Firefly Glen [BWH] névoa ‹‹

aw! 

the fields trembled beneath the weight of so many paws. wind tangled through the grasses, carrying laughter and the metallic sting of blood— fresh, wild, and warm.

margarida stood apart from the chaos. her breath came even, soft against the still body of the marmot clutched in her jaws. it was not a grand prize, not the kind of catch that earned praise or lingering eyes, but it was hers. a quiet, clean kill. she laid it down gently in the green.

sunlight spilled gold across her white shoulders, catching on the mahogany streaks down her back. she licked her muzzle, tasting salt and dust, the faint sweetness of magnolia ghosting from her fur.

around her, the others bayed— wolves of every shape and clan, drawn together by hunger and pride. margarida only watched, the delicate tilt of her head betraying neither envy nor disdain.

she pressed her paw to the marmot’s cooling flank, whispering a breath of thanks in her mother’s tongue.

obrigada, pequena alma.

---

tvar trudges through the autumn chill, clutching within his jaws the half-eaten rabbit that falcon had not finished. it was fat, plump; and once they settled for the night, it would make for a good meal again.

he wasn't in the habit of letting anything go to waste, not when the season was turning colder and the prey would become more scarce. and that survival instinct was one he was still trying to ingrain within his son.

come on, boy. the man rumbles past the thick fur clenched between teeth, but when there is no response from his son, he turns halfway. evergreen eyes cast over his shoulder, landing upon his son who sniffs curiously at the base of a tree.

tvar huffs. falcon. he snaps. and only then does the adolescent snap to attention, ears tilting back, and raising a foreleg to begin signing furiously. quick and adept movements. there are other wolves this way, father. he says. tvar watches his son silently, a solemn glimmer within his eyes.

falcon was even better than him at ptero, now. but that wasn't all too surprising, was it? tvar had only ever been sufficient.

it felt like, in some way, they were keeping his mother's memory alive. tvar falls into silent thought, thinking distantly of @Towhee Jr as he follows after his son.

you had better hope they are friendly, falk. he remarks.

---

the marmot still steamed in the grass where margarida had placed it, a small curl of warmth in the autumn air. she had not moved far from it— perhaps ten paces— when the sound of footfall carried through the hush of the fields. heavier than her own.

she lifted her head.

two shapes came through the gold: a broad, dark male with eyes like pine-shadow, and a smaller one trailing behind, all angles and growing limbs. the wind brought their scent first— old blood, pine pitch, and something faintly familiar. family, perhaps. the thought made her jaw loosen.

boa tarde, she greeted, voice quiet but steady, a ripple of melody behind the foreign tongue. her gaze drifted to the boy, then the rabbit clutched between the man’s teeth. she saw the story in it—the shared hunger, the teaching, the season’s edge.

her own catch lay between them, humble and still. there is enough, she said softly, tilting her muzzle toward the marmot.

the boy’s ears twitched, eyes bright. she smiled faintly—thin as reedlight!  

a pause, then—i am margarida, she offered, or magui, voice warm as the south wind, and you?

---

much to tvar's surprise, the two of them find themselves stumbling upon a gathering of such. wolves of all walks of life, a cataclysmic clashing of differing scents. tvar's eyes wander across the glen, roving from group to group, watching as interactions unfold.

falcon, too, looks around. wide-eyed and bushy-tailed, if tvar had ever seen it. the adolescent trots several paces ahead of his father, and tvar grumbles from amusement, watching as his son admires such a showcase of life and hospitality.

its been some time since tvar had witnessed one of these gatherings. still, he is less impressed than his son. tvar is content to let falcon roam, though never more than a few fox lengths away.

he follows his son to the side of a woman, who perks up almost immediately. greeting them in a strange, foreign tongue; tvar watches her quietly, while falcon seems to beam with awe.

hello. the father rumbles warmly, leaning his large head down to drop the half-eaten rabbit between two stone paws. i am tvar. this is my son, falcon.

falcon looks quietly to the marmot offered, then over his shoulder, pale face sheepish as if to ask tvar for permission. tvar laughs, tail sweeping as he lowers himself to his haunches and gestures with a jerk of his head for his son to take magui up on her offer.

thank you, ma'am. falcon says, while quickly signing, and then sniffs happily around the marmot. what is this?

tvar is silent as his son interacts with the woman, not wishing to interrupt. it has been rare, coming across others. especially not such a large group. nor friendly faces.

tvar wishes falcon had grown to know the kinship of bearclaw valley.

