Blackfeather Woods hush, my baby; baby, don't you cry

She finds him — she always does, somehow — and watches him, listens, speaks; the words that flow from her catch in his ears and in his current state Titmouse only hears bits and pieces. The rest are mutated by exhaustion and delusion, and he hears others. Other voices, other words, whispers that scatter like static. But he drifts closer and with one eye, observes her swollen sides. Remembers - in a haze - the dreamlike coupling that he endured for her, the shame he felt.

I love you, he hears clearly through the chaos of static. He smiles, or thinks he smiles anyway. Feels the tugging of his cheeks and the feeling of air upon his gums — truthfully, he doesn't do anything but linger near her in silence, resolute and grim and empty, so empty. So tired... And with a breath he murmurs, Luh you, and presses his cold nose against the thinning fur along her sides, perhaps trying to convey something to what brew within.