Swiftcurrent Creek all the world you roam, turns you into stone

Home. That's what this is, isn't it? She barely recognizes it through blurred, fevered vision, mind racing in a million directions all at once. But she remembers how it smells; she doesn't think she'll ever forget that. This is the place where she'd first experienced motherhood, where she'd found Rosalie — where she'd lost herself.
And now? Now she's truly lost. Dead on her feet, a corpse walking, no family to guide her or lovers to warm her. No children to whisper their love to her as she passes. She stumbles with a hacking laugh that quickly turns into a cough, and then a sob. She falls. This is where she dies, then; in a home full of ghosts, alone, as she's always been.

Except Alessia isn't alone — at least, not for very long.
The new leader is in an unusually good mood today, far as he is from his claim. Such a good mood, in fact, that even the growing familiarity of the scenery isn't enough to dampen his spirits. Where normally he might avoid his birthplace, Zephyr finds himself curious to see how it has changed since his last visit. Part of him still considers it his, after all.
The last thing he expects to find is the scent of his mother. Not Rosalie — that might have been welcome. This scent, however, sets his hackles rippling. Alessia. His birth mother. For a moment he considers turning and leaving, before she notices his presence — but there's something off about her scent, something... wrong. As if she's sick. Instinct screams at him to flee, to avoid whatever is ailing the other wolf lest he catch it himself. He ignores it in favor of the sudden coldness in his chest, and pushes forward. « Mom? » He calls hesitantly, hearing a faint call back and turning toward it.
The first thing he thinks is that she looks like shit. Skeletal, fur matted, eyes and nose leaking. Bile burns its way up his throat, chest clenching painfully, and he's in front of her before he knows what he's doing. Cleaning her, more gently than he's ever touched anyone in his life. He can't even process all of the emotions suddenly pouring over him. One minute he'd been blank, apathetic to her existence — the next, a colorful mess of feelings, a bubble rising in his chest like a scream fighting to reach the surface. How could this have happened? « Mom — » He chokes out after a few moments, when her face is clean. « What — you're... you're sick, aren't you? » You're dying, the break in his voice says, you've never done anything but cause me pain and now you're fucking dying.

Ghosts in the forest — and one of them appears to her. But perhaps not a ghost; this one feels all too real when it appears before her, tongue gentle against her face, soothing. Zephyr...? It must be. She can smell her child now, just a little. Slowly, she relaxes, eyes closing under the touch. The discomfort of her current state melts away to the tune of soft words she doesn't understand, and softer touches she understands perfectly. Even now, she knows the language of love well enough to feel it. The strength to return it left her sometime in the fleeting moments before her youngest child's arrival — but the comfort it brings her is not diminished.

And so she fades, quietly, dimly aware of the way the tension fades from her as the filth and mats are worked from her fur. The grief of the moment floats past her, somewhere far above her head where it cannot touch her. If her silence causes distress, she is blissfully unaware. All that Alessia knows in her last moments is the warmth and love of family, of being cared for; there's no room to question it, to second-guess. Life simply moves forward — one second with her, and the next without.

Silence. He can feel his heart beating faster as the seconds tick by, breath starting to hitch without reason. He starts to clean her more quickly, frantic now, as if that might rouse a response from her.
But there's nothing.
Nothing.
« Mom? » Nothing. There's nothing there. « Mom? » Nose in her neck fur, her ear, then pushed right up against her muzzle to feel the breath coming through. Nothing. « No — you — no! » He doesn't feel himself stepping back, but suddenly he's looking down at her and she looks so small, so stiff. But it's not her. Not anymore. Everything that had made it her is gone, and now —
Now it's just some worn out lump of flesh. A piece of meat waiting to rot. Now it's an object, where once there had been a whole life, a whole world behind her eyes that he'd always wished he could have known.
You never even told me you loved me.
For a moment, tears bite at his eyes, angry and persistent —

And then they're gone, and he feels nothing.

Phillip followed the trail his silver companion blazes. It goes far beyond the realm of ravens, towards one of the few places that were etched in his memory. It’s the place he’d first met Zephyr. Recalling that fateful day brought a smile to his face. Just as soon as it appears however, it’s gone. 

The yearlings ears—which always seem to be glued to his skull—perk up when he heard Zephyr’s distressed voice. His pace quickened, and the closer he got the more prominent that smell became. Phillip couldn’t quite describe what that smell was. Rotting. Similar to a scent he’s come across before, but not quite. Faster he went, and he mentally prepared himself for the worst.

Phillip had seen more bodies than he’d like to in his lifetime. This one is among the few that caused him the most pain. It’s not the deceased herself that brings the most sadness, but the boy who stood over it. He watched from afar, wide eyed, as Zephyr tried to bring life back to the corpse. Grief pulls at Phillip’s chest when he eventually gave up.

A few painfully silent moments passed before he took a few steps forward. Zephyr... The words die in his throat. There’s nothing he could say that could fix this. Nothing could bring this woman back. Phillip could only provide his comfort. He reached out to try to place his chin atop the boy’s head.

Numb. He feels numb and cold, tingling all over, fur on end. The normally watchful ice wraith is so wrapped up in grief and shock, he doesn't even notice Phillip's approach. He doesn't hear his voice. But vaguely, as if from some place far away from himself, he feels the touch.
He sighs, and closes his eyes. My mom... He swallows, unable to finish the sentence. Surely Phillip understands. He always understands. She — she never even told me that she loved me. I don't know if she ever did. The words come out dull, flat, pushed through a thick grey haze. And now she's dead. He presses into the touch, head dipping to hide his face in the soft fur just beneath Phillip's jaw. He hadn't expected his lover to find him here — but this is exactly what he needs right now.

It’s as if he knew Phillip was there the whole time. Or... maybe he didn’t. Zephyr looked lost. It’s hard to tell how he felt in that moment, if anything at all. He’s feeling something, Phillip assured himself. Not being able to tell what exactly made it all the more painful.

It’s grief, he thought as Zephyr told him who she was and what she hadn’t said in her lifetime. He said this in such a dull tone, and yet Phillip was certain he was grieving. This is his mother after all. It was someone he himself never had in his life, but he was able to emphasize with the loss of someone important.

I’m sure she loved you he somberly whispered. They’re bound together in a unique way, as all mothers and sons are. That’s how it’s supposed be, Phillip’s heard. Wolves with that sort of bond must love one another. Maybe she just didn’t know how to say it. It’s one thing to feel it, and another to voice it. He knew from experience.