Hideaway Strath before the song dies

Hypoglycemia, the silent killer.

Eirlys’ awareness had begun to broaden, themes and figments coalescing and sharpening into a solid, though malleable, reality. A difference could now be drawn between her soft, tumbling littermates and the wide-reaching others. For Eirlys, it was all about proximity: Mallaidh, Roarke, and Ceallach were next to, while Lotte, Arturo, Chusi, Dagfinn, and Hemlock were, by contrast, above. She learned to root around blindly when she wanted attention from her littermates — Roarke in particular, for he was irrevocably, inexplicably part of her in a way she’d always have a hard time trying to explain — and to tip her muzzle and direct her cries upward when she wanted reassurance. She’d made such developmental progress lately that Lotte had been able to stop panicking about her, and the smoke-and-shadow soturi was finally able to enjoy her little bear cubs’ infancy with absolute gusto. Despite Sirius’ presence, which reminded the colorpoint queen that things weren’t exactly as they should’ve been, Lotte relaxed — and that was always a gamble.

Eirlys had never been a voracious eater, but for the past twenty-four hours she’d been nursing a surprising amount. Lotte didn’t leave the den often, relying on Arturo, Dagfinn, and Chusi to provide her with food and company, but with Eirlys’ progress fresh in her mind she left Ceannasach in charge and went for a long, meandering walk in the forest to stretch her legs — and when she returned, and the little girl continued to sleep soundly in her father’s arms, Lotte didn’t have the heart to wake her. Even when Arturo was called away on his duties and care of the little snowdrop was transferred from his arms to Lotte’s, the young mother didn’t feel any prolonged distress. She reasoned that Eirlys had nursed for a good long time that day, and the fact that her sides were still lean wasn’t really a new thing for the spindly blossom.

What Lotte didn’t know was how little Eirlys had actually been consuming. Her tenacity at the teat could be attributed to the familiarity of the sensation or the pressure in her gums, but in truth she hadn’t eaten enough to sustain her growing body. What Lotte didn’t know wouldn’t kill her — but it could kill Eirlys.

“Eirlys?” the young mother said now, the niggling feeling of concern growing into something greater. The snowdrop lay flat on her side, breathing shallowly, looking somehow deflated — as if all the vitality she’d shown over the past few days was utterly for naught. “Eirlys!” Lotte’s cries grew high pitched and panicked when the tiny cub failed to respond. “@Hemlock! @Arturo!” she howled desperately at last, fearing the worst.

After discovering that the child had wandered into Lotte's whelping den Hemlock had been beside herself. It meant that those who had been watching him couldn't be trusted - and that he, in turn, was more mobile and had to be watched more closely. She had near groveled to Lotte; placating because the risk of Sirius giving anything to the babies was great - even with her best efforts it still took time to properly heal. So far none of the children had seemed to catch his cold, not even little Eirlys, the worrying child. Hemlock had been cautiously optimistic; every day it was much the same. She checked on the children a few times a day in between the typical goings on of her duties in the pack. 

The alarming call paused her movements, the cache she was working on with Amphitrite abandoned in a sudden lurch as she raced to Lotte's densite. The first thing that she did was to check the children, it seemed the endless move and there was never a moment since their birth that she didn't think of them. If they had been borne of her body she might not have been able to love them more, but still, the moment that Hemlock's viridian gaze fell to Eirlys form she drew in a deep breath. 

"Breathe, Banrion, breathe," She commanded, demanding of her own voice that she not tremble and keep as even of a tone as possible. She leaned down to touch the little pup - her temperature was fine, at least, so that was not an immediate concern. Gingerly Hemlock pried open the little pup's mouth to check the color of her gums - she was pale, all of her was pale, and she was listless. She had at least protested to Hemlock's invasive checking and her parents constant attention. "I will go and get her something, I will return quickly. Keep her warm and close." She wouldn't make any promises, but as she butted her head against Lotte's, rubbing beneath her chin, it was conveyed that they were together in this and the woman would do all in her power to keep the child safe. 

A last glance at the puppy before Hemlock turned and fled the densite - she knew what she was going to do she just had to make her plan carefully. 

