Deepwood Weald interlude

The Starwatcher was no midwife. He'd learned a little of the ways of medicine from his mentor, and a little of the needs of pregnant wolves just by watching his own mother dutifully bring forth new lives with each new season. His siblings; he'd thought of them when the Lorekeeper had first called for him, wondered briefly if they were dead. He'd wondered if his mother had dared another litter, or if she'd realized by now that new lives would only feed the ravenous sickness which had swallowed so many of their kin. Or if she, too, was dead.

Only for a moment.

Then there was no more time for his grief, no more time for anything but the future suddenly happening all at once. It was time. He would be a father. He wasn't ready. Lore needed him. Through the panic, only that thought stayed: Lore needed him. His oldest and dearest friend, bound to him now in blood. They had started this together — and they would see it through just the same.

The sun rose and fell. The hours brought with them the realization that there was very little he could do, in the end. Mostly, he held her.

Star was away when they called for the final time. He'd been fetching water, but at the soft sound of Lore's voice his task fell forgotten. He slipped back to the den in a silent panic. His eyes dropped at once, and —

Oh. Star fell to his elbows, creeping toward the tiny pale bundle as if any false move might shatter the newborn into a thousand pieces. He pressed his nose to the tiny forehead. Outside the den, the world was silent save the song of crickets.

A tiny flurry of movement broke the peace; a cricket bounced from where it'd hitched a ride in Star's ruff to sit beside the prophesied child. He let out a soft breath, smiling a little through his tears.

@Midnight Cricket.