Herbalists' Cache into the unknown

warmth. breath. the steady pull of something vast, something known. he does not understand the press of lips, the sweeping stroke of a tongue, but he feels it—feels the weight of it, the quiet promise wrapped within each touch. he squirms, mewls, presses closer, though he does not know why.
something in her scent holds him still. something in the way she moves, the way she breathes, tells him he is safe. he does not yet know the world beyond her, beyond the steady rhythm of her body. for now, this is all.
a sister wails, and he stirs. the sound is thin, gasping, wrong. she flails, small and desperate, and something inside him reacts before thought exists.
his too-long limbs push against the tangle of bodies, awkward but certain. he does not understand what she needs, only that she is struggling, that her cries are sharp in the dark.
then—warmth. their mother. her breath, her voice, the soft nudge that pulls fa’liya close. he stills.