Arrow Lake If you see something, say nothing and drink to forget

Over @Aurëwenn's little thicket where she raised her cubs, a cold spring shower began. But the air in the mountains was chill that day and the wind was strong, so by the time the rain reached earth, each drop had formed into fat flurries instead. These compelled Dragomir to emerge from the thicket wide-eyed into the wondrous storm, where he sat back on fat little haunches to watch the snow come down. It was warm in the sun and each pearly drop was quick to melt once it landed, but the sky was filled with huge flakes that transfixed the dark cub.

Within minutes, he had a scattered cloak of snow over his pitch puppy coat. He went cross-eyed trying to focus on the bits of snow clinging to the edge of his pink nose, and when the muscles surrounding his eye sockets began to ache, he snorted and sent the flakes flying. He watched them go with a rapid wave of his thin tail, quickly losing track of them.

The green arches of the thicket were reinforced enough to act as a force to be reckoned with, rain or shine. Of course, whether rain or shine, smatterings of light or otherwise still dribbled through the heady crevices of the thicket. Whatever deigned to fall from the heavens ended up blotting the fringes of foliage in buttery golds or wavery blues. The mother in question kept herself as toward the center as she could; it was just about a blessing how uncommonly petite of a she-wolf she was. Any larger, and she’d most certainly be dampened and therefore would never offer her children a warmer place to roost.

In a way, the chilling shower would remind her  ( upon wakefulness )  of how indecisive the seasons of Rhaesuial could be: warmth could kiss the land in the manner of spring, summer, and even then the skulking vestiges of winter could return and refracture absolutely everything. Nectar-birds of the southern regions would huddle, kept from their only sources if reserves. The great ungulates that migrated at the time proved to be both blessing and curse for themselves and any herders involved. Bears kept to the foothills would be driven further into the silver-rooted mountains, if anything to keep their own young from the offenses of a lumbering, soured male.

In turn, this affected the haven of which Rhaesuial had been; any travelers sent by or come across would be hindered in arrival; tenants who should be well on their way ended up having to prolong their stays for a fortnight before the heavens cleared. So as the chill of a spring shower sussed throughout the thicket, Aurëwen shivered awake with a gentle, bleary bleat of ”Nínim,” unbidden by a dreamless, deep slumber and bidden by a reminiscence via brush of cold.

By the time her own eyes cleared, she’d nuzzled Isilmë in faint departure, and then rose with a soft chirrup to join her flurrying son at the thicket’s mouth to gaze up into the indecisive pour. ...Oh, yes — she was definitely staying home today.

It was fortunate that Aure rose when she did, lest her mesmerized son follow the drifting snow off into the mountains. Indeed, they caught Dragomir's eyes and seemed to pull him forward; he was padding slowly on sturdy feet when his dam ducked out of the thicket. The sound of her paws whispering on the young grass drew Dragomir's ears back to listen, but for now his gaze remained steadfast on the sky. A huge snowflake fluttered down and kissed his eyelashes, making him blink and breaking the spell.

He turned slowly to see Aurewën standing there, and his face broke into an excited smile. Aaah! he said, a sound he often made to express his wonder or joy. Soon his sounds would turn to words, his words to sentences, and then he would be a young man making his own mark upon Stigmata's claim. But for now he was just a toddler in the spring snow, and everything was wonderful.

Velvety ears flickered to invite the sound of her son’s warble in, and a smile already charted its path along scarred lips even before her thoughts roused to think. The mother’d since  ( finally )  learned by what she knew to be Dragomir’s aversion to touch, and rather than kneel to kiss him like she wished, she instead chirruped a lilting ”Aahhh,” in a vocalization that could be considered informative.

Snowdrops began to alight on her own pink nose and lashes, and Aurëwen gave her sculpted head a to-and-fro ruffle; but after a while, it was with a resigned sniffle that she accepted this ivory fate. Instead, she tucked herself closer to her son, shimmying onto her belly into the dewy growth with blatant disregard for the chill there. She could at least provide him with some warmth — if he wished to huddle against her — as well as still giving him a view.

