They sneak out together, the morning before the raid. Of course she's slow and cumbersome, and he's making jokes about her weight, and how she should cut back on the voles. But neither his snark nor her speed is the point. She's fully aware that one or both of them may not return. She's certain, positive that her kits won't.
Beneath his quips and his easy grins, Strongclaw knows this. He beguiled her into this dawn ramble, and in between jokes sends her sad, thoughtful , birdsong is the only music they'll ever hear or need.
He sits her beneath a myriad of branches, brushes her fur with his own, and stares at the sky until she wishes it had been him; she wishes it had always been him.