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Lotte’s howl was desperate, calling for him and Hemlock and Ceannasach abandons his patrol and makes haste to the king sequoia. He has feared for the snowdrop, frail and tiny as she is, for several weeks now. It is hardly Roarke’s fault in the grand scheme of things but at the same time it is his fault. Two pups were not meant to share a sac and while the pudgy winter’s bane is healthy and plump his sister is frail and dying. The sinking feeling that it is miracle that Eirlys has made it as far as she had. While her siblings thrive around her she continues to decline in a downward spiral that the gangster believes only has one path: death. He supposes he should be grateful for the three healthy babes Lotte has blessed him with but the thought of losing Eirlys, the littlest snowdrop — as it would for any of his children — is a bullet lodged betwixt heart and lungs. It hurts; and for as much as Arturo desires to be optimistic for Lotte’s sake more than his own, he cannot. He is no healer and all he can do is be helpless. The dark thought occurs to him, that wishes for the witch doctor that the parasite might be able to save his daughter; Arturo’s fear of Riptide’s return keeps him from wishing too hard. He knows if he summons the parasite back that he will not be able to sever him again and that everything he has built and fought for will be gone.

The gangster comes across the birthing den as Hemlock is leaving it and he shrugs inside, fixing upon the frail snowdrop with low burning twin sun fire gaze. He cannot imagine anything more painful than losing a child and is thankful that up until this point he has not known what it felt like. He suppose his lucky streak has to run out at some point. The stillborns were different. He did not know them, not in the same way he had come to know the newest Lotturo’s. He checks upon the other three babes, healthy and happy before he moves to nuzzle against Lotte’s cheek. He offers her no empty words of condolences. He cannot keep any promises he can make her and so he does not attempt, instead offering what comfort he can by his presence.

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Playing Lotte from Eirie’s account.

Lotte watched after Hemlock’s retreating form, long seconds ticking by before she gathered up her daughter’s limp body and cradled it against her chest, crying out anew at the disconcerting way Eirlys’ tiny head tipped bonelessly to the side. What she felt was an overwhelming sense of failure. In that moment, the three healthy, chubby cubs who tangled with each other at the back of the den were forgotten. The knowledge that Lotte might well have lost every single one of them was forgotten. All of her triumphs, when measured alongside the death of this daughter, paled. She forgot to be grateful — she forgot to be anything but wretchedly defeated. Bending her head to the snowdrop, she licked obsessively, trying to warm her and stimulate her as she had so many times before. The fact that it wasn’t working this time around frustrated her, made her rough in her attempts, but never so rough that she would cause further harm to the wee bear.

---

All the licking, all the stimulation — Eirlys felt it, translated it into a steady flicker of annoyance. First someone had pried her mouth open, and now she was being jostled and pushed at. Her growing mind was too young to coherently formulate true thoughts or feelings about these things, but innately she wanted only to sleep. She felt…unsettled. Things felt wrong. A healthier puppy might have made its displeasure plain by fussing and acting dysphoric — but Eirlys, in her weakness, could only shiver and breathe, try and fail to fall into a dangerous slumber. At a particularly rough lick, she protested weakly, a thin, thready whimper.

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Hemlock moved at a breakneck speed. If not for the fortuitous arrival of Amphitrite and their work to establish a cache she might not have had a spur of the moment idea of what to do. At one point Hemlock had twisted her ankle, growling at her own body for failing her right then. She had made her promise to the Banrion though, and while some would by far consider her work done since those puppies had survived the night of their birth it wasn't enough - she had to keep them, all, all alive. 

She needed honey. She had spotted a hive not too far along the edge of the borders but she had yet to rip the thing down. Now there was no choice. The tiny wolf darted towards the treeline, peering up until she found one small hive - it would be unpleasant but it had to happen. Jumping was of no use - she couldn't get enough air. The more frantic she was, the more her thoughts scattered and she felt a foolish heat lighting up her cheek. When despair hit her she hung her head for a moment, afraid of failing her Alphas. 

