Herbalists' Cache into the unknown

open to my babies: @Ghe'naya @Cede @Caan @Faliya

the snow shelter is warm, a cocoon of furs and bodies, filled only with the soft murmurs of women and the delicate whimpers of her newborns. the world outside is frigid, but here, beneath the weight of pelts and the press of her own body, they are safe. they are hers.
she grooms them incessantly, smoothing down tufts of damp fur, licking along their spines, the crowns of their tiny heads. each stroke of her tongue is a vow, a prayer, a whispered promise: i will not fail you. they wriggle blindly, paws kneading against her belly, seeking the warmth of her milk, of her presence. she shifts only when necessary, curling around them like a mother wolf should—no, like a queen.
the women remain near, watchful and reverent, but they know better than to intrude upon the sacred moment. they understand. this is not for men. not for @Sun Eater, who lingers outside, barred from her sanctuary. a punishment. a lesson. a reminder that it is she who commands this space, that it is she who wields the power of life and death within these walls. he has no place here. not yet. not until she allows it.
she exhales slowly, pressing her nose to the smallest of them—the dark one, the mirror of her father. she lingers there, her breath warming his tiny frame, before moving to the others, one by one, counting them with every sweep of her tongue.
four.
four lives.
four stars, burning bright in the cradle of her arms.
and she will not let them go.

sun eater in time out

the world is too much. too loud, too cold. it gnaws at her from all sides — the relentless heat of tiny bodies pressed too tightly around her, the suffocating press of pelts below that turn warmth into fire. she cannot bear it. her mouth parts in a shrill, piercing wail, too frail to command attention but desperate enough to fight for it. too much. too much. mama!

she does not know she is small. she only knows unbearable heat, pain. the rasp of air in her throat, the ache in her ribs, the way her siblings squirm and clamber over her like she is nothing. they have weight. they have strength. they crawl over her, larger limbs batting her head, heavier bodies suffocating her frail, gasping form. her cries falter. become choked. she cannot breathe again. no, no, no. she twists, desperate, trying to find something—anything—that is not crushing her. she pushes blindly, limbs too weak, and then—

a force. a pressure. it lifts her, saves her. warmth surrounds her, but it is different now. less crushing. less suffocating. the breath of something vast and powerful floods over her, and instinct—raw, primal—flickers in her still-damp body. mama. her tongue drags over a tiny spine, pressing warmth into her hollow chest. the force of it feels like it might snap her in two, but it is good. she mewls, and when the air fills her lungs again, it does not strangle her this time.

safe. mama is safe. she was not before, some part of her could sense it. now she was. her mother has pulled her close—closer than the others. she feels the heat of her breath, the insistent nudge toward something she does not understand. her little head bobs, searching, searching—there. the scent is unbearable. rich, sweet. she latches blindly, tongue rasping against the supple skin, but she is too weak to suckle properly. she is not strong enough.

her mother adjusts, with one great paw anchored against her side, securing her, forcing her to the teat. another rasp of her tongue encourages her to try again. and she does. she sucks, weakly, pathetically—but she does. the milk fills her mouth in slow, pitiful trickles, but it is enough.

a hush falls over the snow shelter, broken only by the gentle breaths of the newborns nestled close, the soft shifting of bodies in the warmth of their mother’s embrace. yet, among them, one falters.
her smallest. her frailest.
a pitiful cry, high and thin, barely a whisper against the storm outside, barely more than a breath of life. but she hears it. feels it in her very soul. something fragile, something failing. star eater’s body tightens around her children, instinct lancing through her veins like fire—she will not lose her. she will not.
her paw, careful but firm, presses the tiny child to her belly, cradling her against the swell of warmth and sustenance. the runt writhes, weak and cold, limbs trembling against the weight of the world. she does not have the strength to fight for her place among the others. but she does not need to.
mama is here.
her muzzle dips, breath washing over the damp fur of her daughter’s nape. you will live. the words are not spoken aloud, but they are a vow, an unbreakable force, something carved into the marrow of her bones.
her tongue sweeps across the fragile body, over the trembling spine, over the ribs that feel too sharp beneath her touch. too small. too fragile. but not beyond saving. no, never beyond saving. she curls tighter, protective, demanding. the others will not trample her. will not take what she needs.
the little one whimpers, her mouth blindly seeking, too feeble to latch. star eater does not waver. she holds her daughter there, coaxes her, murmurs in the tongue of her ancestors, a whisper of something ancient and powerful.
ñuha ēlītsos, my darling,
ābrar jāhor, ēza. little nova,
bē issa ñuha jorrāelagon, ñuha gōntan.
her paw shifts, securing the child as she forces her gently but firmly to the teat, another sweep of her tongue urging her to try again. and this time, she does. weak, slow, but she does.
star eater watches, heart thundering, as her daughter drinks, as the tremors wracking her tiny body begin to ease. a fierce, unrelenting love floods her chest, an emotion too strong, too consuming. this one is mine.
fa’liya, she breathes at last, voice thick with devotion. my little light.
and she will make sure that light never goes out.

