you're the beacon / birthing / warrick & any

[wound]

W hen she had first felt the stirrings in her womb, Wound hadn’t been confused. Their union had been timed to the song Mother Nature sings with each turn of Earth. However, in the time between the synthesis of their child and the hours her contractions began Wound remained as busy as ever. Her legs carried her to the then snowy clearings of the Field several times over the course of her pregnancy and yet never to Warrick. She cannot deny her nerves got the better of her and her doubts constantly forced her into seclusion when she wasn’t searching for recruits. Anxiety sours her stomach at the sound of footsteps outside the privacy of her birthing place. She begins struggling to her feet, immediately prepared to protect her newborn with her life. The mahogany filly beside her stirs, as if sensing the emotion of fear swirling in the air. When the scent of Warrick rushes into Wound’s nostrils, she calms. The sight of him soothes her for another moment before she remembers she had hidden herself away into the crevices of Beqanna and Tephra itself as her sides grew. “Warrick, I” — she isn’t quite sure what to say, caught between infinite adoration and rough guilt. “I should have told you, I’m so sorry.” Coffee eyes glance up toward the navy and bay’s handsome face. “I was scared about how you would react and I’ve heard you have other children and I don’t want to barge into your family.” Her voice is shaky, tendrils of nervousness and dismay working through her words. Just as she’s about to take action (although she isn’t sure what it might be: apologize more, stand up, name their daughter?) a howl careens through the small crevice in Tephra. It sounds familiar to Wound, although she isn’t sure why. But the urgency is more apparent and the silvery mare’s head jerks around, twisting to catch the source. There — a glint of catlike eyes, barely seen among the tall grasses and bushy vegetation that surrounds them. A sharp dagger of terror strikes through the rosy love Wound had felt only moments before. Beside her parents, the newborn filly lets out a tender cry. The silver woman struggles to her feet as a horrified, “Warrick!” drags from her mouth.

credit to nat of adoxography.