Hushed Willows I'm ready to leave it, I'll go when I feel it

Mae was in no hurry as she led @Akavir up the hill to Reverie's cliffside den. She announced herself with a low bark, though she didn't think to announce her father nor to check whether his presence would be welcome. She cast him a brief glance as they neared the den entrance.

This would be the first time she'd spoken directly to Reverie since their last argument. If he looked closely, perhaps Akavir would see her anxiety. But Mae guarded it well. She even mustered a wavering half-smile for the leader of Hearthwood as she entered the den.

It fell away when her eyes landed on the pups nestled at Reverie's flank. Mae sucked in a sharp breath. They're real cute, She blurted before it occurred to her that she might have led with hi. She shot another glance at Akavir, feeling helpless.

His daughter moved at a pace that surprised him as she carved a path of reluctance and hesitation. Whether this stemmed from regret simply for agreeing to return to the creek, or because she did not wish to confront Reverie, he did not know—but what he could see in this very moment was a certain glimpse within the heart of the girl: and that was that she was afraid to disappoint others.

While Mae would steal a glance to him before entering the new mother’s den—Akavir was not so quick to trail after her there. He lingered as a presence just outside the den—Reverie’s olive branch might have been extended for Mae’s benefit, he still was not keen on invading her personal space… Particularly when she was nursing newborns.

Still, he heard Mae’s words—and dipping his own head down, caught only a panicked look from her as she searched for him—and taking only a single step forward and giving her a quiet nod of encouragement, he remained outside still—here, for her, but unable to speak for her in this very moment.

I may or may not have forgotten this was back in early March lmaooo. Made some small changes to reflect that

It hadn't been long since she'd settled down to feed her daughters and let Everett attend to other matters; Reverie nearly worried that something had gone awry when she heard Mae outside her den. It took her a moment to realize Akavir had come, too. He lingered outside of the den, and for that she was grateful. In a strange way she did trust Akavir; he wasn't welcome as an uninvited visitor to her den and he knew it, but Reverie didn't doubt his intentions. If he'd wanted to hurt her or her children, he could have, and would have done it long before now.

Aren't they? She murmured with a tired smile of her own, not bothering to get up. To Akavir she called out: You can come in, if you'd like.

But her eyes quickly returned to Mae. There was so much she wanted to say to the girl — but it was clear that now wasn't the time. There was a nervous energy in the air, for once not her own. So Reverie was only quiet for now, letting Mae begin the conversation however she chose.

Ah — Mae had forgotten that Akavir might not be as comfortable as she was in this place. She hesitated a few steps into the den, but her gaze remained on the pups for several long moments. They were so small. It was easy to forget why she'd come here in the first place.

Reverie's invitation was an abrupt reminder. Mae sucked in a breath, pausing only a few seconds to see if her father would come in before she spoke again. I'm going back to Swiftcurrent Creek, It sounded more certain than she felt. To stay. But I want to help here too - I could visit. It's not far. She wouldn't be quite as useful from afar, but it was something, right? Mae watched Reverie closely for her reaction.

‘You can come in, if you’d like.’

No, he definitely would not like, he decided in that moment. Something about Reverie was unnerving to him in that moment—the easiness her kindness came, even after the things he had said to her. Had done to her. But he was here for Mae—she masked her anxiety as best she could, but it was becoming obvious to the man how torn she felt in that moment, and his heart ached for her.

So he moved closer, ducking down to enter just the front of the den, his eyes blinking to the light adjustment. Her golden body curled about a bundle of puppies—three, perhaps, but he tried not to look too closely, as if the gentle curve of her hip and the intensity of her eyes would accuse him of seeking more.

“Congratulations,” he murmured instead, his eyes seeking Mae, now. She looked at the pups with a tenderness he might have missed, otherwise. He felt a certain regret tug at him—that perhaps she would have been a great older sister, had he not messed every angle of his life up.

“The creek can try to supplement something to you and yours in exchange—we would never want to see a pack or its young struggle by being down one hunter.”

Reverie nodded as Akavir congratulated her, but couldn't bring herself to speak. It was well-intended, she knew, but nonetheless another reminder that this was not the happy time it should have been. Her eyes shone with the brief threat of tears. She took in a breath and turned her attention back to Mae. The girl was speaking now, straight to the point as always.

Some part of her had expected the announcement. Reverie couldn't deny that her heart dropped slightly to hear the words. She'd feared losing the pack to the grief of Boone's disappearance and the abrupt changes to their way of life, and now she was watching them leave one by one. But she was proud of Mae, too; she wasn't asking permission. She was choosing her own happiness.

