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For a long while, Svajonė said nothing. Her eyes followed the small movement of his muzzle as he touched each of the still shapes with such reverence that it made her chest ache all over again. There was something so gentle in him — something she hadn’t expected. Most men she's met on her travels with assisting expecting mothers, even the kindest of them, didn't know how to handle such a messy, bloody, and often difficult thing giving birth was. The miracle of life was not a clean, pain-free job, it was quite the opposite in fact.

So it came as a shock when Vidarr stayed and didn't run, didn't hide from all the blood, slick, and afterbirth stuck between her legs. Instead, he curled his massive body behind hers, peered over her shoulder and supported her when she bore down, relaxing her with soothing words and praising her for doing such a commendable job.

She would have cried from that alone had she the tears to spare in her time of grief.

The rough warmth of his tongue along her shoulder drew a faint, trembling breath from her. Her ears twitched once, acknowledging his presence and effort to provide her comfort. It was a small comfort, but it was something—something real when everything else felt like it was unraveling inside her. She was all the more grateful for the space he took beside her.

She listened as he spoke of his people and of their belief in an afterlife where innocence found rest. Her throat tightened around the words before she even realized she was crying again. Quietly, without sound this time, just the slow, steady slip of tears down her muzzle that dampened the fur of her paws and cheeks.

I hope you’re right, she murmured after a moment. Her voice was soft and hoarse, but steady despite the slight cracking of her words. If there’s another place… then maybe they’ll find peace and happiness there. Maybe they’ll find each other once more. She blinked down at the pups, the faintest smile ghosting on her lips despite all of her pain. And maybe they’ll remember me, too and know how much I love them.

His words about her kindness — about her being a mother doing all she could — landed heavier than he probably intended. Her jaw flexed, and for a moment she couldn’t trust herself to speak. I tried, she said finally, quiet as a confession. But it was not good enough, she shook her head, turning to him just enough to side eye him into silence about any protests he may have without taking her eyes off her beautiful children. She didn't believe she did enough and she wouldn't stand for anyone trying to convince her otherwise when the proof of her efforts was lying dead at her feet.

It was a cruelty that she had to suffer in these feelings all alone.

When he mentioned not rushing her, she gave a small, grateful nod, mismatched eyes flickering up to his own. Thank you, she whispered. I don’t think I can move yet anyway, but thank you.—thank you for caring enough about me to tell me to stay, is what she didn't say verbally, but meant entirely with her eyes and words.

He spoke then of names, of his mother, Drifa and the name Liefi. Svajonė listened, her head tilted faintly toward him as she continued to gaze upon her children, trying to imprint their colorings in her mind. But when he said Liefi, the sound stuck with her. It felt like a lullaby in a language older than time itself. She blinked, her ears twitching faintly as if memorizing the way it rolled off his tongue.

Liefi, she repeated softly. That’s… beautiful. It feels gentle—what does it mean? Her voice wavered, but she kept talking — because stopping meant thinking, and thinking hurt.

My name, she said slowly, comes from an old word in my mother’s tongue. It means ‘dream.’ She said she dreamed of me before I was born — that I came to her in her sleep and told her my name myself. A weak, rueful smile tugged at the corner of her muzzle. Maybe that’s why I’ve never stopped chasing dreams that won’t come true. A gentle, hidden glance towards the man beside her had a familiar pang to it, but she was too tired to think on the feelings, too emotionally drained to think rationally upon them.

She exhaled slowly, her breath shivering as she looked down at the tiny, pale forms between her paws. Her heart clenched again, the grief looping back in like a tide that refused to recede. If there really is a place like you said, a paradise for the little ones, then maybe they’ll find your mother there. Maybe she’ll keep them safe until I can. She'd do that, won't she? Svajone asked, voice tentative and hesitant, unsure if Vidarr would take offense, let alone the spirit of his mother.

She leaned down, muzzle brushing the smallest, the one whose fur was the color of moonlight on water, you’ll be Drifa, in honor of your mother, she whispered, voice cracking. Her nose drifted to the next, a boy, faintly darker than the rest. And you, she said, her tone softer, you’ll be Sorinel. My little sun. The last stillborn, small and delicate, rested within the cradle of Vidarr's arms. And you, my sweet, her voice broke, you’ll be Liefi.

She turned toward him then, exhaustion shadowing her face but a deep well of gratitude in her mismatched eyes. You’ve been good to me, Vidarr, she said quietly. Better than I deserve, maybe. Thank you for helping me name them.

She meant to say more, but the words caught — replaced by a sharp, involuntary gasp. Her ears flattened, muscles locking as another contraction rolled through her abdomen.

It started deep, a low pressure that built until it took her breath away. She groaned, twisting slightly against Vidarr’s side, thinking it was just her body finishing what it started — the afterbirth. Her muscles clenched hard enough to make her see stars. Her broken leg kicked involuntarily, scraping the ground before she bit back a yelp. Her sides heaved, her breath coming in ragged bursts. Another contraction tore through her, fierce and blinding — and then the pressure released in a rush of warmth.

For a moment, she just lay there panting, her chest rising and falling in quick, shallow movements. Then she heard it.

A sound.

Small. Wet. Fragile.

Alive.

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