Wapun Meadow when i was a younger man, looking for a pot of gold

indra looked to aurewen hopefully, that hope transcending to rekindled yearning as the silvery argent shared the bounty of her luck, naming two whelps for the redleaf. a threadbare but appreciative smile ghosted indra’s lips, for she knew well the pitfalls of motherhood. she too had expected many — only to birth a single life like a besotted and rotted cow.

they sound lovely. what are their names? she searched aurewen’s features, drinking in that fleeting emotion of love that danced across the pale dove’s eyes. she missed that adoration, that buzzing bliss, the suspension of fear and worry replaced with nothing but the most natural worship of a child. aurewen’s question caused a flinch to ripple in indra’s countenance, and she did not hide the pain that darkened her eyes as she spoke. i have one son; merrick. the pile of puppies born dead flashed in her mind, her womb a wretched cairn in which no life seemed to prosper save one. what would those little lives had been like, if they had lived? he will be a year come june. it is a wonderful thing, motherhood — for those who want it.