They had all rested up after arrival, and none more thoroughly than Titmouse. He had dropped to the ground as soon as he'd realized the group had found their destination, and without even curling up he was asleep. Out like a light. His slumber was characterized by muscle spasms that, to any onlooker, would give the appearance that he was still running. At some point someone grabbed him by the scruff and carted him off (he was a small boy, even now) and yet he kept on sleeping, as if determined to recoup as much of his lost energy as he could. The group was probably relieved by his absence among them; temporary though it might be, Titmouse was an aggressor, a pest, an irritant - and many of Rannoch's family would be in need of rest. Yes, his absense was a blessing.

Nobody was aware of how deeply the bear had corrupted him. How that single undignified moment had shifted something within him. Not even Titmouse would be fully aware of it, although his mind tried to work its way through the trauma of his near-death as he slept, and his dream was an immaculate reconstruction of events:

—it was with hurtling speed, a breakneck charge, that he rushed the other boy, yellow fangs jutting from his maw as he neared, a heavy forepaw set to deliver a blow to the small wolf, the paw like a club in its strength— The bear, fifty times his size, a great black pit of a mouth surrounded by a boulder-shaped body cleaved from the mountain itself —yellow fangs jutting from his maw— and he was paralyzed. Alone. There was no Rannoch here, no Cypress tailed by Redshank, no Rian, no Liffey; Titmouse was alone to face the giant and all he had was a pebble without a sling. The beast became stone; it rose up on its hind legs and around it, through it, from it, spanned the mountain. Its eyes were a shining yellow at first - burning and malevolent - but they shifted too, becoming the spark of light caught in the beryl.

As Titmouse witnessed the glimmer of those eyes, the spark he recognized from tossing the stone, the dream abruptly ended. He jerked awake with a squeal in a place he did not recognize, surrounded by mountains and shadows, cloaked in a mental fog from the deepness of his sleep, and without meaning to he felt his bladder release.

He was wet, and uncomfortable. The feeling of dread lingered through the dream though; Titmouse was distracted by it, and didn't notice as Rian came slinking through the slumbering wolves to meet him. When he heard the whispered voice he visibly startled, sagging right, and stepped in the sinking warmth that had spread out from under him. The boy quailed next to Rian, ducking his head and swerving his gaze away with shame. The boy sniffled and blinked away the rest of the fog that cloaked him, and then admitted (more to himself than anyone else:) All my fault. The terror, the running, the injuries -- he glanced away and saw the adults sleeping around him, some with open wounds. The smell of blood mixed with the pine-fresh scent of the vale and the boy felt oh so small then. m'sorry.

It took him a few minutes to muster the energy to get to his feet, but he did it. The invitation was left without an answer spoken aloud, yet Titmouse kept close to the older boy's heel as he navigated the sleeping bodies. During the first few steps he paused and shook his back feet out, letting the wetness fling off of him and lightly splattering nearby faces; they'd never know. With a slackened posture and lazy eye Titmouse looked around the gathered bodies and picked his way through them, coming up behind Rian just as the boy voiced his comment about getting a drink - and the child merely shrugged. Sure, what difference would it make. He could use a bath too.

The stream gurgled softly, and had he been in a better mood (more himself maybe) then Titmouse would've been overjoyed to search the river stones for pretty colors and shapes to play with or collect. As he was now, the boy just looked out over the current and seemed utterly disinterested. Rian drank, and it was quiet for some time.

When the older wolf spoke, Titmouse didn't even look at him. He was watching the stream. Watching the colors morph and the shadows shift. The current pulsed against a middle-sized stone that looked uneven; partway through Rian's comments the big stone came loose, floated a fair ways along, then clattered against smaller rocks. Titmouse saw the bear; he looked away foolishly to his feet.

—sometimes you can't trust your inner voice to tell the truth, so you gotta put trust in your friends to steer you right. Titmouse sighed through his nose and wiggled his toes through the wet soil. His ears went back, looking very much like a child being told-off for bad behavior. He interjected in the next moment, mumbling, I don' have any.

A moment after that, to clarify: 'm loud, an' I don' know things, an'... he shook his head at the mere suggestion of friends. He did have Liffey, but Titmouse had matured to a point where even he could tell when his cousin was irritated by him. Then there was Redshank (who he still held out hope for), but the older boy was pretty set in his mannerisms and clearly held no interest in the small firebird. Titmouse frowned as he tried to think of others, and then looked back to the stream with his eyes glazed by sadness.