Whitebark Stream That's the role of poetry: to say what others cannot utter.

It was in those private moments, alone, that the fear returned for him. As far as he was aware, @Dawn was fine with the sudden way in which their friendship had blossomed into something more - but it was Artyom himself held onto his uncertainty. He fretted quietly of how she might react when the mating season subsided, if she would be left feeling as though he'd taken advantage of her vulnerability. It was not normal for him, this constant worry that piqued his heart rate with each very real concern that refused to release him.

Should the mating succeed, Whitebark would welcome a litter in the Springtime. This, coupled with the paranoia he felt for how the Alphess may decide their coupling was a mistake, made the terror intensify. His only experience with pups came as a yearling, when his parents welcomed his baby sisters into the world, then briefly during his time among the Lost Creek wolves. He'd never been responsible for raising any cubs. All the discussions he had with Ana of their aim to reproduce had been done in confidence; with their families to guide them, they could not fail.

Dawn had given birth once before. He felt safe to assume she'd watched her pups grow, taught them to fend for themselves in the world. Artyom innocently assumed they'd come of age and flew the nest, dispersed to pastures new where they might forge their own destiny. She'd experienced the whole thing from start to finish, and despite the sorrow she held for their absence, he imagined she would be proud of them.

In fatherhood, he would be entirely alone.

He dared not voice such woes to his Alphess, loathe to burden her with further reluctance; it was too late, anyway, to reverse what they'd shared together. Artyom simply trailed her scent that crisp afternoon, eager to stay close by as she likely ventured to the stream to quench her thirst, lost in his grim train of endless thoughts.