“From the raven. I remember.” Remember the way it was to be frightened by the unknown, frail in the face of monsters that never existed, shaping shadows into grotesque, nameless things, never once thinking that it would ever be those you trusted, the faces you knew, the hearts you thought pieces of you belonged to, to make you feel so very vulnerable and weak, betrayed. Remember the things that you always think of when it comes to him, things that you miss, before you knew of black-heart desires, of schemes of revenge and the taste of blood, for justice, he says.

'Who knows what I've done to deserve this one,' It makes you laugh then, loosens your grip on your twisting sorrow, makes you want to forget the quiver in your heart every time you look at him, forget that he had ever told you anything as his face crinkles with laughter, too, makes you wish that nothing had ever changed and you could still be the reason for it, that the two of you had never begun crumbling away from one another. “Who knows who you would be without him.”

Your gaze slips to his sable fox then, wondering just how much of an influence the creature has had over Erebos, how much he has changed from the moment the creature had climbed from his egg and all the moments in between. There is a second of stillness before you inhale, more unsure of the beast than you ever have been, shoving your doubt and the questions that you do not truly want an answer to away, down, winking at the boy, trying your best to reassure him, to reassure yourself of the changes to come, his words of complete immersion with another being sitting heavily on your chest. It would be a lie to say you understand, to say that you are ready to share all of yourself, all of another.  

And then, 'you'll be fine.'

He doesn't mean it as anything more than what it is—those same reassurances that you offer him, the gentle encouragement to believe instead of always doubting, and still the words twist between your waning soul and all the tenderly intimate memories of a man and a hurricane, moments that you could never truly regret for the good that they have brought you, however raw they are.

“Someone told me that before I had Etziel, too—that I would be a great mother.” The smile that comes is soft, wistful, and you shake your head gently, sending ripples through your curls. There is more there to be said,  more doubt that has always gnawed at the tenderness of your heart than could ever be soothed with words and consolation, as much as he has tried, as much as that man made of sandstone, soul crafted from shifting clay, had tried to convince you that a son, in all your fears, your loss, amidst trying to keep yourself from unraveling, was something that you could raise alone.

There is more, and yet nothing is said.

You look away from your lionheart then, as you feel the heat rise to your cheeks, your face as it twists, away to the sway of the water as it breathes slow against the thawing land, to the kitsune, the egg nestled, cracking and shaking at his feet, lingering there for moments in subdued anticipation, not knowing when it would be time, to the trinket swathed in slate before you. Even now you can feel its presence beneath the shell, the quiet, constant tug on every part of you, cannot help but to wonder if it can feel it too, if there is some consciousness of the world around it.  

It is not until he speaks under his breath that you lift your head again, only high enough to see a tiny body where his egg had been, its fragments scattered beneath her. 'A griffin,' he says (and even he hadn't known what she would be, like you and the veiled creature that leans against you), and you can only stare, your eyes tracing the line of her beak, the fold of her delicate wings and the wonderful blooms of black along her skin. For moments you remain still, as ensnared as he must be by the new life and all its beautiful consequences, your distance kept despite your curiosity, the excitement that begins to bubble within you for your friend, not wanting to come between the trio of them, the meeting of their souls for the very first time, unwilling to ruin a moment meant only for him, until he murmurs a name, a permanence. “It suits her, I think.”

There is an unease as you look to her, your ears tilting backwards as you smile sweetly, sheepishly, extending your muzzle ever so slightly forwards to welcome her into the world. “Hello Enyo.” And that is all that is given, your ears tilting back as a wave of heat (embarrassment) flushes through you, uncertain of how she will receive you, if she will even understand.  

And just as quickly as his had been, there is a distinct shift against your skin. You pull from her, pull from the trembling shell, glancing to the boy as it begins to crack and shatter, as your chest begins to throb with the wildness of your heart. There is nothing else there as he begins to emerge, pale like the stars, edged in soft grays, eyes of gold—as you break against him, as your entirety melts into the quiet pour of his soul, as his new existence begins to breathe in time with yours. There is nothing left of your apprehension, of your sense of a lack of preparedness or your guilt; there is only calm, a sense of wonder as you trace the slenderness of his distinctly canine frame, his long legs and snout, the comically large ears atop his head, the fullness of his tail, and you smile yet again, gingerly pressing your lips to the crown of his skull. “And I will call you Mehr.”