- Aug 1, 2023
- 150
- 35
- 28
He's lingering awkwardly in camp when he notices it, his head dipped over the gently lapping shore at which he'd played all those moons ago. Originally, he had been clocked out, heterochromatic eyes staring blankly into nothing, really, not taking note of the face staring back at him from the dark mirror of water. Avoiding reflections has become instinctive over all these moons, hiding from the plain simplicity of his ugliness, from the crawling sensation whenever he happened to look into his own eyes. The simple pressure of all that beauty around him had been uncanny, painful in its absence when he stared himself down in blackened waves.
A noice startles him and his eyes refocus. For the first time in StarClan only knows how long, he looks at himself, really looks.
A stranger stares back.
Cicadapaw startles to his paws, literally frightened of his own reflection, and leans closer to the mask in the water. He wrinkles his muzzle; the stranger wrinkles its own. He blinks and the mask blinks back. He grits his teeth and the ghost's jaw sets the same way. Ghost, yes, that feels right—because it's his father staring back at him in the dark water.
This isn't his own face. It can't be.
The face he knows from his first glances at it moons ago is not this porcelain mask, this walking ghost. The face he knows (and hates, hates, hates—and yet suddenly misses) has bulging eyes, appropriately bug - splayed and uncanny; the ghost's eyes are set low and heavy - lidded, trailing long lashes, looking tired but not ugly—set far apart, yes, but no longer an impassable distance. The face he knows has a muzzle that hangs too long and hooks too low, uncanny and overlong; the strange face's is as long and narrow, as gently curved as the one that had coaxed him from his nest in his youth, still hooked but somehow grown - into. The face he knows is drawn too - thin and hollow, uncanny in its caved cheeks and gaunt jaw; this one has traded creepiness for elegance, lending it a sudden structure, a definition to the high - sitting cheekbones and squared jaw.
Everything has changed, too, not a mask but a full - body costume, a draped skin. Batlike ears, drooping and too - large, seem to sit a little higher, tufted and crownlike, regal instead of bizarre. Shaggy, tangled curls no longer mat in front of his eyes and mask a split gaze—whether by his brief attempts at grooming or some inherent improvement, they settle into softer waves. The rest of his pelt looks the same, he realizes slowly, as he looks at himself—really looks at his whole self for the first time in moons. As tall as ever, but no longer quite so skinny, quite so disproportionate; muscled deer - legs suddenly look fitted to his frame, elegant and sure in gait instead of stumbling.
He sees all of this, but he does not think I look better. He does not think I look handsome. He does not think I look pretty like the rest of them. He thinks in a slow, drawn - out horror: I look like my father.
He will not look in the water like this again. He does not want to spent the rest of the life looking at everything taken from him. But he must, he can never escape it, because every time he tips a regal muzzle or ruffles a silken pelt, he knows who he will think of. He knows who he will see.
" I look like him. " is all he mutters.
// he's not ugly anymore, everyone clap
A noice startles him and his eyes refocus. For the first time in StarClan only knows how long, he looks at himself, really looks.
A stranger stares back.
Cicadapaw startles to his paws, literally frightened of his own reflection, and leans closer to the mask in the water. He wrinkles his muzzle; the stranger wrinkles its own. He blinks and the mask blinks back. He grits his teeth and the ghost's jaw sets the same way. Ghost, yes, that feels right—because it's his father staring back at him in the dark water.
This isn't his own face. It can't be.
The face he knows from his first glances at it moons ago is not this porcelain mask, this walking ghost. The face he knows (and hates, hates, hates—and yet suddenly misses) has bulging eyes, appropriately bug - splayed and uncanny; the ghost's eyes are set low and heavy - lidded, trailing long lashes, looking tired but not ugly—set far apart, yes, but no longer an impassable distance. The face he knows has a muzzle that hangs too long and hooks too low, uncanny and overlong; the strange face's is as long and narrow, as gently curved as the one that had coaxed him from his nest in his youth, still hooked but somehow grown - into. The face he knows is drawn too - thin and hollow, uncanny in its caved cheeks and gaunt jaw; this one has traded creepiness for elegance, lending it a sudden structure, a definition to the high - sitting cheekbones and squared jaw.
Everything has changed, too, not a mask but a full - body costume, a draped skin. Batlike ears, drooping and too - large, seem to sit a little higher, tufted and crownlike, regal instead of bizarre. Shaggy, tangled curls no longer mat in front of his eyes and mask a split gaze—whether by his brief attempts at grooming or some inherent improvement, they settle into softer waves. The rest of his pelt looks the same, he realizes slowly, as he looks at himself—really looks at his whole self for the first time in moons. As tall as ever, but no longer quite so skinny, quite so disproportionate; muscled deer - legs suddenly look fitted to his frame, elegant and sure in gait instead of stumbling.
He sees all of this, but he does not think I look better. He does not think I look handsome. He does not think I look pretty like the rest of them. He thinks in a slow, drawn - out horror: I look like my father.
He will not look in the water like this again. He does not want to spent the rest of the life looking at everything taken from him. But he must, he can never escape it, because every time he tips a regal muzzle or ruffles a silken pelt, he knows who he will think of. He knows who he will see.
" I look like him. " is all he mutters.
// he's not ugly anymore, everyone clap
" speech "
