Post by Deleted on Mar 9, 2015 22:35:11 GMT -5
No one had warned her. No female had ever explained to Datura what it felt like to give birth. Presumably, the experience was not going to be easy or very pleasant. But she had never guessed it would be such a long and torturous process. The labor had been hours long, but the actual birth… Nothing could have prepared her for the agony. There were no words conceivable to describe the misery and the pain. The lingering memory made her cringe once more. Her body would take a few more days to recover from its ordeal, if not weeks, but Datura had no desire and no need to go elsewhere. The cavern was a splendid den to whelp her pups, away from the prying eyes of the rest of the pack – although Datura was excited to show off her new brood, she was in no condition to handle the rest of Kairos.
A day had passed since the pups’ excruciating arrival, and Datura was still exhausted. The very thought of rising to her feet just to stretch made her groan. Her energy was spent, and in spite of hours of rest, the Mexican she-wolf was more tired than she had ever been before. Even her long swim from the shores of Africa to Goliath’s side had not been so lengthy, so miserable, and so uncertain. She wondered then, nearly a year before – before Kairos, before Goliath and Zohartze and Messoria, the female she despised – if she was near death. Now, she was certain she had stared death in the face, and she had come out the winner. She was weary and weakened, but she was alive.
There were so many things she had never guessed would happen to her – the surge of emotion and pride when each of her newborns took their first breaths, the pain that lasted for hours, even after the last of the six pups had been pushed through the birth canal with the last strength Datura could muster. The birth had been as messy as a hunt, with blood and the possibility of pups born dead or, worse yet, weak and unworthy. With thanks given to Fenrir, she appraised the pups that suckled at her side with pride – four boys, all heinously large, and two girls. The smallest of the litter was not a tiny, misshaped runt, but she was noticeably tiny when compared with her younger brothers and one hefty sister. The last born, the larger female, seemed never to sleep, preferring instead to feed non-stop and topple blindly over her siblings in her quest for milk. The pale boy – an albino, but Datura had not yet discovered her special son’s unique condition – gave a sharp noise in protest to his sister’s clumsy movements.
The feelings were indescribable. Unconsciously, her chestnut colored eyes turned every minute or two to make sure none of the pups had strayed from the warmth of her side and the warmth of its numerous siblings. The faint sound of paws stepping caught her attention, and every sense within the Mexican femme was startled awake at the prospect of a stranger coming near her young. A familiar feminine scent met her flaring nostrils. Auburn-licked ears pricked forward in anticipation. There was only one wolf she cared to see that day.
A day had passed since the pups’ excruciating arrival, and Datura was still exhausted. The very thought of rising to her feet just to stretch made her groan. Her energy was spent, and in spite of hours of rest, the Mexican she-wolf was more tired than she had ever been before. Even her long swim from the shores of Africa to Goliath’s side had not been so lengthy, so miserable, and so uncertain. She wondered then, nearly a year before – before Kairos, before Goliath and Zohartze and Messoria, the female she despised – if she was near death. Now, she was certain she had stared death in the face, and she had come out the winner. She was weary and weakened, but she was alive.
There were so many things she had never guessed would happen to her – the surge of emotion and pride when each of her newborns took their first breaths, the pain that lasted for hours, even after the last of the six pups had been pushed through the birth canal with the last strength Datura could muster. The birth had been as messy as a hunt, with blood and the possibility of pups born dead or, worse yet, weak and unworthy. With thanks given to Fenrir, she appraised the pups that suckled at her side with pride – four boys, all heinously large, and two girls. The smallest of the litter was not a tiny, misshaped runt, but she was noticeably tiny when compared with her younger brothers and one hefty sister. The last born, the larger female, seemed never to sleep, preferring instead to feed non-stop and topple blindly over her siblings in her quest for milk. The pale boy – an albino, but Datura had not yet discovered her special son’s unique condition – gave a sharp noise in protest to his sister’s clumsy movements.
The feelings were indescribable. Unconsciously, her chestnut colored eyes turned every minute or two to make sure none of the pups had strayed from the warmth of her side and the warmth of its numerous siblings. The faint sound of paws stepping caught her attention, and every sense within the Mexican femme was startled awake at the prospect of a stranger coming near her young. A familiar feminine scent met her flaring nostrils. Auburn-licked ears pricked forward in anticipation. There was only one wolf she cared to see that day.
