The world would know that he existed.

He would make sure of that, even from the very moment that he was born. His scream can be heard from the den. It would surely alert any wolves nearby for he growled and he spat and he screamed his rage. A strangeness coils within him, burning from the inside out. Wicked, deceitful, wrong Blackthorne would not be silent - this world would know of him from the very beginning so that in the end, they could not claim ignorance.

There is comfort in the touch of the one called mother. She calls to Natiya at the very core of her being and yet the moment she is laid against the silken stomach of Sarabi the girl squirms, searching, seeking. It is his scream that calms her because she knows he has arrived. That the brother she shared a womb with is here and the moment he is placed against one of mothers warm teets she is pressing close. For his loudness, she is the quiet, the hush at nightfall.

They drink and feed, frail whimpers escaping from her lips. They are whimpers of contentment even as Thorne's lips fall from a nipple and he burps, followed by a growl, sightless face rooting around the base of his mother. Learning, seeking. Natiya curls up beneath an arm of Sarabi and soon Thorne joins them, one more burping growl given as he falls asleep on his sisters hind end.