Closed Backwritten The Colony the poison's on my lips ] serpent

[cicadabuzz]

Cicada moves through the camp with measured steps, their body carried slowly and lightly, as if wary of disturbing the earth beneath their paws. A faint breeze stirs the herbs tucked into their tail, releasing a subtle, bittersweet fragrance that clings to them like an aura. The cool morning light filters through the leaves, dappling their mottled coat, but their sharp green gaze is fixed ahead, focused on their destination. They know where Serpent will be. That snake of a cat always seems to coil herself in the same dark corner, where shadows fold over her like a second skin. Cicada doesn't hesitate as they approach, their movements deliberate, their expression unreadable. Inside, though, they weigh their words carefully. To admit a weakness, to seek help—it isn't easy. But Cicada has long believed that wisdom is born of humility. And humility, though bitter as nettle, is a medicine in its own right.

As they near Serpent's resting place, Cicada lets out a quiet chuff, a sound to announce their presence without startling her. They pause just a few paces away, giving her space—always respectful, always cautious. Their head tilts slightly, the leaves tucked into their short fur trembling faintly, as if bowing to some unseen rhythm. "I've come to learn," Cicada says, their voice low and even, words dropping like stones into a still pool. No greetings, no pleasantries. They know Serpent would see through them anyway. "Your knowledge of poisons is deeper than mine. I want you to teach me." Their gaze doesn't waver, though it holds no challenge. Cicada is direct but not confrontational; they see no shame in seeking what they do not know. "I can mend flesh and ease fevers with no issue, but poisons..." They pause, a flicker of annoyance crossing their features. Not at Serpent, but at their own failings. "I've seen what they can do, and I don't know enough to fight them—or to use them."

The admission lingers in the air, unadorned and unashamed. Cicada's tail curls briefly over their paws, a movement both thoughtful and impatient. They glance at Serpent, their eyes sharp as the curled orange leaves underfoot. "I want to know how to recognize them. How to counter them, if possible. And..." Their voice dips, thoughtful. "How to wield them, if necessary." They fall silent then, their expression calm, though their mind churns like a river after heavy rain. Cicada doesn't flinch from the grayness of their request. Healing and harming are two sides of the same leaf, and any healer worth their herbs should understand both; especially in a time where every extra mouth is a weight on the shoulders of the rest of the colony.

 

[serpentberry]

Fray has been entombed for only a few hours. Serpent has left her husband to mourn his heart out, having sat beside him for as long as he would allow. Her paws now scuff through wilted leaves and tousled berries, mind weighted by the pain of her actions, heart stabbed by the sense of necessity. I had to do it, she does not say, but her mind repeats the mantra. Fray was weak, his paws already deep beneath the dirt when she fed him his final meal. He watched her, and there had been an understanding in his foggy eyes. I had to do it. He didn't gasp for air or choke, not as the stars grew brighter in the stars. She held his paw and promised a bright future for his grandkits. She was an unbending sentry at his end.

Their voice is of no greeting, no softness to press down the spiked fur of her hackles. It's of knowing, with no lack of understanding but no weight of accusation. To learn, and as if another may listen to them chat, Serpent hums back a natural, "I usually approach you for lessons, dearest Cica..." Her tone flits with a snake's tongue, but in the depths of their stores, her eyes do not flash with the same uneven kindness.

What they request (demand is too harsh of a word, even when she knows she has little choice in the matter,) does not trouble her. Serpent nods gently with their explanation, her paws working to move leaves and petals back into messy piles, likely to be rustled by the wind once more. Her tail lashes as she moves to stand, looks back to them with a dip of her head, "I will show you, then," she says. "Where to find them, how to best transport them - and how to use them. Leafbare will make this difficult, Cica," she brushes her side to theirs, a motion of comradery, her head bowed to them in a minor idea of submission. "But I will pass my knowledge to you, so long as you keep yours beneath your tongue."

 

[cicadabuzz]

Cicada observes Serpent as she speaks, her words slipping like oil into the quiet between them. Their sharp gaze does not waver, though their thoughts coil inward, winding tightly around the unspoken truths shared between them. Serpent's tone is light, almost playful, but Cicada senses the hollow echo beneath it. A predator's humor masking the heaviness that lingers in her pawsteps. Serpent's usual sharpness is dulled today, her movements deliberate but lacking their usual precision. Cicada's mind brushes past the memory of Fray's burial—the freshly turned earth, the air thick with the metallic scent of grief—and they say nothing. Instead, they incline their head slightly, acknowledging her agreement without gratitude. Gratitude is unnecessary here. Serpent is pragmatic, as are they. This exchange is a transaction, and both know the weight of what lies beneath their words.

Cicada steps closer as Serpent rises, their movements fluid and deliberate. When her tail brushes against them, they do not flinch, but neither do they lean into the gesture. Her words about leaf-bare draw a faint hum from their throat. "The seasons will not wait for knowledge," they reply simply, their voice low and steady. They shift their weight, the herbs woven into their fur rustling faintly with the subtle movement. "And neither will I." They follow her as she moves, their gaze flickering briefly to the scattered leaves and petals she tends to with idle paws. Cicada is not one to fill silences, especially not with someone like Serpent, who seems to thrive in them. Instead, they let the quiet stretch, their own thoughts filling the space between her words. Beneath their calm exterior, a current of thoughts churn. They think of Fray—not of his burial, but of the brittle way he had carried himself in his final moons. A body already wilting, a mind too far gone to recognize what was surely coming. Cicada recalls the lingering bitterness in the air when they last saw him. They had not been there for his final breath, but they know enough. The signs are unmistakable to one who knows life and death as they do, and yet, they say nothing of it now. It is not their place to judge Serpent for what she did—or did not do. Cicada has long understood that survival sometimes requires decisions sharp enough to wound.

"I will hold your knowledge close," Cicada says as they walk, their voice cutting softly through the silence. "And I expect the same from you. This is not for the ears of others." Their tone holds no accusation. They glance at her briefly, their gaze steady and sharp as the edge of a thorn. "The colony does not understand the balance of lives. Not as we do." They fall silent again, the faint crunch of leaves beneath their paws filling the void. Cicada lets their focus drift outward, cataloging their surroundings with the precision of one accustomed to reading the land like a tome. They follow Serpent's lead, their movements unhurried but purposeful. The air feels heavier here, as if the shadows themselves are weighted with understanding. Cicada breathes it in without hesitation. When Serpent finally pauses, Cicada stops a few paces behind, watching her with an intensity that never quite softens. Her offer to teach is no gift, no benevolence. It is an exchange, a transference of knowledge both of them know will carry its own cost. But Cicada does not flinch from it. Knowledge—true knowledge—demands sacrifice. Whether that sacrifice comes in the form of trust, time, or something far greater, they are prepared to bear it.