Herbalists' Cache a mad thought

the morning was still and heavy with the weight of new life.
star eater stirred, her limbs stiff with the toll of birth, yet her body—her body—was healing. where once pain had gnawed, leaving her raw and exposed, there was now a quiet ache, the kind that whispered of recovery. the scent of blood, once thick in the air, had faded, replaced by the warm, rich musk of milk, the steady rhythm of her children suckling at her belly. their tiny bodies pressed into her, soft whimpers escaping between breaths as they latched and drank deeply.
even her littlest one—fa’liya, she had named her—fought with all the strength her tiny frame could muster. and she would thrive. by her mother’s will, she would live.
with gentle insistence, star eater groomed them, her tongue rasping over soft, downy fur. the protests came, weak and mewling, but she did not relent. they must be clean. they were hers, her blood, her legacy. no part of them would go untended.
and for a time, it was just them. she had sent the women away. no watchful eyes, no hands reaching to aid her—just the steady rise and fall of her breath, the warmth of her children curled against her. they were all that mattered.
but there was another.
tilting her head toward the dim, rising light, she parted her lips and let her voice carry into the morning air, a low, keening summons.
@Sun Eater.
time to meet his children.

barely had sun eater slept and he had not eaten.

when his mate's call rose for him, the lanzadoii hunter was up on rangy legs before its sound had ended. entering the snow shelter took a special courage for a man who had been bound by taboos all his life. but enter he did, carrying the amulet of caribou fur and dewclaws.

scents of blood and milk stained the air. sun eater stood staring at his children so long he did not know how many minutes had passed, and then the single eye moved to his wife.

his wife. resplendent. glowing.

he bent his knee then.

a soft look was offered to her, and then to each babe in turn. two sons. two daughters. "i have never had girls before," he said in a voice roughened with emotion.

morning light touched the star upon her forehead. sun eater had never seen her so beautiful.

for all her pride, for all her strength, star eater nearly crumbled when she saw him kneel.
her heart clenched, caught between the fury that had burned in her chest for days and the deep, immeasurable love she held for him. her sun. her strength. her home.
he had not eaten. he had not slept. and yet he had waited—waited for her to summon him, as if he were not the chieftain of their people, as if he were not a man worthy of stepping into the sacred space of his own children.
oh, naganés’a’e. her voice almost broke, almost gave way to the storm in her chest, but she would not weep, not yet.
she swallowed thickly, gaze shifting to the newborns curled against her belly. their children. tiny and fragile and perfect.
this little one, she murmured, nudging the runt with the tip of her nose, her breath warm against the smallest of them. she looks just like you.
the dark fur, the delicate features, the fierce cry that had torn through the shelter upon her birth—this was his daughter.
she lifted her gaze back to him, searching his face, drinking in the rawness of him, the way he had never looked so open, so vulnerable. she wanted to touch him, to pull him close, but the anger still coiled within her, not yet ready to be soothed.
i have been so angry with you, she admitted, quiet but firm. but you are their father.
she did not say the rest. did not say that she had needed him, that she had ached in his absence, that the weight of carrying their children into the world alone had nearly broken her.
instead, she let her muzzle brush against the tiny body of their daughter, her voice softer now. i have named her. fa'liya. he would know its meaning. little light.

fa'liya.

star eater was allowed her anger. he would not argue it, for he did not need to argue. his ways must prevail if they were to be safe. and that was an end he would pursue.

for now he only bent close, gazing pointedly on the daughter that assuredly held his dark coat. a tiny child, almost too delicate. at once he loved her, felt the sunburst hope of protectiveness dawn harsh over him. unsure if he was permitted to touch, sun eater did not. "fa'liya."

yes! he should lift her, lift all of them, carry them out into the snow to be named beneath the stars, but sun eater found himself too besotted to move. paw swept amulet at last, pressing it slowly across the shelter toward the beating heart in her chest.

