Silence and snow are the two most abundant things that you can find in the north. You can be assured that there is no lack of it. The vastness of the steppe and the height of the mountains that obscure the view of the sea and the world south of it swallows everything and leaves nothing behind but the worldly symbols of misery: snow, ice, freezing winds and deathly cold temperatures, an emptiness that takes the soul whole and never gives it back.
It’s odd that she’s so attracted to this place, but maybe it’s because it hides her so well. Out here, there is no one to see her in her downfall. This is the aftermath, and she must walk the ruins of something once had before she can find a way to rebuild.
Nothing said that it couldn’t tear her further apart in the process though.
The ice caves remind of her youth, of the piercing of the wind so cold that her bones ached and how her mother wept in pain despite her efforts to put the drive to heal into use. The lights in the sky bring back stories that she should have shared with her children when she had them. There is even the fleeting thought that the next time she conceives a child, regardless of the circumstances, she should run with them to the safety of this void and raise them in solitude, hiding them from the world until she is sure that they are ready to face it.
They are returning from the sea when the noise rattles their eardrums into annoyance. Hobgoblin cannot complain much for his stomach has been filled and surely will be for the next few days to come, having to stop at various intervals to listen to him groan and complain, slouching over the earth as the bloat into his stomach carries on. For herself, the sea has a wonderful abundance to take use of, but the time spent pawing on through snow for meager pickings of foliage has brought her to lose the majority of her appetite. Her time was instead spent resituating herself with the salt in the water, letting it soak so deep into her coat that Hobgoblin nearly felt the urge to gripe at her.
It’s begun to fade though, lessening as their distance from the water increases so he cannot make much use of it anymore.
It is as it grows closer that she notes the weariness in her joints and the sleep in her eyes. Neither have barely slept on the beaches, so exposed and open to the eyes of anything that wish to spy on them and Sikeax cannot comfort herself in sea grasses not deep enough to sustain her, and Hobgoblin’s lungs do not find life in the water like her’s does. Here, there are trees for him to sleep, ever vigilant over her as she would rest idly in the belly of the falls.
Then the decision is made, they will stay here the night.
He is in the process of searching out an ample tree for his slumber when he finds her. The initial explosion of joy and surprise, worry and rage that slams her chest in the wake of his discovery overwhelms her in half of a heartbeat. She’s barely knee deep in the water when it comes striking in.
What?!?! Is everything okay????
“BELLA.”
She wouldn’t have believed him if it were not for the blasting image of her precious daughter, her only daughter, lying quiet beneath the body of a tree. She is so still that she almost fears the worst, that Bellanaris is-
Hobgoblin cannot keep himself from the weight of his love for her, already diving for his favoured position beneath her wings, noting now that they have grown into something more than fledgling wings and into limbs that will gift her with something Sikeax will never experience.
Everything is a blur until she reaches her, the world passing by in streaks and colours and the darkness so deep that it pounds into her heart. Where is Cera? Where was anyone who would have kept watch over her precious daughter?
Where has she been all this time?
“Bella. Bella, baby, please wake up. Please be okay.”
Her voice is streaked in tears and choked by sobs, breaking up as it tries to find its way into the world just to tell her daughter that she’s here.
I have been a bad mother.
“No.”
But the world is already crumbling down, and so she is, knees bending and pushing into the harsh surface of visible tree roots as his comforts pass her by. She is too busy searching out the feeling of her daughter’s body, the warmth that radiates when life is still in their lungs and the burning smell of the desert in her nostrils.

OOC: Hobgoblin is in his serval form.

