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The ache in her body had dulled to something distant, but the ache in her chest only further deepened.

Every breath rasped raw through her throat and with it, the world had gone muted—the rush of the river, the whisper of the chilly wind rushing through the reeds, even Vidarr’s voice all felt far away, as though she stood in another realm entirely, submerged in water, and half-gone along with her children.

When he spoke a word—"Veina"—the sound anchored her even as the meaningof the word alludedher. Her mismatched eyes flickered open, both glossy and heavy with pain. She didn’t speak at first. Couldn’t. Her throat worked soundlessly as his nose brushed along her spine, as his warmth shielded her from the cold. The gentle cadence of his voice—the steady rhythm of ”Im here”—reached through the fog like a hand pulling her back from some edge.

Her body gave a small tremor when he spoke of the veil, of them waiting. She wanted to believe him. Gods, she wanted to. Do you think they would? she murmured, voice hoarse and barely there. Wait for me? A hollow sound followed, not quite a sob, not quite a laugh, but the kind that came from someone who’d already cried too much to keep count.

Svajone didn't have much of an opinion on the afterlife. She always assumed and found comfort in that her loved ones would be waiting for her beyond the veil. That while she might be separated from them now, they would be waiting for her. Such thoughts gave her comfort and so she took no offense to Vidarr’s own belief of the afterlife.

When he moved, she followed his gaze to the tiny forms lying still between them. Her jaw trembled; her paw, shaking and wet, reached forward. She touched one gently, the palest—soft as snowmelt—and drew it closer, tucking it against her chest where her heartbeat could be heard. The smallest mercy she could still give.

You’re safe now, she whispered to them, though she wasn’t sure if she meant it for the pups or herself. Her tail brushed Vidarr’s leg, faint but intentional. You’re kind to help me… I know what this must look like. Her voice caught, brittle with guilt and gratitude. Most would have turned away.

When he moved to gather them, she didn’t stop him. Her instincts tensed, yes, but the exhaustion in her bones left no room for pride. Instead, she shifted just enough to help, using her muzzle to nudge the smallest one toward him. Her broken leg protested, the pain a low hum through her flank, but she bore it silently.

Thank you, she breathed when he nestled the last of the tiny bodies together. Her head lowered to the ground, muzzle resting beside her pups, and for a long moment, she said nothing more. The wind shifted, cold against her fur and then, in a whisper that trembled, she added, When I can stand again… we’ll bury them together. They’ll have names and stories. They’ll be remembered. It'sthe least I can do as their mother.

She looked up at him — weary, broken, but no longer alone. Any suggestions? It seems like we have two girls and a boy. Her eyes softened, the smallest flicker of something like peace slipping through the grief. You don't have to, but it would mean a lot if you did.

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