Duck Lake god loves you, but not enough to save you

could work as a RO, but open in case someone feels like hopping in! just feel the need to word vomit while i have the muse

Riverclan had been kind to her; the bittersweet sharpness of Silvertongue, a young bird wrapped in silk. Allowing her a tour and dealing with her blunders, the legs that were much too large for her own body. 
And now, she was faced with the grave ordeal of going home. Things with Akavir have been so goddamn awkward. Frankly, she wished she could hide her face from him; be nothing but a body, assist in the witchhunt with no words to say to him. Oh, lord, and the brat, who she was sure would have questions for her in that whiny little baby voice. And where the hell was Arric, in all of this? 
Home was the last place she wanted to go, but the longer she stalled, the worse it got. It was necessary, lest they assume she abandoned them. 
So begrudgingly, she goes on her way; a lowness to her gait that reeks of shame, of the men and women she'd encountered and danced with. She reaches the nearby lake around sundown, and only for now, she'd allow herself a break. 

When she sees her reflection, she thinks of Marcus. Her man of the forest. His gentle arms, the warmth of his voice, those marigold eyes that crease at the corners when he smiles. How scared he was of hurting her, of betraying her; the way she let him do it anyways.
She sees the sharp edges of her father in her jaw, the shape of his nostrils, the curve of his ears. But she also sees the dove's wing fur of her mother, the warm brown eyes, the willingness to bend for the will of a man.  
She is the child of chaos, the child of unending destruction, and of silence in the face of death.
It's then that she thinks of Reverie too, the daydreamer in the weald, the seasalt brine on the petals of a sunflower. The sorrowful cries that echo in her mind, even now. She wishes she could have hugged her, told her in wordless gestures that she understands more than she could have realized. She hopes she isn't alone. 

Wren swipes a beaten paw at the lake's water, and watches as her reflection ripples and dissipates, only to come together once more. The sun has long since gone, and the moon stares back at her with steel daggers.
Maybe she should go home now.