Backwritten The Colony 𝙱𝚘𝚢𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚐𝚜 || Cicada

[Mothbite]

-

indent Moth is having trouble breathing. Phlem and mucous clogged up his nose and dripped down to his lungs, where they made a terrible wheezing sound with every breath he takes. In the few days he and Rat had been at this little clearing in the woods, his condition had improved a bit. He no longer had pounding headaches that kept him all but immobile, and his eyes were no longer so watery that he could not see. He was finally fed, too - the calico molly that had been looking after him had also been bringing him mice and voles to eat, and moss soaked in fresh water for him to drink. It's an almost alien feeling, to be looked after in that way. In all his life, all the places he'd been, nobody had ever offered him food, or chewed up herbs for him to swallow, or licked his face clean of the crusted bits that formed at the corners of his eyes. Although he'd never admit it, it brought to mind the scarce memories he had of his mother's care. The same warm, safe feeling fills every corner of his being, and threatened to spill out over his harsh, whiny personality.

indent He lifts his head from where it lays atop his paws when he hears a rustle and the entrance of the secluded den. Moth turns, expectantly, towards where he's sure Serpent will come to see him-

indenttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttt-Only to be confronted by that brown tomcat, instead.

indent The other healer isn't nearly as soft or kind as Serpent. They still tends to Moth's needs, but they dont linger, or share in casual conversation. They hadn't even spoken enough for Moth to remember their name. He didn't dislike the tom, but he was sure the disappointment on his face was clear when it was them who came to attend his needs, instead of Serpent.

indent"You woke me up. Try too be a little more-" Before he can finish his thought, he's wracked by a fit of wet coughing that makes his chest burn. "Nnngh... did you bring any water?"

-

 

[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

Cicada steps into the den without ceremony, the scent of damp earth and sickness thick in the air. Their sharp eyes flick to Moth, taking in the rise and fall of his chest, the way his shoulders hitch with each breath. Still struggling. But better than before. The disappointment on Moth's face does not go unnoticed. Cicada does not acknowledge it. They are here to heal, not to entertain. Moth speaks, but his words are cut off by a fit of coughing, thick and wet, rattling in his chest like stones. Cicada waits, impassive, until the sound subsides. His question—did you bring water?—is met with a brief, wordless movement. Cicada sets down a bundle of damp moss, heavy with fresh water, and nudges it toward him. "Drink," they say simply.

While Moth tends to his thirst, Cicada watches. Observes. His breathing is still labored, but the worst of the fever has broken. The swelling behind his eyes has faded, and his appetite has returned. That is good. But the cough—Cicada does not like the sound of it. They settle beside the nest, their tail curling neatly around their paws. "Your lungs are still heavy," they remark, voice steady, devoid of sympathy. "The sickness will not leave quickly. You need to keep drinking. Eating." A pause. "Resting." Their tone makes it clear—this is not a suggestion. Cicada plucks from their tail a few herbs. They push the sprigs toward Moth with a precise motion. "Coltsfoot. For your breathing." They then tap the honeycomb they've carried in with a claw. "And this will ease the pain in your throat. Lick the honey from it and swallow it." There is no room for argument.

Moth has the look of a cat ready to complain. Cicada meets his gaze, unblinking, unbothered. "Yowling when your throat is not sore should help to loosen up what is in your chest. Cough it up or swallow it down. Either way, your body will rid itself of it." They tilt their head slightly, studying him. "I assume you will make it difficult for yourself." Their voice remains neutral, unreadable, but there is something about their words—an understanding of the way cats fight against care, against weakness. Moth is not the first. He will not be the last. A breath of silence passes before Cicada speaks again, this time addressing what they are sure he is thinking to ask about, given his disinclination towards them. "Serpent is tending to another. You will not see her today." They do not offer false reassurances. "You are not dying. You can handle it. I am capable of healing as well as her."

And with that, they settle in, prepared to stay until the task is done.

 

[Mothbite]

Still so young, Desperate for attention!

indentttMoth wrinkles his nose when presented with the herbs. "I know what those do, already, and I know how to take them. You don't need to keep reminding me." He had coltsfoot just about every day since he got here! The honeycomb is a bit rarer though. In the back of Moth's mind, it occurs to him that he ought to be grateful. Honey isn't easy to get, and they're using it up on him.

indentttIn lieu of a thank you, Moth eagerly licks up the honey, savoring how the sticky substance flows down his aching throat. The comb does soon after, greedily chewed and swallowed. The coltsfoot he takes with a bit less enthusiasm. He doesn't like the taste of it, very much, but Serpent says it's helping, and Moth believes just about anything she tells him. Besides, Moth can tell Cicada won't take no for an answer.

indentttCicada tells him to get rid of the phlegm, and lets him know he won't be seeing Serpent for the rest of the day. "I won't see her at all?" Moth says, with a bit of alarm. Going one day without care and comfort shouldn't be a huge challenge to a cat who's gone almost his whole life without any, but in the short time he's been here, he's become rather dependent on Serpent's affection. He greedily soaks it all up, like dirt absorbing water after a drought. And now he was meant to go without, with nobody but the miserable cat before him for company? Moth huffs, frustrated. 'I guess it makes sense she's got better stuff to do, but is she really gonna leave me?

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Mothbite | 19 moons | Shadowclan Nightguardbababbnihfibnfdifdhfhabbabab

 

[cicadabuzz]

CICADABUZZ, 28 moons / shc + med. cat
a SH cinnamon tabby/chocolate tortie chimera w/ black eyes
parent to deathberrykit, hemlockkit, mistletoekit ; mentor to magpiepaw
a reserved, pragmatic healer driven by duty rather than sentiment

Cicada watches Moth's reaction with the same quiet, unshaken patience as before. The wrinkled nose, the irritation in his voice—none of it matters. He takes the herbs, as Cicada knew he would. That is what matters. They do not waste words acknowledging his complaints. They do, however, take note of the way he licks up the honey with something almost like eagerness, how he chews the comb greedily. Even the coltsfoot, though taken with far less enthusiasm, is swallowed without true resistance. Good. But then Moth's tone shifts. His voice carries an edge of something sharper than annoyance—alarm. Cicada's ears twitch slightly as he questions, I won't see her at all? It is not defiance this time, nor stubbornness. It is something deeper, something raw, buried just beneath his words. Dependence.

Cicada tilts their head, observing him. This kind of reliance—on touch, on warmth, on a soft voice—Cicada has seen it before. Cats who have known only scarcity and then, suddenly, abundance. A kindness they did not expect, one they become desperate not to lose. They absorb it as if it will slip through their paws at any moment, because, in their experience, it always has. Cicada does not offer false comforts. Serpent is tending to another. That is the truth. "She has not left," they say, voice as even as ever. "She is simply elsewhere." Their tail flicks, thoughtful. "She will return when she can. But you are not helpless in her absence."

They shift, tail moving slowly behind them as they consider their words. "If you can eat, drink, and rest on your own, then you can endure a day without her hovering over you." The words are not unkind, but neither are they gentle. Cicada studies him for a moment longer before adding, "I am here." Not as a replacement. Not as a source of warmth or comfort. Simply as a presence, a healer, a witness to his recovery. They settle into place, unwavering. "Complain if you want. It changes nothing." Their tail wraps around their paws. "You are getting better. That is all that matters."