TW: Sensitive Content Private Backwritten sermon of a twisted apparition // cicadabuzz

[SABLESTAR]

Blood clotted the surface of his wounds, each step a searing ache as the adrenaline began to ebb from his veins. Gray, his own brother, his littermate, shed his blood for what... nothing that would satisfy him in the end. He was still alive to breathe another day and Juniperstar would still see Gray as a kind friend in favor of his mateship. Those kittens were still his, this Clan was still his- he had nothing to his name other than the shadow of his brother to live within.

"'Cada." Sablestar all but dragged his sorry self into the dim light of the den, his front soaked in his own shadow-cursed ichor. "It's... a lot. I know, I'm sorry." Sorry because more herbs were put to use when they could be shelved for another day. Sorry because he had chosen a fool for a brother that would see him flayed rather than join him in greatness. Maybe him and Juniperstar would have deserved each other, if she were as week as him. But he had built his mate up into something stronger, better, at his own expense even. Power beyond recognition, immortality. How lonely it still felt.

this heart beats cold like the devil his own

• @cicadabuzz hii. he has lacerations on the chest/shoulders!
  "mew"
• 

  SABLESTAR— he/him ･fifty-four moons ･leader; shadowclan ･penned by gonkpilled

  a black and white tuxedo with dark amber eyes

 

[cicadabuzz]

Cicadabuzz does not startle when Sablestar enters the den, though the scent of blood reaches them before his voice does. They glance up from where they are carefully arranging dried leaves, their gaze flat, unreadable. The sharp tang of iron saturates the air, but they do not rush to meet him. No frantic movements, no wasted words. Only a moment's pause, a breath, and then they rise to their paws. Their eyes travel over him, slow and assessing, as if mapping the damage in their mind before moving to act. The deep crimson staining his pelt, the way his shoulders tremble beneath the weight of his own body, the raw edges of lacerations that split open his skin. Cicadabuzz has seen wounds like this before, and they know what such injuries mean. Not just in the way flesh is torn, but in the cause behind it. This was not a rogue's doing, not an enemy warrior's claws. This is personal.

They do not ask. If Sablestar wants to spill his bitterness like blood upon the den floor, he will. Cicadabuzz does not coax words from wounds.

The healer moves with fluid precision, reaching for damp moss to cleanse the worst of the blood away. "Sit," they instruct, voice level, neither gentle nor harsh, but a command, meant to be obeyed. They press the moss against his chest, soaking up the sluggishly oozing blood, rinsing it away so they can see the depth of the lacerations beneath. Their touch is firm, practical, unbothered by the way his body flinches under the pressure. Pain is secondary to survival. "You apologize for coming to me?" they observe, head tilting a fraction to the side. Their tail flicks once as they set aside the moss, moving now to sort through their supply of cobwebs, marigold, goldenrod. "What a pointless thing to be sorry for." Their eyes flick to his. "You should be sorry that you were careless enough to let this happen. A leader that wastes his life is no leader at all."

It is not kindness, but it is not cruelty either. If he lets himself be torn apart over and over again, he will eventually meet a wound that even they cannot mend. And Cicadabuzz does not waste their efforts on those determined to throw themselves to the wolves. They work in silence for a time, pressing chewed poultices into the slashes across his shoulders, layering cobwebs over them with practiced efficiency. Their claws are stained green and gold from the mixture, the scent of crushed herbs mingling with blood and breath. The only sound is the rustle of their movements, the faint catch of his breathing. At last, they speak again. "Your body will heal." A pause, pointed. "But you must solve what it is that brought this upon you." Their gaze does not soften, nor does it linger long on his expression. "You may not care about that. I do not either. But if it weakens you, if it leaves you bleeding in this den again, then it is a problem."

 

[SABLESTAR]

The audience he is given is filled in silence and calculated moves. There is purpose in each step, mirrored to the leader's own gait when he is not drenched in his own blood and bearing open wounds. He cursed Graybird with each haggard breath as if it would make Fleecefur ascend from the murky grounds and slice his littermate to ribbons. As if it would call for lightning to strike down upon the tom and leave him into nothing but a scorched shadow in it's wake. The 'powers' of being ShadowClan's champion feel useless in this moment, that it isn't enough for him to truly gain what he wishes to succeed. Had he been the evil mongrel they painted him as he might have rallied war over this, he might lost one of his precious lives for payback against his brother's one.

He didn't deserve the mercy he was given and yet... ThunderClan's most fearsome enemy gave it to his traitor brother. He doesn't know if Alder would have been proud he let Graybird live, or spat on his name for not ditching his morals when the other tom clearly left his. His mind flashes between the old cats face, faer muzzle twisted in a frown and curving into a knowing smirk.

