The search was aimless.
It was always aimless.
An endless hunt for an infant life that had been ended long before it's time because of the folly of the infant's handler.
He wasn't even supposed to be a mother, wasn't supposed to be taking care of five small infants of the prey he usually ate. But something had stopped him from eating these five. Their eyes shut tightly as they aimlessly stumbled and rolled around, nose guiding them.
He wasn't supposed to feel this. This simmering anger, the tinge of despair that bubbled and twisted in his stomach, pounding at his heart as adrenalin filled his veins.
His pups, his kits. They were gone.
Not physically. The small half formed bodies were lying limply in the nest he'd made. Their skin cold, their stomachs bloated, their tiny heads lolling around as he licked them hesitantly. Not wanting to accept the truth.
His pups were gone, their spirits having fled their bodies sometime during the brief period he'd been gone. There was no more suckling, no more small adorable tiny random jumps by back legs too lanky and long to do much with yet. They were well and truly gone. And with them, a piece of him as well. The world was unjust, taking infant lives that young, a few days old. But balance had to happen.
Lifting his head, the light colored wolf gave a long mournful howl, the low pitched, sorrow-filled noise filling the crisp summer air and echoing through the trees. A breeze picked up and the trees bent forwards, acknowledging the lost infants in the silent support they gave, leaves rustling as the news was spread. If the pain filled haunt hadn't informed the forests inhabitants, the trees would complete the job.
And as the old wolf curled to sleep, the forest woke silently to rally together. They would be much more protective of the next litter. They couldn't afford to lose such precious lives again. Not twice.