Hideaway Strath before the song dies

Playing Lotte from Eirie’s account.

Lotte watched after Hemlock’s retreating form, long seconds ticking by before she gathered up her daughter’s limp body and cradled it against her chest, crying out anew at the disconcerting way Eirlys’ tiny head tipped bonelessly to the side. What she felt was an overwhelming sense of failure. In that moment, the three healthy, chubby cubs who tangled with each other at the back of the den were forgotten. The knowledge that Lotte might well have lost every single one of them was forgotten. All of her triumphs, when measured alongside the death of this daughter, paled. She forgot to be grateful — she forgot to be anything but wretchedly defeated. Bending her head to the snowdrop, she licked obsessively, trying to warm her and stimulate her as she had so many times before. The fact that it wasn’t working this time around frustrated her, made her rough in her attempts, but never so rough that she would cause further harm to the wee bear.

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All the licking, all the stimulation — Eirlys felt it, translated it into a steady flicker of annoyance. First someone had pried her mouth open, and now she was being jostled and pushed at. Her growing mind was too young to coherently formulate true thoughts or feelings about these things, but innately she wanted only to sleep. She felt…unsettled. Things felt wrong. A healthier puppy might have made its displeasure plain by fussing and acting dysphoric — but Eirlys, in her weakness, could only shiver and breathe, try and fail to fall into a dangerous slumber. At a particularly rough lick, she protested weakly, a thin, thready whimper.