Their son was born in a violent storm on a beach just like his mother. The pain was incredible but she never panicked. Wrena normally relished being alone but there was one moment where she swore she saw her Grandmother’s stocky silhouette and it comforted her. From her water breaking to the moment her child slid out of her and into the cold spring air it was not very long. The ordeal is a blur of searing, blinding pain – the time that follows, however, drips by slowly and sweetly. The girl is not warm, never has been, reptilian and cold. But when she stands, a cold sweat beaded across her skin, she licks him like she might die if she does not touch him all over.
Call it instincts, as she would in her normal state of mind, but her body forgets the pain and relishes in what she’s done.
She’s had nothing but disdain for the little sucker since she first felt him wiggle behind her ribs. He’s made her sick, dribble piss down her own legs, never lets her sleep, sore all over…but…but look at him! Wrena is lost in him from then on, guiding him to his legs and showing him where to suckle. He is stout and strong, it does not take him long to unfurl his long legs and his matching leathery wings.
She waits until morning, the storms subsided, and she lets out a loud echoing call for Ivar. She is on his island, where she’s been her whole pregnancy pretty much, so she hoped he was not far.
@[Ivar]