Private the unaccounted for [ cicadabuzz ]

[wisteriastrike wisteriastrike]

@CICADABUZZ :)

She parts her jaws in a yawn, their oversized litter quite literally taking everything from her. Wisteriastrike anticipated something like this - the exhaustion, the lack of reprieve - but not to this extent. She thought she would be blessed with two, maybe three new souls to nurture at best. But six? It's still unfathomable. Yet she's laid beside six little tots, with little chests rising and falling, little paws twitching and noses sniffling. Maggotkit, bug had called one. Centipedekit, another. Then some pretty names, like Oleanderkit and Goldenrodkit (both she wouldn't delude herself to believe them to be for her.) And then... Elderkit, was it? Odd, but she never asked why. And Deathberrykit. She can't say she saw bug when his older child was renamed, but she heard enough rumors of how their claws flexed and their stature changed. She didn't argue, to say the least.

In any case, the Caretaker knew that she was walking into a world of new experiences by becoming a mother. Still, she hadn't anticipated this much responsibility - and during a drought of food, no less.

Their kits are asleep - for who knows how long, she's sure Mirepurr or Timberfrost will come grab her once they start to awake - and she slips into the medicine den. Her plumed tail is careful to not touch anything, as she would rather not drag anything into the nursery that'd make someone ill.

"Cicadabuzz~?" she croons bug's name with a slight lilt, "Have you any hunting skills?" she asks plainly, knowing that it doesn't care for small talk.

 

[CICADABUZZ]

Cicadabuzz lifts their head from where they've been sorting dried leaves into neat piles. The dim light in the den pools across their face, glinting faintly off the faint dust of crumbled old leaves still clinging to their paws. Their gaze slides toward Wisteriastrike, slow and deliberate, like a leaf turning to catch the wind. "Enough to keep myself fed," they answer, voice calm—soft, but edged with that pragmatic dryness that never quite warms. "But not enough to fill the mouths of seven." They rise, movements fluid and unhurried, brushing their tail against the stone floor to shake loose a bit of stray chamomile that is past its due. The air smells of herbs and damp earth—clean, careful, controlled. Against that order, Wisteriastrike looks almost too alive—fur rumpled, eyes shadowed, the faint tremor of exhaustion in her limbs.

Cicadabuzz studies her for a moment. "You should be resting," they murmur, turning to nudge a sprig of thyme back into its pile. "Milk does not come easy when the body is running itself ragged." Their tone is not tender, but factual, matter-of-course. "And if you are worrying over prey, I would suggest looking towards the Clan's warriors." They pause. A flicker of something—humor, faint and dry—passes through their eyes. "Unless you meant to ask me to go chase rabbits myself. In which case, you'll have six hungry kits and an irritated healer." The corners of their mouth twitch, not quite a smile, but some semblance of one.

 

[wisteriastrike wisteriastrike]

Wisteriastrike nearly withers when bug speaks, head reclining into her shoulder pathetically. The fluff of her coat does well to obscure her thinning structure, but even the pale lilac hues cannot hide the way her weight sheds off far too quickly. "Resting," she repeats to the medic, almost as if they've spoken a riddle for her to solve. "All I do is rest. I thought once they were born, I'd get out of this state of... lethargy!" She stretches forth, her claws clipping into one of the nests nearby as if to threaten its integrity. When she straightens again, it's clear it had been an accident by the way she flicks moss back into the decaying nest. "I'm feeling more tired than I ever had been while pregnant," which is a feat in of itself.

The caretaker takes quiet interest in bug's slow, methodical movements - nor does she miss the slight shift in their demeanor. Nothing close to happiness or enjoyment, but a tick more positive nonetheless. "I could survive that," she chirps, eyebrows raising with a slight, almost mocking sway of her shoulders. "It's not like you're ever in a good mood. Truly it'd make you feel better to hunt - even just a mouse would be better than the frog legs I scrounged up this afternoon...!" Wisteriastrike pleads, but ultimately knows her whining falls on too tall, too sharp, yet too deaf of ears.

"... Will you be taking one as an apprentice?" She asks shortly thereafter, again looking over the den. In six moons, Magpiepaw should be trained enough. Would they harbor a third medicine cat if they could? "I'm not sure if kits show signs of interest in medicine so young. They can't even open their eyes yet without getting frightened by the light..."

 

[CICADABUZZ]

Cicadabuzz lets out a low hum, quiet and noncommittal, as they listen to her ramble. They don't interrupt—not out of patience, exactly, but because interruption would only draw the moment out longer. Their paws move in a steady rhythm, pressing brittle stems into order, the sound of their work filling the space between words. "Hunger after such a large litter will do that," they say, tone smooth but clipped, words chosen with care. "Your body is providing for seven lives; of course you are lethargic." Their gaze flickers briefly toward her ribs, the faint hollow beneath her fur. They move closer, their steps silent despite the loose scatter of dried stems beneathfoot. They pause beside her, studying her with that dispassionate precision that marks all of their attention—a healer's eye, detached but undeniably sharp. "If you do not stay in the nursery and continue to rest, your body will decide for you when to stop." It's not a warning so much as a statement of fact, offered like a stone placed at her feet—unmovable, but clear.

