Wheeling Gull Isle Some feathers I stole from the birds

It wasn't much of a burial. As he worked he stopped thinking about the newborns, the arrival of Niamh on their doorstep, who the father might be - it was hard enough to cut through the sand and clay rich dirt beneath, exhausting work. His shoulders bunched and felt as if they were pulling away from the bone as he pulled Niamh in to the grave. Mount barely had the wits or energy to cover her again.

A few tufts of her aureate fur stayed visible. The seaside air played with it, let it dance where it had not been matted with blood. Mou looked at this bulge in the dirt and tried to catch his breath.

When he returned to Maegi's side he was a mess still; blood and mud and with a drawn expression on his face. He looked at the newborns nursing and then to Maegi, settling beside them to add his warmth to the pile.