Wisping a cherry tongue along her maw, the silver simpered at Drago, and then proceeded to demonstrate one of the simple, ageless joys in life: catching snowflakes on one’s tongue. She did this with a breathy giggle, if only to coax Drago to follow suit; eyes already gleaming heavenward. It’d been seasons since she’d done such a thing, when she’d been as small as her children and had done this freeing thing with her brother.

Dragomir swung back around with a rapidly wagging tail, his eyes trailing the descent of the snowflakes once more. Somewhere off in the far distance was the sea, where Vercingetorix had gone, but his world was confined to this lakeside woodland in the mountains. Above them loomed stone giants; climbing them was beyond his fathoming, but one day perhaps his paws would itch to see what lay beyond the top. Or maybe he would be like his father, a stalwart homebody whose loyalty to his chosen home was unwavering. That's who Vercingetorix was, anyway.

Aure's giggling made him toss his blocky muzzle over his shoulder so he could look back at her, and intrigued, he watched the length of her tongue stretching into the air. Mimicry was all the rage at the tender age of five weeks, so Dragomir wasted no time copying her. His tongue, pinker even than hers, wobbled inelegantly between his lips.

Then suddenly a cold snowflake lit on it and he gave an uncertain cry of, waurgh! and stumbled back, surprised.

Aurëwen gazed after her son, who tittered as he bumbled back and forth from her once he’d been acquainted with snow, himself. Dragomir’s exclamation drew one from his mother; a peal of loving laughter and just further, unbidden reason to adore this fascinated half of her brood. ”Try again, sweetling,” came a lilt of encouragement. ... Yet, so much had changed. Was changing, like the scent of her son — a son who’d nestled into a father, whose own scent only lingered now in waning vestiges of Verx.

Although there was a somber note, it didn’t entirely diminish her smile, and Aurëwen kept her faithful eyes on the flurrying heavens. ”Your noni will return, Drago,” she breathed, the warmth of it tousling the mauve of her son’s shoulder. ”He always has.” That as much was what seemed truthful to her; whether Verx had meant to or not, glad or furious, he’d always sought the silver out in one way or another.

And as much as she appreciated this mountain-male, Mahler’s verdict would not keep a fervent father from his children. All she could do until that time came was to continue to be the mother which Vercingetorix had helped meld her into; and she prayed, godlessly, that Verx would persevere in being the father he strove to become — wherever the world had taken him.  ( Where had it taken him? )

In that sense, he had left for a reason. She recalled the reverence upon dragostea’s face when her children had been delivered; how he’d pressed close, to take that study of the next chapter of this off-kilter life of theirs. Her breast fluttered, and then she felt a film of salt at her lashes, and so Aure pressed her eyes shut, made a quivering smile peal at her maw as she instead reveled in the dance of snow settling on her tongue.

With a trilling, wry laugh despite it all, she whet scarred lips, and looked back towards her son in a cheeky moment of spontaneity: ”Can you say that, my little dragon? Noni?” Her silver brow rose imploringly; perhaps he would, perhaps not, and either way it would still be some time before his tongue could master consonants, let alone different languages.

He needed little prompting to continue. Dragomir was already attempting to catch another snowflake before Aure implored him to try again. His tall ears swung back to listen as she spoke, but his eyes were on the falling skies and the soft white petals that fell from it. He waggled his head this way and that, aiming to catch each drifting snowflake on his outstretched tongue. His coordination left much to be desired, however, and his efforts mostly hindered what would have happened naturally if only he stayed still.

Vercingetorix had gathered his cubs to his breast prior to leaving and told them he was off to make a better world for them. This was something Dragomir had neither understood nor committed to his memory. There had been a solemnity about the affair that meant he would remember it a little longer than other things, but the significance of it was lost completely on him. Had he been a few weeks older, then perhaps Verx's intentions might have sprang from his lips then, easing his mother's worried heart. Alas, little Drago wasn't even aware yet that his sire was well and truly gone.

So it was that Aure's reassurances fell on unknowing ears. By now he recognized certain words, and turned to look at her when she uttered his name, and perked his ears when she called him dragon; the rest was mostly gibberish, though it wouldn't be long now. Aaanana, he replied, wavering in place as he watched her curiously.

