when the stars threw down their spears and water'd heaven with their tears:
When the time comes, he knows he’s not ready. There’s an essential lack of tender love in his purposeless heart that seems to be the key to successful parenting, but Wyrm is sure that he can do without it for now. The closest thing he’s felt to affection is the irritation Heartfire arouses in him when the two come together for a spell. That counts, right? He’d been on his way up a tree, thin claws bearing into the trunk of an old favorite of his while the feline body scrabbled deftly to where the canopy waited for him, when she’d stolen his perception. It takes every natural instinct within him not to lose his grip as the flash of scenery and the sight of two (two?!) squirming bodies assault his eyesight. Heartfire takes her time but he’s already sprouting wings and trading fur for feathers long before she lets him go.
It’s simple: enhance the muscle ability here, hollow the bones a bit more there, lengthen the wingspan a bit and like magic he’s a masterfully crafted falcon, bulleting across the blue expanse at breakneck speed. There’s no rush, of course, his speckled incubator had no need of him from the very beginning, save the insemination ordeal (a memory he recalls often if only for the pleasure of his wicked, wicked mind) and from the glimpse she’d given him the children seem healthy and whole. “That’s my girl.” He thinks, allowing for the possessiveness to swell into the shape of pride while the winds around him shift and the smell of salty brine stings his nostrils, eyes.
To fight the seabreeze would be idiotic, so the shifter glides over her hidden alcove and heads straight to the ocean, where he plunges into a dive that sends him right beneath the watery surface with a satisfactory splash. When he emerges, he is horse - choosing his natural skin over any other, but his eyes are enhanced and locked firmly upon her. It’s there that she stays, the center of all his attention, until he joins them quietly and then his gaze returns to peer curiously down at the pair. One boy. One girl. “Is there no limit to what you can accomplish?” He teases gently, head rising again to drink in the sight of her. It was a rhetorical question.
For some reason the vision of her in this unkempt, slightly overwhelmed state awakens not only tenderness, but an endearment towards her that burns like a searing brand within his chest. “Heartfire, you brilliant, beautiful terror …” Wyrm growls, voice thick and filled with a need he’s never known. The jade man sidesteps his young carefully and presses himself against her, thickening his body shape to support the ache that must be bone-deep within her now “... they’re perfect.” He tells her, firm in his convictions. “Just like their mother.” The shape-changer thinks, peering over her sweat-streaked hide to ponder over his get once more.
“Have you named them?”
did he smile his work to see? did he who made the Lamb make thee?