---

margarida’s ears turned toward them as they spoke— father and son, the rhythm of their voices carrying like river stones tumbling through shallow water. she had not heard such warmth in moons.

tvar, she echoed softly, shaping the name between her teeth like a prayer. and falcon.

the boy’s curiosity was bright and boundless, and it brought the faintest glimmer of fondness to her gaze. she watched him take a bite of the small creature, tail sweeping once against the grass.

é... she began, the word curling from her tongue like a sigh. she paused, searching, tasting the air for the common term. none came. her smile ghosted. ...marmota, she said finally, the syllables lilting and strange. it lives in the stones, fat from the summer. not so fast, but clever.

she nudged what remained of the carcass toward him gently. good for learning teeth and patience.

her eyes lifted again to tvar, sunlight striking soft against the pale planes of her face. you teach him well, she said after a moment, accented voice quiet but certain. many fathers would not bring their sons to the hunt.

---

falcon eats, rather voraciously, now. and tvar watches him for some time, until the woman's voice lilts in the direction of him.

tvar's head turns, then, eyes of pinewood settling upon her. the masculine heaves a large sigh, dipping his head in wordless thanks. it is a father's job to teach his son. comes his response, dry in content but not warmth.

sons, he had wanted to say. still, a raw wound upon his heart and soul, the death of his other children. tzar and jackdaw, and his daughter, periwinkle. even more raw is the death of his mate.

but i will admit... he speaks up, and while he talks, his eyes roam over the hunt gathering. he's the one who brought me here. i had no intentions of coming.

falcon's head lifts at that comment, brows furrowing. you never want to see other wolves. falcon murmurs beneath his breath dryly.

the father's head turns, tail swishing patiently. and for good reason. he knocks a paw into falcon's shoulder, and the boy scowls in return.

what reason? falcon challenges, looking between both tvar and magui. i think you're just a grouch ever since mom and—

---

margarida stilled. the boy’s words tumbled out like loose stones down a cliffside, and though she did not understand every shape of their grief, she felt the shift— the way tvar’s breath changed, the way silence thickened around the edges of his frame.

her gaze dipped, soft and unsure, as if she had stepped somewhere sacred without meaning to.

your wife? the question left her before she could catch it, gentle as a petal but heavy as iron once it fell between them.

heat rose beneath her pale cheeks. insensata, she scolded herself, eyes lowering to the torn grass at her paws. of course he had a mate—how foolish to sit so near, to welcome his warmth, even if it had only been kindness.

she drew a quiet breath, brine and magnolia clinging to her ribs as she began to rise— i did not mean to—

---

tvar's glare is silencing. green eyes suddenly lacking of their usual warmth, a candle gone out, if only momentary. and the adolescent stiffens, head lowering and pale chin tucking against his dark chest.

the brute's eyes shift slowly from his son, transferring to the grass where they linger momentarily. then, to the woman's paws, up her legs, finally settling upon her face as she apologizes.

tvar dismisses it with a soft wave of his paw.

she's gone. the gravel in his voice is heavy, as is the unspoken sadness. she and falcon's siblings were killed in an accident when he was small.

he leaves it at that. falcon's torn ears twitch and he silently begins to skulk off, further into the gathering. most likely with hopes of escaping the awkward situation he had caused. tvar's eyes do not stray far from him until he knows falcon hasn't gone too far.

then, back to magui. you have no reason to be sorry. he smiles. you only just met us.

