Post by Zohartze on Mar 28, 2015 17:55:55 GMT -5
The sun began to set.
It was a theme, on Ina’mos. Pregnancy. Birth. Pain. Blood. The smell of sex practically covered the island, and the stench wafted into her nostrils no matter where she turned. She could hardly trot anymore, for her belly was so heavy with young that moving around with any agility was impossible. The boredom gave her time to think, and it made her entire body itch with aching anxiety.
Her mind betrayed her when she was alone. She remembered what Datura had told her, the unspeakable pain, and suddenly she started to understand. The contractions came in waves, dull and sharp at the same time, squeezing unbearably and then washing out slowly like tide over the shores of the island she’d come to call home.
But, in a way, the give and take of her body came as a release. The femme had been unable to hunt, hardly able to walk, and she missed the feeling of breaking flesh of prey in her mouth. She’d eaten what the other hunters had brought back, but the blood had run cold by the time her tongue passed over it. She paced as long as she could, walking the land until she hurt so badly that she was forced to crawl back to the caverns to rest. But there was peace in this place. Visitors came and went from Datura and her young, their squealing louder now that they could see and hear. She sometimes smelled Goliath nearby, and sometimes saw him—never interacting more than a respectful head dip.
But not Titan. Never Titan.
She’d gotten over wanting him; she didn’t want to obsess on something so fickle. He’d never proven himself to be anything but flat—he was a brute to her, in every sense of the word. She wanted something interesting to think about, something tortured, something mighty in body and mind. Zoharze had made a mistake with him, an irrevocable one that resulted in a literal weight hanging on her frame. She made a mental note to visit his other pups as soon as she was able, a thought cut off by a push from her insides, and she stopped her pacing to lie down.
Despite her history with caves, the she-wolf had settled in the caverns not so far from where Datura had nested with her pups. They would raise them together, so it was only natural—and neither one of them wanted to leave the other for very long in a time when they both needed help. Zohartze certainly didn’t. What their relationship was, exactly, was unclear to her. All she really knew was that she liked it. She was comfortable.
She knew she needed help more than her companion right now. The contractions came like fire, the pain ripping through her body like a knife and a sledgehammer at the same time. She squinted her eyes shut, trying her best to stifle the quiet whines and snarls that threatened to break from her maw. And then she felt a different kind of pain. Sharper, more external. There was a pup coming.
Zohartze let her head fall to the side, trying with all of her might to push the pup out. It was like trying to push a square peg through a circular hole—and it felt like knives, tearing and bleeding. When the young landed on the floor, Zohartze lifted her head, chocolate eyes turning to meet the being that had grown inside her. The tiny creature moved its head noiselessly; its sealed eyes looked to the sky before its small head fell slowly to the ground. The femme picked the miniature wolf up with her teeth, dragging it closer to her, gentle but swift. The pup was female.
Her brown coat glistened with a mixture nourishing liquid and blood, and Zohartze’s instinct was to groom her. Maybe she’ll look like me, the female thought, not feeling immediate pride or love for the small thing, but fascinated and almost giddy looking at her. As she cleaned the young fae, she slowed, eyes opening wider as she felt nothing against her tongue. No wiggling, no struggle, no protest from the pup—and it was only instinct that told her something was wrong. She wasn’t moving anymore.
She wasn’t breathing.
Zo nudged her around against the hard floor, pressing her ear against her tiny body.
Her heart wasn’t beating.
Zohartze began to lick her frantically, strained gasps leaving her mouth audibly and eyes wild with panic. Nothing was helping.
The pup was dead.
Her pup was dead.
She felt her blood spill to the ground, the warm, wet, thick liquid seeping into her fur, and felt her insides relax, though her fur was standing on end, electrified with anxiety and fear and a horrible, guttural grief that was shredding her heart and mind.
Zohartze’s contractions had stopped.
