Only after Ghost had been gone a week, did Jon begin to worry. A wolf has to hunt, he thought. Nevertheless, he shot glances down along the kingsroad, and spent his long, brooding nights outside, waiting for the wolf to come sauntering home. Two weeks later, Jon was gathering fistfuls of white fur into his grasp, telling Ghost never to leave for that long, never to let him worry like that. But something was different about this return. Behind him trailed a silver shadow, a swollen belly, a pair of glimmering eyes in the snow. When he brushed his fingers against Ghost's fur, he only heard one thing. Shaera, Shaera, Shaera.
The pups were born in the middle of a white blizzard, a beautiful, deadly beast that lasted nearly three days. The clouds rolled in on a clear, blue winter morning, galloping across the sky like a giant destrier, and colliding with each other like waves in an autumn storm.
The birth arrived not long after the snow, bringing pain instead of cold. Ghost perched himself on the rocks by the cliff, concentrating on keeping everything that wasn't going to happen out of his mind. Things like small cold bodies, and the light leaving his love's eyes. And when then end finally did come, he was overjoyed to see four tiny bundles cuddled close Shaera's warm stomach. Four small gifts, four blessings, four happinesses. Consumed with exhausted wonder, each wolf drifted into a deep, weightless slumber.
Ice crunched beneath his paws, but the cold had no effect. Cold cannot not reach the heart, and so many more have joined his brothers and sisters in the in the fire. It is a father's job to keep the ice and snow at bay, to calm the tiny cries of fear which are swallowed when the wind roars it's mournful song. If this is love, than it is a strange thing to wish for. But Ghost will let it swell in his chest, let it fill his lungs, and let his fur stand on end when he hears the answering howl, because it is so hard not to, not to let the fire grow.