Private Camp i saw you standing on the opposite shore | cicada

[hemlock-kit]

Freak, the kits whisper, she looks like she's going to cry all the time! Hemlock-kit knows they aren't supposed to hear this, but it doesn't stop little ears from pricking up at the mention of themself. Isn't it a little pathetic? What a crybaby! And yet, Hemlock-kit's heart begins to tear apart before her, ears swiveling backwards. They've been rather mean lately, and to someone with such a soft heart like her, it hurts more and more each time. They're not quite sure what they even did... Or if it was just her existence in general that upset them. It's kind of sad, I wouldn't want to be her.

They already feel deep-rooted sorrow tearing their chest apart, fight or flight threatening to kick in. Instead of any bark to them at all, they end up fleeing... The kits hardly notice the leaving of a ghost.

And they find themselves at the mouth of their parents den, tears dribbling down their cheeks, splashing against their paws. They look pathetic, they know, and they hardly want to bother Cicadabuzz with their... childish (as the other kits would call them) antics, but its all too much... And Cherry, mama, oh mama would probably be upset if they told her... And Hemlock-kit doesn't want to see her mama upset, nor does she want to see her siblings upset. That'd be... oh, what was that word again? That would be an inconvenience, something another kit had called her. They shuffle their paws, parting their mouth then shutting it.

I want... They hiccup. What do I want?

I don't know, but their mouth moves before they can stop it, stuttering away. "U-Uhm... Can... Can I please come- come in?" their voice wobbles, seeking comfort but all too far from it, seeking comfort but refusing to overstep, standing there with hunched shoulders and a slumped head. Please say yes, please say yes, their thoughts inwardly plea as they outwardly sniffle, trying to soothe the thorn in their heart.

@cicadabuzz

 

[cicadabuzz]

CICADABUZZ, 27 moons / shc + med. cat
a SH cinnamon tabby/chocolate tortie chimera w/ black eyes
parent to deathberrykit, hemlockkit, mistletoekit
a reserved, pragmatic healer driven by duty rather than sentiment

Cicadabuzz hears the soft shuffle of paws before the faintest tremor of sound in the air warns them of Hemlockkit's presence at the entrance. The scent of unease clings to the kit like dampness in the air after a storm, but Cicadabuzz does not shift in their place. They are unmoved, focused on the pile of herbs in front of them—feverfew, a simple task to sort through. They glance over, their sharp gaze cutting through the dim light of the den, noticing the trembling kit standing hesitantly at the threshold. Cicadabuzz doesn't feel the pull to soften or offer the comforting words Hemlockkit's voice so clearly seeks. They only raise a paw, beckoning the kit closer, an invitation given without affection, just an unspoken command to come and help. It's not out of cruelty; it's simply how Cicadabuzz operates—no unnecessary emotions clouding the air.

"Come in, Hemlockkit." Their voice is calm, steady, with an almost indifferent quality to it. They don't ask what's wrong; it's not the time for softening the edges of the world with empty comforts. Cicadabuzz has no patience for comforting, not when there is work to do, not when there are practical matters to attend to. So, they focus on the herbs before them, tapping the pile lightly with their paw, and separate the pieces of feverfew into distinct groups. As they wait for their kit to enter, Cicadabuzz doesn't look at them directly, but their kits know their role. It is not the first time they have instructed their children to assist them. Hemlockkit will do the same. Cicadabuzz will not coddle, nor will they explain things away. Here, there is always work to be done.

A small pile of feverfew is placed in front of Hemlockkit, the task simple but necessary. "Sort the usable from the wilted," Cicadabuzz instructs, their tone as neutral as ever. "The dried-up ones are no good. Toss them aside." There is no mention of the kit's tears, no inquiry into what's wrong. They know the work will give them something to focus on. They know the kit will either help or leave. Both outcomes are acceptable. Cicadabuzz is not the type to chase after anyone's emotional state. It is the task at hand that matters, the methodical rhythm of work and duty that keeps the mind clear. The herbs lie between them like a riddle to be solved. The wilted petals are easy to identify, the faded yellow turning brown at the edges, curling inward with the dryness of time. Cicadabuzz sorts through them with practiced ease, their claws flicking through the pile. When they glance at Hemlockkit, it's not with sympathy but a slight expectation, a silent challenge to do the same.

Perhaps it will distract them. Or perhaps it will simply teach the kit that there is no time for unnecessary feelings. Hemlockkit's heart may be torn, their mind might be heavy with thoughts they cannot understand. But here, in this den, there is no room for confusion. There is no time for indulgence in sorrow. Cicadabuzz's eyes shift again to Hemlockkit, their gaze settling on the kit's posture, still hunched and unsure. "You will grow stronger if you focus," Cicadabuzz says, though there's no true warmth in their words, only a statement of fact. "The world doesn't stop for your pain, Hemlockkit. There is always work to be done." There is a certain coldness to this truth, but it is not said unkindly. Cicadabuzz has never been one for false assurances or sugary lies. They know the kit will find their own way, in time, just as they always have.

Their role is not to be the soothing balm to a wounded heart. Their chosen role is clear—to show Hemlockkit how to keep moving forward, even when the world feels too heavy to bear.

 

[hemlock-kit]

They're not met with a question, like they were expecting, nor a coo, like they were hoping. Just a beckon of a paw forth, a come in, and on wobbly legs that are too long for her, she carries herself closer, past the lions mouth and in to unfamiliar territory. It is not the first time they were here, nor was it the last, but its still... Vague memories to her, she does not know this place like the back of her paw, does not know this place like the nursery. Its the reason they dip their head shyly, lingering just a bit away from their parent. They've helped before, but a need to be right and a certain precision of checking and double checking leads them to be slow. They're not even looked at properly. They're not sure if that makes them feel better or worse, if they want something or not.

