Jaws constrict and roll; biting into my blistered, famished gum-line. Scorched deprivation fills my mouth with briny grit; dry thirst is a flaming rod, plunged down my parched esophagus. Every square inch of inflamed meat is seeping. Foamy pectorals and heaving lungs have long become labored with rapid, dizzying pants. Eyelids squint, bracing against that expectant suffering as my bloated waistline begins to choke; contractions are the living ocean beneath my skin. Swollen crests wash in continual, breathless, unfamiliar spurts. Pain fades…but it always returns.Like a bellowing furnace; becoming more severe and insistent. Those irritates began in the early morning hours…a high noon sun now peeks out from behind sparse grey/white clouds. Below us, white flecks catch the sunlight, glittering from their frothy, animated bed. These damp shoulders tingle, but their suffering is slight compared to the crippling spasms centered around my midsection and loins.
-----
“Aroooo!”
Eyelids jerk apart; hazy and unsettled as they emerge into the brisk reality. This frantic, panic-driven heart is cantering…and despite the wintry plunge in temperature, my sensitive points are mottle with cooling excretion. Velvet dials rotate, attentively working to disprove the existence of that dream-scape wail. Morning isn’t very far off, the ebony mistress yields to navy and surrenders her power...though that first hint of amber hasn’t appeared. Strained seconds of passive silence tick on. Mini me distends …eyeing my sharp, pulsing unease with pity, ‘just a dream.’ That dwarfish occupant chimes in as well, comforting me by stirring and pressing those tiny feet against the narrow cage.
Anxious ligaments soften...sluggishly, I pull forward, yawning over the threshold into the cold embrace of another calm morning. ‘Aroooo!’ Ears twitch…that previously mistaken dream howl shatters tranquility with a hard dose of authenticity. Numbed…brackish memories crawl from their graves. Undesired familiarity morphs my expression from lax to horrified. A second voice escalates, joining the first. Their mournful screams reignite dormant terror; red-rimmed eyes are transfixed. Wolves weren’t uncommon…they often preyed in our valley…but these voices weren’t their songs. Another response…edging closer. Hindquarters shiver while the echo of their encircling voices ring in my burning ears. Feathered arms extend halfway, surging anxiously from my clammy waist. A stiff rush of icy air closes in, but does nothing to ease my shock.
‘No…’ a plea, denial of their existence; a cry of utter helplessness.
This…this isn’t real…
Wake up…
Thawing from her frigid state, my subconscious snarls, ‘move!’ She takes a stab at the icy encasement, my naïve cocoon of rebuttal, ‘you can’t stay here!’ I hear her muffled logic…But the flesh is unwilling to heed me, these forelimbs are trapped and trembling. Noah…his name, the hum of it recoils. Noah…what starts as a hum, becomes a crescendo…irises sharpen from their stunned haze. Noah?! Disorientation yields into choking horror. He’d gone off sometime in the night; maybe even beyond the dish-shaped walls of our domain.
‘Crinkle, rustle, scratch...’ Tense muscles jerk, shivering as if cold. The baby nudges me…Maternal adrenaline ignites, unrealized fury drips into these frigid crevices. Ears plant themselves rearward, lips peel apart to brandish ivory teeth. Out comes…a honeyed, splattered face. Tiny bubbles of relief flood that taut surface, easing my aggression. The titan, my eagle. He’s safe…Forefeet leap into motion, closing our distance with jittery, inflated speed. “Noah!” My smoggy, northern breath spares precious seconds to verify his reality. Diving for that heap of silken flesh with hungry resolve. Meanwhile, their voices continue to rise; snarling until every fiber is singing, trembling.
‘There isn’t time!’