You can visit any time you want, She said softly, though she wasn't sure how to address Mae's insistence that she needed help. Maybe she did, but Reverie felt that Mae was far too young to be worrying about her and her children. Sometimes she forgot that she herself hadn't been much older when Blossom was born.

Akavir's addition was unexpected; hadn't she told him that they would be fine? Swiftcurrent Creek owed them nothing — but she wouldn't deny the assistance of another pack. She nodded as her eyes found him. Thank you. For a moment she hesitated, nearly saying more.

But this conversation was about Mae. Her attention turned back to the girl she nearly thought of as her own by now, though she knew she had no right. You'll always have a place here, Mae. Nothing will ever change that. We'll be traveling soon, when the girls are old enough. Maybe we'll visit, Reverie offered a smile as she said it, hoping to encourage her. She wasn't sure Akavir would welcome them, but that was a conversation for the future. Right now she only wanted Mae to know that she had her support, and always would.

Mae cast a grateful look at her father when he offered the creek's help. This was all more for her guilt than anything else, there was no denying it. Reverie had never asked anything of her — and she hated that. She wasn't her mother.

Sometimes Mae wished she was, and she hated that too.

She was keenly aware of how uncomfortable Akavir seemed; it occurred to her that maybe they should take their leave quickly. But then she looked at the puppies again, and thought of Boone again. Dead, just like that. What if something happened to Reverie too? Mae knew that the birth had been difficult, and even now the woman seemed tired. What if this was the last time she saw her?

Yeah... Mae trailed off, then abruptly began again: Look, I'm sorry about all the shit I said. And I'm sorry about what happened to Boone. She took a step forward, then another, and then she was reaching out for a desperate clinging embrace. I'm sorry.

It only lasted a moment. She pulled away just as quickly, mumbling before Reverie could respond, We should get going. I'll catch you later.

Reverie replied to him, but all he offered was a nod in return—this conversation wasn’t for him. Not truly—Mae’s gaze lingered upon the pups, and his gaze was upon her. A Boone was mentioned again—the sinking feeling that perhaps that was the father to the babes curled at the side of the tired mother, and something flashed among his eyes—understanding, perhaps.

He knew what it was like to have your mate torn from you.

Mae spoke of leaving then—Akavir thought to say something—condolences, perhaps? Yet he thought better of it. Anything he had to say would be of no worth to the grieving dancer… That, he knew with certainty.

“Take care, Reverie,” was what he did offer, and sweeping back, he allowed the two another moment together, incase more needed to be said among them in the privacy of the whelping den.

She'd expected Mae to brush over her reassurances, her offer of a visit. What she hadn't expected was an apology. Reverie blinked, too caught off guard by it to register anything else. She scarcely managed to return Mae's embrace before it was over.

She was still stunned and blinking away the beginnings of tears when she realized Akavir had left, and Mae was following. She nearly called out. There was still so much she wanted to say, but she couldn't force the conversation. She would just have to trust that Mae knew what she would have said.

Reverie had a feeling she did know, and that was why she'd been so quick to leave.

Mae couldn't bring herself to say goodbye. She followed her father from the den swiftly, as if fire followed her. Reverie was crying back there, she was sure of it, and she had no intention of sticking around for that. Not today, Satan.

When they'd put a healthy distance between themselves and the den, Mae finally slowed. She let out a breath, laughing softly. Sometimes I wish she was my mother, Mae confessed, embarrassment tinging the words. She wasn't sure why she was telling him; he of all wolves wouldn't appreciate the sentiment, and he'd just watched her nearly run from the woman. But he was her father, and she didn't know who else she would tell. It was important to her, for some reason, that someone saw the contradiction. Why not him? He was the only other wolf who made her feel that way.

She didn't say anything else for many more miles.

The quiet admission wasn’t something Akavir relished in—his thoughts drifting back to times when Jakoul and Reverie had hours of stolen time together in the den—Reverie had been a part of Mae’s life before Mae had even realized it.

Wisely—he withheld the emotion across his face as he considered the gilded woman they had now just fled. For, in many aspects, she truly would have been the only mother figure Mae would have had within her life. Ash Paw and Silvertongue might have provided her milk for her final days of requiring such nourishment—but such a supplement did little to the nourishment that Reverie had likely given Mae’s heart these final few months.

And so he gave a small nod—acknowledgement, perhaps. Understanding. And while the flashing image of the Hearthwood leader, scorning him about her hatred for him came to mind, he kept this at bay when he responded: “In many ways, Mae, she is. Blood doesn’t always denote our family.”

And there he would let that thought linger, allowing the silence to yawn between them as they began to travel home.