Arrow Lake trauern

Ugh, my heart.
The cries that had echoed across the mountain had told her all she needed to know. Her children had looked at her expectantly—but how was she to tell them that the father they had only begun to get to know would not return to them that night, nor any other?

The scent of blood had solidified her resolve at not moving them from the den to seek out what could only be a crimson masterpiece wrought by the reaper, and so she had lured them to play within one of the shallower streams that broke away from the lake, trying her best to keep her thoughts at bay as a certain numbness settled over her.

When she had thoroughly exhausted her trio, only then did she usher them back, and as night fell and they slept soundly, the pale dove remained near the entrance of the whelping den, taking in the very first night that Stigmata had not sat guard over his family in the very spot she was now rooted to.

It was perhaps the longest night she had withstood, and her heart shook with the unconfirmed knowing that the General had fallen. Her nose would brace to the ground, every so often, as if she could steal a hint of his scent from the many nights he had lain there—alive and well, if not unfathomably tired.

She closed her eyes and inhaled—lashes fluttered over jaded eyes, and while she heard the approach of another, she knew without looking up that it was Mahler seeking her out. When she finally did glance up, she swayed on unsteady paws closer to him, the faint light of dawn highlighting the pain etched upon his features.