Hideaway Strath oh there's a great big beautiful tomorrow

Breezing through Lotte posts. I am sorry for the lackluster quality and for bad mood Lotte!

Lotte had spent another exhausting night alternately rejoicing Eirlys’ continued survival and mourning her inability to thrive. The flicker of irritation she felt toward the tiny pancake of a cub from time to time was unbidden and involuntary; it filled Lotte with guilt to admit that she truly believed, in her darkest moments, that the weak little girl would be better off dead. It wasn’t that she wanted Roarke’s twin to die — but, honestly? There were days the colorpoint bitch thought it’d be better for the snowdrop to just pick a side: live or die. This terrible in between stage was emotionally and mentally draining.

Startled out of her dark mood, “Rakas,” Lotte answered softly, resuming her current task — bathing the tiny snowbear who was at the root of her turmoil. Eirlys didn’t protest during bath time the way her twin did, but she didn’t seem to enjoy it, either. She just…existed. Frowning, the young mother redoubled her efforts in an attempt to get a reaction out of the girl, stopping only when Eirlys squeaked faintly in protest. With her nose, Lotte guided the small blossom toward a teat, unsurprised but frustrated all the same when she nursed fitfully and weakly. Lotte had noticed the teeth, but the pricks of discomfort from Mallaidh’s eager nursing were balm to her weary soul. It took a few more prodding licks and nudges, but eventually Eirlys latched as she was meant to, and Lotte huffed out a cleansing breath.

The frustration engendered by Eirlys’ predicament bled over into Lotte’s feelings about Ceallach’s eyes opening; she was absurdly jealous that Arturo had been the first to see it when she had been the one to push the boy into the world. Her black-masked visage was guarded and taut when she looked up at the Fearghal patriarch — and as always, the sight of him, especially when he began to snicker quietly at their pudgy son, melted her insides to butter and stole away her every reservation. “Ceallach,” she crooned softly to the boy, humming a few notes of the tule kotiin call to drum it into the children’s developing brains, using the repetition to soothe the troubled boy. She leaned forward to add a caress of her own to the tiny child’s spine.

“Mallaidh is the fiercest and Roarke is the laziest,” she said fondly, though she’d never name these superlatives when the cubs were old enough to understand them, “but surely Ceallach is the handsomest. He looks like you.” Conspicuously, she didn’t mention Eirlys — but it wasn’t intentional.