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Aodhán is not so plagued by dreams and the lull of sleep—no, he much prefers the brightness of the sun upon his back as opposed to the glare of it in his eyes. As such he is often awake at first light, often trying—and only sometimes failing—to be the first soul to escape the den's darkness each day.

It is likely not easy for his parents to keep up with him, their already sleep-deprived bodies protesting against their youngest son's wishes. Yet he never feels anything but adoration from them—sees nothing of their tired eyes and instead finds their loving smiles waiting, their mirth as they give him permission to live.

Today has been no different. He has spent the morning frolicking through the dew-laden grasses and licking similarly-coated rocks, nose scrunching at their saltiness and gritty texture. The sun is only just beginning to truly warm him by the time he spies a flash of sorrel, a piece of autumn that comes drifting from the depths of the den.

Lor-r! he calls excitedly, his tongue accidentally rolling as he drops the stick he'd just found in favor of bounding in his brother's direction.

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