Stavanger Bay when the river took flight

Oddly, the small, helpless, fluttering noises of his children did not drive Szymon away; though his tattered ears swayed uncertainly upon his narrow skull, he moved forward eagerly at Doe’s beckoning and drew the fleece teasingly over her hips, dropping it without ceremony. “You are beautiful,” he countered staunchly, feeling somewhat sorry for the children whose color and patterning were made seemingly in his own image. He bent his head, preening at the base of her oversized ears, his golden eyes darting between his mate and their young with equal fondness. It was true that two of the puppies were notably smaller, but they had time to catch up — he would double his efforts in hunting and bring back food enough to ensure their burgeoning strength. “Hind would be proud,” he said, unsure as to whether or not he was lying. Would the red rock female be proud that her daughter had Chosen a lesser wolf? He couldn’t be sure, but determination rose within his breast to take again the rank equal to Doe’s someday. He would become worthy of his wife if he was not already.

“Julep,” he rumbled, reaching out with a muzzle that trembled as he touched the tip of his nose to his little girl. And, rolling the syllables with infinite care over his faulty tongue, “Isengrim,” he murmured, repeating the gesture to anoint his son with the wet of his nares. He could not resist examining the littler Nameless Ones in turn, butting the small pale creature in the direction of Doe’s flank with frank insistence. She needed to eat if she wanted to live. “Grim is the most beautiful,” he decided, feeling that favoritism was appropriate at the moment given the babes’ inability to hear or see it. “He looks like you, Doe. Without the red.” He nibbled teasingly at the dusty red guard hairs that cloaked her shoulders. Her question was taken seriously, as were most things she presented to Szymon; he considered the infinitesimal creatures with a furrow of his brow, earnestly thinking it over. “Yes,” he said very solemnly. “They are yours and mine.” He lay down beside her, tablespoon to her teaspoon — though perhaps he ought to have lain opposite to her and formed a circle around their children — and preened her nape and shoulder.

“Do you need anything?” he asked after a beat. “I can bring you food or water — or go fetch Deirdre. What does your mother do when puppies happen?” Hind had become a frequent presence in Szymon’s own life, her traditions passed down through Doe, and his low, guttural timbre turned teasing when he tacked on: “I’m not bringing you any eggs, though.”