promises of power no matter how shady the cats offering them may have been. Blackstar was too caught up in the haze of the moment to see the blood on their paws, or on his own.
Sol is nothing like Tigerstar.
Tigerstar was an objectively, politically, powerful cat. Tigerstar spat bitter words of bloodlines and purity; sharp, stinging commands that pierced like the fangs that spoke them. Tigerstar had plans, designs, plots that could not be argued with.
Sol is simply Sol. He is not a Clan cat. He has no interest in conquest or killing. He does not command; he suggests.
His suggestions are quite compelling, of course. His voice lilts invitingly, his eyes bore into Blackstar’s soul, his body language is self-assured, his voice, his voice his voice his voice… But he does not demand anything of Blackstar. All the conclusions that Blackstar comes to under Sol’s watchful gaze are his own. Sol is a very intelligent cat and Blackstar simply finds himself in agreement with his ideals.
You want to question your ancestors. What have they done for you, anyway? Answer me. What have they actually done for you?
You don’t want to go to the Gathering. The other Clans are so stuck in their backwards ghost-worshipping ways, but you and I see how it really is, don’t we?
You want to reject that cruel, ironic name. You don’t want to bear the name of your traitors; who would?
Sol has no endgame, he tells Blackfoot. He is simply concerned. He wants what’s best for Blackfoot, what’s best for ShadowClan.
Does he, really? The dilemma won’t stop plaguing Blackfoot. In fact, it’s rooted deep in his brain — Sol looks like bad news. He knows far too much, he is far too insistent with this blasphemy, he is just too good to be true with his eerie confidence — but then he opens his mouth and that honeyed voice makes Blackfoot feel fuzzy again. He can put his misgivings aside. He can let Sol have his fun.
That’s all it is. He’s indulging him. He’s not… actually… going along with these ideas. He’s not… he’s not really…
Blackfoot is an outside observer of his own Clan’s descent into godlessness. His paws are clean of the ordeal; all he is doing is letting Sol work his will. The occasional “you are doing very well, Blackfoot” crooned in that disarmingly silky voice is all that Blackfoot needs to steady him on this path. To remind him why he’s letting this happen.
Sol’s pelt is easy to get lost in; the tortoiseshell and tabby and white all mix and marble and Blackfoot notices something new every time he looks. Sol’s eyes are easy to get lost in; bright, glowing yellow just like the sun he knew was going to vanish, vanish just like all of Blackfoot’s desire to run. Sol’s voice is so, so easy to get lost in.
The sign from Raggedstar and Runningnose is like a blow to the muzzle — and like a blow to the muzzle, Blackstar feels the sting of claws raked across his face; it’s the shame burning in his cheeks, the cold, hard reality hitting him. The consequences of his inaction. Of his compliance.
Blackstar refuses to have failed his Clan again. This wasn’t supposed to happen. This couldn’t have happened.
Sol was manipulative, Sol was a puppet master and Blackstar was dancing on his strings, Sol, Sol, Sol — Sol was quite a bit like Tigerstar.