"But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura
she'll lie and steal and cheat and beg you from her knees make you thinks she means it this time
The pain this time is not surprising—not confusing.
She expects it, in a way. Her belly has once more grown swollen and round, her body becoming heavy instead of the natural, light thing that it usually is. It has kept her grounded and more still—remaining tethered to the Tephran home of her pack although she has not had the itch to wander in months. Perhaps it is bleeding from her, replacing itself with her ever-growing love of her family. Perhaps she has simply been so occupied with the changes within her, the shifts and the kicks, to truly pay attention to it.
Regardless, her ocean-blue eyes have not wandered to the horizon and have instead turned inward. They have busied themselves watching Daemron with their twins, watching the boy fly off into the sunset, watching the girl come back with heavy feet. She has become a matriarch of their family and although the role has been ill-suited, and she wildly unfit for the job, it has become a second nature to her.
She does not shift or bend beneath the weight any longer.
She does not resent it.
And she is prepared when the rhythms of her body begin to change—when the muscles begin to clench and the pain begins to flow in, slower at first and then faster. She calls for Daemron, but she manages to keep it soft and quiet—throaty but not panicked. She finds a safe place to bend her knees, a quiet grove of the kingdom to make her bed, and she turns her attention to it. Turns her mind to the task at hand.
It is faster this time, easier, and she is grateful for it.
Her body is still slick with the effort, but when her daughter arrives, she is not spent. She is stronger, and she recovers faster, but her heart still wrenches in her chest as it had the first time. She gets to her feet and moves toward their daughter—moving through the natural rhythms and processes of those first few moments. When she is cleaned, when Pyxis is certain that her lungs are clear, her mouth open, she turns her gaze to her wolfish husband and there is something brilliant in the clarity of her gaze.
“She is beautiful,” she says. “Will you bring the twins? We should be together.”
she'll tear a hole in you, the one you can't repair but I still love her, I don't really care
He comes at her call – always with the wolves – and moves silently to her side, stealing himself against the anxiety that takes root in his chest. As before, he is loath to witness Pyxis experiencing pain from which he cannot possibly spare her, though she bears it more steadily this time. It seems it goes easier, for which Daemron is grateful. There had been moments in prior months when the willowed chestnut had felt as though pieces of himself were threatening to unravel – (a wolf vanished; a mother’s lies) – yet through it all, Pyxis had been there. She had held steady – for him, for their family.
She is his cornerstone.
They have built something together – he can see it so clearly. It is there as their newest daughter takes her first breath. It is there as Pyxis tends to the girl, focused and intense in her purpose. It is there in the shining ocean of his wife’s eyes when she turns to him. “You both are,” he responds as the last shadows of his anxiety are cast out by the brilliance of her gaze. Her request is met with a nod of assent, though he comes alongside her first; and as he takes in the softly breathing form curled at the mare’s feet, his mouth finds the curve of her dampened side. “She’s perfect, Pyxis.”
A willowed head bent over the babe marks her scent. “I won’t be long,” he promises them both in a low tone, and after placing a gentle kiss to their daughter’s cheek, Daemron turns and sets out in search of the twins. Signalled by his intent, the wolves begin tracking their scent and lead him to the yearlings easily enough. He is glad to find them together, the faint grey light of his eyes warming as he looks over his eldest children.
“Brigade. Wonder.” Each shoulder brushed in brief greeting – one of feather, one of bone. “Come. Your mother is waiting for us.” A smile overcomes his expression, his gaze alight with pride as he adds, “And so is your newest sibling.” And when they return to Pyxis, they do so as a family – as a pack – just as it is meant to be. In the small moments before everyone comes together, Daemron’s eyes find those of his wife.
Wordlessly, they speak. I love you, they say.
daemronlost to the hunt as I was to you
@[laura], @[jenger], @[Kristin], I love you all and I'm sorry this took so long <333
02-23-2019, 06:10 PM (This post was last modified: 02-23-2019, 06:11 PM by may.)
Dark.
Liquid, comforting dark.
She - inherently aware of being this, going from sexless to chosen sex - is floating, and it is comfortable. Sometimes, her environment becomes cramped and she kicks out in a response of irritation. She doesn’t like her floating existence infringed upon - not even by these weird spasms that push her towards an end to the floaty darkness.
Rebellion comes to mind but she is buckled in on by intense pressure and strain that forces her outward from all that she has ever known. Besides, she is sliding forward and out in no time at all that any rebellion would have been squashed by the quickness of this heinous act - birth! She has no idea that this is what they consider the forceful shift in her previously sublime existence, and one day she’ll think back on it with a quiet smile and perhaps a chuckle.
Soft, then rough.
Nose, then tongue.
She struggles momentarily to make the best of this new experience that is her mother cleaning her off. Now she is forced to breathe on her own and she lets out such a plaintive bleat at the unfairness of being expunged from the womb. Light stings her eyes as they blink for the first few times in repetition; slowly, the world comes into amazing focus and all she can do is stare and stare. Stares as a big hulking form of someone else looks over her and breathes her in.
She’ll learn about him in due time; that he is dad, and runs with the wolves. There are other demands that are made upon her - like hunger, and the urge to stand. She tries the latter, pulling slim matchstick-legs beneath her. Moments of wobbling effort result in a swaying but upright and triumphant foal. She even manages a bleating squeal as she attempts to turn towards her mom, little nose just flaring away I’m such of one particular and potent scent: milk.
The little darling noses and nudges her way from mom’s shoulder to flank, rooting at the soft rounded flesh until she seized on a teat and pulls hard before settling in for a good long drink. She slurps and guzzles until her belly feels fuller than full, then releases her mother with a sleepy lip-smacking yawn.
