Blackfeather Woods tonight, we are young

At just a few days old, there was little more that the tiny, quiet form of Witchhazel could do. She didn't know her name, the meaning of family or the fact that her's was already broken, or the dark woods that she lived in. The little newborn didn't know anything other than suckling from the form of warmth that had created her, not even the three bundles she was born after. The youngest girl was fairly quiet, too, having only made one or two noises in her few days of real life. 

Today, she was in a rare moment of movement. Such things were still limited to sliding on her belly, propelled by stubs later called legs. She was doing good, even slow, until her lowered crown bumped into the unseen form of her eldest brother.