Arrow Lake like a stone

For @Aurëwen

There was a flutter of nerves within the breast of the pale dove, though she withheld the indication of her nerves by steeling herself further. The duck clenched in her jaws had been capture by chance—the bird had not seen her coming, and her fangs had been swift. The struggle, though, still saw to her ivory and honeyed pelt to drench with the water of the lake, but she had begun to dry significantly during her traipse to delivery.

Aurewen was a mystery to the woman, and Ketzia felt uncertain how to handle her presence. Stigmata had previously assured her he had garnered multiple wombs to further his legacy this season, and the pregnant she-wolf still felt the bitter taste that left in her mouth. Takiyok had been expected—but this she-wolf was new to her, and they had not met properly. Had Stigmata impregnated her and brought her to their home? The woman’s ascent within the ranks only furthered her suspicions, but it was time to release her jealousy and let it drift away with the mountain breeze.

After all, there was little she could do not, but then to befriend the supposed children of the General, was there not? Especially with her own children on the way. It would do them no good to be at odds at the many other mothers of their pack—already she feared the first mothers would find her presence unacceptable and chase her from Diaspora.

She found the whelping den of the pale mother, and the sylph took pause for only a moment before dropping the prize at her feet, her tail giving an idle sway. She uttered a gentle whine to announce her presence, lime eyes fixated upon the entrance where she believed the unknown woman to be resting—steeling her heart and lifting her muzzle a notch to withhold her fleeting concerns.

In the thicket, Aurëwen dreamed.

She dreamed she were in a gilded land with her sun-and-stars, thriving beneath the myriad cast of eternal autumn — a fallscourt. She dreamed of how they were meant to be born at sea, and so she then dreamed too of lying with her night-of-life. She dreamed of veiling herself upon him, melding and refiguring, in their place of stoppered stardust. She dreamed of blood-of-her-blood, and how he should’ve remained with her, and now they might’ve hunted their desecrator together. She dreamed of all the souls she’s looked into in this life; all of the hearts and voices she’s ached for.

The silver dreamed as her son once had: sifting and weaving reality with fanciful others. She dreamed of those of the cliffs and of the sound; how kru would’ve flourished in the harpy’s place. How the last of them still might. But Isilmë was there with a soft whine—

—and the Pionier opened her eyes.

In the weeks after her impairment, so too had the inconsistencies of Aurëwen’s isolation followed. Some days, she would take to communal slumbering and engagement; other days, such as now, found her roosting away in her previous birth-thicket. Most days, she didn’t know what to feel.

But the whine hadn’t been from her dreams, and she leveled a wary argent eye to the green entrance. Neither were the chords from which it were strung familiar. Whoever it was smelt of this claim, so... no harm, but certainly fowl? “You may enter,” the Pionier rasped, foreign tongue thick with sleep.

Assuming her pups are there sleeping, but can absolutely edit out if that would be incorrect.

She was given consent to enter, but she remained rooted to the spot for a moment—unable to propel herself forward and look upon one of the women who she had yet to determine was one of Stigmata’s… collections. There was a sickening twist in her chest as she bent her muzzle down, reserved outwardly before striding forward with a confidence in her stride and gaze that did not meet her heart.

She blinked against the darker aspects of the dwelling, her gaze adjusting as the slender woman of pale fur came to view. Marred by scars—Ketzia remained respectful in her visit, only bracing the entrance with her own svelte form as to not overwhelm the mother. Her eyes stole over the children momentarily—one of pale hue, just like her mother, and one of darkness. Stigmata, perhaps?

She forced herself to swallow, dropping the gift and nudging it toward the stranger. “Nourishment for you and your young. I’m sorry I haven’t provided sooner.”

Aure leaned back into an elbow, careful to keep her own words hushed and as to not disturb her sun-and-stars, slumbering beneath the females’ presences. Before her was a creamed, lime-stricken female — and life-stricken, too, if the tendered sides alluded enough. There was a murmur of congratulations from Aurëwen herself; and then, promptly, a duck was nudged her way. Gifts... she’d never get used to them; feel as if she’d earned them.

The words, however, bewildered her, and were the only things that kept the silver from reaching for the gifted fowl. “You have my appreciation, of course,” pewter brows drawing low and gnarled above the cusps of dark lashes, “but, there is no need for apology. ...Why are you, if I may ask?” Tipped a cut chin up to present her better eye to the female, wherein only wary, yet genuine, bewilderment stirred.