Sceral had been asleep, curled up in his old birthing den—had it always been so small?—to escape the bitter blizzard and freezing winds that had battered the territory. The flurry of white fell thick and fast, clogging the narrow entrance like an icy door. Where the others had rested—where Corinna and Serach had sheltered—was unknown to the young Aesir and as his muddy eyes fluttered opened to be greeted by the wall of snow, he realised just how bad that storm had been. It was his first winter and he hoped to whatever god or deity existed that they would not all be this brutal.
The pale cub shuffled forward, eyeing the snow that blocked his exit. Lifting a paw, Sceral scooped a small amount of the powder from the rest, watching silently as it crumbled and fell to the floor. Looks like he was digging himself out today. With a quick shake of his head to rid himself of sleepiness, the lad began to paw at the snow, dull claws and wide paws working at tunnelling his way out of the icy den. Once he had made deep enough an imprint, the faceur in Sceral made its appearance. He thrust his face into the snow, yelping at the cold that stung his nose. He nosed upwards, clawing away at what snow he could before it toppled down on top of him. Clumsily, he desperately wriggled free from the icy snow cave just in time to hear a summoning howl fill the air. The tones of sorrow laced in the mournful cry caused Sceral to falter briefly—he'd never heard such a sad sound before.
He quickly set off, though, bounding through the thick snow in the direction he had heard the howl. Frozen winds blasted him, almost rendering his winter coat useless in its endless attacks. The Aesir lad pushed himself as much as possible, careless as to whether or not he was wasting energy—he could smell his mother, just barely, and wanted to be there as soon as possible.
Nothing could prepare him for the sight he arrived to though.
Two wolves stood and two more laid on the snow, as if they were embracing. For a brief, fleeting moment, Sceral thought it was his father who had returned. Ice was back! A wolfish grin threatened to make itself known, yet the cub stopped. No. No, that was wrong; he couldn't smell Ice. He drew closer, battling the winds, as he pushed onwards towards the figure curled in the snow. Curiosity and confusion laced his loud voice as he barked. “Hey! 'S goin' on? Why—” His words became choked in his throat, brown eyes widening as he stared at his still mother. His voice became a whisper. “Ma, why ya' on the ground?” He slunk closer, ears folded back. “C'mon, ma, get up.” Dropping to his pale belly, his tongue flicking out briefly in a clear display of nerves and worry, Sceral wriggled closer still. “Ma? Ma!” A pitiful whine escaped him, stress evident in his gaze as it briefly darted to Ruiko before returning to his mother, his most beloved. “This ain't funny!” A sharpness found its way to the boy's tone, hatred for the wolves who were now present. Why weren't they helping?!
Because she was dead.
The realisation hit him like the kick of a bull moose, a burning pain worming its way into his heart like a disease, hungrily clawing at his very soul. Corinna was dead; his mother was gone. Sceral shook his head. “No. No, no, no, no.” This couldn't happen—it wouldn't happen! His mother was invincible, she was his saviour and his guardian. He needed her. “Why?” Shock grabbed hold of the pale lad, sneered and shook him about as if he were a rag doll. “Why didn't ya' help her?!” Half way between a shriek and a snarl, the boy immediately got to his paws, stumbling backwards with a growl which was followed closely by a whine. His muzzle wrinkled, a feeling so foreign when directed to his elders. It was their fault she was gone, their fault that she hadn't survived. But what could Sceral do to bring Corinna back—what could he offer to bargain with? His own life? If he could he would. He hadn't even been able to say goodbye, to kiss her. He just wanted one more sunrise with her so that he could tell her he loved her.
The anger and sorrow bubbled up in the crest-fallen Aesir, clawing at his tongue for release. The pale lad threw his head back and let loose his pain, his howl battling the vicious wind that whipped his pelt. His mother was dead.