Hideaway Strath ceathairéad

Lotte bristled instinctively when Hemlock’s silhouette fell across the mouth of the hollow, kohl-lined lips peeling back to brandish alabaster cutlery as a defensive rumble churned within her breast. Her throaty growl guttered out almost immediately at Hemlock’s beseeching whine, but it took the songbird a moment or two before her black-masked features smoothed out into something more amicable. “Eat them?” she questioned in a tight, strained whisper, proceeding to do exactly that at the healer’s behest. Bearlike ears flattened against the broad dome of Lotte’s crown as Hemlock gently bathed her face.

Abruptly, the desire to push with the contractions overwhelmed the inexperienced female, and she bent her head to rub and scrape the bridge of her muzzle rhythmically against one of the King Sequoia’s roots. Contrary to her loquacious nature, Lotte made no sound as she toiled, shifting her hindquarters and bracing her hips until at last a small, dark sac slipped soundlessly from her. Banríon was a large wolf, but she moved with infinite care as she took it between her paws and delicately broke through the membrane. Anxiously she smoothed her tongue over the infinitesimal little face, but no amount of attention would rouse the stillborn. “Hemlock,” she whimpered, nosing firmly at the tiny, unmoving body and pushing it insistently against her side. “He does not move — he does not breathe — !” She bent her head to the dead Fearghal, feeling an overwhelming sense of failure and panic. “Can we make him well?” she asked, already knowing the answer was no. Hot tears soaked the black velvet of her cheeks and fell upon the slick little body.