It was a theme, on Ina’mos. Pregnancy. Birth. Pain. Blood. The smell of sex practically covered the island, and the stench wafted into her nostrils no matter where she turned. She could hardly trot anymore, for her belly was so heavy with young that moving around with any agility was impossible. The boredom gave her time to think, and it made her entire body itch with aching anxiety.
Her mind betrayed her when she was alone. She remembered what Datura had told her, the unspeakable pain, and suddenly she started to understand. The contractions came in waves, dull and sharp at the same time, squeezing unbearably and then washing out slowly like tide over the shores of the island she’d come to call home.
But, in a way, the give and take of her body came as a release. The femme had been unable to hunt, hardly able to walk, and she missed the feeling of breaking flesh of prey in her mouth. She’d eaten what the other hunters had brought back, but the blood had run cold by the time her tongue passed over it. She paced as long as she could, walking the land until she hurt so badly that she was forced to crawl back to the caverns to rest. But there was peace in this place. Visitors came and went from Datura and her young, their squealing louder now that they could see and hear. She sometimes smelled Goliath nearby, and sometimes saw him—never interacting more than a respectful head dip.
But not Titan. Never Titan.
Dusk fell, blanketing the night with darkness.
She’d gotten over wanting him; she didn’t want to obsess on something so fickle. He’d never proven himself to be anything but flat—he was a brute to her, in every sense of the word. She wanted something interesting to think about, something tortured, something mighty in body and mind. Zoharze had made a mistake with him, an irrevocable one that resulted in a literal weight hanging on her frame. She made a mental note to visit his other pups as soon as she was able, a thought cut off by a push from her insides, and she stopped her pacing to lie down.
Despite her history with caves, the she-wolf had settled in the caverns not so far from where Datura had nested with her pups. They would raise them together, so it was only natural—and neither one of them wanted to leave the other for very long in a time when they both needed help. Zohartze certainly didn’t. What their relationship was, exactly, was unclear to her. All she really knew was that she liked it. She was comfortable.
She knew she needed help more than her companion right now. The contractions came like fire, the pain ripping through her body like a knife and a sledgehammer at the same time. She squinted her eyes shut, trying her best to stifle the quiet whines and snarls that threatened to break from her maw. And then she felt a different kind of pain. Sharper, more external. There was a pup coming.
Midnight came, and the moon danced in the sky.
Zohartze let her head fall to the side, trying with all of her might to push the pup out. It was like trying to push a square peg through a circular hole—and it felt like knives, tearing and bleeding. When the young landed on the floor, Zohartze lifted her head, chocolate eyes turning to meet the being that had grown inside her. The tiny creature moved its head noiselessly; its sealed eyes looked to the sky before its small head fell slowly to the ground. The femme picked the miniature wolf up with her teeth, dragging it closer to her, gentle but swift. The pup was female.
Her brown coat glistened with a mixture nourishing liquid and blood, and Zohartze’s instinct was to groom her. Maybe she’ll look like me, the female thought, not feeling immediate pride or love for the small thing, but fascinated and almost giddy looking at her. As she cleaned the young fae, she slowed, eyes opening wider as she felt nothing against her tongue. No wiggling, no struggle, no protest from the pup—and it was only instinct that told her something was wrong. She wasn’t moving anymore.
She wasn’t breathing.
Zo nudged her around against the hard floor, pressing her ear against her tiny body.
Her heart wasn’t beating.
Zohartze began to lick her frantically, strained gasps leaving her mouth audibly and eyes wild with panic. Nothing was helping.
The pup was dead.
Her pup was dead.
She felt her blood spill to the ground, the warm, wet, thick liquid seeping into her fur, and felt her insides relax, though her fur was standing on end, electrified with anxiety and fear and a horrible, guttural grief that was shredding her heart and mind.
Zohartze’s contractions had stopped.
it's bloody and raw, but i swear it is sweet.
w o r d s : 854? ? ?m u s e : click? ? ?t a g s : @datura, @zenith