Dragoncrest Cliffs mwen chante kè ou

for @Thibault, @Tousaint, @Miette, and @Chantale <3 also aw but esp babies! <3

the pack fed mireille and built her strength.
and in it she found the tears flowing, the collective grief of them all over rosalyn.
"manman, yo pral konnen ou," mireille sobbed to rosalyn, to erzulie, and how grateful she was that her mother had seen her to the very end.
they will know you, "granmè rosalyn sleeps," mireille choked out.
but her grief, it was heady, was fierce.
it was resolute, and pure.

Something binked against Chantale’s head.

The girl hadn’t exactly been sleeping, had instead been considering feeding herself, but the smack of a tear against the top of her head made every thought escape her head except ”fucking excuse me?” 

She was too young to know the grief of her mother. All she knew was the grief of an infant experiencing something new that was not liked.

Chantale threw back her face, with its slowly lengthening snout (far more than her siblings, she would have quite the muzzle when grown), and raised her nose into the air. She released a high warble, a protestation of daring to hit her with water.

The body he knew of as warmth was disturbed. He had been slow to eat upon birth; though, had quickly fattened up once he understood how to eat. While slow, he could stay on her for hours drinking down milk.

So when she moved, and when he felt her weeping, he wished to lean into her and bury himself in the blanket of her fur.

Oblivious to the grief of his mother, Tousaint knew and valued only his own needs and wants and thus far, they had been simple and few. He knew he wanted warmth when he felt cold, and food when his belly was empty. More often than not, both were readily available from the one who smelled like home. 

He was beginning to become aware that something called “discomfort” existed, and was beginning to happen more and more frequently. Whether he simply hadn’t noticed it before, or if it really was increasing was unknown to him, but it stemmed most often from the movement of others around him. When one moved, he knew now that he could expect any manner of punishments- a paw to the nose, a claw to his little folded ears, ab elbow to his plush sides. So when he felt his siblings beginning to move, he fussed. 

He mewled and began to crawl away from the sprawling limbs of his siblings, and closer to his mother. Once he found a place that was both warm and still, he would curl up there and hope he would not be disturbed again.

mireille's voice pealed from the den. val turned an ear behind him.

it pained him that they would never know the faces of their granmes. they would never know erzulie's laugh, or the sharp appraisal of rosalyn's single eye -- they would not know the long walks down the beach with them, or their warm embrace as they returned from a long and cold road.

only val and mireille and the rest of sapphique held these memories now.

he placed a still-warm hare by the den's hearth. it was not his place to enter without invitation, so instead val settled by the pinestraw beneath. if he slowed his breathing and closed his eyes, he fancied he could feel and see each squirming body as they wrestled against the cinnamon pelt of their mother.

at this stage in miette's life, she was deceptively uncomplicated. she wanted for food when it was offered, but otherwise slept. not even the wrestling of her siblings could rouse her from sleep when it came upon her, for miette slept like the dead.

she was biding her time, her energy, her resources. while the siblings fretted miette collected her power, fat on milk and contentment that would gradually begin to elude her.

for now she had no inkling of the grief that darkened her mother's heart. as each of her siblings moved away, miette gave an impossibly small yawn and promptly fell asleep.

in her grief, there too was strength.
chantale cried out indignantly.
thibault folded close.
tousaint moved away.
miette yawned.
and val, outside her door, buoyed mireille more than any language would be able to convey.
her weeping would not end soon; but it became silent, and in the french of erzulie did the obsidian began to sing again, kissing each of the quartet in turn and thinking fiercely upon the last memories of rosalyn she would possess.

Chantale could not hear, but she could feel. Her indignancy was soothed, her cries settling down into heated grumbling, then gentle whispers of a sleepy babe.

Her mother’s voice created vibrations. Chantale felt them beneath her feet, in her chest, gentle. She rested her head against her mother’s belly, her brain slipping away into quiet sleep.

Tousaint felt the gentle vibrations of his mother's voice, and as they rose and fell along with her sides, he puffed soft, milky-sweet air into her fur with every breath he took. He settled his cheek against her side, pressing one ear into the downy fur of her belly, smacking his lips contentedly. The rhythmic dips of the melody paired with the regular kisses along his spine made him yawn, knead the air with his toes, and fall asleep with his paws curled against his chest.