Bearclaw Valley Like the generations of leaves, the lives of mortal men.

the stonechild did not greet him with fear, but with trust; merrick was no healer, but the look of him was dire. of course he had not hunted in this; if ursus could not, then the boy would not have been able to do so.
had he come home to die, then?
a greater man might have stirred beneath the rawboned weight of the young wolf, but merrick did not. the snow banked against the sharpness of his hip and still he did not move.
"every day that you were outside of ursus, you chose life. do not choose anything less now."
moving now, shouldering the boy — the boy, the boy, the boy — why had no name been given? for his own brood, it was the evocation of blood and of moondark that spun their silent names in merrick's marrow, but he had no such connection with this one.
"get up, tuur."
the name breaking from the curl of his tongue unbidden but for the bear spirit rousing in his heart.