You are a young parent. Not unusually young, but young nonetheless.
As is your mate. You both have remarked on how it feels as if you'd barely earned the right to wear the clothing that symbolized your adulthood. Simple fare. A bandana, bangles.
But you adored them.
Your first nest is a healthy clutch of three eggs, which you fussed over dutifully as you waited for them to hatch.
You were overwhelmed with pride at the three little hatchlings that broke free: two like him, and one like you. Your heart swelled with a love that you had never felt before.
But far too soon, they were gone. Shipped off to faraway clans before you'd had the time to know any of them. You were not with them for even a full day.
One eventually sent word back that he'd found his place in the world; his charge, and his home soon after. His letter eases the pain of the notices you'd received for the other two; the other one like your mate, and the only one like you.
They'd gone to serve the gods. Not your own, and not even the same ones, but gone nonetheless. Neither had a name to be called even by the time of their true departures, and you bite back the sting of it all.
Time passes, and you receive few notes from the son that still could speak to you. Your mate is uneasy, but he says it is the call to his charge that causes him to pace so. He urges you not to worry.
More time passes, and you have another nest. Your desperate wish is to name them all, but you are not given the chance. Once more, you have a clutch of three, and once more, they are taken from you the moment they hatch.
This time, there is no pause. All your children are sent to serve. This time, it is your own god.
You bite back your sorrow, and try to be proud.
Some days later, one of your clanmates notices your struggle, and tells you of a tradition many have;
to carve an effigy for your departed children, and offer it the kindnesses you wish you could offer to them.
You are doubtful, but you do so nonetheless. It passes the wait between nests to build your shrine, and you put what love into it you can.
You and your mate have many nests, and each and every time you are denied time with your children, you make more offerings to the unnamed. You spend much of your time at the shrine, talking and praying, wishing all of your children well and trying as best you can to remember them by the shards of eggshell you keep.
Your son's letters join the pile soon after he loses his charge.
You stare into the eyes you set in amber and spinel. You were never much of a carver, but you keep trying, refining your effigy with utter dedication.
One more nest, and your mate is sent away as well. His clothing isn't returned to you, and is instead split between the rest of your clan. You are at once distraught and relieved to know one day you will lose his scent and forget him.
You weep in front of your beloved effigy.
You hang your head, and it brushes against your carving.
A marble hand raises, and cradles your cheek.
