The emptiness did not fade away; there was no warm, glowing satisfaction in her, and her yellow-green eyes flicked to the children indifferently. Small and squirming and helpless -- she was not sure how she was supposed to love them. She was almost four years old and she had no idea how to be a mother -- she could barely remember her own, and she had left so early. The noise outside of her cave did not disturb her; she expected Larkspur. She did not want anyone else -- he would be the only one she could tolerate in this moment, and anyone else would have been chased away with a growl.
There was food, but she did not want it -- she was too tired and too exhausted to eat, even, though a faint hunger gnawed at her stomach. There was no desire in her to lift her head and take anything from the goat, however, and her yellow-green eyes focused instead on Larkspur, shuffling the puppies forward so he might have a better look at them. Some part of her was desperate for his approval -- she had not looked at the ill puppy since she had set it aside, and she hoped he did not care. For all her tiredness, there was still that intense desire for acceptance. She had given life to these things of his; maybe he would love her for it.
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