Swiftcurrent Creek burning a kite; i'm at a funeral, nothing unusual

Daighre. Putting a name to him makes him feel more real, somehow. It's harder to ignore the guilt of what he'd done to him, now, but the circumstances thankfully provide an easy distraction. I need to bury her, He says, turning toward the corpse. I'm going to collapse the den on top of her. I'd appreciate help, if you can spare it. His tone is cool and polite, without expectation. He doesn't wait for a response. He grasps the cold scruff of what had once been his mother, and drags it to the spot he'd dug out in the den. It feels a little too easy to bundle the body into the hole, where it doesn't quite fill all of the space. Somehow it seems like Alessia would have, in life. Then he backs away, standing up on his hind legs to brace himself against an outer, already-crumbling wall of the den. It'd never been more than glorified hole carved into a glorified hill next to the river, and it's old and neglected now, already falling apart — pushing the dry dirt inward should be child's play for two adult wolves. A little harder, if Daighre refuses to help, but he's confident he can do it.