Optics tilt, searching to catch his clear blue gaze, “very bad,” those foredooming words send the root of my muzzle gesturing toward the canopy, “we go.” Pastel feathers unfurl, spreading to near full scope, “no time, no fight!” Their voices are close now… a series of excited yips and snarls reach a new height from that wood-side. Twenty feet away, on the left, the cover of our glade is ruptured by a massive, olive eyed fiend. Oversized paws sink cruelly into the forest soil; pausing just beyond the tree line. That demon is pungent and worn -- obviously male -- his caramel, dirt caked body is sloped and bristling. The high curl of his tail is pointed nearly straight up. Predator lips are crimped upward, frothed with hungry looking saliva. Wings flare from his heaving, growling waist
…He…he’s twice the size of what is considered normal.
Beside him, stepping from the ashen, knife-like shadows, a leopard. Her body is a sleek ebony, dappled and feminine. Those triangular, amber eyes are fixed in our direction. Between those grinning, cheshire cat jowls, she holds something in her mouth…irises narrow. A cord? Tracing the end leads me to find its connection upon a loose, tattered grey collar around the shoulders of her frothy canine. She cruelly jerks the end of his rope and that rusty wolf snaps his teeth, snarling in response.. His powerful neck extends, dual nails bite into the earth; those tawny, emotionless eyes settle upon my golden knight.
A tight, piercing howl rivets into the air – boiling my blood and driving all logic to the wayside.
Hindquarters lurch, forefeet churn into motion…
-----
Spasms increase…my innards are buckling into every contraction. These coiled feet are straining – rotating in vain to ease the agony. The bumpy horizon loam's, becoming more tangible…but would we arrive in time? “Noah…” When another crippling wave eases off, I dig into that final thread of strength and find my voice, “the child,” torrents brush my groan aside, threatening to overpower it, “it comes.” A hot burst of uncontrollable liquid streams over my thighs…we didn’t have long. Teeth clench, grinding with anticipation.
The wolves are roaming tonight, restless as the sea.
They are calling.
Morose howls rise in unison as the hour of midnight descends like a thick velvet blanket; the blackness it brings is absolute and only a smattering of glittery starlight scatters an otherwise dead sky. Even the shy sliver moon has waned to almost nothing – perhaps the reason for their mood, that bloodcurdling song – and the darkness feels impenetrable, heavy, brooding. The eagle listens tentatively, warily, with perfectly pricked ears, for he has been watching the pack (an assignment), studying the conception of their primeval minds, for many weeks. He has discovered no fondness for the creatures that so enthral the others - the horned-ones. Leaders speak as though wolves are an equal sort, children like they are companionable, even friendly, but these are neither. The pack is predatory, moving in choreographed motion as though one mind controls them; callous, superior and unmercifully intent. They lust for flesh, blood, and harry doomed victims until weariness or wound sees them fail; compassionless creatures, driven by primal instinct.
Another voice lifts into the wailing pre-winter wind.
Nerves flinch beneath the taut silver and gold canvas wrapped around him; they – like his thoughts – are wound up with anticipation, disquieted by the strange vein of this night. Dulled pools of aqua caress the blurred outline of his sleeping dove, the displaced bed of feathers above the swollen belly beneath, and guilt ignites once for the discomfort of her plight. The eagle remembers easily the lean, limber figure that she was before, but that night in the cave (the revelation of his virility, wonderful and vain as it was), had changed everything about him, her, and the dynamics of their bond. Protectiveness now breached that fine line between obsession now, for she had softened in almost every respect – emotionally, physically - and all time spent together had been preoccupied with an endless amount of gathering and homing (such that seemed irrational in his far simpler mind). The need for unravelling the enigma of their separate tongues had grown less, yet the need for him to listen, and for her to unload that labyrinth of thoughts had nearly tripled - Noah feels far out of his depth.
The pitch shifts and the howls seem nearer.