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I shouldn’t have left her. I’ve been a bad mother.
Sorrow pours itself a hot bowl into her chest and lightens the place up enough to make room for it. Words itch on Hobgoblin’s tongue but make no attempt to spare her because there is nothing he can do for that. Sikeax will have to work through it herself.
In the meantime, Bellanaris’s heartbeat drums in his ear until he is sure it’s going to explode, finally being exchanged for a steady decline once his own begins to ache. Whether his bonded causes it or if it’s his own, he doesn’t mind. Anything to show her that he loves her.
He bubbles up with his throat thundering with purrs as her sides heave with a fresh breath of air, small smile barely visible creeping onto her to features as she leans in. The favour is instantly returned.
“Love Bella.” He reminds her, wary smile riding along the tone of his thoughts.
She chokes on her sobs and the soreness of her throat, having been raked down by her worries. Eyelashes flutter and eyelids squeeze, trying her hardest to work out the last of tears. Pure joy comes rolling in, feeling exactly like how it did when she was with Cera, but what else is she to expect? They were her family, the closest thing to completion when the world held them together with threads stained red with their love and the colour of their home.
Her baby is scared as far as she is aware, Hobgoblin lifting his head up to survey whoever might have broken the sacrecy of the moment. When all he finds is Sikeax, something he should had known from the start, a quick return is made back to cherishing the girl’s presence.
Mother’s instinct sweeps in and takes hold for her. Her touch dives for her daughter’s skin, looking to press her muzzle into her neck and simply breathe her in. Damp tears slide down her cheek bones as her hard-earned title makes it into her ears and reminds her that she is a still a mother, that all of her efforts will somehow end up in love that not everyone can partake in.
Shame sheds its coat and places it on her shoulders in a cruel reminder of her action. The agony of it burns a soft spot into her that’s probably never going to be healed or forgotten, just as permanent as her actions when she gave everything she’d worked for up, her daughter, her family, all of it. It chokes out another pained sob, filling itself up with pleasure as it watches her crumble at the trial of her crimes.
“Bella,” There’s less choking this time around and more solidarity, gentle-voiced and kind, wishing to pour every bit of her cooped up love into the two syllables of her daughter’s nickname just so she’ll know how much she means. “I came back to the North.” ‘So I could be home,’ but some statements are better left as thoughts and never as words, because home is not home without her children. The North symbolizes emptiness, and hell, if that isn’t how she’s forced to feel without them, then she’s sure she’s lost the right to be a mother.
She reaches out for her then, looking for any fiber of her to hold onto and possibly hug and cradle, irregardless to any discomfort Hobgoblin will receive at the end of it. He can’t completely complain though, because to be crushed between two loving bodies of some of the dearest people to him in his life seems like a gift now.
She waits quietly as Bella works to resituate herself with wakefulness, listening in with a growing smile that aches the edges of her mouth and the muscles in her face as Hobgoblin’s purrs intensify into near roars at her touch, wiggling further into her hold. Love blooms like a virgin garden experiencing its first spring, happy that its time has finally arrived after so long waiting.
Her baby always comes back to her though, winning her daughter’s attention as little words that she’s never been happier to hear come out in a fashion that makes her proud. Her parents’ sweet disposition has found its way into her.
“I bet we missed you more.” Playful undertones line her voice, beaming out as a smile and loving eyes as Hobgoblin gives a slight rise into her wings, working to nestle further, and in the process, assure that Bellanaris knows that he both loves and misses her every second she is not under their watchful gaze. And to make sure that things are assured that she means her words lovingly, kindly teasing her child to lighten the mood, Sikeax spares her a long held giggle.
Effort finds itself working to nestle her muzzle into the spot behind her daughter’s ear, wiggled between her horns in the spot that Sikeax is sure that she forgets to wash at, working softly to groom her into comfort. “But I bet we love each other all the same, enough to fill up the entire ocean and then the sky for good measure.” Hobgoblin hums out a chuckle, not making its way into his throat and instead finding itself in Sikeax’s head.
“Baby, I’m sorry I left you.” Once she feels assured that she’s clean in the spots that she feels she can’t reach, which would be everywhere if she could have it her way, wishing to bath her child in every particle of her love and affection until she nearly drowns in it. “I thought you were too young to understand what was happening, but I should have told you.” The velveteen portion of her muzzle works to find its way to her cheek, intending to give  it a good affectionate rubbing and a few fast licks in between to wash her further.
For good measure, she tells Hobgoblin, who scoffs at her. Her mothering instinct might give him a good touch of love for her children, but there is indeed a stopping point.
“I really hope you can forgive me.” Seriousness throws itself as far as it can into her words, trying its hardest to reassure her that it wasn’t meant in ill. “And even if you can’t, I’d like to spend every moment that I can trying to make what I did up to you.” It’s nowhere near a lie, because there is nothing in this world that she holds more dear than her children, and the idea of earning one’s disapproval over anything would surely break her heart.


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