Once eventide had fallen, Selēnē, the lamp of night, extended her silvered embrace upon Tellus-Garth. A fifsæn, sheathed in shadow, didst emerge from the dark. Her fur, a reflection of midnight's hues, bloomed in the faintest light.
From the thicket's embrace, a reynard bold, his coat like embers glowing, didst answer her silent call. He brought with him a tithe of the hunt, a plump hare offered with a humble bow of his head, a gesture both reverent and proud. She took the offering, a fleeting touch of teeth upon fur, a sign of acceptance in the moonlit glade.
They circled, a slow, deliberate dance, their breaths plumes in the frigid air. His amber gaze, a beacon in the gloom, sought hers, sapphire pools reflecting the celestial fire. A low churr, a song of yearning held deep within his breast, escaped his throat, a melody for her ears alone. She responded with a soft trill, a sweet agreement that echoed through the frosted trees.
As one, they sought a haven, a hollow beneath the boughs of the elder tree, its ancient roots a tapestry woven into the heart of Tellus-Garth. There, shielded from the biting wind and the watching stars, they entwined, their forms merging into a single shadow, a promise whispered on the wind, a future sown in the hallowed mold. A love story etched in the silvered embrace of Selēnē.
The moons did wane and wax, marking the swift passage of sun-turns within their wooden seclusion. Cheimón grip did yield to a shy springtide, and the oak, upright, stark against the snow-drift, unfurled its leaves in a verdant weaving. Within the burrow, life did stir. Small whelps, blind and mewling, their fur the hue of dust and fleeting dreams, clung to the fifsæn's warmth, a treasure dearly held. The reynard, ever on watch, brought gifts not of conquest now, but of tender care – field-mice and fledgling-birds, sustenance for his growing kin.
Their troth did deepen, woven not of passion alone, but of shared wyrd. He would stand sentry, his amber eyes narrowed against the sun's glare, as she taught their whelps the hunter's craft, the silent stalk, the swift spring. She, in turn, would attend with patient ears as the younglings cried for nurture.
But Tellus-Garth, though fair, was not without its glooms. A creeping pestilence, a scourge upon the land, began to claim its toll. The hare grew scant, the field-mice waned, and a hacking cough did rack the fifsæn's frame. The reynard watched, his heart a leaden weight, as her might ebbed with each sun's setting.
He redoubled his labors, questing far afield in quest of food, but the land seemed to yield only despair. He returned one eve, his coat besmirched with rain and his paws bleeding, with but a meagre offering – a single, withered móron.
The fifsæn, though weak, met his gaze with unwavering love. She pushed the berry towards their whelps, a silent sacrifice. He pressed his muzzle against hers, a tear – a rare and precious thing – trickling down his muzzle.
The ice returned, more bitter than any before. The fifsæn, her thew failing, succumbed to the sickness. The reynard, his spirit broken, lay beside her in the hollow, shielding her from the biting wind. He howled, a crestfallen hymnal that echoed through the desolate wood, a score of loss that pierced the very heart of Tellus-Garth.
When the first rays of dawn did pierce the gloom, they found him still there, his amber eyes glazed with sorrow. He embraced her soulless form one last time, then rose, his movements slow and heavy. He led the whelps, now motherless and bare, out of the hollow and into the snow-clad world.
Their thriving was his soul purpose. He stilled his sorrow by duty's call. He would teach them to hunt, to endure, to remember their mother's strength and their father's troth. He would bear her memory within his breast, a flickering brand in the dark, a witness to a love that had bloomed under the silvered gaze of Selēnē, a love that, though touched by sorrow, would abide in the hallowed heart of Tellus-Garth. He would ensure their love-tale was not writ in silver alone, but in the blood of his veins and the breath of his life, an anthem for the night.
Loss in Tellus-Garth
Selēnē's lamp doth shine above, On Tellus-Garth, in silent love. A fifsæn's heart, a reynard's troth, A bond of life, defying wroth.
Kýrie eléison, Chrísti eléison, Kýrie eléison!
Though Cheimón's grip doth bring us pain, And pestilence doth leave its stain, Though wyrd may deal a bitter blow, And tears of sorrow freely flow,
Kýrie eléison, Chrísti eléison, Kýrie eléison!
Yet duty calls, and hope remains, In whelps that rise from frozen plains. The mother's strength, the father's care, A love-tale writ beyond despair.
Kýrie eléison, Chrísti eléison, Kýrie eléison!
In blood and breath, their memory lives, An anthem sung, the spirit gives. God willing, grace shall light their way, And virtue guide them, day by day.
Kýrie eléison, Chrísti eléison, Kýrie eléison!
Kýrie eléison, Chrísti eléison, Kýrie eléison!