Dense, brawny knees swing into motion; the eagle is content to bide time no longer. The angry wind carries a strange musk now upon its breath, one that wasn’t there only moments before, and the warrior strikes out alone into the ravenous black to investigate; surely others have tasted the twist too. Dilated pupils strain to perceive, but their ambition is hopeless and so too do pressing ears struggle to decipher fact from fiction. There is sudden movement to the left, thrashing, lashing, and with wings splayed out in defence, the heavy stallion balks away startled. With recovering courage he doubles back, but the danger is only a young snapped pine tossing like a bloodless-limb in the squall; Noah’s heart is pounding, its frantic pattern resonates in his mind. Drawing a deep, pensive breath, he rolls back burly shoulders and forces trembling wings back to rest. The air is ripe with expectation, tension, and the mutter and yowl of feral canines is building through its midst.
Sound, solid hooves drive into the soft earth – rime collects to saturate the swirl of enveloping hair around them – and he finds the pinnacle of a favourite little hillock towards the centre of the valley. A storm brews along the savage peaks of the surrounding range; the cold, crisp flavour of ice as it sweeps down from on high, invigorates his senses, burns boiling lungs as it tunnels beneath the depth of his breast. The eagle perches for a long while on his modest vantage-point to observe, listening… waiting… watching. There is a moment of calm amid the furore, and it betrays the the subtle murmur of padded feet – they pause suddenly, but their position has already been betrayed – an eye glints wickedly, if only for a second. Wiry, white whiskers bristle on the brink of his spinning chin and narrowed eyes zone in on the skulking silhouette of a creature far larger than the cream-coated wolves of this land.
Nora!
Golden appendages have already untethered and he breaks into a levitating gallop, pulled clear of the earth as those enormous feathered attributes gather gale beneath their breadth - these were more than hunting predators, they were soldiers ready to ambush. The thundering pace erupts when he falls back to land, furious and frenzied; clumps of sod fling in wake of his slipshod motion, and wings tuck snug against the boiling bulge of his barrel as he bursts into the tree line which concealed his dove. One hoof fails as it collides with the unforgiving slope of a half-buried boulder and he lurches forward, plunges, with a choked, cursing cough; wings attempt a rescue, though butt uselessly against collected timber. He recovers, stumbles forward and dodges the murky pines that lurk like hidden hurdles in the night. Seconds later the grove disbands into a leafy glade that accommodates them comfortably – a compromise for one who preferred walls, and the other who liked space, air – and the snarling face of riled liver greets his unceremonious arrival.
Midnight is long gone, and the softer, sombre hue of pre-dawn has seeped into the world.
“Nora, shhh…” he croons, quavers, unable to hide the worry from his tone as she buries beneath his new sodden heat. Nostrils scan vigilantly, protectively and instinctively along the acquainted contours of her trembling skin and they pick instantly the stark fragrance of fret and fear – she knows! The wolves call now constantly (closer) and hair stands on end all the way down the eagles’ spine. Aquamarines search between flailing strands of chocolate ribbon as her skull jerks, quivers on route to the sky; they summon her frightened eyes and holding them with care, as the revelation of her frayed thoughts unleashes across perfectly painted lips. “Yes…” he agrees, confirms – a combination of both, “Yes, let’s move…” Already they are turning, flesh grazing flesh, trying in vain to find safe passage through those voices.
The trees stand like a fence, a wall, but they yield pitifully and spew the bristled figure of a winged foe; he stands there, hulking and shadowy, though still with a solid distance to come, and the tongue lolling languidly across glistening white fangs suggests the long distance he’d come. The demon growls ferociously beneath a spray of fetid spittle.. “No…” hushed, disbelieving mind exhales, then his eyes fix upon more movement beside him. A feline, sleek in line and motion, slinks into the open; she is smaller than the soldier once fought, but the same horrid, maniacal grin curls into her face. She grasps a snake between knife teeth, nay a rope, and tethered to the end of its string is a collar and the canine. Seconds bleed by in agonising slow motion and the horrified stallion can hear only the rising pound of his stricken heart; then suddenly the dove takes flight, “NORA!”
Slipping between those skin-tearing talons, the eagle bolts forward, ascending a short time after, behind.
