Swiftcurrent Creek there's something in the static

Silver.
Wren hadn't truly registered what was happening until she felt the ever-familiar press of her flank, slim boned arms that reach out for her. And even still, she could have been dreaming, could have been losing her fucking mind. She could have fabricated this image of her within her head, could have—
But no, she was here, and she knew it when she heard Eshe too echo her name, and she knew it when her pretty voice drew closer until it thrummed in her ears. She was here.
And for a while, Wren does not answer intelligibly. She tries, she tries, and yet it doesn't come together, crumbling to pieces every time she manages to cough and a string of garbled notes make it through the shrill cries, and she swears through the fracturing of her worldview and every sight and sound and sensation she can feel the touch of her momma, she can feel it, she can feel it!
Her vision narrows to a hissing vertigo and the ringing of her ears is earth-shattering. She rocks, sways, still; and she cannot feel it, cannot feel where she is clutching, but one forearm wraps around Silvertongue while the other paw reaches for Eshe.
But it cannot go on forever. Whether her body has decided to stop letting her, or the firing synapses of her brain just simply could not take it anymore, her cries relent to shallow waves of hiccups and her head is nestled beneath the chin of her lover when she can slowly begin to feel the grass beneath her belly; the gentle sway of post-storm breeze that cools the heat of her skin; the desperate words of Eshe and the breaths that crawl in and out of Silvertongue's lungs against her ear.
Her voice, when she can finally, finally bring herself to speak, is worn and ravaged by a stinging throat. The-- the baby, the newborn, inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Slow, methodical. Moss. Moss had a baby. She's dead, Moss is. Mae, and, the-- a man. He wanted the baby. He, she touched a quivering paw to her chest, her shoulder, where she is coated with blood both of her own and not, and she fights with every fiber of her being the urge to scream again upon the sticky substance now acknowledged by a mind left to pure instinct. he did this. I fought him.