Hoshor Plains [birth] these gifts i bring

He was roughly handled, but he recognized the scent of comfort— it was instinct. It smelled of milk, and it was warm. As his mother tended his wounds, the pain subsided to a dull throb; he would cry out with certain movements until it fully healed, but eventually there would be only scars. He would not remember this day.

There was a flurry of movements as his mother shifted around the den. He yowled softly, protesting the lack of milk— wanting to fill his belly, now that he was near her. It was nearly impossible to maintain a latch, though, and so he cuddled alongside his remaining siblings, whimpering until he would be allowed to feed again.