Herbalists' Cache into the unknown

the world is too much. too loud, too cold. it gnaws at her from all sides — the relentless heat of tiny bodies pressed too tightly around her, the suffocating press of pelts below that turn warmth into fire. she cannot bear it. her mouth parts in a shrill, piercing wail, too frail to command attention but desperate enough to fight for it. too much. too much. mama!

she does not know she is small. she only knows unbearable heat, pain. the rasp of air in her throat, the ache in her ribs, the way her siblings squirm and clamber over her like she is nothing. they have weight. they have strength. they crawl over her, larger limbs batting her head, heavier bodies suffocating her frail, gasping form. her cries falter. become choked. she cannot breathe again. no, no, no. she twists, desperate, trying to find something—anything—that is not crushing her. she pushes blindly, limbs too weak, and then—

a force. a pressure. it lifts her, saves her. warmth surrounds her, but it is different now. less crushing. less suffocating. the breath of something vast and powerful floods over her, and instinct—raw, primal—flickers in her still-damp body. mama. her tongue drags over a tiny spine, pressing warmth into her hollow chest. the force of it feels like it might snap her in two, but it is good. she mewls, and when the air fills her lungs again, it does not strangle her this time.

safe. mama is safe. she was not before, some part of her could sense it. now she was. her mother has pulled her close—closer than the others. she feels the heat of her breath, the insistent nudge toward something she does not understand. her little head bobs, searching, searching—there. the scent is unbearable. rich, sweet. she latches blindly, tongue rasping against the supple skin, but she is too weak to suckle properly. she is not strong enough.

her mother adjusts, with one great paw anchored against her side, securing her, forcing her to the teat. another rasp of her tongue encourages her to try again. and she does. she sucks, weakly, pathetically—but she does. the milk fills her mouth in slow, pitiful trickles, but it is enough.