Gilded Bay where man cannot, love can; love will

Moorhen blinked — the boy had succeeded in startling her with those words, and as he prattled on, they broke through her stupor and saw her tail wagging in earnest. 

Moorhen Cairn, yes, she said, sounding almost enthusiastic. Her ruddy gaze raked his form once more, greedily this time as she took in the little things that's first given her pause in new light. She was still listening, but hardly processing his words — it was, strangely, only just occurring to her that she might not be an orphan at all. That Skellige had lived to produce at least one more litter, if her hunch was a good one.

Cairn-Corten, she said, stepping back to allow the youth into her space and her lunch table. Cairn for my sire, Skellige. Corten for my family who tek me. I am guard, Akhlut for this family. But today, I am vacation.

She eyed him keenly, feeling some amout of misplaced pride for how tall and handsome he was — but she had had nothing to do with his upbringing, and that was a bit sad.

My babies, she said, and then paused to try and figure out a better way to say what she meant. My charges, they are just your age. því miður — I would have liked to see you grow.

Your før — Skellige? — He is well?

She was not sure why she asked. To be polite? Knaven was right — he hadn't wanted her, and she didn't think he would like her very much now, just from what Smokestep had said to her. But she liked Knaven already — his laughter, his biting voice, the endearingly cocksure way he carried himself despite the disparity in years and experience between them. 

She loved Coelacanth and the other Cortens, and she loved living among them, and the respect of her title — but she was not of them, the way this boy seemed so clearly to be of her. They had the same eyes! And the same dark fur, and the same seafaring physique. What would it have been like to be one of them?