Sunset Valley Who tends the orchards? Who fixes up the gables?

shhh, she whispers, a hush like wind threading through pine. her muzzle lowers again, brushing against his fragile spine. she knows the weight of his whimper, the tremble of his limbs. knows it because she carried it—he is of her, after all.
sleep, little one, morwenna breathes into his fur, voice softer than snowfall. her tongue smooths over his brow, again and again, as if it might wash away the pain she cannot reach.
caan, caan, caan, she sings in a low, broken hum. the melody is old. older than her. older than war. you are fire. you are starlight. you are mine. her tail curls tighter around him. her warmth surrounds him like a shield. rest, little moon. rest. the world will wait.
she feels his breath, faint and flickering, but still there. her own breath stutters—then steadies. she will keep watch. she will keep him.
sleep, her son. i will not let you go.