Herbalists' Cache a mad thought

she listened, quietly, as his voice rumbled through the den, a song worn and weathered by time yet still carried on his tongue. it was not often that she heard him sing, and so she did not interrupt, did not tease—only listened, absorbing the weight of the words as they settled into her bones.
spirit snow, spirit tusk.
softly, she repeated them, testing the cadence, the meaning, the way they settled on her tongue like an old prayer.
lift your voice. sing you must.
her gaze dropped to the small bodies nestled against her, their tiny chests rising and falling with breath still unburdened by the weight of the world. they would learn these songs in time.
do you hear the caribou?
she pressed her muzzle against c'ede's crown, whispering the words as if tucking them into the fabric of his being.
running after, soon are you.
a promise, perhaps. a future unwritten.
she lifted her head, catching the flicker of emotion in his eye as he touched their child's paw.