Bearclaw Valley and when we burst, start over, oh darling

bearing life was, ironically, a grim affair. everyone thinks of the joy, the love, the devotion a mother feels when they look upon the life they had made; but what of the pain? how can one look at the tiny thing that caused them so much grief, trouble, and agony, and look upon that face and love, unconditionally?

indra wrestled; the babe that sucked at her breasts had hurt her in ways she could not give breath nor words to. it had come and split her clean in half; it had blackened her womb and darkened her thoughts and leeched the life from its siblings. and yet, it suckled on -- singular and uncaring and selfishly tucked alone into the crook of her hips.

and then after, came the self-loathing, creeping insidiously after her like some choking vine that grew day by day. how could she hate something so innocent, that had not asked to be born? what was wrong with her that she could not look upon her own child with love, but looked to nunataq and marten and laurel's trio with undying devotion. what malign and dark god kept her that could give her such a callous detachment from a being that was, presently, unconditionally reliant on her to survive?

mona was a welcome distraction -- her quiet intrusion an eagerly needed respite for the tormented redleaf. indra had swept to her feet the moment she had heard footsteps outside, and tiredly she squinted into the brightness and saw a pair of autumnally red limbs. wriggling out from the tiny den (and leaving poor merrick alone) indra rose to meet her friend, a heavy depth of gratitude in her sunken gaze. "lunch sounds amazing, thank you.." she gushed, though in truth the redleaf woman had such little appetite these days which showed in the loose manner the skin hung off of her hips and the pallor that crept about her tired eyes.