-----------
Dawn breaks at last across the rutted, gloomy eastern horizon.
He drives them steadily, constantly, on through the calming thermals; though that lonely last peak lingers far behind, Noah feels he cannot settle until it has vanished altogether. They are far away from the tainted borderline of Helovia. Vision of strange creature’s features, of the wings and his teeth, repeat like a vivid, haunting nightmare through his worrying mind and he pushes them forward anxiously as a consequence, oblivious to the contractions torturing, weakening the brittle body of his dove. Infrequently (at first), he turns to check on her – on that distant mountain - tracing the queer kink and thrust of each airborne limb below her swollen belly; pain torments and disfigures her delicate face and soon the eagle realises that she can continue no longer. ‘Noah!’ She calls out behind, voice laden and unsettlingly grave, ‘the child…’
The note of her voice is devoured by heave and groan, unmistakably urgent, and panic reignites as the uncharacteristic stream of liquid pours from hind hooves. Gliding wings dip and turn, guiding a hurried spiral towards the earth – a plateau standing high above his beloved sea – and though his wary, weary eyes hunt for movement, the soft sway of green beckons; growing ever nearer. “Nora… follow!” he calls cheerlessly, confused and concerned, pointing the sharp rims of each fore towards that land as it rushes in at last to meet him. Wings hary that soft, mild, spring-like breeze with long violent blows and he gallops into gravity’s open palm with adrenaline throbbing through boiling, pulsing veins. As swiftly as he can, the warrior doubles back to find her - to stand, stare, helpless and hopeless, and press tender kisses against her soft, milky cheek (that always seemed to work…).
Despite the woeful circumstance that commands our impromptu adventure…there is a whisper of promise. The latest utopia awaits, baited with a forked smile – willing to accept us with open arms. Still, had the fevered inflection of labor not been in full swing, my lips would’ve rang out their appreciation. How generous of the cruel, twisted conscious of misfortune, that it wouldn’t include drowning in a frothy, ivory mouth of salt.
Noah bends the air to his whim, mimicking the likeness of a steadfast avian predator. Vigilant features contort, steeling into the next onslaught as he corkscrews and paves our descent. Irises lift dejectedly, groaning at the beloved highway above us…grief is the first layer of snow, dusting the floor of agony with rejection. Yesterday, our anticipation had been on frivolous things; his safe return, the celebration of security and love. Not long ago…we’d dined on the false sense of impregnable freedom…deceitfully assuring us that our shelter wouldn’t breach. Bellies and hearts had been full; there were rituals and humble comforts. Skepticism had softened, our cushy mountain lowered the barricade of pessimism.
Look at us now…
Desperate…homeless…
Desperation is running on fumes and (alien) maternal clout. After a moment of wavering on the dwindling cusp of inflection, these weak feathers acknowledge that internal plea to disembark and tilt inward. Primaries deflect, stalling until I’m nearly parallel. Props veer outward…prepped…ears weave into their disarrayed nest-like sheath as these fore-hooves collide into that spongy turf. The intense, unexpected sharpness of gravity brings forth a tattered, miserable scream which is cut short by jarred incisors. A spritz of lacerated debris bolts upward on contact, bits of dirt/grass strike against my engorged belly and bat uselessly beneath these wings as they rotate into a dome-like bow. Damp hindquarters release the throttle, favoring rearwards in an effort to slow that forward momentum. Once I'm (relatively) stationary; the sickening wash of discomfort cries foul as those shock-waves dissipate, leaving me breathless and quivering. That miserable focus of articulation on my midsection eases off...Panting, jaws suck rapidly, feeding oxygen to these starved lungs.
I taste the filth of this lathered, heated body; splayed nostrils are welcome to dine on the panic that rouses my fear of the unknown. When the eagle draws near…my native (insane) anticipation for solution impresses a false sense of appeasement…willingly, the butt of this nose reaches outward for that familiar juncture between his honeyed throat and muscular neck. There is vitality beneath those rigid muscles; but that fortitude couldn’t be shared.
