04-07-2016, 12:45 PM
BROTHER, LET ME BE YOUR FORTRESS, WHEN THE NIGHT WINDS ARE DRIVING ON.
I CAN BE THE ONE TO LIGHT YOUR WAY; I WILL BRING YOU HOME.
He remained as a pillar of strength for her in her time of need, and when her time came, he was there, as he had promised he would be. Stoic and stern, he hid away the grinding anxiety that lingered within the deepest part of his chest, where his heart thrummed rougher against his rib cage than usual and where his blood began pumping vigorously through his thick, sinewy body. He worried tremendously, for the last time he had experienced this - over seventy years ago - he had lost someone he cared for dearly - two, actually. His son had never even taken his first breath and had remained a crumpled, stillborn heap at the rear of his dying mother.
He tried to shake the image from his mind, he tried to anchor himself in this moment. Her warm breath on his shoulder pulled him closer to her as he draped himself over her as he always does, attempting to soothe and comfort her with his presence, with his soft kisses and gentle caresses of encouragement. She was in excruciating pain, he knew, and he could do little to alleviate it. He did what he could though to give her privacy and comfort in such harsh, icy conditions.
With a thick block of ice shielding them from the whipping, whistling wind on the other side, receded frost on the ground floor, and forced repression of glacial covering on his own body allowed his own mass to fill the tightly knit space with his own body heat.
At last, she presses away from him - and he does not question it. He pulls back a step or two to allow her room, turning his large skull away and averting his searing red eyes from her as she falls weak to her body's demands. Her gentle moans and panting grunts grate deeply onto his nerves, but only because he cannot help her, he cannot do anything but wait and listen. He is there if she needs him, if he must pull the child away from her himself, but he knows that she is a strong willed female and that she will allow her instincts to guide her. He says nothing, but allows his lumbering presence to be of some comfort.
And suddenly, it is over. He breathes in the scent of birth deeply (a confirmation; a reality sets in) and he finally allows himself to gaze at her as she lays out along the mouth of the cave, a sheen of sweat covering her dappled body but she has never looked more radiant. He peers along the length of her form, finding a small, squirming mass at the end of it – and his heart begins to pound against the old structure of his thick chest plate. The smallest form of obsidian and alabaster (and blood and mucus, but none of that matters) with spindly legs, gentle curves and fragile, youthful features moves as she croons to it, to him, he sees, and his heart is filled to the brim with an overwhelming, suffocating joy he thought he would never feel again.
The sounds of his lover nickering gently to their child, to their progeny, his heir, echoes softly in the tight confines of their cave dwelling and he listens closely. Argo. She has named him, and he could not possibly imagine any name more fitting. He steps forward, closing the space between them as he leans his thick, massive neck down; the bridge of his nose nudging gently at her cheek as he traces soft kisses along her salty skin with his whiskered lips. "He's perfect," he breathes, studying the way his son's wide, innocent brown eyes – the very same color of his mother's; perfection – bore into his own. He kisses Isle's jawline gently, his voice rumbling deeply within his throat as he bears his heart to her, as she bore his child. ”I love you, Isle.”
He tried to shake the image from his mind, he tried to anchor himself in this moment. Her warm breath on his shoulder pulled him closer to her as he draped himself over her as he always does, attempting to soothe and comfort her with his presence, with his soft kisses and gentle caresses of encouragement. She was in excruciating pain, he knew, and he could do little to alleviate it. He did what he could though to give her privacy and comfort in such harsh, icy conditions.
With a thick block of ice shielding them from the whipping, whistling wind on the other side, receded frost on the ground floor, and forced repression of glacial covering on his own body allowed his own mass to fill the tightly knit space with his own body heat.
At last, she presses away from him - and he does not question it. He pulls back a step or two to allow her room, turning his large skull away and averting his searing red eyes from her as she falls weak to her body's demands. Her gentle moans and panting grunts grate deeply onto his nerves, but only because he cannot help her, he cannot do anything but wait and listen. He is there if she needs him, if he must pull the child away from her himself, but he knows that she is a strong willed female and that she will allow her instincts to guide her. He says nothing, but allows his lumbering presence to be of some comfort.
And suddenly, it is over. He breathes in the scent of birth deeply (a confirmation; a reality sets in) and he finally allows himself to gaze at her as she lays out along the mouth of the cave, a sheen of sweat covering her dappled body but she has never looked more radiant. He peers along the length of her form, finding a small, squirming mass at the end of it – and his heart begins to pound against the old structure of his thick chest plate. The smallest form of obsidian and alabaster (and blood and mucus, but none of that matters) with spindly legs, gentle curves and fragile, youthful features moves as she croons to it, to him, he sees, and his heart is filled to the brim with an overwhelming, suffocating joy he thought he would never feel again.
The sounds of his lover nickering gently to their child, to their progeny, his heir, echoes softly in the tight confines of their cave dwelling and he listens closely. Argo. She has named him, and he could not possibly imagine any name more fitting. He steps forward, closing the space between them as he leans his thick, massive neck down; the bridge of his nose nudging gently at her cheek as he traces soft kisses along her salty skin with his whiskered lips. "He's perfect," he breathes, studying the way his son's wide, innocent brown eyes – the very same color of his mother's; perfection – bore into his own. He kisses Isle's jawline gently, his voice rumbling deeply within his throat as he bears his heart to her, as she bore his child. ”I love you, Isle.”
OFFSPRING
the ice king of the tundra
I will post Argo tonight. :)