She dreams of being helpless.
Her foxbun body has given much joy but suddenly, it is useless. Her small form - so good for cuddling, for offering comfort, for reaching mothers at great speed - can do nothing. It is weak, too weak to fight, to protect.
And oh! How she wants to protect!
It burns within her as a wildfire, overriding her own instincts of self-preservation. She will toss this weak, useless body in front of the children if necessary - whose? hers? anothers? It matters not. She must keep them safe. She will give everything, every last drop of blood, every piece of flesh, take it, she cries, take it and leave.
It isn’t enough.
She can hear them sobbing, crying, calling. They need her. She should be with them. There is something stalking them in the darkness, with sharp teeth and bright eyes. It will devour them.
The foxbun heart beats frantically, seems ready to leap from her chest; her body wants to run in every direction at once and so remains locked in place instead. She sinks, feels the earth locking over her limbs, feels a heaviness weighing her down and - breathe.
The command is her own voice, soft but certain. She follows the instructions, in and out.
Well done.
Her eyes close and there is a hush.
In this lull, she listens.
You are strong enough.
Her heartbeat slows, steadies.
You can protect them.
She is standing now and she flexes, feels the strength in her muscles.
A mother will always protect them.
She opens her eyes and everything is clear and crisp.
Be fierce.
She opens her mouth, her jaws wide, and a sound rumbles up from deep in her chest. It rushes out, an angry roar, a warning to all who would threaten her own. Her teeth are sharp, she can feel them in her mouth, stretches her gums back and rolls her tongue across them. She feels powerful.
There is no longer any possibility of failure.
She is a protector, a warrior.
She hears the call of the children and she answers their cries, her second roar is a mighty promise. I am coming. The muscles in her body shift smoothly, carry her forward in a pounce. When she lands, she feels the claws in her paws dig into the soft soil before they retract again, waiting and ready.
She covers ground in great strides, her heart a thunderous beast in her chest.
Then she is there.
This nameless, formless enemy is anything and everything that has ever threatened her children. It is past enemies and future enemies. It is the shadowy fear that all mother’s hold in their heart when they lie away at night thinking of all the harm that can befall their loved ones.
She does not hesitate.
She pounces.
Her claws dig in.
Her teeth bite.
She destroys it, tears it to pieces, shows no mercy.
Then she stands victorious.
The children are safe.
Hush now, I am here.
Nothing will harm those under her care, not while she is watching, not while she had breath in her body to fight.
...
And Peep wakes anew.