Muckley trotted silently alongside Hiraeth, his large paws padding softly over the damp earth. The world around them was quiet, unnaturally still beneath the strange and shimmering sky, but none of that mattered as much as the quiet anguish radiating from the man beside him.

The great dog’s ears drooped, his expressive eyes fixed worriedly on Hiraeth’s face, waiting for a familiar sign—a gentle word, a reassuring smile—that everything was alright.

But tonight, there were no comforting gestures, no whispered reassurances. Tonight, his master walked as though the weight of the entire world rested heavily upon his shoulders.

Muckley didn’t understand exactly what had happened, only that something terrible had occurred. He had felt the tension from the moment Corrin had appeared, crawling toward them, broken and bleeding. He remembered the sharp scent of blood, the tightness of fear in Hiraeth’s voice as they tried to save the injured apprentice. And he remembered the silence afterward, that awful, heavy stillness that had fallen when Corrin, the young man that often stopped by the cottage with biscuits to share, stopped breathing.

It was a stillness he could still sense now, a shadow clinging persistently to Hiraeth’s every step, filling the night with an oppressive weight that made Muckley’s fur prickle uncomfortably. Something was wrong, deeply wrong, and the dog desperately wanted to fix it.

They moved through patches of moonlight and shadow, the path ahead dimly illuminated by the gentle glow of stars overhead. Usually, Hiraeth would pause occasionally, murmuring softly to himself about the colours of the night, the way the moonlight brushed the grass, or how the breeze whispered secrets among the trees.

Tonight, he moved silently, his footsteps mechanical and heavy, his eyes distant and unfocused.

Muckley felt a painful ache in his chest. His master’s sorrow seemed to seep into his own bones, a weight that pressed against his broad chest, making him feel helpless.

He needed to distract him, to pull him from whatever dark place his thoughts had carried him.

They passed near the edge of the path, where a deep puddle lay shimmering in the moonlight, a recent gift of gentle rain. Usually, puddles were something to avoid—the cold wetness clung unpleasantly to his fur—but tonight, instinct whispered something else.

Without another thought, Muckley lunged forward, his paws splashing heavily into the muddy water. Cool, wet earth splattered up his legs, coating his chest and belly. He rolled joyfully, turning himself thoroughly muddy, twisting and wriggling until his coat was thickly caked in dirt and smelling glorious.

Normally, Hiraeth would laugh at this, shaking his head, scolding softly, but always smiling warmly. Muckley waited, breath held hopefully, turning his face up eagerly toward his master.

But Hiraeth barely noticed, his gaze fixed somewhere far away, shoulders slumped beneath an invisible burden. His expression remained grim, unchanged. Muckley’s heart sank, the mud feeling suddenly heavy on his fur.

Whining softly, he stepped carefully closer, nudging Hiraeth’s hand gently with his cold, wet nose. His large, soulful eyes searched the man’s face for a reaction—any reaction—to ease his worry. For a moment, Hiraeth seemed not to notice, lost in memories Muckley couldn’t fully understand. The great dog leaned closer, pressing his warm, muddy flank against his master's leg, silently offering comfort the only way he knew how.

At last, Hiraeth paused, looking down at him as if seeing him clearly for the first time since they’d begun their slow, sorrowful walk. The ghost of a smile tugged faintly at the corners of his mouth, tired and weak, yet genuine. He reached down slowly, running his fingers gently through Muckley’s muddied fur.

“Who’s a muddy boy then.”

Muckley barked playfully.

“Oh, Muckley,” he whispered softly, voice thick with emotion. “Always trying to make me feel better, aren’t you?”

Encouraged by this small acknowledgment, Muckley bounded ahead, tail wagging tentatively as he searched for another way to lighten his master’s heavy heart. He spotted a stray leaf dancing gently in the evening breeze and pounced playfully, chasing it in circles, his muddy paws leaving playful prints across the path.

When the leaf drifted higher out of reach, he leaped with exaggerated enthusiasm, jaws snapping gently at empty air, his large, floppy ears bouncing comically with each playful jump. He glanced back eagerly, hopeful to see amusement flicker across Hiraeth’s face.

Seeing only a tired, sad gaze, Muckley trotted back, his playful energy fading into gentle concern once more. He pressed himself against Hiraeth’s side, a muddy but warm reassurance, determined to stay close and provide comfort in the only way he knew—through love and companionship.

Hiraeth knelt beside him, setting aside his possessions and wrapping his arms around the great dog’s neck, holding him close. Muckley pressed his large, furry head against his master's shoulder, sensing the trembling grief that ran through the man he loved so deeply. For a moment, they remained that way, sharing warmth and comfort beneath the indifferent gaze of the distant stars.

Finally, Hiraeth drew back slightly, his expression more composed, though sadness lingered heavily in his eyes.

“We can’t let it happen again, Muck,” he murmured quietly. “I can’t lose anyone else. I won't.”

Muckley whined softly in agreement, nudging gently against Hiraeth’s chest, sensing the urgency beneath his words, even if the meaning itself was beyond him. He understood enough the need to protect, the depth of devotion, the fear of losing those he loved.

The artist sighed, brushing a hand gently through Muckley’s muddied coat, comforted by the familiar presence. He rose again slowly, picking up his belongings once more, this time holding them firmly, purposefully.

“Let’s get home,” Hiraeth said quietly, his voice steadier, stronger now. “Liora will be worried.”

Muckley fell into step beside him once more, the weight of the moment slightly lighter, though his heart still felt uneasy. He kept close, watchful, determined to remain a steady, reassuring presence. The night stretched on around them, vast and quiet, broken only by their soft footsteps and the occasional whispering rustle of the wind through leaves.

As they approached home, Hiraeth felt exhaustion embrace him. He knew that at this late, no early hour finding someone who could help would be impossible.

He decided in that moment to try and sleep and head to the chief at first light.

Finally, the familiar outline of their cottage came into view, bathed softly in moonlight. Hiraeth's pace quickened slightly, urgency guiding his steps as he opened the door. Inside, the warm glow of a lantern cast gentle shadows upon the walls.

“Dad?” Liora’s voice called softly from within, edged with anxiety. “Is that you?”

“Yes, sweetheart,” Hiraeth replied, his voice softer now, infused with relief and love. “I'm here. I'm sorry I took so long.”

Muckley hurried inside, wagging his tail vigorously as he trotted over to greet Liora. She reached out, her fingers brushing his fur, instantly feeling the mud. A small, amused smile curled her lips. “Muckley, what have you been up to?” she whispered affectionately.

Hiraeth watched them quietly, his heart swelling with love and protective resolve. He set his belongings down, closing the door gently behind him and reached for the towel, whistling to Muckley, a vain attempt to clear the wet mud clotting his fur.

“Liora,” he said, kneeling beside her and taking her hand gently, his voice steady yet serious. “We need to talk in the morning. Something’s happened and I need to tell the Chief first thing in the morning.”

Muckley curled protectively at their feet, sensing the determination in his master’s voice, ready to face whatever came next together.