Stone Circle And I will sing a lullaby

His touch, a little umber paw is the mediary between instinct and heart. A deep red spark desires this kill. Her restraint is a shudder advancing along her spine, poised to take action. Her mind rationalizes that this is a rare chance to sustain them through the summer. She’d seen Gunnar’s concern, it was the first look that passed over his face when she’d told him of her pregnancy. This was her mitigation. Her own ache of belly roared for it.

But it’s the boy’s emitting fear, his quiet touch that begs her to reconsider, and while the hunter protests she’s pulled by the heart away from her impulses. She glances into his cold dread and sighs, lifting her arm just so she can drape it around his shoulders and tuck him between her arm and chest.

“I shall have to eat you then, my sweet,” her whispers purrs into his ear as she nips the edge of his cheek.

“Tatanka,” she repeats against Skáld’s ear. “Buffalo. What is his name in Icelandic?” She tempers herself beside him, focuses less on their scent and more on their gentle graze. Placid in the way they bend silently to the grass, their horns bowed like curled edges of a tree, moonlit outlines fixed as brothers of the stones. What has brought them here, she wonders?

“Have you seen him before?”