Camp Don't wanna hand you all my trouble // Cicadabuzz

[Sealdawn Sealdawn]

You Say That You Are Close

Is Close The Closest Star?

x

Even back when Fleapaw had scratched her, Sealpaw hadn't bothered to see Cicadabuzz about it. It had seemed too insignificant of an injury. Too light. Too...pathetic. Surely she had been asking for it.

Today, however, was different. She was here with a purpose, even if it probably wasn't going to go the way she wanted. Cicadabuzz was not known for their warmth. Nor their understanding of emotions.

The tabby apprentice hovers at the entrance of the medicine cat's domain, nose wrinkling slightly at the overpowering scent of herbs from within. She hesitates a moment more before quietly padding inside. A trespasser in what feels like some sacred place to Cicadabuzz, in her eyes.

She waits for them to turn, to give some semblance of acknowledgement before her mouth opens with a thinly veiled request. "...Have you ever found a herb for bravery?" It was asked with all of the faux innocence she could muster.

A warrior was never scared. Yet ever since the civil war it felt like that was all she felt when something happened. Fear for friends. Fear of predators. Fear that she was not living up to her mentor's expectations. She was afraid she was never going to pass her assessment at this rate if she didn't find some sort of solution...

"What do you think it would look like..?"

You Just Feel Twice As Far

SEALPAW

— Shadowclan Apprentice
— She/They
"SPEECH", 'THOUGHTS', ATTACK
— Grey Rosetted Tabby With Blue Eyes And A Bobbed Tail.
#4c66bf

 

[CICADABUZZ]

CICADABUZZ, 32 moons / shc + med. cat
a SH cinnamon tabby/chocolate tortie chimera w/ black eyes
parent to cloudberrypaw, hemlockpaw, mistletoepaw ; mentor to magpiepaw
a reserved, pragmatic healer driven by duty rather than sentiment

Cicadabuzz does not turn immediately. They are crouched low at the back of the den, sorting stems of tansy with slow, deliberate claws, the way a spider weaves silk through the husk of a dead leaf. Their tail flicks once—an acknowledgement more than a greeting—its tip brushing against the dirt floor in a rhythm that mimics thought. When they finally glance over their shoulder, it is with the stillness of a stone turned just slightly by time. Pale light filters in through the cracks of the walls, catching in the curve of their throat where the scar bites through the fur. They do not speak immediately.

Sealpaw's voice lands like something skittering across their web—not urgent, but alerting. A presence to be regarded. "A herb for bravery," they rasp, voice thin and dry as winter-brittle bark, the words catching slightly where their throat never healed right. They roll the phrase in their mouth a moment longer, as if trying to taste it. Then—

"No."

They turn then, full-body, their gaze flat and dark, as unreadable as beetle-shell. "There is no root that burns fear out of the body. No leaf that makes a coward into a lion." But their tone is not cruel. Not mocking. If anything, it is just factual, the way dew dries when the sun rises. Inevitable. They rise and cross the den slowly, the faintest scent of bright-eye trailing them. Their movements are unhurried but not soft, the way wind displaces a moth. Indifferent, but complete. Their eyes meet Sealpaw's at last. The next breath they take is slow. Cicadabuzz does not often explain things. But the apprentice stands at the edge of their quiet web, trembling, and so they spin the truth. "Bravery is not an herb. It's not something you swallow or chew. It's a scar. You earn it by surviving what frightens you. By walking forward anyway."

Then, almost as an afterthought, they push a small sprig of thyme her way. "But if you need something for the nerves, chew this. It helps the heart stop racing. Doesn't make you braver. But it might make the fear quieter." Their gaze drops back to their herbs. Cicadabuzz says nothing more, but the space around them hums, no longer sacred but offered—unguarded—for a moment longer.