- Aug 10, 2022
- 689
- 156
- 43
In her dreams tonight, Iciclefang is in the mountains. Snow falls in steady ivory spirals from a violet-bellied sky; flakes catch in her whiskers, just as her breath catches in her throat. She’s looking up, up, at a pine taller than anything in RiverClan’s territory; the scent spices her nose, settles like fiery nectar on her tongue. There’s a she-cat waiting for her in the branches, amidst the needles, her eyes like amber fire. “You made that look easy,” she hears herself say; her voice is husky in the snowy twilight. A gray-striped white face peers through the shadows, golden gaze wide and earnest.
“Beautiful,” she whispers, and Iciclefang is now in the tree with her. Pine scent cocoons them in warmth. “The… the moon.” And there is a wondrous ripe moon hanging before them, between the mountain peaks protruding from the earth like claws stretching toward the star-strewn sky.
A twist tugs in her lower belly. She jolts awake, eyes watery and breath misting in the air. It’s warmer now—it’s newleaf, and the river pounds away at the shores of their camp’s island. The other queens slumber, curled around their kits, their own protruding bellies. It’s quiet in camp—the moon hangs like a circlet of silver in the sky, round and full, just like in her dream.
Another pain sears down her middle. She gasps at the intensity—it’s like something is tearing her from the inside with claws, like she has battle wounds none can see with their naked eye. And it’s coming again, again—faster each time. “Stars,” she whispers, pushing herself into a standing position amidst the moss and feathers of her nest… but there’s no point. Where is she going? She can’t go to Stormywing—and the medicine cats would come here, surely, to the nursery where kittings happen. She hesitates before agony thickens about her stomach again, and then she collapses back into her nest, a low groan snaking from between her clenched teeth.
“The kits… are coming,” she hisses, hoping she awakens one of the other residents. “I need… I need—” Something shears her insides with fangs, and she bites back a moan. There’s nothing to do now but anchor herself in her nest and hold on, she knows that much, at least, but the pain… she hadn’t prepared herself mentally for how brutal this process could be.
Paws patter, announcing the arrival of the medicine cat apprentice. Iciclefang regards her with deep, round blue eyes. “Moonpaw.” She misses Ravensong’s quiet authority already, but there’s no waiting for his return—if he does. Moonpaw will have to suffice. “The kits are coming now, I think,” she says, and as if to prove her point, a contraction trembles through her abdomen; she sinks her claws into her nest and hisses.
If she’s offered a stick, she will take it into her jaws—if she’s offered an herb, she will scrape it onto her tongue and swallow—but she’s in limbo now, in some world where the only thing that exists is the fiery burn in her stomach, the wrenching red agony of childbirth.
This is a battle, though, that she would win. Her claws sink into the moss and begin to shred. The smell of blood is on the air—and there’s a kit mewling, noisy and free and full of life. She lays her eyes upon him for the first time; her tongue finds his sticky pelt and she licks, fluffing the fur with her mouth. It’s soft and gray, so like his ThunderClan mother’s pelt, but with a blaze of white like lightning across his face. She continues to lick him clean, conscious now of another sensation welling inside of her, one so ferocious it almost sweeps her away. My son. Her son, her son, he had come to her at last, and she nestles him into the crook of her body where he can feed. She thinks of her mountain dream, of gray stone peaks clawing the sky’s belly, and she murmurs, “Cragkit.”
The second kit comes swifter, easier, than the first had, and Iciclefang is grateful in the crimson mist of her exhaustion. When this one is nosed toward her face, she has to smile, remembering Swiftfire’s comment about a little Iciclefang—this kit has her pelt, tortoiseshell, shadow-and-flame. She fluffs it with her tongue, admiring the pushed-in little nose, the squeaking pink mouth. My daughter. Her second child is nudged into place beside her littermate, just as her midsection wrenches again. Iciclefang thinks of the climb, following Stormywing into the dense, heavily-spiced branches of the pine tree, of the moonlight reflected in the fire of her lover’s gaze. She places her nose gently against the tiny she-kit’s body and says, “Pinekit.”
Ravensong had been correct—perhaps the ebony-furred medicine cat is wiser than he knows. A third kit is born, startlingly sunkissed in the early morning gloom. His fur fluffs up under her tongue, blazing fire and silky cream. This son reminds her immediately of Ferngill, and, remembering the part her beloved brother has played in their story, her heart fills with fierce warmth. The ferocity of her love crashes into her, wave after wave, as she nudges the final child into the softness of her flank. This son shall bear the love she has for RiverClan, the Clan she had given her mate up for—he shall be, “Crabkit.”