There is no sweet comfort to be found here, no loving voice to tell them they were okay... But this will do. It will have to, Hemlock-kit is not given another choice. Keeping their mind off things will do. Sort the usable from the unusable, its not a hard task given to them, so why do they feel so... Nervous? Afraid of messing up, afraid that Cicadabuzz would cast them out with a single mess-up? And what if they say the cruel things that the kits would taunt them with? A pit of despair at the very thought of it settles in her stomach. Eyes round and sad watch as Cicada methodically sorts them through with a practiced precision, so much unlike their own clumsy way of doing things. And then finally, finally eyes turn on her. They feel a spark of something, hope, maybe? But they pick up that its only borne from expectation rather than anything else, rather than the love they had hoped it would have been from. A stone lodges in their throat as they hesitantly reach out, taking a piece of feverfew between their claws and inspecting it. In the dim light, its tough to tell, and maybe its just her brain telling her otherwise, but it smells different than the fresher feverfew. As she turns it, she can see the answer: this one was wilted near the bottom. In to the bad pile it goes.

Rot. Or not quite, not yet, but its dying. And if left unchecked, then... It'd spread to the others, right? They strain their memory to think of whatever the principle of nature is before Cicadabuzz speaks again, stating they'll grow stronger if they focus. But half the time... They can't! They can't focus when every little thing is like a thorn in their side.

"But..." they sniffle, even if their tears have (mostly) dried. But what? So many thoughts, so many things they want to say lay on the tip of their tongue. But they're mean to me all the time, but it feels like theres something wrong with my heart, but it hurts so bad, but...? But I want to be loved? But I want them to like me? They decide to bite their tongue instead. "Okay..." again, there is no relief in their words, but finally, there is relief in distraction. They're getting better at sorting, now, pinpointing which ones are bad, rifling through the pile that Cicadabuzz had entrusted to them.

I wish there was something to make me feel better. Their head hurts from crying so hard before they came in, their eyes feel swollen and painful. "... What... Do these do?" their pile is getting smaller, now, and only a few remain before they finally finish it up. They finally look up at Cicadabuzz, rather than just staring at their paws or at the piles. "Can... Can I do more...?"

"meow"

 

[cicadabuzz]

CICADABUZZ, 27 moons / shc + med. cat
a SH cinnamon tabby/chocolate tortie chimera w/ black eyes
parent to deathberrykit, hemlockkit, mistletoekit
a reserved, pragmatic healer driven by duty rather than sentiment

Cicadabuzz listens without truly listening. The sniffled but… drifts toward them like a leaf caught in a breeze—felt but not held. It's there for a moment, almost asking to be acknowledged, before Hemlockkit swallows it back down. Cicadabuzz doesn't pry. They don't ask what the kit was about to say, don't try to coax it out of them. If it was important, they would have spoken it fully. That is how Cicadabuzz sees the world—words given shape only when they serve a purpose. Anything else is wasted breath. They continue their task, their movements precise and effortless, as Hemlockkit mirrors them in clumsy imitation. The feverfew shifts beneath their paws, some of it fresh, some of it on the cusp of ruin. Hemlockkit is slow, but slow is not a flaw—not if it means they are careful. Cicadabuzz lets them work, lets them find their own rhythm. The kit doesn't need praise to continue; they need purpose. And that, at least, is something Cicadabuzz can give.

The den is quiet save for the rustling of leaves, the soft scrape of tiny claws against stems. Hemlockkit's pile shrinks. Their movements grow steadier. Even without comfort, without tenderness, they seem to settle. Then, at last, a question.

"What… do these do?"

Cicadabuzz glances up. They consider the question, but only briefly, because the answer is simple. "They help with pain," they say. Their voice is even, unhurried. "Fevers, mostly. Headaches. Soreness." A flick of their tail toward the pile. "You may be surprised how much a little thing like this can ease suffering." They let that truth sit between them, weightless but firm. Cicadabuzz has never been one for empty reassurances, but they believe in the power of what they do, of the herbs they keep, of the knowledge they carry. It is not softness that eases pain—it is action. It is knowing what to reach for when the hurt becomes too much. And then, a request.

"Can… Can I do more…?"

Cicadabuzz stills, just for a breath, as they regard Hemlockkit properly for the first time since they entered. The kit's eyes are still swollen from crying, their body still small and uncertain, but there is something else now—something steadier. A need, perhaps. Not for comfort, but for something to do. That is something Cicadabuzz understands. They take a sprig of feverfew from the good pile and place it in front of Hemlockkit. "Eat this." It is not a suggestion; it is an instruction, as natural as telling them to separate the herbs. "It will help." Cicadabuzz does not soften as they say it, does not explain further. They do not need to. Hemlockkit wanted something to make them feel better, and this—this—is the answer. Not cooing words, not meaningless platitudes, but something real. Something tangible.

Hemlockkit is still young, still raw with the sharp edges of their own emotions, but they are learning. Slowly, perhaps, and with hesitation, but learning nonetheless. If they can sit here and sort herbs even with sadness pressing against their ribs, then they can endure. Cicadabuzz does not tell them they are strong, because words do not make a cat strong. Actions do. Choices do. So they do not say it. But they watch, and they wait, as Hemlockkit takes the feverfew. And then, once it is done, they push another small pile of herbs toward them. "Keep sorting."