Bearclaw Valley never bet the devil your head

blood flower. 

the sound of it is music to her ears—and she seldom hears or cares for music. she looks at him, the tired dullness of her gaze fading into something like relief, perhaps love. blood flower. she is home.

without Astara, though, it's not truly home. she enters the den, the scent of healing herbs wreathing 'round her nose. it is warm here, sheltered from the snow. it hearkens back to simpler times. 

blind, at her mother's teat. swallowed by comforting darkness.

she lowers herself slowly, every muscle screaming, every abrasion in searing pain. curls into a ruddy ball and tucks her tail over her nose.

sleep comes quickly. there is nothing else left for her to do except sleep. heal. wait.