It was then her salvation came in the form of a long stick. With no grace left to her motions the scarred woman picked up the stick, enacting a furious game of pinata to the angry buzzing. After a few good hits she had jabbed the stick just wrong and it lodged into the hive. Now the bees were buzzing about, a few coming dangerously close to stinging her when she swung her head in a rough jerk - and it worked. She sprung forward to grab her prize. She was aware of the angry sensation from a few bees that had stung her but she had the honeycomb in her jaws. She backtracked, taking the item back to the leaders. 

She let it hit the ground, panting with the exertion. "N-not much, it should work quickly, we just need to get her to eat some of it. Hemlock said, a little tremble as she realized her tongue was thicker - apparently she'd bit one of the damn bees in the process.

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you both get my 500th post with turo! ♥

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Arturo watches utterly helpless and loathing of that particular fact as Lotte gathers Eirlys and licks her to try to stimulate some sort of reaction. The snowdrop is alive but the truth is hollow and painful in the face of barely. Eirlys is barely alive. He had tried not to hope because what was he hoping for? For a miracle — for something he did not believe in? He believed in no deities, in no karma, in no divine intervention or retribution. He believed in only what he could see. He is the master of his own fate …just as little, struggling but fighting Eirlys is the master of her’s. “She fights,” He murmurs into his love’s rounded, bear-like ear. He does not say it to inspire anything. He simply states it as he sees it. She has not succumbed to death yet but the contemplation that perhaps death would be a kindness is a particularly cruel one. She fights …but what is it worth? Would she — could she win? Was allowing her to fight for her life just prolonging her suffering? Would they look back upon it and regret it when she succumbs to death? Arturo does not know.

Following the patterns of his life recently, his emotions are chaos within him. Hoping and dreading. He does not like being suspended. If reality is grim — which he has long since acknowledged that it is — then he would sooner face the pain now then prolong it; but he keeps his thoughts to himself. He is no healer, after all and Hemlock had rushed out of the king sequoia with hellbent purpose. Perhaps she does not think the snowdrop is a complete lost cause. For everyone’s sake, Ceannasach hopes that there is truth to the thought. The flame kissed woman returns with a honeycomb, her words accented with a tongue fattening from the sting she had endured to it. Gaze of fiery, blazing suns focus upon the healer with thinly veiled skepticism. Could Eirlys’ problems be solved with something so simple as honey? Still, he trusts Hemlock and reaches forth to take it from her. “How?” He implores of either woman. How were they supposed to get her to eat the honey when she would barely suckle from Lotte’s breast?

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moving this along some, let me know of I need to make any changes, loves <3  

 

Hemlock looks from one parent to the other a few times before her gaze falls to the tiny puppy again. Her eyes are shot wide, she knows this, just as she knows she's probably never looked so undignified before either Alpha. There is a purpose in her movements still and while it had comforted her to know Eirlys fought against her movements before, now it will be another struggle to get her to eat the honey without risking any other issues. 

"S-surrely she will hate me,"  Hemlock mused dryly, words a bit thick and pronounced awkwardly but she can't really worry about that now. Drawing Eirlys from Lotte's breast Hemlock presses and pushes at her mouth to get it open again, but this time when the snow drop protests Hemlock presses a honey coated  toe against her tongue as far back as she safely can to make the child have to lap at the thick substance. 

Hemlock isn't sure how much would be needed, but still she watches despite the near comical response of her snout to the stings. Hopefully neither parent will be focused on her at all; everything will be about their pale pup and not her inflated snout. 

Lotte watched with panic in her eyes as Eirlys seemed to respond to the honey treatment, gradually at first, then with more gusto. Her tiny mouth began sucking hard at the poor wisewoman’s toe. “It is working,” Lotte breathed, marveling at the change in her listless child. Then, as if surprised at the sweet flavor, Eirlys jerked her little head up — and when she did, both of her eyes popped open for the very first time, thin slivers of blue making a sudden and unexpected appearance. “My snowdrop,” crooned the young mother, smiling through her tears as she bathed the bewildered little face. “Stay with me. Please stay with me.”

And the snowdrop did stay.

Too weak to really offer anything but a little yawn, Eirlys feebly lifted her head and looked around at the three wolves who sheltered and held her — and she gave them her brightest smile and a ragged little thump of her tail just before drifting into honest slumber.