Jun 8, 2022

//tw for talking/thinking about natural death

Ma could hardly hear him anymore. Ma was hardly herself.
Da could hear and communicate just fine yet, but as best as he tried to hide it his energy was gone. Da's illness had bit him good and soon it would consume him.
Ma seemed to be growing sickly too. Time was slowly fading for both of them.

It was likely for the best, their bodies could not hold them anymore. His da has spoken of being ready... and if ma was still... there most of the time Rust knew she'd be ready too.
He should feel lucky to have had his parents live as long as they had, feel lucky for being middle-aged himself and having his parents still around. But he didn't, he didn't like being around them anymore... Every day he checked up on them they looked worse, he hates watching them fade and wither away helplessly.

No facts or comforting words worked on the cinnamon tom. He didn't show it but he was hurting.
He walks out of the den they nested in, eyes shining in silent sadness. A heavy sigh spills from his maw, a clear indicator to anyone nearby that his parent's state had not improved in the slightest. A clear indicator that time still ticked swiftly for them.

Heavily he sits down and stares at the ground. Both a blank and non-distracting canvas to think, and a good way to shield the emotion that his eyes betrayed.


✵ ღ ☾ I'LL LET YOU DOWN - There were flaws to being the watcher, to not being caught up in her own life. She distracts herself with others, to her own internal notes.
Rust, however, was not one she liked to observe. His life was burdened, Cloudy supposed she could empathize with the parental aspect of his burdens, but spare for that, she did not like to watch grief.
Still though, the cinnamon tom catches her eye as he emerges from a den, his head not quite hung, but instead rigid, as if he was the suppressing the instinct to. Cloudy wants to look away, from where she is sitting she has the perfect view of camp, she could look anywhere else.
Still, she watches as a white paw lightly taps against the damp ground. She waits for someone to approach him, curious if they would whisper comforting words into the despairing toms ear.
Only a few minutes pass by, but no one comes up to him. She ponders being the first to do it, but realizes she wouldn’t have anything to say, and she would only be doing it out of pity rather than genuine care.
Perhaps if someone else did, she would too.
❝ Speech. ❞


╰☆☆ The cyclical nature of life sometimes catches her off guard, even in her forty-fourth moon. One day, she will grow old, brittle, unable to hunt for herself or spar with other cats, and her son Ash will be the one who performs her duties now. He will have kits of his own, and then he will age. She grows dizzy thinking about it.

But a mother does think about these things, because she has to. She has to ensure the children she is leaving behind are capable of surviving without her, of carrying on in their parents' place. She did not watch her own parents grow old, as Rust is having to do. They died of illness, after she'd already reached adulthood, and their deaths had been swift.

The world has not shown Rust's mother mercy. She is elderly, yes, but the mind disease is the most terrible thing. How tragic to know your own mother cannot look at you and know you are her child.

Twilight follows his ginger-colored shape as he leaves his parents where they are. He seems to brood, expression blank and free of the pain he is no doubt feeling.

The black and white queen heaves herself to her paws, passing Cloudy on her way to Rust. She nods at the young white femme, who is just about her son's age, before pausing in front of Rust. "You must be hungry, dear. Have you eaten today? My son brought me back a lizard Sandra helped him catch earlier. I've sort of grown tired of them, myself." She smiles at him disarmingly.

a little black beetle had recently revealed itself from it's hiding spot in a patch of sparse grass, it's many legs carrying it as quickly as it could across the dampened grounds of the clearing. following behind it was none other than opal who was keeping a close eye on it the second she saw the insect appear in her vision, occsionally reaching a paw over and gingerly batting it only to jump slightly when it wriggled in response to being touched.

a much stronger vibration close by took her focus away from the beetle and would watch as twilight padded on by, passing both opal and cloudy while approaching rust who sat outside one of the dens with his head lowered hiding away his face from others. the kit would tilt her head to the side, what happened? was he sad? did he also find a cool bug to look at?

abandoning the previous activity opal was doing, short legs would carry the child after the older molly that just walked by. twilight was speaking to the cinnamon tom but opal was a little bad at reading lips properly, especially when that person isn't looking directly at her. instead she decided to contribute to the conversation by stepping forwards and bumping her head affectionately against one of rust's forelegs. "everythin' otay!" her voice was a bit loud, raspy and nasally from never using it.

maybe she could go back and find that beetle and being it to the tom? would he appreciate recieving a bug?

unfortunately, opal was too young to understand what rust was going through but believed she could do something to make it a little better.