“Noah?” The note in his name begs for help…optics lift, slanting to find his expression. Please…tell me what to do… Temples crumble from the view they find and the realization of our plight…this fight couldn’t be won by him. We are alone. Gasps become severe while the corners of my eyes yield panic in the form of tears as another wave of anguish rears and snarls.
Peculiar, demanding pressure is building in my loins; instinctually, my dock elevates in a vain effort to relieve the intensity of affliction. Inside, the baby wiggles and squirms. Wooden limbs shuffle our combined weight side-to-side. The spool of dread in the back of my throat constricts, ‘walk,’ mini me orders…offering no explanation. There isn’t time to despair– though I felt the despicable curl of it siting in my belly, rotting like death. There isn’t time to dwell on miscalculations or broken promises. There was only the eagle, his comfort and that primal, miraculous language explaining the initiation into a sisterhood.
Grumbling legs propel me from his side, snail-paced. My head drops, inching closer to the floor. Pinions remain at half-mast, far removed from that heaving, foam-laden waist. Flagging twinges warn of the incoming wave; molten shoulders twist sideways, whiskered lips bend to inspect and rub against that undercarriage of constricting meat beneath the awn of my right wing. There is movement again, but this time…the shuffling is muted, dulled by a narrow, constricting sensation in those nether-regions.
Feathers slip inward, drawing resentfully closer to my sweltered, rippling flesh. ‘Lay down,’ the voice of my inner self is joined by non-argumentative impulse. Obediently, I bend forward, dropping knees first into the prickly, sweet turf. Rods of unseasonable sweetness cradle my worn and conflicted soul. Far above, the sun bears witness, his unblinking eye sneaking a glimpse from behind the clouds. When that next contraction comes strongly, the collection of all four branches extend. Eyelids pinch shut while my head sways inward– the frantic cry of another lament is lost between clenched teeth. The latest of said cramp fades into a torment of anticipation...
-----
Madly...my gasping breast shoves through that failed evergreen barricade. Rogue branches tear sharply into my coat; trying to hold me back as they claw and bite. Red-rimmed irises are filled to the brim, their center is gaping in wild hysteria…they hardly register the sound of my namesake before the eagle is thrown into battle. My tunneled vision grazes the cloudy vantage of that racing brown/black scene as it whisks alongside; flashing, hunter eyes and snarling, toothy mouths emerge beside me.
Bristling bodies, yeasty mouths! Their teeth and claws are prepped, hungry; soldiers rise from the smog of dawn like the undead. Feathers are shoved outward, forcing the woods to recede; they thrash downward, scrapping twigs from their slumber. I pump, racing hard and fast…breaking through the cover like a quail from her honeyed nest. Shrieks of terror echo over the valley…Irises flex downward, searching the dark huddle with sickened anticipation. Noah…my fear is nourished on fabrications of his body, spilled and torn apart. The light fleeing from his astonished eyes…
No…
Despair morphs into something hateful; something dark, furious and grieved beyond reasonable measure. Pinions bend, circling that cold, snarling current even as my waist begins to throb… twinging in warning…’ease off,’ lips curl backwards, defiant, “Noah!?” Seconds pass...his tawny frame ignites from the undergrowth!
As he stands there with her, close, welcoming that trembling nose against the hot pulse of his throat, the eagle feels the familiar stir of masculinity, the want to rescue his delicate dove from insecurity and suffering.
What can he possibly do though? The imploring, sobering note in her voice when it simmers to the surface, strikes a grim chord in his heart. Tender eyes drown helplessly in anguished bi-coloured pools - glassy sisters reaching out for sanctuary, tormented by fear, agony and desperation - and he feels that she looks frailer now in the flimsy, floating daybreak, than she did as a sorry sack of bones cowering beneath threshold thicket, at their first meeting. The connection is fleeting. Salty tears form stiff rivulets down the silvery cheek she bears and, as she slides from his care (that negligible amount of comfort he knows how to give), his lips venture lovingly, achingly alongside to nuzzle them away.
