Duskfire Glacier one heart going both directions

wintersbane is summoned with simple words of being time — the specifics of who uttered those words to him in the quiet of his patrol is blurred out and not important in the grand scheme of the situation.

forgotten as he makes his way into the greyfall caverns to lane's birthing den, the myriad scents: of birthing ( or the beginning of it ) and blood fills him with an anxious, breathless sort of joy and worry. which was stronger, wintersbane couldn't tell.

though these children were not his first in the sense of things, it was the first time he was determined to be more than a nameless, faceless donor and the knowledge that his path to fatherhood was being carved in the very den lane had chased him out of with snarls and snaps of her teeth — he felt as if who he'd known himself to be was splintering; the shattering of the old making way for the new, his self too small to contain the growth of the new coming.

he contemplates it all as he paces outside the den; heavy footfalls wearing a path in the dirt underfoot, steps rhythmic like the marching of a soldier.

not enjoying the feeling of uselessness, wintersbane pauses only when the first sounds of mewling — small and fragile to his ears — breaking the cascade of his own heartbeat and lane's labored pants and whines.

a child! his child —

he snarls at anyone who dares to enter the birth den before him — believing it is his right as father to be the second to lay eyes upon the cubs — and shrugs into the cavern lane's claimed as her own; glacial gaze falling upon the small cub, determined as she wiggles away from lane's belly; vigorous for a newborn.

the love that wintersbane feels for her — for she is a daughter — instantaneous.

ferocious, unrelenting and all consuming as it washes over him and settles into his bones.

she's perfect. wintersbane croons in his smoky grasp, bending low to very gently touch his muzzle to her back.