− ♱ ABOUT : cicada was not so full of youth as he once was ; the mottled bicolor felt as if he could sense each moon that'd passed along the aches of his form, old scars itching just beneath his coiled pelt. time’s arrow stopped for no one, and age.. unnerved him. death was so rampant amongst the community, cicada had long since assumed he would take his fall somewhere in the battle field, overtaken or not as quick as he’d thought he was. with each rising, setting sun came the brief panic — existential and all - encompassing, dread filling his paws like stone until he tosses enough to put himself back to sleep in his nest. what would he do, if not put down in the heat of battle? sickness, starvation, disaster.. fear threads violently throughout his ribcage, weaving its way into his very marrow. death scared him, despite how adamantly it may follow him.. because it was unpredictable. no one in his life had lasted very long.

he tried not to think about it.

cicada approaches with a smile, watching opal totter towards the quiet, older russet tom. he leans down, aiming to press his nose gently to a baby - pink ear, intending to both alert his presence to the cloudy kitten and nudge in playful greeting. twilight and another alabaster molly were also present, the latter only lounging silently nearby.

clear luminaries fixate on rust, finally. fully. absent in expression as he often was, his downward stare flooded the chimera’s veins with icewater worry. he’s settled just outside the elders den, and the felidae knows he.. struggles. in his time with the marsh group, cicada could not help his attention from snapping to the older tabby tom — he held himself well, while not a man of many words. he knew of his strife, his parents and being fellow members of the group, he cared for them deeply. he cared for him deeply, whether it was the ever - deep loyalty to the group who’d homed him and the elders that had welcomed him. his mother had been kind but harsh, troubled.. his father, never around. he knew little of him, and mother had become enraged at the mere mention of him during youth. eventually, he’d stopped interrogating her. blood family was never something he’d been familiar with, regardless of the nights he’d spent longing for a sense of inherent belonging.

twilight offers her salamander and the gesture alone softens his eyes. she was a mother ; so proud of her children, so doting and cicada ached.

eat. you need to take care of yourself, “ the tom begins slowly, tail tip flippig rhythmically at snowy paws as his attention shifts back towards the tabby tom. it was difficult, finding the words in this situation, he finds — cicada lowers himself to his haunches just to the right of him, ” i was going to tend the flowers in a bit, if you’d like to go. i could use a little extra help.. and you look like you could use the time out.” he murmurs, furrowing his brow just slightly in concern and hoping. he could talk about it if he wanted, the bicolor was there — whether the cinnamon tom accepted it or not.

Stepping lightly from where she had moved her nest, the molly examined the area and almost felt a wave of dissatisfaction. This was maybe the fourth time she had moved her nest today and nothing seemed right. Nothing seemed perfect for where she wanted to lay her head down. This area was dry which was too her liking but she was unsure if because it was within the shade if it would provide enough to keep her cool from the heat. Though she was lucky to have a black pelt the white areas of her fur seems to burn at times. Taking a sighing breath the woman moved away from the area and she figured she would think on it as she tended to her own given duties. That was when she noticed Rust coming out of the area that his parents nested in. The look in his gaze was enough for her to understand what was going on.

They weren't getting any better and time was bending them. Normally she didn't allow for emotions to make their way onto her face. A cold neutality always present but this was not just some cat. This was Rust. Stepping forth with a slow meander the woman approached and caught the tail end of what Cicada had spoken of. Go and tend to plants. Flowers of all things. Her maw crinkled with disdain on how that time was sorrowly wasted. What good would tending to plants do? Shaking her head she then turned her eyes back to the large tom before she looked him over. "You have good memories with them. Hold on to those. It'll make things easier I would think." It was really all she could offer. She barely remembered her own parents and what she did hurt. Flashes of blood and horrible screams. Desperate closing of eyes. With her words she moved to attempt to lean gently against the tom's side, giving her own solitary comfort.