A haze of tiny, brittle wings stir to life around them, disturbed, aroused from languid stupor by shuffling, matchstick legs and the painted, writhing body each support; surely these swarming, sunbathing insects should have long been tucked away in readiness for the immersion of winter’s frigid tempest and ensuing blankets of ice - certainly these had already made a miserable environment in the northernmost, Helovian valley. Courting birds twitter and sing, swooping between trees, the males - dressed most ostentatiously - fanning their long, elaborate tail-feathers in a display of inherent romance. The eagle finds it queer and thoughts dwell there amongst the untimely stew of animation (inwardly glad for distraction), contemplating too as eyes drift yonder, the subtle sheen of spring-time green on skeletal oak limbs; why is this land not asleep?
When his focus returns - hesitantly, though in earnest - the silver and gold stallion finds his poorly lover hunched forward, coiling horribly to each invisible downtick of labour; wings droop heavily from her bloated midriff like wilted flowers, there is strange stiffness as she staggers and the mask which overwhelms that dainty, chiselled skull is as foreign to him as the mild world that surrounds them. He is reluctant to look. Her lips sink down towards the dewy loam and trembling blonde whiskers follow in a show of vain sympathy, for the truth of his powerlessness is difficult to shoulder; with wide, glazed eyes he traces the line of folding limbs beneath her and commiseration is lost beneath the shrill ring of alarm.
Was she bitten? To the rising sting of urgency, he begins to search the convulsing contours of her collapsed frame, delving beneath the distortion of her movement - each thrust, every heave - with frightened eyes. “Nora?” …he begs with a pitiful voice, demanding with unbridled selfishness that she reassure him. The affliction of fear tears savagely at his sensibility and he reaches with unhinged teeth for grass, hair, feather (of his own). Feverishly he paces, from one end of her to the other, feeding on the feeble, frantic nature of each bleat fallen. His dove drives those narrow toes as far out as each leg will allow; they shake and squirm on the intake. “Lena!” he calls out, distraught - that was her name, wasn’t it? “…help her!”
The misery of this exhaustive journey seems to have no end...the growing intensity of these breathless contractions threaten my frail resolve. This soul is barely treading the surge, the tide; it bobs without aid in a depth far exceeding me. Eyelids pinch, concealing their color and dislodging fresh tears. 'Push,' that inner guidance urges. Straining, constricting. The pressure is fractionally eased, only to be replaced by a different sort of burn...one that's redirected toward the vulnerable junction beneath my tri-colored, fluid soaked banner. Routinely, the intensity and anguish bleed slower (for seconds rather than minutes) offering false tranquility. So intense is the struggle to remain above said current, my senses hardly register the frantic man alongside. 'Again,' she whispers.
Helpless bewilderment nourishes itself on horrific assumptions; wild accusations gallop onto the scene: what if these efforts are in vain...our cherub...what if there's something wrong? Would death be my reward for this struggle? As if to answer for itself, our unborn babe thrashes; becoming a silent prod that gets me through that next wave...and another... Exhaustion unveils dripping fangs. Quietly, my head slips below those choppy, gurgling waters. “Lena!” The eagle cries...his voice breaks faintly into that bleak, washed out fatigue. 'Nora...' her tone is hushed, baited with softness that couldn't be ignored. Unseen fingers reach for the animosity which lies in slumber. They embrace the passive fury that I've blanketed with hurt and anxiety. 'Don't give in,' she hisses, 'don't you dare let them win.' Molars grind, resenting. Metaphoric rage opens its blood red eyes and snarls at the memory of those toothy, froth laden demons. Scorching exasperation drips into the brine of my suffering. Hope lifts on tattered wings.
