The days were blurred together in the close, semi-dark world of the den. The copper scent of birth and primordial things was fading. In its place the smell of milk and baby and mother pervaded. Lótë had not lost track of the others -- she rather enjoyed their visits -- or their purpose in the wood they shared with the herds, but her world seemed to have shrunken temporarily to the revolving need of nursing and sleeping as she healed and regained her strength. The cloudberry welcomed the respite, for it meant bonding with Fjall and the chance to mourn the daughter she would have named Juni. 

On that morning, she simply admired her pallid son as sunlight trickled in and played on his tiny features. Her head rested against the bedfurs, gems of adventurine tracing along the sealed eyes and button nose -- wondering if he would grow to be as pale as his father. 

The presence of her youngest -- no, not quite anymore, the dove thought as her gaze flickered down to Fjall -- was not immediately detected. Wilwarin was a ghostly spectre that moved through the wood, her steps light and silent. It was only when the perfume of her coat reached the mother's nose that Lótë realized Wil guarded their den. A soft noise beckoned her in. 

"Would you like to meet your brother?" the cloudberry murmured gently, tail beating a muted tempo against the floor of the ulaq. 

Lótë couldn't help the way her features absolutely lit up upon seeing Wilwarin's reaction, nor the tears that remained trapped at the precipice of her lashes. The latter she would have liked to blame on the emotions still swelling and crashing like waves through her body but even she couldn't deny the enormity of the moment. 

"Aya," she agreed softly, "he's little for now. Soon, too soon, he will be as big as you are." Lótë turned her gleaming peridots for a moment upon the tiny boy, both wishing she could hold this one second of her existence forever and simultaneously looking forward to who her son would grow to be.