With that, at last, she relaxes, her throat rumbling with broken, stuttering purrs.
“Beautiful,” she whispers, and Iciclefang is now in the tree with her. Pine scent cocoons them in warmth. “The… the moon.” And there is a wondrous ripe moon hanging before them, between the mountain peaks protruding from the earth like claws stretching toward the star-strewn sky.
A twist tugs in her lower belly. She jolts awake, eyes watery and breath misting in the air. It’s warmer now—it’s newleaf, and the river pounds away at the shores of their camp’s island. The other queens slumber, curled around their kits, their own protruding bellies. It’s quiet in camp—the moon hangs like a circlet of silver in the sky, round and full, just like in her dream.
Another pain sears down her middle. She gasps at the intensity—it’s like something is tearing her from the inside with claws, like she has battle wounds none can see with their naked eye. And it’s coming again, again—faster each time. “Stars,” she whispers, pushing herself into a standing position amidst the moss and feathers of her nest… but there’s no point. Where is she going? She can’t go to Stormywing—and the medicine cats would come here, surely, to the nursery where kittings happen. She hesitates before agony thickens about her stomach again, and then she collapses back into her nest, a low groan snaking from between her clenched teeth.
“The kits… are coming,” she hisses, hoping she awakens one of the other residents. “I need… I need—” Something shears her insides with fangs, and she bites back a moan. There’s nothing to do now but anchor herself in her nest and hold on, she knows that much, at least, but the pain… she hadn’t prepared herself mentally for how brutal this process could be.
Paws patter, announcing the arrival of the medicine cat apprentice. Iciclefang regards her with deep, round blue eyes. “Moonpaw.” She misses Ravensong’s quiet authority already, but there’s no waiting for his return—if he does. Moonpaw will have to suffice. “The kits are coming now, I think,” she says, and as if to prove her point, a contraction trembles through her abdomen; she sinks her claws into her nest and hisses.
If she’s offered a stick, she will take it into her jaws—if she’s offered an herb, she will scrape it onto her tongue and swallow—but she’s in limbo now, in some world where the only thing that exists is the fiery burn in her stomach, the wrenching red agony of childbirth.
This is a battle, though, that she would win. Her claws sink into the moss and begin to shred. The smell of blood is on the air—and there’s a kit mewling, noisy and free and full of life. She lays her eyes upon him for the first time; her tongue finds his sticky pelt and she licks, fluffing the fur with her mouth. It’s soft and gray, so like his ThunderClan mother’s pelt, but with a blaze of white like lightning across his face. She continues to lick him clean, conscious now of another sensation welling inside of her, one so ferocious it almost sweeps her away. My son. Her son, her son, he had come to her at last, and she nestles him into the crook of her body where he can feed. She thinks of her mountain dream, of gray stone peaks clawing the sky’s belly, and she murmurs, “Cragkit.”
The second kit comes swifter, easier, than the first had, and Iciclefang is grateful in the crimson mist of her exhaustion. When this one is nosed toward her face, she has to smile, remembering Swiftfire’s comment about a little Iciclefang—this kit has her pelt, tortoiseshell, shadow-and-flame. She fluffs it with her tongue, admiring the pushed-in little nose, the squeaking pink mouth. My daughter. Her second child is nudged into place beside her littermate, just as her midsection wrenches again. Iciclefang thinks of the climb, following Stormywing into the dense, heavily-spiced branches of the pine tree, of the moonlight reflected in the fire of her lover’s gaze. She places her nose gently against the tiny she-kit’s body and says, “Pinekit.”
Ravensong had been correct—perhaps the ebony-furred medicine cat is wiser than he knows. A third kit is born, startlingly sunkissed in the early morning gloom. His fur fluffs up under her tongue, blazing fire and silky cream. This son reminds her immediately of Ferngill, and, remembering the part her beloved brother has played in their story, her heart fills with fierce warmth. The ferocity of her love crashes into her, wave after wave, as she nudges the final child into the softness of her flank. This son shall bear the love she has for RiverClan, the Clan she had given her mate up for—he shall be, “Crabkit.”
With that, at last, she relaxes, her throat rumbling with broken, stuttering purrs.
- ooc: kits: @CRAGKIT @Pinekit. @CRABKIT ; @Moonpaw ; feel free to be the one who goes to get Moonpaw!
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Iciclekit.Iciclepaw. Iciclefang, she/her w/ feminine terms.
— “speech”, thoughts, attack
— 21 moons old, ages realistically on the 17th.
— mentored by Smokestar ; mentoring Cicadapaw ; previously mentored n/a
— riverclan lead warrior & queen. mudpelt x 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.
