Swiftcurrent Creek I make mountains out of stones

she doesn't know how to answer his question, at first, and the only answer he recieves is a sigh. she does not know how to explain the pain, deep in her sides and all-encompassing. the grief hurts, too, but that she's used to, that she can bear. he sees depression, and perhaps that she is - but all she feels is the sharp loss, the burning pain that is so much more terrible than the cramps suffered in pregnancy. 

she accepts his answer with a nod, too tired to offer anything else. perhaps he does not know it, and neither does she, but there is something gone deeply wrong with her pregnancy, and the birth that followed. but she would not relive that loss, nor tell him all that ailed her for that fear of appearing weak haunts her still.

instead, she accepts the herbs he offers, straightening slightly as to rasp a "thank you." she chews them slowly, muzzle twitching slightly at the taste. she can only trust they'd do the same as the poppy did. exhausted from the interaction, she lowers her head onto the floor of the den once more, adjusting herself around her children.