The Colony Cherry & Cicada || The kits

[Cherryblaze]

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Cherry curled up tighter pulling their kits closer to them as a snowflake hit them from the crack in the den above them. It has been several days now since they had given birth to 3 little kits. They had been born during the war and Cherry had scrambled to find the safest place possible for them to be born. What they had found wasn't the most suitable long term but it kept them safe during the war and sheltered from the snow.

She looked up at the small crack in the den above. It wouldn't take much to fix this, she thought tilting her head. Quietly getting up she grabbed some bramble tendrils and wove the crack shut. "Much better." she purred aloud.

Looking back at her kits sleeping all piled up she smiled. She wanted to go out and get some freshkill so she could eat but didn't dare leave her kits alone in the cold. She was fighting the thought though, digging her claws into the dirt near the entrance of the den. Shaking her head before thinking to herself, I can't, I really can't they need me. She sighed and walked back to her kits curling up with them again.

┙

 

[mistletoekit]

★ To the kitten's closed-eye view of the world, there had been nothing remarkable about the last few days - she could hardly discern them in to separate days, after all, unless she counted by feedings. The comfort of being encapsulated in perfect care was quickly forgotten and replaced by this different, genuine, imperfect care. She wouldn't comment on it even if she could. It was perfectly adequate, and that aside, it was all she knew, to the extent that the kitten could be considered to know anything.

She squeaked when her parent went away, however briefly, kicking against her siblings to drum up their outrage in support. Her head wavered on her neck, too heavy for muscles too weak, when a fleck of snow landed between her eyes. A contented sigh was sung whenever her parent returned, warm and secure and perfectly meeting everything the child could need. It rather suited her, having her needs met, and them being met built an expectation that they would be again.

Unaware of the internal strife the warrior faces, nor of the external struggle the forest contends with, the cinnamon kitten nestles into the soft fur she relies on and the small bodies she will grow with, untroubled.

 

[cicadabuzz]

Cicada steps lightly into the den, their form blocking the narrow entrance for a moment before they push through, shaking off the clinging snow. The cold outside clings to their fur, but they pay it no mind. A vole dangles from their jaws, its body plump and promising sustenance. They set it down carefully, brushing a paw over the snow-dusted floor to clear a spot. Their gaze sweeps the den—a hollow little space barely held together by roots and patched brambles. The new repairs in the roof catch their attention for a moment. It's a practical effort, though insufficient for what lies ahead. "This won't hold for long," Cicada says, their voice flat, as if stating an obvious truth rather than offering criticism. "Snow is light now. When it thickens, it'll press through. You'll need somewhere stronger before then." They glance at Cherry, their tone not softening, even as they add, "Eat. You'll need it."

Without waiting for a reply, Cicada moves to the nest. The air here is warmer, heavy with the familiar, milk-sweet scent of kits. Their sharp eyes scan the small, wriggling bodies nestled close together. They crouch to examine them, their movements fluid and deliberate, as though they are assessing more than simply the fragile shapes before them. Their nose brushes the cinnamon-furred kit, her warmth palpable even through the dense cold of the season. The small, rust-colored form stirs slightly but does not make a sound. Her coat reminds Cicada of bark clinging to bare branches, something that endures even when the world strips everything else away. "Mistletoe," they murmur aloud. The name feels right—practical, enduring. Mistletoe grows where other things cannot, feeding on what remains. It thrives despite harshness.

They shift their attention to the second kit, her plum-brown fur stark against her siblings, faint pale markings softening the sharpness of her shade. Cicada's gaze lingers longer here, their expression betraying little. Deathberry. The word settles in their mind before they speak it aloud. A plant that holds life and death in its delicate, poisonous berries. It's a name heavy with meaning, one that speaks to what has been lost and what endures. Cicada does not let their thoughts linger on Serpent or Fray, though their shadow is undeniable in the choice. "Deathberry," they say quietly, the word as deliberate and cutting as their reasoning. Their tail flicks as they pull back slightly, observing the third kit in silence but offering no name just yet. They will know it when it comes, just as they knew the others. Naming, for Cicada, is a task like any other—measured, practical, devoid of sentiment but full of intent.

 

[hemlock-kit]

Like her sibling, this kitten is hardly aware of the passage of time, spending her days feeding or sleeping. Warmth, however, all of the sudden disappears and her head tilts up in a tiny cry of outrage and protest, flailing to move towards the nearest source of it: the bundle of her two siblings. As soon as she reaches them, her cries fall silent and in turn she does too, relaxing in to the comfort they bring.

The bringer of the most warmth returns back to the nest, causing her to snuggle in to plush fur, reaching out with tiny paws to start kneading in content. Cicada, another parent though unbeknownst to the little thing, moves closer to inspect the trio. Mistletoe, a name bestowed upon her sibling, a fuzzy body shes just barely aware of next to her. And then comes Deathberry, and that falls on deaf ears as well. Unnamed, she stirs lightly against her siblings. All could wait, for her, and she wouldn't care. She was happy with her life, needing nothing more, nothing less. Happy as a newborn kit could be, thats for sure.

 

[deathberrykit]

Deathberry. Oh to be conscious in this moment - to learn of the thinly veiled duress that comes with being named for inception and the end. She wouldn't be thrilled. She wouldn't like to learn now that her parent has deemed her a harbinger in her own right - and that to follow she must be so frail, broken by the cold and circumstance. Perhaps it is lucky then that her ears fold shut, muffling the noise outside. That her eyes, deathly cold and blue, remain sewn to slivers. One day she will learn this name of hers, respond to her moniker like her siblings will theirs. But as those days come, so will her ailments, so will her understanding.

A sneeze echoes off of her muzzle. The chill has broken through her thin kitten coat and made a home beneath her skin. Her sibling is named whilst another remains otherwise, and she cares not. Deathberry, a sign of insurrection, of deception, of pain. A girl of want, of distance, of disillusion. Deathberry, for there will never be enough reminders of the crimes that are and horrors that will be. Deathberry, for that is her, and it is all she will ever be.