---

margarida drew in a soft, sorrow-laced breath, her gaze falling to the grass between them. the weight of his words settled over her like dusk.

é uma coisa triste, she murmured first, then more clearly in common, it is a sad thing. i would not wish such a loss on anyone.

her eyes flicked to falcon as he slipped away, his small frame tight with guilt. she watched him go, too—grief had its own paths.

tvar’s rough smile brought her attention back. she returned it with something small and gentle, almost shy.

thank you… for trusting me with it, she said quietly.

a beat of wind between them.

if you want company, i will stay. if you prefer silence, i understand.

---

tvar’s ears tilt toward her. for a moment he only watches her, taking in the soft set of her shoulders, the careful way she offers herself without pressing, without pitying. she is built of a genuine warmth, and it is a welcome change of pace.

company is fine, tvar rumbles at last, and his tail shifts in the grass, a small sweep. you seem… peaceful.

his gaze lingers on the, now, half-eaten marmot she’d laid down, then on the space falcon disappeared from. he exhales through his nose, a slow and warm sound. he didn’t mean to speak out of turn. he’s a good boy. just… tvar’s jaw works once, searching for a word, settling on, blunt. too blunt, sometimes.

there’s a flicker of amusement in his eyes then. and he shifts, lowering himself into a seated crouch closer to her, but still cautious not to crowd, careful not to look like he’s assuming her invitation meant more than it did.

we don’t meet many who speak gently, he says quietly, glancing toward her again. it’s… a welcome change.

---

margarida’s smile warmed, small but sure, her posture easing as he settled beside her.

é normal, she said softly. a boy is young. learning. her gaze followed the direction falcon had gone, fondness flickering there like candlelight. better to speak too bluntly than not at all.

she folded her legs beneath her, the breeze stirring the magnolia-soft scent along her pale fur. peaceful, he had called her—no one had ever said it aloud before. something gentle unfurled in her chest.

i am glad you want company, she murmured, eyes lifting to meet his for a brief, steady moment. and… i only speak as my mãe did. soft words carry far, she used to say.

a faint breath of a laugh left her.

though, perhaps in a place like this, it stands out more.

her shoulder brushed the grass as she lowered herself a little further, close enough to share warmth without presumption. but i do not mind bluntness, she added, voice a quiet reassurance. it means the heart is honest.

tvar watches that small shift in her body, the easing of her shoulders, the way her scent warms with it. something in him answers instinctively, a loosening he doesn’t let many see. he is a man shaped by hard edges and harder seasons, but her presence cuts through like a soft thaw.

blunt is all he’s ever known, tvar admits with a gravelly husk, all I ever taught him, i suppose. the world isn’t kind. better he meets it with his chin up.

his gaze follows hers toward the place falcon vanished. he’s learning. faster than I expect, most days.

then her words about her mãe reach him — soft words carry far — and a short huff leaves him, not quite a laugh but close.

my mate didn’t speak soft, he says, eyes narrowing slightly in memory, tone fond despite its gravel. she did not speak at all. tvar gestures to his mouth, then his ears, she was deaf, and mute. so she led with her teeth. a real strong woman.

a beat.

falk got that from her.

margarida listened, still as pressed flowers beneath glass.

his voice: rough, honest, unadorned— wove a picture of a woman she had never known, yet could almost see: fierce, silent, leading with teeth and strength instead of gentleness. a woman carved from stone and winter, whose spirit still lived in the blunt edges of her son.

her breath caught. not loudly— not enough for him to hear unless he was listening for it— but enough that her ribs tightened.

ela soa… forte, she whispered, her accent softening the edges of the word. strong.

her eyes lowered, lashes trembling once. she blinked the moisture back before it could shine.

and beloved.

she swallowed, the ache in her chest not grief, not jealousy— just the quiet ache of witnessing a love that had been real. whole. fought for.

you speak of her with… carinho, she murmured, searching for the common word. with warmth. it is a beautiful thing.