Neverwinter Forest hurting. longing. dancing to disco music.

@Lótë (and the kiddo if wanted <3) — alternatively i can edit to be a RO if that works better too!

He had given her space.

He had heard her sounds those night, smelled the scents that came with it all. In the wake of blood was milk. Strong and comforting. Undeniably inspiring.

While she remained denbound, he often times spent time on the edges of the forest. Fiercely protective of the home she had made here. If the wolves were not of Moonglow or the glade, they would be met with more aggression than he had ever mustered before.

She inspired.

He padded to her den in the dusk of twilight. A bird hung from his jaws, he had worked all day to gather it. A bird for the dove huntress.

He rumbled warmly right outside of her den.

Lótë was surprised to hear Makan, lifting her head from where she cleaned @Fjall with gentle rasps. Her heart fluttered nervously as she crooned a soft call in return -- beckoning the dark he-wolf in since she could not go out. The tiny babe could not be left alone and even if he could've, the cloudberry would not have left her vulnerable son's side at such an age. 

Lótë realized she had missed the blackbird's presence, though she had no one else to blame but herself for the distance that had grown between them. The paintwolf knew it was likely her pregnancy that had driven a wedge in their relationship -- when their strange friendship just seemed to be morphing into something that inspired mutual companionship. Of what nature, Lótë couldn't say, only that she seemed to have ruined it. 

She didn't know for sure if it was her actions or just the idea of her motherhood that had spooked him, but the fallow dove lowered her ears and hunkered down small as she curled against Fjall. The muted edge of a pleading whine trapped in her throat, fighting to whisper its way out beneath her breath. 

She wanted nothing so bad as to see her friend again, for things to be okay. 

He did so badly wished she wouldn't cry.

His ears pinned back against his crown. Awkwardly he made way into the den, the pheasant between his jaws settled down within her reach.

Somewhere in the pales of her fur was a milky brown thing. A child.

The child.

He did not have any words that could possibly even begin to patch things up. How to explain the things he felt or why he had stirred with a mental frenzy. Perhaps...perhaps action could be the first step.

Tentatively, if she did not pull away, he wished to press his nose to her crown.

Lótë waited, her breath bated as the shadow pressed in with his gift. She tried, and likely failed, to keep her spring gaze from roaming over him hungrily -- sweeping and concerned, looking for some sign of affliction or malice that had been done. It felt it had been years since she'd last seen Makan this close and she had worried, remembering how frail and skittish he'd been. 

Curled small, hoping she would not intimidate him in the vulnerable place they were in now, she kept waiting -- still as stone as he pressed his nose between her ears. The cloudberry couldn't repress the way her eyes fell shut as weight melted off her frame, fighting back tears with an internal thought of annoyance for her rampant hormones. 

"I missed you," was all the painter could rasp out, as lost for words as the corvid was. 

A tiny sound broke the tension. Mewling, from the son she kept safe against her. 

"His name is Fjall," Lótë murmured, still unable to meet his gaze of wild sky blue as she shifted the tail that covered the babe's lower half like a blanket. It was only then that spring tourmalines could lift to watch the blackbird's face -- uncertain of what he might think. 

He knew the weight of her words.

He wished now more than ever that he spoke better. Missed, He mimicked softly. He might have tried for more but there was a sound.

Soft and precious. A mewl, not much more than a soft sound of life.

Fjall, she called him. A name that would need practice but...a good name. A good, tiny little thing. So small and precious. He had seen her other children and none had been this small.

He grew nervous he might hurt the boy somehow. As if merely existing near such a small thing might be dangerous. With such worries coursing through his mind, he lowered himself down, securing his stability as he kept his eyes on the small boy.

Boy, He whispered, soft even in his rasping voice.

Lótë watched him closely, heart softening in beat with her eyes as she observed the timid, overtly gentle mannerisms. 

"Aya," the mother rasped back, voice hoarse from the pent up emotions and days spent in solitude with her newest child. "He is a son." She tried not to think of her boy's sleeping twin in that moment but there was a quiet ache -- one Lótë wasn't sure would ever abate. 

