Closed The Colony no such thing as an ugly whelp // cicada

[serpentberry]

She doesn't err often to consult those out of her inner circle. She prefers the company of Hawthorne and Snake, of Juniper and maybe even Sable sometimes - but the lot of them do not know the struggles of a pregnant molly like Cicada does. Or... at least, like she assumes they do. They've been in the colony, assisting in the delivery of many kittens before she even arrived (or so she's been told.) Approaching them is easy, asking is easy (albeit, awkward,) - the hard part comes with the vulnerability.

She is not immune to the whispers between cats, the ambitions and silent threats. Is Cicada one to tarnish the bloodline? Is she wrong to trust them in this situation? She bears the next heir to their colony. Does that scare them?

"I just can't get a read on myself -" she complains. "I thought maybe two - but now it kind of feels like three?"

 

[cicadabuzz]

Cicada sits before the molly, their posture composed, yet their gaze drifts just past her shoulder, as though tracking a distant, unseen movement. Their expression is an enigmatic mask, revealing nothing of the thoughts they are turning over. The usual hum of the colony feels muted here, the air between them charged with a heavy stillness, as if the world itself has paused to listen. "Two. Maybe three." The numbers are spoken plainly, yet the weight they carry hangs between them like an unspoken truth. Cicada's paws shift, brushing absently against a sprig of thyme tucked neatly into their tail. The texture and scent ground them, a quiet tether to the moment. "Your instincts," they say at last, their voice a low murmur, measured and even, "are often sharper than you give them credit for. If your body tells you that there may be three, then trust it. Plan for three." Their tone carries no warmth or comfort, only the necessary words, heavy with practicality. "Three is not beyond your strength. Should there be three, you will find a way, as mothers always do. But you must eat well. All of them will need your strength to be born healthy. Do not neglect this."

Cicada's gaze shifts, their eyes slipping past her again as though drawn to a faraway vision. A sigh, soft and almost imperceptible, escapes them. "You are not alone in preparing for new life within the colony," they murmur, the words less a statement to her and more a reflection aloud. "It seems this season the earth has been generous." For a moment, their thoughts drift like leaves caught in a gentle breeze: a season of abundance, yes, but perhaps also of upheaval. Where new life blooms, so too does change. The thought lingers, faint and unspoken, before they push it aside.

 

[serpentberry]

Serpent tries to keep her expression from twisting, her tail moving to obscure the roundness of her belly. She wanted assurance that less would be true, that she wouldn't be responsible for more hungry mouths despite the harrowing weather. But they are succinct, practical, and distant; their paws hardly grace the soft fur of her underbelly before they say, "Plan for three." The mottled molly tilts her muzzle down to hide the scowl that tries to unfurl onto it, dwelling further into how happy it will make Hawthorne - how happy, in turn, she will be.

"Have you any kits, Cica?" she asks, but she can't keep the venom off of her sharp tongue. "You've never spoken of them in the time I've known you. How do you plan for something unknown, then?"

She does not retract her daggered words, green gaze gripping them with frustration (not for them; for once, for herself, for being foolish when leafbare is so close. The swelling feeling will dissipate, she thinks. In time.)

"I've seen Ember; she grows rounder by the day," Serpent mutters, an ear twitching back. She watches as their fall-foliage gaze unfocuses, lingering away from the both of them, and she catches the brevity of new information. Again, she holds her expression, holds to her terse tone. "Unless you speak of someone else, Cica. Did you let someone a little too close?" And yet, it drips like honey, taunting and silky sweet.

 

[cicadabuzz]

Cicada remains still as Serpent's words strike, a calculated silence that refuses to rise to the venom in her voice. Their gaze drifts briefly to the soft sprig of thyme nestled in their tail, their paw brushing over it in a rhythmic motion, as if drawing strength from its texture. They are unmoved, their steady demeanor a stark contrast to the heated frustration rolling off Serpent like waves against an unyielding shore. "You mistake me," they say, their tone unruffled, an even keel that neither confirms nor denies the barbs embedded in Serpent's questions. Their gaze lifts to meet her sharp eyes, holding them with the weight of someone accustomed to looking beyond what is plainly seen. "I speak not from experience, but observation." They do deign to answer her question after a moment of pause, however; "Consume burnet and ragweed. They will provide you with the strength you will require."

Cicada lets the stillness stretch between them, unbothered by the tension it creates. The faintest tilt of their head suggests consideration, not for Serpent's challenge, but for what must be said next. "You ask if I speak of someone else," they murmur, their voice quiet but deliberate, a stone skipping across the surface of a still pond. "Cherry will bear kittens in the coming weeks." No further explanation follows. Cicada lets the words rest where they fall, uninterested in elaboration or appeasing Serpent's unspoken demands. They do not indulge her honeyed accusations, choosing instead to redirect the conversation's current with a simple, unadorned truth. Their gaze shifts again, not past her this time, but to the horizon beyond, as though searching for the place where earth meets sky.

"Leafbare brings challenges," they continue after a moment, their tone thoughtful, a quiet reflection that barely brushes the edge of warmth. "Yet, life persists. It is the way of things." Their words are pragmatic, stripped of sentiment, but there is a faint undercurrent of something deeper—a reminder, perhaps, of resilience, of the quiet strength that endures even in the harshest seasons.