Herbalists' Cache lull of war

the den greets her with the cries of the small, sharp and sudden, but not unfamiliar. they were born with voices like birds—tiny, urgent things that struck straight into her soul. caan’s wail pulls her gaze first, a sound of absence, of longing. ghenaya, too, flails, a tangle of pale limbs and protest. even c’ed’e, who softens when she draws near, had once cried.
i know, she whispers, low and aching as she sinks to them. her breath fans over their tiny bodies, voice curling like smoke. i am sorry.
the world outside bites and bleeds and pulls her away—but this, this den of new breath and fragile hearts, is the only thing left that is truly hers. her mouth meets each brow in turn—caan, ghenaya, c’ed’e, fa'liya—her movements tender, rhythmic. she draws them close, reshapes the nest with her body, surrounds them with her warmth.
i am here now, she tells them. a promise. a prayer. and i will not let the wind take you.