Private drown in the grief of a golden thing [ cicadabuzz ]

[deathberrykit]

She's righted once again, after moons and moons of an unshakeable illness - death wanted to claim her for his army, but Deathberrykit is not one so easily won over. She's not sure what started this episode of weakness and uselessness, but the molly has had days without a fever, a week without deliriousness, hours without a sniffle or a cough. Her siblings chatter on about apprenticehood and mentors, now, and she cannot help but stare into the nothingness.

Her body, her soul - from beginning until forever, from a point where she never understood it to, suddenly, comprehending everything... she gave herself for the medicinal tests of her parent's.

And they chose the leader's boy to be in their tutelage.

Maybe that's what tore them down with sickness. The unfathomable betrayal, the act of being unwanted. A child can only understand so much and Deathberrykit only sees Cicadabuzz adopting a new soul beneath them. It's painful in a way she cannot fully discern.

She sits just inside the medicine den. Her tail sweeps the ground behind her and she squints through the shadows, listening for the pawsteps of her parent. When they draw close, she offers a simple statement:

"I wasn't good enough for you."

 

[cicadabuzz]

CICADABUZZ, 30 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

Cicadabuzz doesn't stop when Deathberrykit speaks. They move with their usual quiet rhythm—sorting dried tansy into a patchwork of herb bundles, the muted rustle of stems filling the silence between them. The kit's voice lingers in the air longer than most sounds do in the medicine den, like a scent that refuses to fade. When Cicadabuzz finally speaks, they don't turn to look. "You weren't," they agree softly, without cruelty and without hesitation. "Good enough, that is." The words hover like a truth pulled from the roots of the earth—solid, unshaken, and mercilessly still. There is no venom in the statement, no satisfaction, no sorrow. Just the kind of steady, grounded honesty that Cicadabuzz has always embodied, even when it cuts.

"I do not choose based on preference," they continue, plucking a stem of dried borage with care. "I choose based on what the Clan requires. What I require." Their tail flicks once. "You were sick. Often. Unreliable, through no fault of your own. But still—unreliable. You could not keep pace with the demands of healing others when your body was still at war with itself. You will likely grow sick again. You can not be relied on to carry out the actions you must." They finally glance toward her, their eyes unreadable beneath the shadows of the den. "I did not overlook you out of spite. Nor pity. I simply could not gamble the lives of others on a hope that you might one day be well enough."

Silence pools again, and they let it. Let it fill the hollows of Deathberrykit's chest the way medicine pools in a wound—stinging, but true. After a time, Cicadabuzz steps closer, not in comfort, but in clarity. Their voice drops lower. "But you were not unloved. You are not. That is different from being unfit. I would not have considered you if I did not see some thread of potential. But a thread is not a tapestry. And what I need… is a tapestry woven with consistency. Discipline. Endurance." They stare down at her with something that could be mistaken for coldness, but it is not empty. It is the quiet sorrow of someone who has already buried many things. "You were never chosen to carry what I carry. And I see now—perhaps that was for the better. Because I would have broken you further if I had forced you to walk this path. And yes, you survived what would have ended others. That is not nothing. But it is also not enough."