TW: Sensitive Content Private the sickness you've got in you ] deathberrykit

[cicadabuzz]

Cicadabuzz watches as the flickering light of the den falls across Deathberrykit's frail form. The scent of infection is heavy in the air—thick, sour, and unmistakable. For weeks now, the kit has been slipping away, the fever never truly abating, and the cough worsening by the day. Cicadabuzz has done everything they can think of, tried every remedy known to them, but nothing has worked. It's all been in vain. The herbs rest on the stone floor before them, crushed leaves and powders, the remnants of failed attempts, their pungent odor mixing in the air. The mixture of feverfew, yarrow, and marigold did nothing. The poultices of comfrey and burdock were applied, but they hadn't brought any relief, not even a moment's respite. Cicadabuzz even tried a handful of coltsfoot, knowing it could soothe the lungs, but the kit's body had rejected it, just as it rejected every other attempt.

They knew this outcome was coming; deep down, they've known it for days, weeks even. The kit is beyond saving now. Their eyes flick to Deathberrykit's fragile body once more, the weak, shallow breaths that rattle through her chest, the dullness in her once-bright eyes. Cicadabuzz watches her struggle, but there's no judgment in them—no pity. Only a grim acceptance of what needs to be done. They've seen this before. Not often, but enough times. Death is a part of life, and Cicadabuzz knows that holding on, clinging to false hope, would only drag out the suffering. Serpent had taught them that. A soft, almost imperceptible sigh slips from Cicadabuzz's mouth. There are no tears to shed, no soft words of consolation to offer. That is not their way. Instead, their claws slide over the ground, moving with purpose, as they draw out a small, red berry from a pile in the back of their den. There are times when the earth offers no mercy. It's time for them to step in, to end this.

Cicadabuzz's gaze remains steady, their heart—if one could even say they had one—unchanging. No hesitation in their movements as they take the berry into their claws. The deathberry is small but potent, and they know from experience that a full dose is too much for a young kit. No, the kit will not suffer longer than she must. They slice the berry in half with a single, controlled swipe of their claw. The sharp tang of poison fills the air, though Cicadabuzz doesn't recoil from it. They know it well. The side of the berry with the seeds they set aside carefully, their eyes narrowing in calculation. The seeds, potent as they are, would bring swift suffering before death—too swift, too painful. They won't allow that for the kit. Not theirs.

The other side—the half without seeds—they carefully pierce with a claw to carry. Cicadabuzz shifts, their posture languid but precise. They walk to the bed of moss where the kit lies, their movements slow and deliberate, every step measured. There's no rush. There's no need for it. Cicadabuzz sits beside Deathberrykit, their gaze sharp but impassive. Their breath steady, they raise the half-berry to the kit's lips, waiting a moment, almost as if contemplating the finality of it. Without a word, they place the berry on Deathberrykit's tongue. The kit's frail jaw moves slightly, just enough to allow the bitter taste of the deathberry to settle in. Cicadabuzz's eyes remain locked on her face, watching for any reaction. But there is none—not yet.

The moments stretch out, long and quiet. Cicadabuzz waits, listening to the sound of Deathberrykit's breaths, feeling the familiar weight of finality settle in. They don't think of what comes after. They do not wonder if the kit will feel anything. What matters now is that it's done. The pain will cease. The suffering will end. It is the only mercy left to offer.

 

[deathberrykit]

[ general tw. talks of not wanting to live anymore ]
The world that is, is so distant.

Deathberrykit can feel the tremors of her soul as the Gods of the guys try and fail to take her away. Their claws reach for her, but only as if they slog through the marsh itself, bidden by mud and slop and ultimately unable to reach her. She feels herself slip away night after night, only to wake once more in the same tired body, looking at the same mournful ceiling, breathing the same painful air. She almost wishes she could finally leave and disappear, and fulfill the role she was born to play. An experiment to her knowledgable parent, a stomach to test what works and what doesn't.

