Herbalists' Cache muradoii

the pain has passed. but what is left is worse: the quiet. the heat. the breathing of small, stupid things that do not know yet what they are. that do not know they must earn the right to live.
their mother stares at them. every breath they take feels like it costs her something. her sides twitch. blood crusts against her thighs, sticks in her fur, but she does not clean it.
she counts them. again. again. again. four. four. she grits her teeth.
her body aches. burns. her gums are bloodied from the war-cries she screamed. she smells the milk before she feels it, hot and ripe in swollen glands.
she licks one. the first. her son. another shrieks. a girl. fat, wild thing. sivaak grins at this one, taking a paw to cup her closer.
black hawk moves near—too near. sivaak lifts her lip, but does not bite. instead, she leans, bloodied snout nudging the taller woman’s chest, smearing gore.
then—that howl. the one that sears like fire down her spine. her ears twist. her muscles tense. every tooth flashes in silent snarl. sobeille. she lifts her head slowly. heavy. her face blank but her eyes... sharp. something ancient in them. a mother bear tasting blood in the snow. she watches. she waits. sivaak growls, still staring at the den mouth.
she lowers her head back to her brood. nips the third child—another girl, odd. a fierce little thing, sivaak's eyes darken upon her. this one feels nothing. good. then there is the fourth... softest. slowest. her jaw hovers. but she screams. so she lives.
sivaak grins. teeth pink with afterbirth. muradoii born. muradoii live. as she says, she leans against black hawk, pressing her weight into her with full gravity of labor’s toll.