Private Medicine Cat's Den heaving through corrupted lungs // cicada

[Tickpaw]

TICK

So what if you can see the darkest side of me?

The air was thick with unfamiliar scents, overwhelming him with their pungency. That much Tick had understood from this den, this place. There were so many different smells, each one distinct, yet blending together in a way that made his head spin. The sheer amount of them made him feel almost dizzy, how could Cicadabuzz possibly distinguish one from the other? How could they possibly know what each herb did?

The term medicine cat kept rolling around in his mind, something he didn't quite grasp, but he had seen enough to know it had something to do with healing. This whole Clan, ShadowClan, he learned, was a mystery to him. It was so much more than the mill, the hunger, the constant running. So much more than the terrifying darkness he still feared, the feeling of being swallowed whole at night when sleep barely touched him, when nightmares clawed at his mind and dragged him to places he couldn't escape. The emptiness. The silence. The loss of everything, including his siblings, the ones who were gone... The ones who weren't here to hear his cries.

His eyes snapped open again with a startled hiss, heart racing. His chest heaved as he lay in the nest, staring down at the ground, trying to steady his breath. His body trembled in the dark, caught between sleep and wakefulness, wishing he could just escape the ache of it all.

He wasn't sure when his focus shifted. But somehow, he was aware of Cicadabuzz again. Still there, ever-present, silent. Watching him. The hollow eyes that haunted his nightmares were chased away by the more stoic ones. those same eyes that often seemed to pierce into him, always calm and unyielding.

He could focus... Focus on anything but the shadows of his nightmares... The tendrils of the darkness that pulled toward him. He forced himself to concentrate, looking past the shadows, at something concrete. He found the herbs nearby. Yes, herbs... Focus on the herbs, he told himself. Frantic now, his breath still shallow, he glanced desperately toward Cicadabuzz. " That... " he gasped, pointing a trembling paw toward a particular herb. " What... What does that one do? "

The question felt heavy, a desperate plea to make sense of something, anything, in this overwhelming place. Anything to ground him in the present moment instead of the haunting silence that never quite let him go.

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[cicadabuzz]

CICADABUZZ, 29 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 sits in the wavering moonlight glow like a stone in a river, unmoved by the current of Tick's panic yet acutely aware of its pull. They allow the silence to settle first; quiet is an herb of its own, a balm that slows the frantic beat long enough for medicine to reach the blood. While Tick's breath rasps, Cicadabuzz inhales slowly, letting the mingled scents of yarrow and tansy and marigold weave through their chest and out again in a measured tide. Only when the other's paw quivers toward the spray of dusty green leaves do they speak, voice soft as moss yet edged with flint. "That is thyme," they say, meeting Tick's wide eyes with an even, steady gaze. "Its flowers calm a heart that gallops too fast and ease the sting of shock." They nudge the sprig closer, letting the sharp aroma cut a clean line through the den's layered perfumes. "Breathe with it. Accept the pace of the night, not the pace of your fear."

They watch Tick for a moment before speaking again. "Every herb here carries a story in its smell," they murmur, sweeping their tail toward the orderly rows. "Dock has a tangy taste. It mends torn pads. Poppy seed smells like warm dusk; it drifts between waking and dream to dull a wound's bite. Coltsfoot is the scent of early spring water—sharp, clean—and it coaxes breath back into aching chests. I knew these truths before we even held the concept of a Clan. The earth teaches; I only listen." Their tone never rises, yet it fills the den, a low current under Tick's ragged breathing. Cicadabuzz chooses a single poppy seed and rolls it beneath one claw. "But herbs do not speak to panic," they add, unblinking. "They wait for stillness. So we make stillness first." They demonstrate, pressing the seed to the ground, anchoring it; an echo of what they ask Tick to do with his own spiraling thoughts.

Cicadabuzz does not smile—warmth is not their gift—but there is a quiet solidity in their presence that stands where comfort might have. "ShadowClan is not the dark that swallowed you," they say at last. "It is marrow and moss, river‑stone and briar. Tangible things. When the night crowds close, name what you can smell, taste, feel. Give the shadows boundaries, and they will shrink." They rise, selecting thyme and a twist of dried lavender. "Chew these. Let the bitterness ground you; let the sweetness stay when the bitterness is gone." They set the bundle beside Tick's nest, then turn back to their ordered stores, paws soundless on packed earth. Behind them, the den grows quieter, heartbeat by heartbeat. Cicadabuzz does not look over their shoulder—trust must learn to stand without constant watching—but their whiskers flick, catching the subtle shift in the air as they wait for panic to fold into weary calm.