Cicadabuzz turns, separating a few more wilted leaves from a pile. "Frog legs," they repeat, a faint tilt of their head betraying a moment's thought. "I imagine they tasted like desperation and pondweed." The words fall flat, but there's a hint of sardonic amusement beneath them. "I'll see what I can do. A mouse or two wouldn't do you harm, and the forest knows the warriors will hardly hold a grudge if I steal a meal for a cat that birthed half the nursery."

They set the wilted leaves aside, methodical again, though their tail tip flicks in subtle thought when she asks about apprentices. "Another?" they murmur, half to themself. "Perhaps, if one proves curious enough. If Sablestar does not begrudge me that once his son is trained." Their gaze turns distant, as if already looking toward a future few could see. "Magpiepaw learns quickly, but the work… it takes a toll on any who seek to learn this path. It would be wise to share the work with another. Curiosity and determination alone are not enough to keep a cat standing through sleepless nights and dying breaths." They study the herb piles again, aligning what had already been aligned, just for something to do with their paws while they consider. "If one of them shows the will, then I will teach them. But for now, they barely know to dream yet, let alone to hold the necessary curiosity."

 

[wisteriastrike wisteriastrike]

Wisteriastrike finds that she usually quite enjoys bug's dry lack-of-humor statements, even when they don't intend for them to be funny. Perhaps this is why she's ultimately agreed to be the dam to their latest litter. Of course, outside her own personal motives. They cannot be negated, even if she eventually comes to enjoy motherhood and all it brings. At the moment, however, she's chosen a rotten moon to begin her journey, and it's seriously harming her point of view. That all said, her usually alight eyes dim with bug's words, and she offers an equally dry, "Oh wow, Cicadabuzz. That sure is clever thinking you have there. My little peanut brain never would've conjured that one up!"

She leans away from them even further look upon her with a clinically barren eye. Wisteriastrike allows it, if only because it would prolong the nuisance if she didn't. "I can take a walk, Buzz. Walks won't kill me," she mutters, again partially deflating into her pelt.

They comment on her recent meal, and she has half the mind to offer her next one to them so they can taste the 'pondweed' and 'desperation.' Still, they make an even promise, and Wisteriastrike replies with a good and honest, "Thank you. I... do appreciate it." Yet it still feels transactional in a way. She has no real intentions with the medicine cat, nor did she expect motherhood in her future when she was only so young... but life has a funny way of pathing itself sometimes, she guesses. This is where it's lead her, and who is she to question it?

Bug muses about the difficulties of being a healer, and she half listens at best. Their paws pull wilted leaves from some less so as they speak, and she doesn't notice how the depths of their eyes somehow deepen. Her own eyes close, as if in mid thought herself. Eventually bug says that if one shows promise, then bug might take them on. Wisteriastrike offers a half nod, "Makes sense," at least, as much of it that she actually listened to does. "I just wanted to know how many I should expect to survive into adulthood. Some of these other Clans are so... bitey, I guess. If the kits make it through leafbare..." her chest clenches, and she supposes that's the maternal tug that's unavoidable in many ways, "Then I'd like them to see all four seasons. And your role seems the least... obtrusive, in that regard, I suppose."

 

[CICADABUZZ]

Cicadabuzz exhales, the sound low and steady, like wind through reeds. "You should mind your tone before I prescribe silence," they murmur—though the words carry no heat, only that dry, unimpressed cadence that comes so naturally to them. Their paw stills mid-sort, one dried stem of chamomile caught between their claws. Then, after a heartbeat, they resume their work, unbothered. Wisteriastrike's barbs slide off them like water from stone. "The body does not heal on will alone," they say quietly, still facing the herb shelves. "You may walk if you like, but you'll only trade one ache for another."

They step closer, brushing past her with that slow, unhurried grace. A faint scent of rosemary trails with them. Cicadabuzz pauses near her side, head tilting slightly as they take in the faint tremor of her flank, the subtle hollow between her shoulders. When she thanks them, the faintest flicker of something passes across their expression—recognition, maybe. They incline their head slightly. "You are welcome," they answer, tone neutral but the words deliberately chosen. Cicadabuzz is not one for courtesies, but gratitude offered to them is rare enough that they accept it like a peculiar herb—foreign, but not unpleasant.

Her question about survival draws a longer silence from them. Cicadabuzz turns their head, gaze unfocused for a moment as though seeing beyond the den, beyond the day. "You want certainty," they say finally. "I can give you what's likely, but not what's kind." Their tail tip flicks once, deliberate. "Kits born in droughts and lean seasons... not all of them will see green leaves again. That is the truth." They don't say it with cruelty; their tone is even, as if naming a law of nature. "But those that do survive will be stronger for it. They'll have the memory of it written into their bones. Sometimes that is the only blessing the world offers." Their gaze softens, just slightly. "Your duty is to keep breathing long enough to see which of them endures. Mine is to keep you capable of doing that." A faint curl of their lips, almost a smile, graces their features. "And as such, I tell you again; rest, and keep your strength. I will ensure what food is found makes its way to you."

They turn back to their herbs, once again. "As for apprentices," they add, "there will always be need, but need alone does not mean a cat is qualified. Perhaps one of the kits will feel the pull of it—the quiet, the need to make order out of suffering. But if they do not, I will not force it upon them. A healer must be truly committed to following their path if they are to walk it."