Cicadabuzz moves like something half-feral and half-forgotten—neither entirely ghost nor cat—as they slip between the gnarled roots marking the ThunderClan and ShadowClan border. The morning fog clings to the undergrowth in soft threads, curling around their legs, swallowing their pawsteps. Dew beads along the length of their whiskers and along the curled leaves of the burdock cluster they pause beside. Not for harvesting. Just to see. To know. They crouch, breath low and thin in their scarred throat, and inspect the stems with a narrowed gaze. The edges of the burdock leaves have browned. Not from rot—this is sunburn, and the soil below is parched. They note it in silence, letting the information sink into memory, the way beetles vanish under bark.
It is not the herbs they think of most, though.
Serpentberry's name coils behind their eyes like smoke—impossible to blink away. No matter how many steps they put between them. It's always something about the other's voice, thick with suggestion, sharp with something unspoken, like thorns dipped in honey. There's always that flavor to her. Sweet. Then sour. Then sweet again. Something a weaker cat might find intoxicating. Something Cicadabuzz finds—useful. Dangerous. Fascinating. Maddening. Their claws sink quietly into the dirt.
She is always smiling like she knows the end of the story already. Cicadabuzz, meanwhile, is still busy reading the middle, caught somewhere between revulsion and that terrible ache of knowing they might look too long if allowed. The worst thing is, Serpentberry knows that, too. They straighten. The air tastes of pine sap and old tension. Even now, miles from her voice, Serpentberry clings to the edges of their thoughts. Cicadabuzz tips their head toward the sky, as though seeking guidance in the rustling canopy—but finds only the drone of bees nearby, the chatter of birds. She took their throat, once. Not the whole thing—but enough. Enough to leave Cicadabuzz half-ruined and still breathing. Enough that words rasp instead of ring. Enough that it is never truly quiet inside their chest. She should be dead for that. They should hate her for that.
They do. And don't.
Their tail flicks, thistle-catching. They do not remove the burrs. Fondness is not the right word. It's older, meaner, hungrier than fondness. It's a wasp's nest between the ribs. It's knowing what poison tastes like and choosing to consume it anyway. Because sometimes poison is necessary. Sometimes you need that venom. They move again, stepping over a flattened patch of grass where once a fox might've bedded down. They do not glance back, though their ears remain angled toward the ShadowClan side. One day, something will break between them. Or bloom. It is not for Cicadabuzz to say which.
It is not the herbs they think of most, though.
Serpentberry's name coils behind their eyes like smoke—impossible to blink away. No matter how many steps they put between them. It's always something about the other's voice, thick with suggestion, sharp with something unspoken, like thorns dipped in honey. There's always that flavor to her. Sweet. Then sour. Then sweet again. Something a weaker cat might find intoxicating. Something Cicadabuzz finds—useful. Dangerous. Fascinating. Maddening. Their claws sink quietly into the dirt.
She is always smiling like she knows the end of the story already. Cicadabuzz, meanwhile, is still busy reading the middle, caught somewhere between revulsion and that terrible ache of knowing they might look too long if allowed. The worst thing is, Serpentberry knows that, too. They straighten. The air tastes of pine sap and old tension. Even now, miles from her voice, Serpentberry clings to the edges of their thoughts. Cicadabuzz tips their head toward the sky, as though seeking guidance in the rustling canopy—but finds only the drone of bees nearby, the chatter of birds. She took their throat, once. Not the whole thing—but enough. Enough to leave Cicadabuzz half-ruined and still breathing. Enough that words rasp instead of ring. Enough that it is never truly quiet inside their chest. She should be dead for that. They should hate her for that.
They do. And don't.
Their tail flicks, thistle-catching. They do not remove the burrs. Fondness is not the right word. It's older, meaner, hungrier than fondness. It's a wasp's nest between the ribs. It's knowing what poison tastes like and choosing to consume it anyway. Because sometimes poison is necessary. Sometimes you need that venom. They move again, stepping over a flattened patch of grass where once a fox might've bedded down. They do not glance back, though their ears remain angled toward the ShadowClan side. One day, something will break between them. Or bloom. It is not for Cicadabuzz to say which.