Private bitter medicine | cicadabuzz

[mistletoekit]

★ All told, there are several by-products and consequences to being her parents' child. Had the kitten more knowledge, she might be able to draw a clear line between the two words, attribute a distinction of meaning to signify that by-products simply happened and consequences were manufactured, but she is a child and unlikely to put in the effort unless directly asked in any case. A consequence was her exposure to herbs. Menial tasks pertaining to leaves, stems, and seeds that could be entrusted to small, clumsy paws often fell into them. A by-product was her approach to this work: the tasks had been assigned to her with a firm yet quiet confidence until she performed them without prompting, equally quiet, equally confident. Cicadabuzz had asked Mistletoekit to do something - of course it would be done.

Yet, there was a nagging feeling in her chest, wriggling and squirming until it thrashed and writhed. She did not want to complete the tasks. Mistletoekit was too young to attribute it to any particular reason, be it herbs taking up too much of her parent's attention, a desire to test boundaries, or perhaps a simple boredom with working, but she did not need to know the driving force behind an emotion to feel it. The kitten, teetering on the cusp of two moons and all the more certain and foolish for it, felt defiant.

Her paws stilled on the herb she had been plucking. Her eyes, which have steadily been developing from a kittish blue to a verdure green, sought out her parent. Her lips pursed in contemplation of words, then parted to let them past. "I don't want to."

 

[cicadabuzz]

Cicadabuzz does not respond immediately. They remain still, their paw hovering just above a bundle of dried yarrow, as if they are considering whether they misheard. The den is quiet, save for the whisper of wind against the outer walls and the faint rustling of herbs disturbed by Mistletoekit's halted work. Their gaze lifts, slow and measured, to settle on the kit. Those green eyes, so much like new leaves unfurling in the heart of newleaf, are bright with something—uncertainty, challenge, something unspoken. Cicadabuzz watches her for a moment longer than is comfortable, their own expression unreadable. Then, with the same careful deliberation, they resume their work. Their claws unsheathe just enough to hook a brittle stem and draw it toward them. There is no sigh, no flicker of frustration, no sharp rebuke. Yet, in their silence, there is weight. A pause where expectation once stood, now empty.

They sort through the leaves with steady, practiced movements, but the air in the den has changed. Cicadabuzz does not look at Mistletoekit again, but they do not need to. The absence of their attention is as pointed as a claw pressed just beneath the skin. A long moment passes before they finally speak. Their voice is quiet, as it always is, their tone even. "Then don't." There is no challenge in the words, no argument, only acknowledgement. A still pool of water that does not ripple, even when a stone is cast into its depths. They take another leaf between their claws, inspecting it with the same detached focus. The task must be done, whether by one set of paws or another. The work does not stop simply because someone wills it so.

Cicadabuzz has spent enough time watching the seasons shift to know that change comes whether it is invited or not. Leaves fall, rivers swell, prey flees before the frost. And still, life continues.

They are not angry. Disappointment is a word too heavy, too deliberate. But there is something else—an acknowledgment of a path that could have been taken and was not. They do not ask why. They do not argue or persuade. Mistletoekit has made her choice, and Cicadabuzz, in turn, makes theirs. The silence stretches, not expectant, but settled. The den, once filled with the quiet rhythm of two sets of working paws, now moves at a different pace. Slower. More deliberate. Cicadabuzz finishes their sorting without another word. When they stand, they gather the herbs with an ease born from habit, the task completed without assistance. The moment passes. The world does not stop. But the absence of small, clumsy paws at their side lingers longer than it should.

 

[mistletoekit]

★ Hypocritically, the waiting is the worst part. She had taken her own time to consider her words, but her parent considering theirs creates unwelcome suspense. The time elapsed between her words being said and the reply stretches in her mind like an elastic pulled taunt by anticipation, bound to return to its true, short state when reality eventually seizes control. Maybe if Mistletoekit had a vaster expanse of time to compare it to, the silence would not seem so long; maybe if her interest were not so vested in the moment, it would not seem so great. It is time enough for Cicadabuzz to pin the kitten to the medicine den's floor with their gaze and release them again, a specimen unsuitable to be preserved, no longer bound but still bearing the wound of some clinical curiosity.

