She knows this morning will be different when she wakes to sweat damp on her neck and a pain in her belly that is altogether new to her. At first it is just a cringe she presses to the silk of Nightlock’s neck, a kiss that twists until she is groaning so softly into hair the color of storm-clouds. But as time passes and the sun climbs higher in the sky, settling like a ball of spun gold just above the horizon, the pain worsens. Some of the morning is spent hidden in the lee of the volcano, tucked against that antler marking so stark against the silver of Nightlocks chest. Some of it is spent in the cool ocean waves as they lap curiously at the muscles that writhe along her belly. She tells herself that this semi-weightlessness of wading into deep water makes it easier somehow.
It isn’t until a while later that she finally returns to their shallow den half-carved out of the side of the volcano. The dark stone is oddly cool here, and she’s often blamed it on that endless ocean-mist blowing in from the tops of whitecapped waves. But the sand beneath it is warm from the day, bright and pale gold like millions of pieces of the sun chipped away. Between the trees and the fronds and the bent sway of beach grass, this corner of Tephra is as quiet as it always is. Bare and sleepy, peaceful but for the quiet struggle of a chestnut mare and the unease of a silver, dappled stallion.
Her body feels almost unfamiliar now, those coiling, writhing muscles demanding so much from her even when she is already tired and scared. It is the imminence that cracks her, the knowing that this is happening now whether she is ready for it or not - and in those cracks fall seeds of doubt where they take hold and grow like weeds until she’s gasping as much at the fear as she is the pain.
Will she be a good mother? Will it be just like with Choke, watching that sweet, beautiful boy grow older and gentler with the quiet passing of seasons. He is so good and so kind, and she wonders how much of that has to do with anything she did as a mother. If maybe he was just always meant to be good. Will this child be like that? Or children, most likely, if the size of her belly is anything to judge by. But it is too late to wonder, too late to worry, and as the sun climbs higher into the blue of an endless sky, she knows it is time to surrender to the demands of her body.
She breathes hard, groaning and rigid against the contractions that seem to come endlessly now. Her head pulls back, nose outstretched, and those gleaming opal hooves dig long furrows out of the soft sand. She pushes, strains, heaves until at last she is not alone in this churn of sand and soft root, until, after a beat of exhaustion, she is able to pull herself around to meet the child stirring by her heels.
She is so dark and so beautiful, and for an instant Wonder is locked within a moment of resounding awe that they might have made something so perfect. But then instinct spurs her into motion and she moves closer to clean the remnants of birth from that dark, mahogany skin. “She looks like my mother.” She murmurs aloud to Nightlock, glancing up at his face with such deep love in those sea-green eyes. When she looks back at the tiny girl nestled beside her, she cannot help but touch her lips to that small white forehead and wonder if someday antlers will grow there. If bone will try to rupture its way through that perfect skin in much the same way hers had. She hopes not, hopes it so desperately and with such deep guilt.
She cleans her face and her ears, the curve of her neck and those delicate shoulders - laughs aloud so soft and bright like the puddles of yellow sunlight pooling in the sand around them. “You have your daddy’s wings, beautiful.” So small and so perfect, just soft little downy things that do little more than flex above her sides. They remind her of her brother though, and she feels a pang in her chest of missing him deeply. When she can, she will go find him. Introduce him to Choke and to this little one, let him know he is an uncle now. “I can’t call you little one forever, though.” She murmurs softly, smiling as she notices the gleam of opal hooves half-hidden in the soft sand - and it is a wonder all over again that this perfect little child came from them. That all these little bits and pieces are things borrowed from Wonder and Nightlock. Those wings and her hooves, the faint glow of trapped starlight peering out from the white of her still-damp fur.
She is so beautiful and so delicate, not unlike the faded pink flowers that grow all throughout the grass around their quiet little cove. Beach roses, she thinks with a soft smile. Then, with a gentle kind of suddenness, she says it aloud, just a murmur of sound almost indecipherable from a sigh. “Our beautiful little wildflower, our little Rosine.” But her eyes are on Nightlock now, searching that beautiful, stoic face she loves so much for any sign of disagreement or objection.
i am brambles but i am tangled in your love
for nightlock, choke, and the puppylocks <3