"protection."

at last, very softly, glancing several times toward star eater, the chieftain reached hesitant and ginger arms to cup fa'liya, only drawing her toward him if it seemed fit by his wife's decision. no matter what he must do outside her snow shelter, he respected the feminine power of her realm.

star eater watched him, unmoving, as he reached for the child.
his child.
fa’liya’s small, nightshadow body barely stirred beneath his touch, her tiny chest rising and falling in steady breaths. the runt, the smallest, and yet the fiercest of them all. she had screamed upon birth, fought for every breath, refused to perish beneath the weight of her size.
sun eater had done the same, she thought.
her heart ached.
for all the anger she held—for the days she had spent furious with him, resentful, bitter with the burden of bringing them into the world alone—this moment softened something inside her. the reverence in his eyes, the way his hands moved with a warrior’s hesitance, as if the mere act of touching his own daughter might shatter her.
she allowed it.
his offering lay between them, the amulet of caribou fur and dewclaws, its meaning clear. protection.
for a moment, she did not speak, only let her gaze drift to the token, then back to him. it was their plan, their unspoken accord, that their children would be named before the herds, before the open sky.
so she rose.
her movements were fluid, purposeful—no hesitation, no delay. the amulet found its place around her neck, and she hoisted the white pup and the other girl into her mouth, their tiny bodies curling instinctively into her hold.
as she brushed past her husband, her thick fur trailing against his, she turned—looked back.
expectant. waiting.
he would follow. he would take their sons, and they would name them together.

just love that image so much;;;

she was tiny! so tiny. sun eater had all but forgotten how little a newborn could be, and cradled her with a vast unsurety that was unlike him. star eater gently took fa'liya and gathered the other daughter.

sun eater began to move one of the boys, then hesitated. a caribou hide found its way across his shoulders first, tugged in clumsy swiftness.

with the same caution, he grasped his sons and carefully moved after his mate, out into the snow.

starlight arced above winterground just paling to the green misting of spring grass. he let the pelt slide from shoulders, tried to adjust it with his paws, and then lay each boy there so that they would not be against the snow.

patiently he waited for star eater to arrange herself down beside them, and he shut his eye in attempt to recall the words. in silence then he drew the palest of their four toward him, studying the child. for now he was only akin to a warm lump of ice, a little rabbit there in the cold. but there would be a formidable force inside this one, the cut of a pale knife.

"you are c'ede' ghatggehi, antler that is between. you will be a warrior among the lanzadoii caribou hunters, born into the white raven moiety of the saatsine."

a look exchanged with star eater, affection and pride sharp and bright there amid the ruined socket.

star eater settled beside him, lowering the two daughters onto the caribou hide.
the cold nipped at her skin, the weight of the night pressing heavy upon them, but she did not waver. this was the way. their children would be named beneath the stars, before the watchful eyes of their ancestors, before the spirits that would guide them.
her gaze swept over the tiny dark-furred girl, the firstborn daughter—the one who had screamed.
and you, she murmured, voice steady as she placed a firm paw over the small, wriggling form, holding her there, grounding her. will be ghe’naya. a force as strong as nature.
her head lifted, eyes tracing the night sky. the first to scream from her mother’s womb.
it had been a cry unlike the others, not just a call for life, but a demand. she had come into the world with fire in her chest, a declaration before she had even drawn breath.
the raven will protect you.
she did not need to look to sun eater to feel his presence, to know that his heart beat the same rhythm as hers in this moment. he had cradled fa’liya with a rare, hesitant reverence, and now he spoke the name of their son with a weight only a father could give.
c’ede’ ghatggehi.
she waited eagerly for their last boy.

ghe'naya.

for a moment the single eye threatened to lance itself with tears. if there was ever a moment to weep, it would be now. but he did not. "you are ghe'naya. the one who shouts strong. you will be a warrior among the lanzadoii caribou clans, born into the white raven moiety of the saatsine."

gheli.

ghaden.

ghelan.

ghe'naya.

a shudder of fear and reverence came upon him as he studied his daughter there beneath the stars, for there was power in such a pattern.

the second boy, the last son. a mingling of stonegrey and night. again he looked keenly upon this child too.

