Hoshor Plains dear child,

Life was an ebb and flow of simplistic comfort. A belly was full—never wondering what it felt or meant to be hungry, as he remained connected in the most intimate of ways with another being. The sense of others wasn’t a forefront of his mind, nor an understanding, but they offered him comfort in the womb—something he only realized when they had begun to slip away.

It wouldn’t be anything to dwell on or remember—distress came in the wake of his sisters leaving their cocoon, and when it was his time to flourish, comfort was restored once more by the radiating love of his mother and siblings.

He did not fuss. The tiniest mewling noise might have escaped the last born before he was lovingly settled next to his sisters and to the warmth and promise of milk.

Cleaned—fed—lulled to sleep once more by the familiarity that he was once more cocooned and so easily accepting that this was now how it was—Alasdair was once more asleep in moments, born beneath the soft glow of the silver moon.