Whitebark Stream That's the role of poetry: to say what others cannot utter.

Artyom hadn't anticipated her finding him first, and his expression shifted fleetingly to one of surprise before he welcomed her to him with a half-hearted smile. He responded to her gesture with one of his own, flicking of his tongue in the direction of her chin - submissive, shy.

He did not want to ruin her brightened mood, sour her with his never ending uncertainties, but it felt wrong to mask them from her too. Artyom pricked a velvet lobe at her observation and, as he turned his head to blink out at the snowy landscape beyond their frozen stream, his expression assumed a thoughtful frown.

"I am," he confirmed, "I... don't know what to expect when this is over." Well, cubs were the likely result, but what of them? A breath leaves him, wearied. Artyom wished he could share in her enthusiasm, feed from her certainty, but this was all unknown territory for him.