It is time.

She wakes from a fitful sleep; true rest has been hard to come by as the months go on. She knows the moment she opens her eyes that the moment had finally arrived. Her dens been cleared out for weeks now, every inch covered in pelts and blankets-- overkill for the brook, but perfect for the eventual move to frostsong. Creature comforts a nesting mother could not live without, herbs and medicine stockpiled for when she could no longer venture out to get it.

Before it truly begins she calls for @Sheol, a warbling chuff tumbling from her lips-- nervous, maybe, for the first time in a long time.

And when it is over, she is devastated-- exhaustion ripples through her plush form, muscles quivering with overexertion. Her head swims with the pressure of it all, yet still she turns to the babes at her breast-- viewing them altogether for the first time. And... it doesn't feel real. None of it does. There are four of them, hale and healthy and gorgeous-- perfect swirls of winter-hues and dripping with darker shades. A mix, she thinks, of all three mates-- even if there is only one she wants at her side, now.

Reaching over, the she-wolf places a kiss atop each babes head in turn, a content ( albeit tired ) purr thrumming from her throat. Outside, the night wanes on-- a gentle rain falling over the brook. In this hushed moment there is only them.

_{ART — CODE}

There's a stirring in her own chest as @Faolán calls and she heaves herself to her feet, feeling oddly unsteady. Something feels off but she stamps it down, forcing a nervous smile to her lips, as she passes through the night and ducks out the mouth of the den. She's back swiftly, retrieving a small hare that she'd stashed nearby for just this occasion, and as the moment settles in for her mate, she's there. Always there, a hand on her shoulder, fingers twined together as she offers soft murmuring encouragement. And all the while, there is a lingering doubt in the back of her mind as her own insides cramp and rebel.

The rain lulls the children into sleep as they settle at her side and Sheol, matching the rumble of Faolán's purr, leans over to kiss the side of her temple. Could you have ever imagined? She whispers, heart hammering anxiously in her chest. How very perfect they would be? Awe touches her, and she sweeps her muzzle to hover them over the frail shapes. One was smaller than the others, a tiny little blip of darkness tucked in at the end, and she wrinkles her nose with a toothy grin. A paw reaches out to snag the rabbit and she brings it closer, gently placing it at her lover's feet - should she hunger - and sighs contentedly.

Do you need anything? Sheol whispers, laying her head against Fao's back and staring up at her with nothing short of big, puppy eyes. I'll bring you the moon, if you ask.

ANGEL HE CALLS ME, BUT DOES HE KNOW I'M FALLEN?

outlier. you've lost them. they do not need you

whispers in his mind. poisonous, inky black, tendrils that sink in to ever little crevasse and consume. as they swell with cubs he loses more and more of the battles, sinking back in to the depths of his mind, handing over the control to the very one they do not want. driving the wedge deeper all while he fights frantically to close the widening gap.

he lurks in the shadows, pacing, watching. listening. blood in the air, blood on his tongue, blood bloodbloodblood. but -- and this is the most surprising part -- there is no frenzy.

instead there is a rallying strength, a whipped and near-beaten boy that crawls out of the hole he had been nearly banished to. a fierce protectiveness that makes no sense and yet becomes the lifeline he clings to even more intensely than the red threads wrapped around his bones.

as the squeaks of new life fill the air he is pressing in to their sacred space, but thee is something... different. he seems smaller, less imposing, as if he has fought to cram himself in to a more suitable vessel for this particular moment. there is a strange gentleness that softens his often harsh and icy features, an unusual warmth that fills his eyes.

a paw that reaches with intent to stroke ever so lightly down the back of one tiny cub, fascinated and awed in equal measure. "perfect," an exhalation so quiet they may not hear it as he hovers in this moment, unaware of what may come to break it. there is not yet fear or apprehension but only an unfamiliar bloom of something far more pleasant.

outside the ravens make a wall of their wings, a wall that bjorn cannot cross.

@Faolán @Sheol