He flit this way and that, and though her words seemed to have fallen on half-distracted ears, the boy still proved that he was, in fact, listening to her by some degree; he whirled to her as she’d said his name, and was now attempting to blab along to the previous word given emphasis in Aaanana. It brought the grin back to her lips in full, and she stept toward him with a chirrup of ”Aaanoni.​“ giving a resolute nip at the snowdrift.

Perhaps she should wait, then, fidgeting for each day that passed when — whenever — her children would say their first words. Verx had been present for their eye-openings and their first-walkings; but he would not be here to, well, hear their first words. It wasn’t in her condemn him for it, and yet... how many first happenings would he be absent from? If she’d known what he’d promised to his children alone, then her wearied heart would have been endlessly eased.

As it was, though... Aurëwen did not know. Yes, for the time, Diaspora would help to rear their children, to help them thrive. However, though, they may have been birthed here — but they hadn’t been made here, dreamt of, here. They were children from the sea: Isilmë, the pearl, who filled their world with light. Dragomir, the sturdy, clutching basalt that anchored them all to earth; both created by a forager of mountains and a warrior of salt.

In whatever ways, her own solemnity would fade, but only time would come to tell and know. Whatever purpose had taken her beloved from her would, she hoped, bring him back; her bright-dark family held her heart, her soul. It was inevitable, inescapable, and she brimmed with it and wished for nothing else.

After a few more beats, Aure moved past this moment and approached their son, humming, ”Noni, noni, noniii,” before kneeling to lave her tongue at bits of snow at his mauve shoulder. ”Are you cold, balaur meu?” Perhaps she should shepherd him into the thicket soon...

Anaa nanana anaa na, Dragomir babbled on, in his mind repeating what his mother was saying exactly. Da danana aaaah, he went on, only to turn suddenly as yet another drop of snow distracted him. By now the mountain air was beginning to warm more and the fat flakes from before were beginning to turn to heavy sleet instead. The snow that lit on his back was now wet enough to soak into his fur.

He gave himself a sloppy shake that carried through from withers to tail tip, then regarded his mother warmly as she uttered his other name. He recognized these things: Dragomir, little dragon, blackberry and balaur were all things that meant him. He also recognized soil, because that word was said often whenever he was caught licking up bits of dirt. He recognized love because it was often whispered to their ears. There were other words that came up often enough that he would turn his head in recognition, but not yet comprehend: goufa, emer, and now noni.

Dragomir seemed to have the same idea as Aure; she lapped at the snow on his shoulders and the resulting brush of contact sent a chill shuddering down his little spine. Brrrrrr, he replied, which wasn't quite a word, but might delight his mother all the same. At once he began to hasten back to the den. Snow was wonderful but it was now turning to rain, and though Dragomir liked water quite a lot (that had to be the sea in him), he didn't much like napping with wet fur.

And she took the initiative right as her son began to hasten for the green warmth of the thicket; with a plastery shiver of her pelt, Aurëwen easily positioned herself to hover over Drago as he hurried back. Her goose-waddle accommodated for the blackberry’s baby strides as she took the brunt of the snowy downpour the whole way. Eventually, she gave Drago’s bum an encouraging nudge before she shook herself and followed.

It would be some time before their coats dried completely, but several more shakes would see to that much sooner rather than later. Wearied but gladdened, Aurëwen settled down near Isilmë once more, and looked to see how the pale babe’s brother was faring. ”Drag—“ she began, but a pitching yawn turned her bleary eyes to crescents. She couldn’t locate his whereabouts for the few heartbeats she scrunched her snout through.

Once within the dry confines of home, Dragomir went to the back corner. No one could be sure why he preferred it back there; a small dent worried into the wall by his chewing teeth might be the culprit, but more likely it was just warmest in the back. Isilmë, by comparison, had the benefit of their mother's form curled around her to keep warm. Having grown into himself some more, Dragomir preferred to sleep with at least a few inches of space between him and everyone else; this might have explained their differences.

Aure uttered his name again on the leading edge of a whine, and Dragomir acknowledged it by pricking his ears toward her, then settled his little chin on littler forelimbs and closed his eyes to sleep.