the morning is still hazy, mist shimmering just above the crystalline banks that curl 'round the back of riverclans nursery. she pretends she doesn't hover. pretends not to keep hawks eye on the toddling figures of her brothers children as if they would be washed away should she drift too far, memories of a storm and salmonshade's frantic voice ringing louder in her ears than it had since her brother had been taken from them. riverclan had faced nothing but good fortune since newleaf had warmed the ice from their waters, nothing but good grace from the stars . . but still, she looks for them in her empty time after patrol. the sand is cool beneath her pads where she walks along the bank ; the water laps gentle waves at lilac toes and, as she presses through the reed blooms, she is met with one of those she'd sought . .
the sight of him, however intentional it may have been, gives her momentary pause. a lilt in gliding steps, hovering where the willow looms a fairy curtain around her. riverkit is a waterborn ghost of his namesake, wispy coat like ripples of a moonlit pool . . a heavy gaze reminiscent of her own reflection, something dreamy, far away. seeing him is like a bruise, pulsing just over her fluttering heart ; he is a continuation. a phantom of his kin before him. seeing herself in him is like a shock that cements her paws yet again ( pebbletail was a father. he'd sired kits, and those kits were here. real, tangible . . her own amber eye glows back at her when she looks at him. her chest aches.).
he calls her, and she smiles with all but her lips ; a softening of eyes, lifting of velveteen over cheekbones. tenderness feathers her voice in quiet response, shellpool trills, " riverkit. " steady, warm, as if the word does not twist some long frayed knot in her chest. the boy turns, finds the bank on damp alabaster paws and the molly draws close, head lowering on graceful neck like a kindly swan. he reveals to her a treasure . . held carefully, paws gentle despite kittish clumsiness, he brandishes the floret of a freshly bloomed hyacinth. luminous purple petals arc open like the pooling rivulets of the falls, curling over paws fragile as minnow fishbone and shellpool cannot help but release a soft oh, as if it were the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen ; she supposed it may as well be, if only for the one that gives it to her.
aunt, he says, and shellpool feels her heart do something like crack, if not for the love that kintsugis it back together again. i found it for you.
" its lovely, raindrop. " its an easy nickname, an easy truth to breathe into existence, lilac paw coming to brush the dew studded hyacinth petals as the boy steps from the water completely. want to be pretty, like you. shellpool levels him with her rosen gaze ; mismatched eyes wander through her fur, through the curls of lotus and bellflower petals that weave through dovey waves, and realization dawns upon her like dappled light. he wanted her to decorate his pelt. he was old enough to understand the weaves and tangles of riverclans accessories, the petals and feathers that adorn their water sleek pelts. leaning to briefly touch the space between the boys ears with her pale nose, shellpool squeezes her eyes against the sudden, unbidden well of tears that threatens her rheumy gaze. in some wild part of her mind, she wonders if all her practice, her moons tucked beyond the medicine den with nothing to do but weave, had lead to this ( to share it with her nephew, the one that had inherited her brothers name ).
she straightens up with a breath, and pointedly moves to clear the space around them to settle riverkit right at her front, " come here. sit, sit . . " a playful fussiness despite the warmth that glows in her eyes, her tail flourishing to bring the hyacinth closer with a sudden, precision eye, " you know, i did . . your father's weavings when we were . . kits. " still did, sometimes . . his big paws kept him from being too precise. her story simmers to a birdsong hum, deft paws lowering to lilac petals to pluck them from their dewy base, " he would bring me . . flowers he found on patrol to braid into his fur. trying to impress your mother, i'm sure. " her tongue does not change upon the mention of splashdance ( never, she thinks. they could never know of her harbored mistrust for their mother. it didn't involve them, never would. ), but she does lean in, voice growing whispery as if gossiping, " between you and me, though . . they were mostly weeds. " her tailtip rattles, amusement she does not wear upon heavy, stone still features.
should the boy have come closer, lilac paws will begin to part the cascade of blue and swirling greys that make up his stormy pelt. a hereditary haunting, shades lighter than riverpaw had been ; pale, nearly gleaming where she begins to thread a pastel petal into loose waves, " you have . . a far better eye. i couldn't keep . . a floret like this all to myself. " of course i'll decorate your pelt, she doesn't say, whatever you ask of me. she only casts a sideways glance into the reflection of them cast in the riverside shallows, catches his eye with a knowing, squinting blink.
