Backwritten you, who has fallen from the stars;

[serpentberry]

She is alone for she dares all who is holy and not to test her will and face death whilst doing it.

Serpentberry, a wife who lost her husband, a mother with no partner to raise her kits with, a medicine cat, who's newest whims are to heal and guide. Serpentberry she is now, but Serpent, forevermore, the snake in the weeds, slithering along to dive her fangs into anything warm and fresh. She nearly dares a lonely soul to cross her path just so that she may have some sort of vengeance - so that her claws could be so bloody. Maybe then he would find her again, nudge her to the path of forgiveness that he would've drove her towards in life.

On this bloodied grass, do you see me? Her gaze tilts up. The stars glower at her, her face wet with tears, her body still soft from birth. Will you stop me? If death chases, will you save me? If I asked, could I join you, instead?

No answer. And she knows better; for she is meant to thrive. She is meant to persevere for the sake of her Clanmates, new is the word on her tongue. She came here, abandoned the warmth of her nest to find their one shared store. To saddle leaves with marigold and tansy, dock and poppy. Whatever she can carry, she will, and to drag it home with the might of a thousand warriors. To save them, to protect them. It is her duty, her new will.

There are fresh scents amidst the clearing. Blood and bodies still litter and she flinches at the stillness of Flint, who's body she had seen fallen firsthand. Her own milk scent is strong, but that of another's... is stronger. Green viperlike eyes catch to the movement near her former stores, cats leaving the clearing. One pulls from the den - a round face with sliver-thin eyes. Their teeth clench around a meak, shadow-hued kitten, a star shot through its body. Its small, like hers. Cicada's kits... were the born the same night? Is it their blood she is meant to spill in this petulant trudge for revenge? With their innocent child here, mindless to the world, shivering in the cold?

"Cicada..." She says their name, and her voice... breaks. She does not long to be held by them, but rather to be held at all. In the world that has burst open with new opportunity, all she sees is one lost; a friend given helplessly to the void. They aim to leave the opposite side of the clearing. They aim to leave her. A tear crests her cheek and she shakes her head.

"You're with them?" she asks. It is not accusatory, a level of tone she's learned from them. A deep breath, and she musters a half laugh. "Good. They'll need someone skilled. As soon as I get my claws out there again, you'll have enough work to keep yourself distracted." Morose and pitiful, her threat lays clear to their Clanmates but not them.

 

[cicadabuzz]

Cicadabuzz crosses the clearing with the trembling kit clutched gently in their jaws, each step measured, deliberate, as if the very earth bends to their unhurried grace. The air is thick with the metallic tang of blood, a clinging shadow that refuses to dissipate, but Cicadabuzz moves undeterred, their calm precision a quiet defiance against the chaos that swirls unseen. The kit, so impossibly small, quivers against the healer's chest. It is a fragile ember of warmth, its heartbeat faint but insistent, a flicker of life refusing to be snuffed out. Yet within moments, it is Serpent's voice that halts them, breaking the stillness with its jagged edges. The sound cuts through the quiet hum of the clearing, but Cicadabuzz does not answer immediately. They pause, their body motionless save for the faint rise and fall of their breath, their orange eyes settling on Serpent with the weight of a gaze that sees more than what lies before it. They exude an air of unshakable calm, their expression serene yet unsettling, as though they are both wholly present and tethered to some distant plane beyond reach.

With infinite care, they lower the kit to the ground, their movements fluid and precise. They press their nose to its quivering side, a fleeting touch that seems to anchor the tiny creature in the world, before nudging it gently into the sparse grass. Cicadabuzz steps back, their presence still looming yet granting the kit space to settle, its small body curling as a fallen leaf. Only then do they shift their attention fully to Serpent, their gaze unwavering, sharp as their claws. "I am," they say at last, their voice a soft ripple against the tension in the air. The words carry no flourish, but their simplicity is heavy, laden with meaning that stretches far beyond what is spoken. "They need someone. Just as yours do." Their eyes flicker briefly toward the edge of the clearing, where the trees stretch tall and unyielding, swallowing the paths of those who had already gone. When their gaze returns to Serpent, it holds a quiet intensity, unrelenting as the tides. "I go with them because I will not leave them all without a healer. You understand this."

Their tail sweeps lightly against the kit, a subtle, grounding motion that seems to root both the healer and their charge in the moment. Silence spills between them, water pooling in the hollows of the earth, deep and unbroken, stretching until it feels as though the world itself is holding its breath. Finally, Cicadabuzz speaks again, their words the stone cast into a quiet stream.

"This one," they murmur, tilting their head toward the kit, "is called Deathberrykit." The name falls from their lips with deliberate sharpness, its edges honed like a blade. A flicker of something indefinable crosses their face—not quite a smile, not quite a shadow, an emotion suspended between sorrow and something colder. A paw gently rolls a few blood-spill berries closer to themself, the sharpened blade of intent clear in its implications. Their gaze sharpens as it rests on Serpent once more, peeling back the layers of her grief and fury as though searching for a truth buried deep within. "Do not forget what you have done," Cicadabuzz says, their voice soft but unyielding, each word a weight pressing down on the moment. "Or what you might yet do."

The kit stirs faintly, its small body shifting against the cool breeze, and Cicadabuzz moves instinctively, curling their tail around to shield it, herb scent ghosting the air around the child. Their voice, when they speak again, remains a river carving its inevitable path through stone. "You have a path to walk, Serpent. Bloodied or not, it is still yours to tread. Just as I do. Mine is to follow them." Serpent's gaze may burn with venom, or it may not, but Cicadabuzz does not falter. They meet her anger with unflinching clarity, their own expression unreadable in its stony mask. "The stars will not help you," they say, the memory of their conversation with Sable hanging heavy in their mind. "Not in the way you want. But they see. They always see."