"you are caan, the one who walks with rain. you will be a hunter among the lanzadoii caribou hunters, born into the white raven moiety of the saatsine."

named. his arms reached softly for fa'liya, who too must be formally titled beneath the spirits of their clan and moiety.

star eater wrapped herself around the children, her body a shield against the cold.
they had been named. each one tied to the spirits, to the land, to the blood that ran strong through their veins. it was fitting, in a way, that she had named the daughters while sun eater had named the sons. there had been no plan for it, yet it had happened as if it was always meant to be.
c'ede'. ghe’naya. fa’liya. caan.
she let the names settle over them like a blessing, etched into the stars above.
her head tilted back, pressing against sun eater’s chest. a steady weight, a grounding presence. the night was quiet now, save for the soft sounds of their newborns nestled between them, the hush of the wind carrying their future forward.
i have no intention of leaving you, husband, she murmured, voice low, spoken only for him to hear.
her breath curled into the cold, but she did not shiver. she was warm here, surrounded by them.
no matter my past. what i was.
her gaze softened as she looked down at their children, at what they had created. what they would raise.
this, they are my future. her tail curled protectively around them, sealing them within the safety of her body. as are you.
her eyes flickered, sharp, searching, before she spoke again.
but i have a request, if you'd listen.
it was rare for her to ask. rarer still for her to ask of him. but tonight, she would.

she spoke of not leaving him; sun eater glanced in some sentiment but did not speak upon this.

the future.

he held them; lay close with her, warmth mingling to ensure their children felt no cold. he shielded the children at her side, unable to keep from looking toward the perfection of their tiny existences.

"ask," the chieftain asked. his heart was full with this moment, parts of its roughened surface opening to soft rose light for the first time.

she felt the weight of his gaze upon her, the quiet understanding that often lingered between them. she had never been afraid to speak her mind, but this… this was different.
the warmth of their children nestled between them anchored her, but still, she swallowed, steadying herself. ask, he bid her.
her ears flicked back, hesitant, though she forced herself forward. i wish to be more than a hunter, she admitted, the words feeling heavier than they should. i will not be on the grounds for some time... her gaze lowered to their children, the tiny, perfect things that had already stolen so much of her heart. but i wish… to be something of value. to saatsine, whilst they are young.
her breath hitched. was this foolish? was she asking for something beyond her place? she had always been a hunter, a provider, but she had seen the wounds that war left behind. seen the damage wrought by anger, by vengeance.
a healer, she murmured, feeling the weight of the word. mender of what’s broken. at your side.
her tongue ran over her teeth. was this weakness? was she lesser for not wanting to fight, not wanting to wield her fangs as her only means of service? she exhaled sharply, grounding herself in the moment, in him.
i am not strong, like nagruk, like black hawk. her tail curled protectively around their children, as if to reassure herself. but i am not weak.
she lifted her gaze to him, searching for something she could not name.
do you… hear me?

"you are already these things," sun eater murmured, looking toward her once more with his remaining eye. "saatsine welcomed your place at my side when you came from swiftcurrent. they honor you as my wife. the women come to you as their teacher. heal," he said softly, seeking to reassure, "and teach them to heal."

"you are strong." 

in his arms he held such proof.

now he turned his eye over them, lowering his scarred muzzle to see that each breathed just as they had in the last moment, moving with large amounts of caution, and a smile found its way to his mouth. "and they will have your power."

she swallows hard, keeping the smile upon her lips, though it falters at the edges. she listens, searching his face, his voice, for something—something she cannot name, something she has begun to doubt.
his reassurances should comfort her, but they do not. not fully. because she knows what they say, what they whisper in the shadows. she had not listened before, refusing to hear it. but now—now, after gjalla, after all that has been done—there is a part of her that wonders if they were right.
misogyny in his blood, they said. born to lead, but she, always destined to be lower. a tear slips before she can stop it, betraying her. she turns her head slightly, blinking fast, before she forces herself back into place. she cannot let him see this doubt, this fracture in her. she must be strong. for him, for their children. for herself.
she steadies her breath and lifts her chin, meeting his gaze once more. and yours, she murmurs, plastering the smile back onto her lips. it is softer now, fragile, but it is there. they are lively.
she watches as he lowers his head to them, as he smiles at the tiny lives they have created. she should feel warmth, she should feel pride—but all she feels is exhaustion, a heavy weight settling in her chest.
i will heal, she echoes, though the words feel strange on her tongue. and i will teach.
but what of herself? who would mend her wounds?

she was not happy.

he sensed it in the den, and raised his head from their children. sun eater had never fashioned himself to be more, but he had become accustomed to the velvet of her mien. "good," he grunted, supporting one of their heads as they bobbed in seeking appeal. "when you have recovered, i wish that you help me choose our next direction."

to follow, of course, always more of the world to see. 

star eater seemed — tired, perhaps. her mate stirred and looked into the lovely face, watching the starwoven with rapt attentiveness, an affection solely her own there. she had done well. more than well; he was pleased by her entire.