Hazy eyes close, and she expects yet again nothing. She expects to be dragged into the earth or lifted to the heavens. But she opens them again, and instead, she sees her parent.

Her doting, cautious, intelligent, harsh parent.

Deathberrykit watches them with her eyes half lidded. She does not know what they are thinking, could never claim to see into the mind of the other. Are they proud that she's succeeded in her childish mission of being useful? Are they pained by her impending death, or annoyed that it's happened so soon? They produce a small berry, and the slime of her thoughts echo a soft, "Oh." She is to be tested again, again and again. It is her only value in this realm. They tear the berry apart, the morsel of their name shredded to smaller pieces for the sake of her smaller maw perhaps, and hold it to her.

Her jaw tilts open and the berry lands on her tongue with no fanfare. She does what she can to chew, the sweetness only making her further dread the disappointment she must be. And soon, perhaps not soon enough, she swallows. Her eyes close, and her paws uselessly grasp at whatever Cicadabuzz holds closest to her. A paw, a tail, a tuft of fur... she holds it, in hopes that as she leaves, she can take a piece of them with her.

The youth falls into a slumber. Her breathing never leaves her, but instead persists. Over the night it grows stronger, and the tragic warmth of her body lessens. By morning, she can hold her head upright. She greets the sleeping Cicadabuzz with clearing eyes and an upturned muzzle. "Another?" She asks, again accepting her position in this society.

 

[cicadabuzz]

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

Cicadabuzz does not dream. Sleep is a necessity, a thing to be taken when time allows, but the mind does not wander in that space.And when they wake, it is not with the hazy confusion of someone roused too early, but with the steady, immediate awareness of a cat who never truly lets go of wakefulness. And when they do, their eyes catch on the small form beside them. Deathberrykit is sitting up. Their head lifts slowly, their eyes catching on the pale slivers of morning light filtering into the den. The stale scent of infection still lingers, but it is thinner now, not the choking presence it was before. They look at her—truly look at her—and see the difference immediately. The lines of exhaustion have not left her, but the fever is breaking. Her breath comes easier.

She is alive.

Cicadabuzz does not react at first. They simply observe, turning the information over in their mind, fitting it together like pieces of an unfinished puzzle. The berry should have killed her. That is its purpose. That is why it is named so. They did not give her enough to bring agony, only to lull her into rest, to spare her the slow, cruel rot that had taken hold of her body. But now, instead of a still form cooling beneath their paws, she is sitting upright, gazing at them with something that might be expectation.

The seeds.

Their eyes flick toward the storage where the other half of the berry remains. The seeds had been removed. Could that have been it? Could it be that without them, the deathberry was not death at all, but something else entirely? A medicine unrecognized, a cure hidden in poison? Cicadabuzz has worked with plants long enough to know that sometimes, the difference between a remedy and a toxin is only in how it is prepared, in which piece of a plant is consumed. But this… this was not something they had expected. Another? The word slides through the quiet like a stone into water, small but rippling. Cicadabuzz watches her for a moment longer, eyes sharp, unreadable. A request. A willingness. She is still too weak to stand, but her body is not wasting anymore. This is worth testing. If it was the seeds, then another dose—carefully prepared, controlled—could confirm the truth of it.

Cicadabuzz stands with fluid ease, their movements slow but deliberate as they turn toward their stores. The remaining half of the berry is still where they left it, untouched. It sits in the dim light, a small, crimson-bright thing that could have been her end but instead might be the reason she still breathes. They take it between their claws and, with the same careful precision as before, remove the seeds. One by one, they scrape them away, ensuring that none remain. The seeds are potent. They know that well. It is their concentrated venom that brings death so swiftly. Without them, the flesh of the berry—what is it then? A useless husk, or something more?

They return to Deathberrykit, their expression unchanged, their thoughts locked behind the steady mask of their mind. Without a word, they offer the prepared berry. It is not a test of her, but of the plant itself. She is simply the vessel through which the answer will come.