This storm is much worse than anything she's seen. By comparison, the thin dusting of snow she encountered (reluctantly) last year seems pathetic. And yet she's out here anyway, all in the name of something undefinable, and wonderful. Brightfern comes here every moon, just once, just to see him. It's special tonight. She's a queen, and she just innately knows- tonight is the night. She makes it into their cosy den easily enough, although she's windblown and covered with snow. She hates the cold, but she endures it for him.
Birchbreeze's name is on the tip of her tongue all night, until she kits alone. The tiny thing that lies deformed and twisted in front of her is silent, making not a sound as it slithers into the world. Brightfern is almost repulsed, but she's frantic. It won't move. It doesn't breathe, but she pleads. And then she pleads for him to come to her, like he always has. She waits all night, hollow and grieving, until it becomes apparent she's not worth braving a storm. She's not worth a little snow, a little wind. She is not loved after all, and she nearly breaks her claws burying her little dead daughter. This isn't the end. It's barely started, after all.