Wheeling Gull Isle the lake is frozen over; trees are white with snow

It wasn't the most elegant way of shucking oysters, but it did the trick.

Jaws filled with one of the creatures, Maegi flung her head sideways and downward, smashing it into the rock jutting above the shallow seabed. Some were more fragile than others; this one was, bursting into shards that twinkled in the midday sun. Before her prize sank too far beneath the water, she reached down and grabbed the remnants, working the meat from the shell.

The hunt was an outlet for hunger, for rage—it was far preferable to the emptiness she had felt for days, moons, (years?).

Maegi was alive. . .for now. Alive, and knew every facet of it—the icy water against her legs, the wind stinging her eyes, the salty-sweet oyster on her tongue. She didn't know whether this assault on her senses was better than numbness; it simply was.

No, it was better. She had grown tired of the husk she had become. Jaes had not spared her children, but Jaes had spared her, and had spared Mou. . .and there had to be a reason. Right?

Licking her chops, she churned the wet sand with greedy forepaws, looking for another oyster, and to forget.

The terrible weather that was hitting the Wilds did not forget about the island; the wind blustered without much to stop it, and Mou did not like it at all. There was snow only on the highest tree tops near the center of the island, where the land was raised. He kept to the shadows as if he were back in Blackfeather Woods or the Hollow; old habits swiftly found new homes here. From his hiding place he could watch the terrain without being bothered by anyone.

He saw the distant shape of someone pale on beach and after watching them for a few minutes, recognized the limping gait. He did not go out to meet her, though. Sometimes it was best to give one-another space. They were both acclimatizing back to a coastal lifestyle quite well, although the chilly water and worse, the frigid wind, did not coax Mou in to wandering quite as much. He was content to watch.

She didn't know whether it was the shifting of the wind, giving away his scent, or pawsteps, or even just a preternatural feeling of being watched that made her turn. Maybe it was just their connection, something that went beyond the senses. In any case, her gaze found Mou's, and she smiled, dipping her head to invite him closer.

Come eat, Maegi called out, and then resumed her work. Oysters were like any other animal—some bigger than others. They were frustrating in that they required disproportionate effort for a meager amount of meat. Rabbits and squirrels needed to be chased down, sure, but once captured, their flesh was readily accessible.

She seized another shell and dashed it against a rock; it merely ricocheted and splashed back into the shallows. She pressed her forepaws down upon it before the ebbing waves carried it away, and bent low for another try.

Mou snaked from the cover of the woods upon hearing the invitation. He was quick to join her at first, then slow, as the wind struck against his shoulders and hips and made him want to retreat.

He felt the cold rippling at his thin-furred underbelly and tucked his tail for warmth; anyone watching might read his posture as though he were a child on the way to the principal's office. He murmured a low note of disdain as he came up beside Maegi, standing as a windbreaker while she toiled.

The man dipped his nose towards the pools and the mollusk shells which had captured his wife's interest, sniffed at one, then cast his eye away — seeing little of value, and wanting to keep himself alert in case the weather turned further.

She registered his discomfort almost immediately, frowning as she turned to look him over, silky fur sent every which way by the gale. Maegi wasn't so happy out here, either, but the cold kept her awake. Alive. Should she hunker down into a den, she may never emerge, even when the sun kissed the earth at the birth of spring.

Wanna take a walk? she asked, cocking her head. Or a run? Might get our blood pumping, keep us warm.

Maegi wasn't good for much more than a stumbling lope over the sand, but she hated seeing her husband unhappy. Forgetting the oyster, she stepped out of the water and drew alongside him, shaking out each paw to try and dry herself off. 

Miserable weather. She hoped it turned soon.

Maegi's invitation earned a small huff from Mou, pulsing from his puffed cheeks and making very little sound.

They had traveled a lot to end up here on the island and Mou wasn't interested in wandering across old vistas only to feel the absence of those he cared for; he was thankful to have this space of course, to be given a home here, but it wasn't the same as before.

—Or a run? Might get our blood pumping, keep us warm. Maegi went on to say, stepping away from the shelled food rather than worry at it.

Mou hummed, side-stepping to make room for her. He continued to move and snake around her, then pressed his nose softly against her cheek. Following that Mou raised his head and draped it over Maegi's shoulders like a pony playing with their stable door.

Or... Other t'ings, if yeh cold. He ruminated, the corners of his lips twisting in to a smile — almost coy.

She gave a quiet chuckle at the joke, but inside, her blood ran cold. "Other things," fun as they were, had usually led to children—at least in her experience. And children brought with them the potential pain of loss. And not even potential, for Maegi; at this point, she figured that every brood of hers was doomed to die young. Why wouldn't she?

Slowly, Maegi slipped from under Mou's chin and drew close by his side, nuzzling the side of his cheek. I am cold, she said softly. The closeness of him made her stomach twist. How cruel the world was, to make her want him so and yet unable to reconcile with the consequences. 

Let's run, she concluded, a tinge of sadness in her voice. It drifted off with the wind as she took off, running into the shallows, sending water and sodden sand flying everywhere. He would catch her—he always did, in more ways than one. Her hobbling gait was not meant for speed, and her heart was not meant to leave him far behind.

She laughs, and he thinks maybe she will accept his warmth and his affection, but then she pulls away from him. A frigid divide spans the space between them; whether physical or metaphorical, Mou takes note of how swiftly she dismisses him.

Rather than accept his devotion, Maegi murmurs an alternative and moves on, hobbling away from him at her usual awkward pace. Mou is hurt; he cannot help but feel the sting of her denial. As her pace picks up he is left behind for a moment to wallow.

He accepts the situation and follows shortly after, silent as he draws eager strides through the snow.

She didn't mean to disappoint Mou, she thought as she loped along the beach. His touch was appreciated now more than ever, but when it came hand-in-hand with the ghosts of the past. . . They could never be one again—not in that way. It would only serve them wrong, serve any future children wrong.

Doomed to die—

Maegi slackened her pace, allowing him to catch up even more (he likely was well on his way to overtaking her, anyway). She turned to look at him, face soft. I'm not trying to run away from you, she said over the wind, now trotting along, rhythmic splashes accompanying her footfalls. 

I suppose I'm still running from the fire, she continued, and her eyes closed. She hadn't even heard them over crackling flames and falling trees.