Herbalists' Cache a mad thought

for all her pride, for all her strength, star eater nearly crumbled when she saw him kneel.
her heart clenched, caught between the fury that had burned in her chest for days and the deep, immeasurable love she held for him. her sun. her strength. her home.
he had not eaten. he had not slept. and yet he had waited—waited for her to summon him, as if he were not the chieftain of their people, as if he were not a man worthy of stepping into the sacred space of his own children.
oh, naganés’a’e. her voice almost broke, almost gave way to the storm in her chest, but she would not weep, not yet.
she swallowed thickly, gaze shifting to the newborns curled against her belly. their children. tiny and fragile and perfect.
this little one, she murmured, nudging the runt with the tip of her nose, her breath warm against the smallest of them. she looks just like you.
the dark fur, the delicate features, the fierce cry that had torn through the shelter upon her birth—this was his daughter.
she lifted her gaze back to him, searching his face, drinking in the rawness of him, the way he had never looked so open, so vulnerable. she wanted to touch him, to pull him close, but the anger still coiled within her, not yet ready to be soothed.
i have been so angry with you, she admitted, quiet but firm. but you are their father.
she did not say the rest. did not say that she had needed him, that she had ached in his absence, that the weight of carrying their children into the world alone had nearly broken her.
instead, she let her muzzle brush against the tiny body of their daughter, her voice softer now. i have named her. fa'liya. he would know its meaning. little light.