"Thank you," she demurred softly when silence had fallen between them, gesturing to the bird with a small dip of her chin. 

A son.

Fjall, the son.

He did not know why it hurt to look at him. The longing the sight of the boy at Lótë's side brought within him. The crow's body may have been young still, fresh into manhood, but his heart had aged plenty these last few months.

This he knew as he looked from the boy to Lótë.

He smiled soft at her thanks. Then sought to recline fully, comfortable. Still careful of the babe.

Something had sat within him too long.

Need...talk, His words may have been...clustered into a serious way of wording, but his voice remained hushed. Hoping for only the softest way to speak to her.

Lótë felt her ears flicker of their own accord -- half lifting alertly as her heart pounded to life, and half falling, as if they wished to lower in the face of her uncertainty. Words sprung to mind, strings of them that remained half completed and unfinished. In the end, she couldn't settle for what she wished to say. 

The herd-stalker dipped her head low, blinking curiously as she held herself in silence and agitated anticipation. It was the posture of one who was ready to listen -- and wasn't entirely sure what they were about to hear or if they would like what was said. Possibilities circled in her head like buzzards about a kill. 

He had asked to talk, but he truly did not know where to begin. Words too heavy in both his mouth and heart. Perhaps he might stumble around them until either one could make sense of his ramblings.

Kukutux say...spirit heavy. He started with this. Hoping it might make more sense if he used words he had heard before, things that others might understand the meaning of more.

I...see you. Spirit heavy. B-but if away, spirit...heavier.

He frowned, soft at himself.

New feeling. Only when Lótë.

Lótë remained in silence, mulling over the words given as she allowed them to soak into her skin like the cold shower of a winter rain. Something dark and guilty curled in the three-year's gut, held there with the unspoken words that uncertainty wouldn't allow her to utter. 

"It is...it is because I carried Fjall?" she whispered at last, pale gems of jadeite gleaming and wet as she blinked back a well of emotions. "Because I had a child with someone else?" her cheeks burned hot beneath a cover of rabbitskin agouti, embarrassed to ask for such clarification. 

Her eyes seemed a sudden well and he immediately regretted his decision to speak.

Perhaps now was not the time, perhaps he had misspoke it all. This was why he preferred the silence. Some part of him wished to flee again, to tear off into the woods.

He tried, steadying himself and his breathing.

I think...I wish it me. With you. But heart has no anger.

This he sought to clarify most with her.

Lótë's breath caught in her throat. 

She swallowed thickly, steadying herself much as Makan had and attempting to find the right words. "I am a mother. It's who I am. Or at least part of it. And Fjall's father has come to join us, to be near his son." Lótë wished she could find an articulate way to make it clear that there was no romantic attraction between she and Kjalarr -- only friendship, only shared responsibility for the life they'd created -- but the words tangled on her tongue no matter how she tried to shape it. 

Simplicity always seemed to work best for them anyways. 

"I'm right here." She always had been. "Stay...please," the last was a wilted wisp, catching as it escaped timorously. 

For a moment, he dared to think she might announce them wedded. That the boy's father had come here to be a unified family. Makan was not sure what he would do if there was such a declaration —

Only it never came.

She only asked for him to stay, with the knowledge that she was here. She always had been.

He would not speak anymore, not now.

Instead, if she allowed it, he sought to curve along the front of her. A shield to the outside of the world for both her and the small babe at her side. Reaching to groom the short furs between her ears.

Soft and cautious. Thoughtful with every movement.

Relief coursed through her like the dam of a frozen river thawing in spring. The cloudberry was unable to suppress the way her tail beat ferociously against the floor of the ulaq, ears lowering as she scooted closer -- tenderly readjusting Fjall against her as she settled in, soothing him when he protested. 

The mother dove rested her head atop one of Makan's forelegs, closing her eyes at the ministrations the shadow offered. Soon enough, her nestling slept against her. With the warmth of the babe and the raven so close, and Makan gently toying with he fur, contentment warmed the hollow ache that had built in her chest until the she-wolf began to doze.