the tongue sweeps across her spine, pressing heat into her shaking limbs, urging the flicker of life in her chest to stay. she does not understand what it is. she does not know what love means, but she feels it. an unseen force, fierce and unrelenting.

the paw shifts her again, presses her forward. instinct bids her to seek the warmth, the sweetness that drips from her mother’s belly—but she cannot. her mouth opens, but her jaw trembles. her tongue lolls uselessly. too weak. her siblings do not wait for her. they push past her, stronger, latching greedily. she has nothing. she will die here.  

but no. 

mother’s touch is unyielding. the tongue does not leave her. the paw does not release her. it forces her, a firm, unwavering pressure guides her frail body back to the teat, and when she falters, the tongue sweeps again, again, again, insistent. another push. another sweep of her tongue. another guttural hum vibrating through the bone-cage of her mother’s ribs. it is not a comfort, but a command. eat. breathe. live. 

the world narrows. all she knows is the warmth of the paw, the rasp of the tongue, the taste of life on her lips. she shudders. she tries again. she drinks. the taste floods her mouth, sweet and hot. it burns down her throat, fills her belly, awakens something in her frail body that she did not know she had. strength. the will to keep moving. the will to keep breathing. 

the pressure of her mother’s paw does not lessen. the tongue does not stop. she keeps her here, fixed against the teat like a dying star refusing to fade. she would not have lasted without it. she would have been lost. but she is not. mother holds her. keeps her.

star eater cradled her daughter close, pressing her nose into the damp, fragile curve of fa’liya’s spine. she felt the tremor in her, the weak fluttering of limbs too small to fight against the vastness of the world, and she held her tighter. no, she would not let her go. she would not let her slip away.
ao jorrāelagon sāpon.
[indentshe whispered the words between strokes of her tongue, rasping warmth into the tiny body pressed to her chest. each lick smoothed down the soft, dark fur, each touch a silent command. breathe. drink. live. and fa’liya obeyed. slowly, her frail body yielded to the warmth, and the weak pull of her mouth became steadier, more assured. the milk came easy, as though it had been waiting for her.
star eater exhaled softly, brushing her lips over the crown of her daughter’s head, feeling the weight of her against her chest. she was still so small, but she was full. her belly, once hollow, now swelled with nourishment. she was warm. good.
when the little one finally slowed, when her suckling became sluggish and her breaths deeper, star eater shifted. gently, she guided her daughter with the press of her paw, positioning her upright, and then—firm, steady—she pushed down along her back.
the girl squirmed. a small, startled noise left her tiny mouth before a sudden, tiny burp escaped her.
star eater smiled. she smoothed her tongue down over fa’liya’s head, then across her cheek, tucking the girl back into the safety of her warmth. despite her size, despite the struggle of her first breaths, she was fattening up already. star eater would make sure of it. she would keep her full, keep her strong.

warmth. breath. the steady pull of something vast, something known. he does not understand the press of lips, the sweeping stroke of a tongue, but he feels it—feels the weight of it, the quiet promise wrapped within each touch. he squirms, mewls, presses closer, though he does not know why.
something in her scent holds him still. something in the way she moves, the way she breathes, tells him he is safe. he does not yet know the world beyond her, beyond the steady rhythm of her body. for now, this is all.
a sister wails, and he stirs. the sound is thin, gasping, wrong. she flails, small and desperate, and something inside him reacts before thought exists.
his too-long limbs push against the tangle of bodies, awkward but certain. he does not understand what she needs, only that she is struggling, that her cries are sharp in the dark.
then—warmth. their mother. her breath, her voice, the soft nudge that pulls fa’liya close. he stills.

the world is warmth. the press of mother’s body, the steady pulse of her breath, the slow rasp of her tongue—it is all fa’liya knows. all she needs to know, now that her belly is full and the gnawing ache that had clawed at her from the moment she first came is soothed, dulled beneath the milk settling warm and heavy inside her.

she does not understand relief, but she feels it. her limbs, weak and trembling, slacken against the curve of her mother’s chest. the warmth holds her. mother holds her. then—pressure. a shift. her body is moved, guided by something vast and firm, repositioned in a way she does not have the strength to resist. her tiny frame stiffens, instinctively clumsy and uncertain, but she does not fear. mother is safe.

then, another pressure—strong, steady, firm against her back. 

a sound escapes her. small, startled, something between a mewl and a whimper. she does not know what is happening, but her body reacts on instinct, tightening then releasing. the pressure inside her shifts. her little mouth parts, and—burp! her limbs give a tiny twitch in response, but it does not hurt. it does not make her cold. mother does not move away. 

mother is pleased. she does not hear the soft exhale but she feels it against her fur. feels the press of lips against the crown of her head. feels the tongue return, smoothing over her face, pressing comfort back into her. 

the world shifts again. she is gathered close, curled against the heat she knows. the warmth of her mother’s body, the steady sound of her breathing, the gentle rise and fall of her chest. 

safe. she is full and warm and safe. that is enough.