Hushed Willows Do you still think I'm beautiful when you light me in flames?

She was so, so tired.

Reverie had tried to be strong. She'd tried to ask nothing of her packmates or her husband, aware that they were each caught up in the happenings of their own lives. There was no room in it for the mess she'd become, and so she had tried to stifle it. It was easy enough to mask the fatigue which had plagued her ever since the day she'd bled, to seclude herself during the waves of sickness and sorrow — until it wasn't.

Her weight had dwindled and her eyes turned dull; her fur was a mess of tangles, beginning to mat in some places, but Reverie couldn't find it in herself to care. She just wanted to sleep.

When she finished her morning routine, she did not depart the den as she'd grown accustomed to doing. Instead Reverie found a spot to curl up, pulled the fox fur over her, and shivered beneath it. Sleep did not find her immediately. But it was a sweet golden relief when it did. She wanted to stay there. She wanted to never wake again.