Bearclaw Valley never bet the devil your head

the air was so cold. it drove merrick back into the ancient trees, for the delicate blueprint of his ears could handle not the tracery of ice that wished to cling to their tips when he was out. he lay now beneath an overhang of rock, staring into the white gloom.
his bloodcub, swallowed in it. his ravenqueen, drunk up as if she were a dark potion.
in his heart he knew they must come back, but as the long days grew drawn, merrick doubted more that it had been his assurance, and less that it had been the confidant of the bear beating inside his ribcage.
he closed his eyes.
and there poured a low and sorrowful dirge, coldly feminine and dismal with shame.
merrick lifted his crown at once, slipped off the edge of the rock and out into the snow, for he knew the voice as certainly as he knew his own.
and eventually his single eye was rewarded with the sight of his red-girl shambling through the snow, taller than merrick remembered, the edge of her scent etched with the sickly-sweet aroma of infection.
merrick said nothing, only sought to curve around his child, pressing their pelts together as he leant them both in the direction of shelter.
but in his body his heart leapt with relief and with dread, and presently his shaking voice cut through the wind: "i was starting to believe i would not see you again."