08-02-2009, 10:51 PM
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500+
The masked man’s reply elicited a wordless respsonse: a quiet growl of protest. Instinct did not care about accidents. Instinct cared only of what it was bidden. And instinct wanted the warrior to give these lives in the safety of a den. It was instinct that glared up at him through those white orbs, her head lifting viciously, although it was only her eyes that shone with her ferocity. Yet, once several moments had passed, she gave resigned breath, the ferocity fading from those colourless eyes that shone in the half-light of the coming dawn. The glade was fine, she admitted, because the heavens could watch what they had wrought. And there would be no danger because Onus had come. But to the warrior, his suggestion of laying down seemed strange, although she did so nonetheless. Slowly, Cwmfen lowered herself, rolling onto her back with a soft grunt.
"Alexey," she breathed, "or the Rosea." She did not know whether they would come, but he could call them. None of the females that she had named had borne pups, but they were far more familiar with such processes than the warrior. The black fae lay her head back against the soft foliage, and soft moan of her discomfort sounded. "Dahlia has—" She took several breaths before being able to continue. "—no healer." It was a dangerous thing to be lacking, but it was too late to consider such things for herself. She had always been fine without a healer—save for those two instances in which she required stitching. Cwmfen took a deep breath, trying to calm herself, to let her body relax despite the growing pain between her legs. But her efforts were in vain. The coherent thought, hidden now in the back of her mind thought: What if I should not be calm, for chaos now must form order in the birthing of these lives.
Her jaws clenched, snapping shut as if she sought silence. But in the end, the silence could not be kept, and short cry cut through the air. The white orbs shut tightly as her back arched, the force within her pulling her up on her elbows. On either side, her hands grasped the green foliage as if she sought to strangle some long-sought foe. They are coming. They are coming. The words repeated were repeated within her mind as a new pain burst within her. Soon, soon we will need to help them, instinct whispered back. Her eyes opened and her body relaxed, knowing that that pain would return and that it would only grow until the lives within her had been given to the world. Cwmfen brought her legs up, although she did not know why. The warrior did not fear, for she did not think that it was her fate to die giving life but to die taking it. But there was so much uncertainty. And this human shape was uncertain. And her hands that had grasped swords and spears, that were once paws that had carried her across endless ice, moved out, seeking her lover’s hand, to grasp it. Briefly, with obvious effort, she turned to look at him before instinct would take over once more. However helpless he may have felt, she needed him in this.
The masked man’s reply elicited a wordless respsonse: a quiet growl of protest. Instinct did not care about accidents. Instinct cared only of what it was bidden. And instinct wanted the warrior to give these lives in the safety of a den. It was instinct that glared up at him through those white orbs, her head lifting viciously, although it was only her eyes that shone with her ferocity. Yet, once several moments had passed, she gave resigned breath, the ferocity fading from those colourless eyes that shone in the half-light of the coming dawn. The glade was fine, she admitted, because the heavens could watch what they had wrought. And there would be no danger because Onus had come. But to the warrior, his suggestion of laying down seemed strange, although she did so nonetheless. Slowly, Cwmfen lowered herself, rolling onto her back with a soft grunt.
"Alexey," she breathed, "or the Rosea." She did not know whether they would come, but he could call them. None of the females that she had named had borne pups, but they were far more familiar with such processes than the warrior. The black fae lay her head back against the soft foliage, and soft moan of her discomfort sounded. "Dahlia has—" She took several breaths before being able to continue. "—no healer." It was a dangerous thing to be lacking, but it was too late to consider such things for herself. She had always been fine without a healer—save for those two instances in which she required stitching. Cwmfen took a deep breath, trying to calm herself, to let her body relax despite the growing pain between her legs. But her efforts were in vain. The coherent thought, hidden now in the back of her mind thought: What if I should not be calm, for chaos now must form order in the birthing of these lives.
Her jaws clenched, snapping shut as if she sought silence. But in the end, the silence could not be kept, and short cry cut through the air. The white orbs shut tightly as her back arched, the force within her pulling her up on her elbows. On either side, her hands grasped the green foliage as if she sought to strangle some long-sought foe. They are coming. They are coming. The words repeated were repeated within her mind as a new pain burst within her. Soon, soon we will need to help them, instinct whispered back. Her eyes opened and her body relaxed, knowing that that pain would return and that it would only grow until the lives within her had been given to the world. Cwmfen brought her legs up, although she did not know why. The warrior did not fear, for she did not think that it was her fate to die giving life but to die taking it. But there was so much uncertainty. And this human shape was uncertain. And her hands that had grasped swords and spears, that were once paws that had carried her across endless ice, moved out, seeking her lover’s hand, to grasp it. Briefly, with obvious effort, she turned to look at him before instinct would take over once more. However helpless he may have felt, she needed him in this.