Blackfeather Woods [m]ama's gonna make all of your nightmares come true

Sleep did not come to him willingly so he had been fighting for it, forcing himself to self-medicate and learn to drift in the fade of the poppies. At the very least he would be still for a while instead of roaming the dark woods, and that was as close to sleep as Titmouse had found in weeks; still he managed to sleep an hour per night, or two or three, but never enough, and never to dream.

He thought his waking life was a dream, most days. There were faces he did not know. Snippets of conversation he could not decipher. There was Maegi too — this beacon in the dark, growing bigger as the days wore on, with him watching. Titmouse guarded her without knowing he was doing it. He was never far from her. Always watching, awake but not alert.

When she began her fight against her body, he was there. When it was her voice to fill the void in the branches where once the crows sat, guardians of the forest with their many eyes, Titmouse was there instead — and when she shrieked, fought, he lurked just out of her range of attention without intervention. He wanted to go to her and to ease her suffering, but the man's limbs would not obey him; his dose of poppy was too strong this time, so he drifted mentally and rooted to the spot.

He listened as she began the process of birth — but even in his poor state the cryptid could see something was wrong, he could smell it, a sickness ripe within the girl he loved. Something he put there, or something that had been festering a while; soon the air was flooded with the scent of feces and blood, which roused him from his drifting, ghostly existence. He crept from the dark and sought out Maegi as she delivered one would-be child, and another, but they were not children — they were nothing but excrement, rancid, red, and alive.

Without the aid of the poppies, Titmouse wouldn't have been able to handle the sight of Maegi's suffering. With their effects dulling his system he could be of no help, but he tried — stumbling towards her, seeking to press his nose upon her cheek; he crumpled to the earth beside her, pressed close, ignoring the bloodied mess that had sprung from her — and the pestilence that thrived where their children ought to be.

He was oblivious to the other woman. Lilah's words drifted to his ears but he had no words, no ability to speak, and could not help anyone. But when she stepped towards his love's face Titmouse raised his head and flashed his teeth at her, hissing a silent warning between his teeth that she should back away. He was here, he would comfort her until the disease had worked its way from her womb.