The acceptance didn't come as a swift blow, or a crushing resignation, or a soothing wash of assurance. Cicadabuzz's words simply were, as much as the herbs at their paws. It didn't quite still the anxious slurry in her stomach - that would suggest a total ignorance to social cues, and while Mistletoekit was naive she was not stupid - but it did settle it somewhat. No matter how carefully weighed the two words have been, measured on a scale against something the tabby kitten couldn't fathom, they were permissive at their core, and in the moment that was all that mattered. An older child might have bemoaned the lack of reaction, but this one was pleased to have shirked her responsibility.

The work continued without her. She watched her parent carry out the duties of a medicine cat in silence, and where guilt might have sat instead lounged satisfaction. Not the satisfaction of a scheme well executed - there was nothing malicious in her enjoyment - but the satisfaction of something being right. As always, her family cared for her and her needs, as her child's mind could identify them, were met. She didn't have to work with herbs if she didn't want to.

Emboldened, she added, "I don't like herbs," though not by way of justification. There was nothing to justify. Rather, Mistletoekit continued to speak to further set her own course, retroactively placing the stepping stones between her previous world-view and her current one so she might look back at the path. It didn't matter that Cicadabuzz had let the matter lie and prepared to leave the discussion, and their daughter, in a den cloyed with the herbs the kit had shunned. That she wanted to speak seemed enough reason to do so. "They're silly, and I'm not serpen -" she frowned, shuffled perfumed paws as she wrapped her small mouth around the absolute, "Not certain they work. So I don't want to."

 

[cicadabuzz]

CICADABUZZ, 27 moons / shc + med. cat
a SH cinnamon tabby/chocolate tortie chimera w/ orange eyes
parent to deathberrykit, hemlockkit, mistletoekit
a reserved, pragmatic healer driven by duty rather than sentiment

Cicadabuzz stills. Their movements, fluid and measured only heartbeats before, are now sharp in their precision as they gather the last of the herbs. Their gaze does not immediately lift to Mistletoekit, but there is a flicker—brief, fleeting—in their expression. Not irritation. Not surprise. Something else. Serpent. No—Mistletoekit is not Serpent. She could never be. But the slip of the tongue digs into Cicadabuzz's mind like a thorn. It is a name weighted with history, one they have not spoken aloud in some time. Serpent, now the ThunderClan healer, once a companion in the days before their Clans bore names. Their friendship was a thing tangled and fraught, something built on necessity, on parallel paths that ran close enough to touch but never quite intertwined. They had shared knowledge, sharpened each other's skills with quiet, unspoken competition. At times, they had understood one another better than most. At others, they had been so at odds that Cicadabuzz had wondered if they had ever truly known Serpent at all.

Mistletoekit is not Serpent. And yet, Cicadabuzz cannot help but see the echo of something familiar in her defiance.

They let the thought pass.

Instead, their gaze finds the kit, this time not with quiet observation, but with something firmer. Not harsh, not cold, but solid in the way that stone is solid—unmoving. "You're wrong." It is not spoken unkindly, nor with any trace of anger. It is simply the truth. Herbs are not silly. They do work. The world does not bend itself to Mistletoekit's whims simply because she wills it so. Cicadabuzz shifts, setting the carefully sorted bundles aside, and though their voice does not rise, there is a weight to it that does not invite dismissal. "You don't have to like them. You don't have to want to use them. But that doesn't make them any less real." Their tail flicks, once. "A thorn still pierces flesh whether or not you believe in it. A wound still festers whether or not you tend it." They have seen too many injuries, too much suffering, to entertain the luxury of disbelief. They have treated cats who doubted until the fever burned them hollow. They have pressed poultices to wounds that might have stolen a life had they been left to rot. Herbs are not magic. They are not infallible. But they are not silly.

Cicadabuzz does not try to convince her. They do not try to soften their words or shape them into something easier to swallow. That is not their way. Instead, they watch her for a moment longer, their expression unreadable but their meaning unmistakable. She is a kit. There is time yet for her to learn, for her certainty to waver and shift as all things do. Cicadabuzz does not demand understanding from her, not yet. But they do not allow falsehoods to linger in the air unchallenged.