"Don't pretend you're a good boy, liars make for sour hearts." A shudder racked down his spine as another surge of pain stretched across his chest at Cicadabuzz's touch. The moss is a whipping cold against the heat of flesh, and his breath stuttered as he fought not to cringe away from it.

Teeth clench together in a mix of irritation and pain- both from the wounds and Cicadabuzz's scolding. He didn't drag himself across the pocosin to be chided like a kit getting into fights. This was unplanned, his intentions had been innocent. This time. "It was Gray." He spat his brother's name between his teeth like is was fresh yarrow on his tongue. No brother of his anymore, a stranger that lurked in the dark of his success, Crawling to get away from it, but always stuck in its canopy. "I wanted to bring prey to Juni... She's expecting. She can't believe I would leave her, that I wouldn't... try to take care of her." Even if she had the entire Clan of pansies she led willing to give up the food from their mouths for her, she was too softhearted herself to take anything she deserved. Too humble, too caring. She needed his insistence.

"... I didn't lose any." Not this time. He had considered it, risking it to retaliate. He let the quiet rest between them, the tension of his prior agitation ebbing with the each stroke of moss. Clearing the red stains from white and black and smearing more odd-smelling herbs across his coat. Sablestar avoided their gaze, trying to deny that what he felt was shame. "I don't like... killing. It's not what I wanted to do." But a silver tongue was only so strong against the rage behind tooth and claw.

"I'm not a kin-killer."

Admitting it brought a fire to the shame he already felt, masking the pain in his expression. So many looked to him as a tom without fear, without regard for life at all and it had wrought a life he found worth living in the pocosin. But it was not who he was truly, he did not kill for sport. Necessity, what had to be done for the good of himself and those under his care. Graybird was a fool, but he wasn't dangerous. Saying that aloud felt foolish now, seeing the amount of blood Cicadabuzz just cleaned from his pelt.

this heart beats cold like the devil his own

• "mew"
• 

  SABLESTAR— he/him ･fifty-four moons ･leader; shadowclan ･penned by gonkpilled

  a black and white tuxedo with dark amber eyes

 

[cicadabuzz]

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

Cicadabuzz listens, their paws still moving with quiet efficiency, though their ears flick at his words. 'I didn't lose any'? Not this time. They press a wad of herbs into a wound on his shoulder, firmer than necessary. Not enough to cause him true pain, but enough to remind him that he is flesh and bone like the rest of them. That no matter how many lives he hoards, they are not infinite. "Not this time," Cicadabuzz echoes their thought, voice level. Their pale eyes flick up, sharp, unyielding. "But next time?" They sit back, assessing their work. The wounds are bound. The bleeding has slowed. He might scar, but he will live. For now.

"You don't like killing," they continue, their voice carrying the same even cadence as before. "But your brother does not seem to share your restraint." Their tail flicks, an idle movement, but their expression remains steady, unreadable. "You hesitate. He doesn't." They let the words sink in. The truth is already written across his body, carved into him by claws that did not hesitate, by a brother who did not falter. Cicadabuzz exhales, slow, measured. "You could have lost a life tonight. If he had struck a little deeper. If I weren't here to mend you." A pause. "And what then? What would your precious Juniperstar have gained from that?" Their voice does not carry accusation, but there is something weighted beneath it, something that does not allow for self-delusion.

They move again, smoothing cobwebs over poultices to hold them in place on still-wide wounds. The work is meticulous, calculated—not unlike Sablestar himself when he is not bleeding into the dirt. They have seen him at his most dangerous, at his most ruthless. He is not a cat who acts without purpose. And yet— "If you insist on caring for Juniperstar despite her choice to turn away from you," Cicadabuzz says at last, "then send someone else. Someone expendable." They look at him then, gaze unwavering, and there is something almost like exasperation in their eyes, though they themself do not recognize it for what it is. "You are not." It is not spoken as a kindness, nor as flattery. It is their belief that spills from their maw.

He is many things—irritating, reckless, reliable, strong. But expendable? No. If he were, ShadowClan would not have come to be in the fashion it has. They let out a quiet breath, shaking their head slightly. "I don't care for sentiment," they say, more to themself than to him. "But I do care for sense. And walking willingly into your brother's claws again is not sense. It is foolishness." Their paws still, their work finished. Their gaze lingers on him for a beat longer than necessary. Then, as if catching themself, they look away, gathering the remnants of their supplies. "So if you keep making me waste herbs on you for avoidable reasons," Cicadabuzz mutters, "I will start using the bitter ones just to spite you." It is a joke, though their tone does not change. Maybe it is meant to be a warning. Maybe it is something else. A beat of silence. Then they exhale, the closest thing they ever offer to weariness. They turn, beginning to clean the remnants of their work, methodical as ever. "Next time, send someone else." Their voice is quieter now, but no less firm. "Or I will be using my herbs on a corpse."