Stavanger Bay when the river took flight

Rusty. Getting back in the swing of things!

For a time, the wolf who had skulked as omega had swaggered as beta — but Skellige’s disappointment in his wayward brother had struck Szymon several rungs down the hierarchical ladder he had worked so hard to climb. It was a fact that the black-banded Cairn carefully ignored; he continued with the duties that had been appointed him and devoted much of his time to Qilaq, Doe, and Doe’s stomach — a separate entity these days. As her pregnancy advanced, the Atoll spent more and more time in the Stone Den — usually, it seemed to Szymon, to fussily rearrange the feather-lined floor. It had become instinctive for Szymon to search for her there whenever he could not find her in the pampas grove, and when Doe’s first cry of travail had struck the air, he’d been on his way there to find her. The sharp wail of pain and effort had sliced through Szymon’s skull, striking him dumb, and he’d busied himself with a pelt of shaggy wool gleaned from a mountain goat kill for the better part of the last hour.

His worry had produced a fine blanket for mother and cubs — frenzied nibbles and licks had scored all of the sinew from it, and rubbing it against rock and sand had dried it appropriately. Now Szymon flinched, unable to ignore the ragged cry — “Mama!” — and he nearly killed himself trying to leap straight up the mountainside to get to his mate. They had weathered a few storms lately, but he would willingly dare her ire if it meant being close enough to touch her and assure himself that she was well. Adjusting his trajectory, Szymon climbed the crags in a more wolf-appropriate manner with his gift between his jaws, and the thick, heady scent of blood and new life assaulted his senses. His hackles flared, a wild disarray of urchin-like spines, as he cast his gaze suspiciously about — Doe’s cry of triumph was not long in coming and Deirdre’s answering call came swiftly in reply. He ought to have answered Skellige’s Chosen One, but he found that he was selfish over his family and kept his silence, blocking the light of the den with his lean and feral framework.

A low, appealing rumble spilled from his narrow jaws, smoothing into a croon of love and affection. The sight of his Doe alongside three healthy puppies — one of them noticeably smaller than the others — filled him with pride. Two of the children were as pale as Szymon himself, but the third was inkdark with dampness — and only now, the golden-eyed father noticed that Doe was busy cleaning a fourth child with fervor that bordered on ferocity. He ought to have waited before trespassing nearer, but emotion overruled good sense as Szymon stepped into the den with the warm, insulating fleece clasped securely between his jaws. He set it down, wondering if he should have brought food instead, but what came out of his mouth was simply, “Doe? I love you.”