Herbalists' Cache lull of war

the world is warmth. it is the steady, rhythmic thrum of a heartbeat beneath him, the scent of milk, the soft press of bodies against his own. he knows nothing beyond it.
nothing beyond the shifting shapes of his siblings, the tiny wars waged in the dark, toothless jaws seeking, shoving, grasping.
he drinks, he sleeps, he breathes in the scent of his mother, and when she is gone, the world is cold. his cries are small, instinctive, pulling her back, restoring the warmth.
he does not know the hush of waiting warriors. he does not know the taste of blood in the snow. he does not know how fragile this peace is, how soon it may splinter.

she returns to them. always.
the cold does not last long before she is there, pressing into the den’s warmth, curling around them. her nose finds him, soft and careful, tracing the curve of his tiny body.
c'ed'e, she murmurs, voice a breath, a promise. she nuzzles him, drawing him close, letting him tuck beneath the safety of her chest.
he is small, fragile, but he is hers. and she will keep him safe.

His maker leaves as much as she returns.

The babe is restless. Wails fall from a mewling mouth until he loses the will to continue. Falling silent witu lack of response.

Why does she leave?

He does not know the stakes at place in the unknown world beyond this shelter. His siblings remain, they always have. Their bodies small and warm and welcome against him.

C'ede is pulled away, and Caan falls into the space left behind with a surprised yelp.

Their mother's scent wash over them, and Caan finds his voice once more to cry.

Each time the woman leaves them it is like summer being torn away, and the void of an empty winter takes its place.

Sometimes it is spring; the smells are different, it is still a little warm, but it is not the same - these are the moments where someone else watches over them, and in her limited state Ghenaya is remarkably indifferent. She only cries out when there is that absence, that cold that has been persistent since her arrival.

Around her squirm the other children, and there is the low and breathy voice of their mother, cooing over them. Ghenaya whines and kicks her little legs, punching the air, maybe a brother; she does not know what is said, only that the air vibrates.

warmth leaves. warmth returns.
he does not understand why, only that absence stretches long, cold, empty. he calls for her, but his voice is small, swallowed by the den. his limbs push against his siblings, seeking, grasping. they are warm, but not her.
then—motion. scent. a shift in the air before she is there, curling close, pressing him into the safety of her chest. breath washes over him, voice humming low and soft.
his cries fade. his body stills.
she is here. that is enough.

the den greets her with the cries of the small, sharp and sudden, but not unfamiliar. they were born with voices like birds—tiny, urgent things that struck straight into her soul. caan’s wail pulls her gaze first, a sound of absence, of longing. ghenaya, too, flails, a tangle of pale limbs and protest. even c’ed’e, who softens when she draws near, had once cried.
i know, she whispers, low and aching as she sinks to them. her breath fans over their tiny bodies, voice curling like smoke. i am sorry.
the world outside bites and bleeds and pulls her away—but this, this den of new breath and fragile hearts, is the only thing left that is truly hers. her mouth meets each brow in turn—caan, ghenaya, c’ed’e, fa'liya—her movements tender, rhythmic. she draws them close, reshapes the nest with her body, surrounds them with her warmth.
i am here now, she tells them. a promise. a prayer. and i will not let the wind take you.