Her Clan celebrates its spoils together, their camaraderie ringing throughout the wetlands as they trade battle stories and feast upon fish and voles scooped from Sunningrocks. Somewhere, even Iciclefang's kits must be lying together, grooming fish scales from their whiskers and reminiscing about the first real skirmish they'd ever unsheathed their claws in.
Iciclefang does not begrudge RiverClan their feasting. The Clan had fought hard to secure their territory back from ThunderClan, and everyone — from the recovering leader, to the tiniest kit — deserves to find some happiness in their victory. She does not begrudge her kits, either, their little celebration — she knows that right now, the only solace they can find is in each other, and she respects that enough to leave them in peace.
After all, she had tried to reach them. She had been rebuffed, in one way or another; even Crabpaw, his green eyes wounded, had asked her if she hated him for being half-Clan. The memory causes her ears to flatten; she tugs herself through the reeds and toward some distant riverbank, her tail dragging the dust. I could never hate you. Any of you. I made the mistake, not you, she'd tried to tell them all, but they are young, and they had been exposed before the entirety of RiverClan.
She is to blame for that, too, she knows. Had Lichenstar not found her so especially vile, in comparison to Pikesplash, then perhaps the lynx point would have seen fit to let her kits struggle with their newfound identities in peace. But her leader's wrath had been sharp as claws, and Iciclefang, in truth, cannot blame her, cannot say she hadn't seen it coming. Would Cicadastar have shown her the mercy of letting her live in this Clan still? Would Smokestar? She does not know, does not want to dwell on it. It no longer matters.
Iciclefang peers into the water as the sunset dies behind her. She sees herself, as she always has, but there are lines under hollow blue eyes. There are recently-treated claw wounds decorating her pelt. There is heartbreak and shame and regret etched into every angle of her expression. She swipes a paw across the water's surface, disturbing the reflection that shows her just what she's become. A lead warrior no longer; a mother no longer; potentially, a mentor no longer. She's not RiverClan's first trueborn kit; she's not the first warrior to have graduated early; she's not one of few cats who had made the journey to the mountains to save the Clans; she's not a lead warrior; she's not a proud mother of three strong RiverClan kits; she's not anything but a codebreaker and a liar and a disgrace.
And I have been for some time, she thinks. Iciclefang's eyes narrow as she searches the river's surface. Perhaps I should let it all go, now. Everything I've kept trapped... She thinks of her paws sinking into snow, of the feathery kiss of Stormywing's whiskers, of their pelts brushing beneath a full moon, their mouths sticky with lungwort. I thought I did let it go, but maybe not. Maybe I never did.
The Clan celebrates, and Iciclefang falls to pieces under the waning moon, but in a way, she supposes she should be celebrating, too — a newborn life, a chance to come clean, a chance to change.
Iciclefang does not begrudge RiverClan their feasting. The Clan had fought hard to secure their territory back from ThunderClan, and everyone — from the recovering leader, to the tiniest kit — deserves to find some happiness in their victory. She does not begrudge her kits, either, their little celebration — she knows that right now, the only solace they can find is in each other, and she respects that enough to leave them in peace.
After all, she had tried to reach them. She had been rebuffed, in one way or another; even Crabpaw, his green eyes wounded, had asked her if she hated him for being half-Clan. The memory causes her ears to flatten; she tugs herself through the reeds and toward some distant riverbank, her tail dragging the dust. I could never hate you. Any of you. I made the mistake, not you, she'd tried to tell them all, but they are young, and they had been exposed before the entirety of RiverClan.
She is to blame for that, too, she knows. Had Lichenstar not found her so especially vile, in comparison to Pikesplash, then perhaps the lynx point would have seen fit to let her kits struggle with their newfound identities in peace. But her leader's wrath had been sharp as claws, and Iciclefang, in truth, cannot blame her, cannot say she hadn't seen it coming. Would Cicadastar have shown her the mercy of letting her live in this Clan still? Would Smokestar? She does not know, does not want to dwell on it. It no longer matters.
Iciclefang peers into the water as the sunset dies behind her. She sees herself, as she always has, but there are lines under hollow blue eyes. There are recently-treated claw wounds decorating her pelt. There is heartbreak and shame and regret etched into every angle of her expression. She swipes a paw across the water's surface, disturbing the reflection that shows her just what she's become. A lead warrior no longer; a mother no longer; potentially, a mentor no longer. She's not RiverClan's first trueborn kit; she's not the first warrior to have graduated early; she's not one of few cats who had made the journey to the mountains to save the Clans; she's not a lead warrior; she's not a proud mother of three strong RiverClan kits; she's not anything but a codebreaker and a liar and a disgrace.
And I have been for some time, she thinks. Iciclefang's eyes narrow as she searches the river's surface. Perhaps I should let it all go, now. Everything I've kept trapped... She thinks of her paws sinking into snow, of the feathery kiss of Stormywing's whiskers, of their pelts brushing beneath a full moon, their mouths sticky with lungwort. I thought I did let it go, but maybe not. Maybe I never did.
The Clan celebrates, and Iciclefang falls to pieces under the waning moon, but in a way, she supposes she should be celebrating, too — a newborn life, a chance to come clean, a chance to change.
- ooc: —
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Iciclekit.Iciclepaw. Iciclefang, she/her w/ feminine terms.
— "speech", thoughts, attack
— 30 moons old, ages realistically on the 17th.
— mentored by Smokestar ; mentoring Pinepaw ; previously mentored Cicadaflight
— riverclan lead warrior.mudpeltx icesparkle, gen 2.
— former mate to Stormywing ; current mate to no one.
— penned by Marquette.
sh tortoiseshell and white she-cat with ice-blue eyes. confident, capable, proud, dry, conceited, condescending, distrustful.
