Neverwinter Forest lxxiii. when my working day is over

Lótë welcomed the comfort of her sisters, a silent thought for them and their presence in her life shared betwixt her and the spirits that moved unseen by all but moonwoman -- and perhaps the mother in that moment, for she felt the presence of something greater in the den where life was brought forth even if she could not witness it with her own jade eyes. The cloudberry croaked quiet thanks to all of them, only then realizing Keyni must have slipped away with her stillborn daughter to perform the necessary burial that the dove could not see to. She reminded herself to thank the birch and stone agouti later and to ask after the tiny girl's grave, when a time had come that such things could be seen to. For now, her living cub held more importance. 

The taste of pine and grief was still heavy on her tongue when she leaned into the matchmaker's embrace, murmuring in the duck's tongue of gratitude and love for her pale sister. Fresh tears, how she still had any when she felt wrung dry and drained empty was a wonder, pricked at her eyes when Shikoba came. It was only a few moons ago that their roles had been reversed -- when it was the Sivullik whose eternally sleeping child the herd-stalker had removed from the den. Lótë could truly appreciate the hunter's pain in that moment. Kukutux's too -- for now the artist also knew what it was like to lose a child. 

Even so, the day was not full of gut wrenching agony. She curled close around the single pale boy at her belly, already beginning to fall into an exhausted sleep as the women's circle trickled out of her den. Her older cubs, though they couldn't be called cubs for much longer, would come soon to meet their new brother -- Lótë could smell their scents close by. Just as she could smell Keyni keeping close vigil over the mother and child, supportive and protective. 

Just before she fell asleep, the three-year realized she had failed to name her son. "Fjall. You shall be Fjall Ekkaiä," she whispered into his downy fur. It was fitting for a son born of both the mountain village and the sea. Only then, did the cloudberry tea woman allow herself to slip into the blissful embrace of blackness.