Sunset Valley Who tends the orchards? Who fixes up the gables?

Backdated to March 14

the morning was gentle.
light poured through the eastern veil of trees, soft as breath upon the skin. it filtered in shafts over the snow-dappled clearing, warming little, but enough to touch the rim of the hollow that morwenna had claimed—just east of winsook’s sacred slope. the mountain watched them now like a sleeping giant, silent and still, as if it, too, held vigil over what remained of her family.
she lay curled within a nest of woven moss, bark, and pine, tail draped protectively around the small bodies at her belly. fa’liya suckled hungrily, mouth latched in the fierce way only the strong survived. her legs kicked occasionally, her breath even, alive.
@Caan, dear caan—he fed more gently, weak jaw struggling but determined. he had cried less today. not because the pain was gone, but because exhaustion made it quieter.
morwenna shifted her weight. beneath her tongue she had stored bitter roots, chewed and softened. goldenrod, willow, and a sliver of purple thistle—all chosen with care. she turned her head and nudged her son gently, coaxing him upward, licking his temple in quiet encouragement.
when he opened his tiny mouth with a whimper, she let the slurry spill onto the hollow of her paw, nudging it toward him. try, she whispered, though no word left her lips. her eyes said enough. please, my son.

Pain had been instilled within the boy far earlier than he could voice the words for it. Ever present, there were times where he was incorrigible. Endless wailing for someone to mend him. He did not understand why his maker hadn't. Why couldn't she take it away? The long term consequences of the injury lost on one so young.

Others there was nothing but despair. Lost in the dark, Caan could not bear the exhaustion. Every last of his strength sapped away as his body tried to repair itself. He would not crawl in these moments, for wherever he went the pain followed.

His maker does not let him wallow in this. She prods and nudges and presses kisses to his head. A weak jaw opened to let out a tired breath.

Leave me be. The boy could not speak these words yet, and if he could he had no strength too.

A new scent clings to his mother. It slicked his face where she pressed her tongue, and it was held close to him. His nose touches her paw to find it damp. It does not smell like her milk. Exhausted, Caan lets his head drop back to her belly.

morwenna’s body curved protectively around him, sheltering him from the chill air that stirred outside their hidden hollow. his breathing, shallow and uneven, tugged at her like fishhooks in the chest. every soft whimper, every shift of his tiny frame, every silent plea—she heard it all. she felt it in her marrow.
my brave boy, she whispered into the thick of his ruff, her voice frayed, raw with sleeplessness and desperation. she licked his crown again, slow and careful, even though she knew he’d grown tired of it. of her.
i know, came her murmur as his nose touched her paw. the mixture clinging there was not milk but a poultice—ground herbs, bitter and strong, meant to dull the pain in his shattered limb. this will help you, caan. not now… but soon. you must be patient with me. just a little longer.
she bent to nudge his broken leg, gentle, and began to chew the poultice into the fur around the break—spitting it, working it in so it might soak beneath the skin and take root. you are not alone in this. you will never be alone.
her nose pressed to the soft place between his ears. i will carry your pain if i must. her breath trembled. but you must stay, caan. you must live.
outside, the wind howled like a mourning mother. inside, morwenna held her son closer, wrapping around him as if to become a second skin. there was no space for gods now. only her hands. her mouth. her will.

His mother is persistent.

She continues to fuss. Another kiss pressed to his head. More tending to his leg that drew from his lungs a pitiful whimper. Her voice, unheard by folded ears, trembles through his body.

Caan is too young to understand the concepts of gratitude and resentment. The world still remained dark for him. Its voices fell upon deaf ears. The future has not come, it may not ever as far as the boy is aware. There is only the present, and it is suffering.

She does not let him sleep, to drift away into the subconscious. His only reprieve from the pain. She smears the bitter smelling salve upon him. It sticks to his skin, leaving him damp and cold. Her tending of his leg an extension of her will, as though she could mend what she had forged.

Against her belly Caan trembled. A dim star, threatening to blink out of the night sky. His will to continue shining had waned, but still he persisted. Head pressed against the night of his mother's belly, the boy continued to breathe.

shhh, she whispers, a hush like wind threading through pine. her muzzle lowers again, brushing against his fragile spine. she knows the weight of his whimper, the tremble of his limbs. knows it because she carried it—he is of her, after all.
sleep, little one, morwenna breathes into his fur, voice softer than snowfall. her tongue smooths over his brow, again and again, as if it might wash away the pain she cannot reach.
caan, caan, caan, she sings in a low, broken hum. the melody is old. older than her. older than war. you are fire. you are starlight. you are mine. her tail curls tighter around him. her warmth surrounds him like a shield. rest, little moon. rest. the world will wait.
she feels his breath, faint and flickering, but still there. her own breath stutters—then steadies. she will keep watch. she will keep him.
sleep, her son. i will not let you go.