"should we move them yet, back to the shelter?" he asked, gaze lowering once more as that rush of emotion swallowed his heart.

star eater watches him as he speaks, her golden eyes softened by the glow of new motherhood but still sharp, still searching. when you have recovered, i wish that you help me choose our next direction.
there it was. the illusion of choice.
her lips curl into a smile that does not quite reach her eyes. i would love to see the ocean, she muses, turning her gaze downward, toward the small, wriggling bodies nestled between them. their children, their legacy, tied to them both in ways that neither could yet understand. let them be this a while longer.
the ocean. something vast, unknowable. a place where even the strongest must surrender to the tide. she wonders, briefly, if he will ever let her be more than a mother, a wife, a sacred thing to be revered rather than a voice to be heard.
her head tilts, considering, grasping for something that is hers to claim. are there any songs in lanzadoii i may sing to them? her voice is lighter now, lifting with something genuine—curiosity, perhaps even hope. songs you were sung, when you were small?
if he cannot give her leadership, he can at least give her this: a part of himself, something she can weave into their children's nights, something that will carry beyond his wars, beyond his rage. something gentle. something lasting.

"i know many places there," sun eater agreed. "cold sea. warmer salt." drawing the hide more securely around the bodies of their children, sun eater let out his breath in an exhale, thinking of how desperately filled with fear he had been.

his starwoven spoke of songs; the caribou man mused on this for a time. "there is one i do remember." sun eater was not a musical sort; the gruff baritone lent itself all the same to a rendition of something he barely recalled.

'spirit snow, spirit tusk. lift your voice. sing you must. do you hear the caribou? running after, soon are you.'" he felt sheepish at the end of such; he cleared his throat and did not look her way for a moment, somewhat embarassed.

one of the pups stretched a tiny paw, and he reached to it, light flickering in his single eye.

she listened, quietly, as his voice rumbled through the den, a song worn and weathered by time yet still carried on his tongue. it was not often that she heard him sing, and so she did not interrupt, did not tease—only listened, absorbing the weight of the words as they settled into her bones.
spirit snow, spirit tusk.
softly, she repeated them, testing the cadence, the meaning, the way they settled on her tongue like an old prayer.
lift your voice. sing you must.
her gaze dropped to the small bodies nestled against her, their tiny chests rising and falling with breath still unburdened by the weight of the world. they would learn these songs in time.
do you hear the caribou?
she pressed her muzzle against c'ede's crown, whispering the words as if tucking them into the fabric of his being.
running after, soon are you.
a promise, perhaps. a future unwritten.
she lifted her head, catching the flicker of emotion in his eye as he touched their child's paw.

their gazes met. what words were not conveyed his eye might say, and a second rugged sound deep in his throat for the tears that such a man would not allow to fall. not allow in any sight but his own.

"they are — very small. i know they will grow fast," he hummed, though the words drifted away. sun eater was overcome and did not conceive of how to handle the burgeoning emotions stark in his chest.

he did not know it was love, and he did not know the name of appreciation, but he felt them now, an opalescence of a deep new desire to be — to be not himself.

he struggled there at this natal moment of realization.

"we should sing again," voice hoarse, and began a second time, low.

she watched him in silence, taking in the weight of his emotions as they swelled and pressed against the silence between them. for all his strength, for all the power he wielded, he was uncertain here—humbled, perhaps, by the small lives nestled between them, by the quiet miracle of their existence.
star eater knew fear, knew sorrow, knew the bitter taste of regret—but love was a stranger to her, one she had never been able to name, one she had never dared to claim. and yet, here it was, curling into her chest, filling the empty spaces she had long ignored.
his voice was rough with something unspoken, and her heart ached for him—for the man who did not know what to do with his own tenderness.
she pressed against him, let her fur brush against his, and when he began, she followed, voice weaving into his, steady and sure. she sang not just for the children but for him—for the war-torn man who did not know that he, too, deserved to be held.