Cicada listens in silence, their paws steady as they smear the poultice over Sable's wounds. Their expression is unreadable, their gaze distant yet piercing, as if weighing the tom's every word against the immovable truths they've come to understand about the world. The mention of a spirit doesn't make them pause, nor does the claim of a Clan reborn. Such declarations, grand and gilded with ambition, are not beyond comprehension to Cicada, though their thoughts on them remain as obscured as the depths of a still pond. The earthy scent of crushed herbs mingles with the tang of blood in the air. Cicada presses a little harder than necessary against the edge of a jagged wound, not cruelly, but enough to draw Sable's attention. When they finally speak, their voice is low, measured, and weighted with an almost eerie calm.
"Unbelievable?" Cicada repeats, their tone devoid of judgment. "No. Not unbelievable. But belief is a fragile thing, Sable. It burns bright, but it can be smothered, twisted, or left to wither. You say a spirit came to you. Perhaps she did. Perhaps she will come again. But the night doesn't offer gifts without cost." They don't look at him as they speak, their focus on the precise placement of cobwebs to stem the bleeding. Their touch is careful, their movements deliberate, as if each action is part of some unspoken ritual. For Cicada, healing is as much an act of preservation as it is preparation—a reminder that bodies, no matter how strong, are finite. "You claim the mantle of a leader," they continue, their gaze flicking briefly to meet Sable's, sharp and unyielding. "Nine lives. A Clan reborn. These are heavy things to carry. Heavy enough to crush even the strongest of us if we're not careful."
They sit back, their paws stained with faint streaks of crimson and the greenish tint of the chewed herbs. For a moment, they simply observe him, their eyes half-lidded, their expression inscrutable. "ShadowClan. Living and breathing by the night. It's fitting, I suppose. The night holds its own kind of power—quiet, patient, and unrelenting. But it's also cold. Indifferent. The darkness doesn't care for the cats who walk within it, no matter how grand their aspirations." Cicada's voice softens, though their words retain their characteristic bluntness. "You should ask yourself, Sable; is this spirit's vision truly yours? Or are you just a vessel, an instrument for something far older, far hungrier than you understand? If she visits you once more tonight, what will you offer in return? Because she will ask for something. They always do."
They rise to their paws, their movements fluid and unhurried, as though the weight of their own words has no bearing on them. The faint rustle of leaves caught in their fur follows them as they move to tidy their supplies. "Perhaps you're right. Perhaps you'll lead this ShadowClan to greatness. But greatness is often born from sacrifice, and rarely the kind we choose." To them, Sable's ambitions are just another wound—something raw, something dangerous, and something that, in time, will either heal or fester.
