Ankyra Sound Remember, lads and lassies, fairy tales weren't fun stories. They were warnings.

It is rare for him to be awake while the others are asleep — not that he would have been aware of the difference at any other time. He settles in against his mother now, listening to her, feeling the words in the air more than anything. One of his sisters stirs, croaking lowly like a toad, and then quiets against another warm body. Reyes can hear the soft whistling of noses, the frog-song of the babes as they sleep and fuss with their dreams, but he doesn't feel the same somber pull. He does not let the night numb him.

He would much rather be fussed over while wake; he could sit here with his mother 'til the dawn slides its gray fingers through the clouds. His mother is barely more than a blur — a dark one at that, cast to shadow by the late hour — but she is present, and warm, and giving him attention which pleases him. 

For a moment Reyes suckles against her chin even though the sensation of her voice through bone tastes strange. He hums, perhaps forgetting that it is impossible to whistle when one's mouth is full; the sound is blocked and instead he blows a raspberry against his mother's face, soaking it with his spit until he feels the wetness chill, and draws back from her.

The babe blinks and stares, as if studying his handiwork, but cannot make out the details with his too-new eyes in the too-dark den.