Lost Creek Hollow excessum

i couldn't help myself

Two weeks.
For two weeks, to the day, Wren had been recovering little by little. At a snail's pace, she started to make excursions — to the creekside, to the meadows; to the dens of her packmates, checking on them; and one afternoon, newly emboldened, she embarked on the trek to Riverclan without alerting a soul.
Silvertongue had been in and out. Never leaving for too long, although her visits became infrequent as the days roved on. And by now, Wren felt it time to pay her a visit on her own. A bundle of flowers encased in weak jaws; ragweed, chamomile, a rhododendron somewhere within. She wasn't exactly an expert in the art of romance. She was trying. They were both trying.
And it was as she stumbled past the border with squinted eyes gleaming in the rose-orange glow of the sunshade that the shrill holler of snarling caught her attention.
Germanicus. Silvertongue, in a whirl —
The flowers drop to the grass at her feet as her jaw falls slack, and time comes to a screeching halt.