A gasp for air and the surface is broken; the next wave has come. Every fiber bears down, limbs extend, 'push!' she shouts! My crown tucks inward, curling toward my breast -- eyes, ears and mouth are locked.
Straining…
Pressure dissolves and that horrible affliction eases almost instantly...salt laden irises peel weakly apart. The lull of relief isn't given a suitable foothold before suggestions of the worst case scenario disrupt my recovery. Though still gasping, struggling, my sweaty crown pushes abruptly from the crushed floor. Neck and shoulders harpoon sideways to rest those nauseated suggestions at ease and/or confirm their heart wrenching assumptions. Movement...Just beyond my legs...weary irises lock upon a shallow, coiled bundle of molten flesh and feather. They fixate on the pale, waving crown...oh my...utter perfection. Nostrils quiver, sampling the humid air instinctually to find the wet, fledged perfume our child. Fatigued, though unwilling to turn aside, my chin dips to the floor, the weight of it and each exhale bends sweet reeds aside. Optics tilt, blinking in their search to find the eagle.
Like a flicker of light at the end of a long tunnel, she can sense them, hear them. Beyond the gush and pulse of cosy, hot fluid, the familiar sing-song of tender voices that she has come to cherish - his, hers - has become faint, turbid and rough like the storm-tossed sea. The cushy water bed which nurtures her too, has grown restless recently, equally agitated, quickening like bound elastic against her soft, soaking skin. Tiny hooves fidget, sliding together softly, as the strange sensation of labour begins around her; stiffening along her back, tightening briefly (at first) against the swing of her playful ears, and pressing in close. The murky, comfortable world she knows has become an interactive paradise and she engages, pushing back with the tiny tip of her nose, touching the friendly throb of living neighbours and bouncing bony knees off the bag that fills and spills often like a busy balloon…
But her home is shrinking slowly, gradually, and the heart thudding nearby has grown hasty.
Pillowy walls constrict again suddenly, clench, faster. The babe resists, forcing slim shoulders back as the neck dares to crane the opposite way, yet she tires too quickly (faster than her foe), and as her strengthless bones slump into retirement, the walls cave still further. The darkness around her shudders and convulses - almost violently - and anticipation flinches through the new, pristine cavity of her mind. What is happening? After a time lying still, unable to sleep - riding the slow, coursing tension - she stirs, flounders, for her position has become terribly uncomfortable. The bed has grown deeper, narrower, unfriendly, and elbows work in partnership with gangly, burrowing limbs (in fits and starts), to roll, curl and turn awkward length in the other direction. The new angle offers small respite and she settles down exhaustedly to sleep.
Another sharp jolt flings the babe suddenly from rest, her watery nest twists unmercifully, unbearably around her and lungs suck, startled, gulping a mouthful of sweet, reassuring amniotic nectar. It is a brief lull however… That fluid is retreating swiftly and her refuge has become still tighter than a glove; it drives her frail form from behind, headfirst with force and determination that she cannot hope to match. Wriggling in vain, ignorant to the event unfolding - the whole new dimension waiting on the far side of that hill - she jostles and slithers into a horridly taut tunnel. The living walls rub constantly at her skin, coaxing and controlling her movement; this journey she unwittingly, involuntarily, has embarked on. Thin legs aim to thrash, but there is no longer room but for the forward motion wrestle of uterine contractions. She bides her time, gathering strength both physically and mentally; then - with every inch of her being, ignited with shocking adrenaline - the foal unleashes a flailing counterattack, twisting, writhing and struggling, desperate to be free.
Everything around her falls quiet, motionless, and she nearly slips between those ravenous jaws of fatigue.
The last hurrah hits with unimaginable force.
Huge pressure bursts from behind and forelegs clear that bump in the road like free-gliding serpents. The head - lips, nostrils and fastened eyes - follow in rapid rapid succession, then a limp neck, shoulders, and the putrid puddle of framework to conclude. She falls earth-side with a thud, crumpling into the cold palm of land, and gasps loudly, stunned and overwhelmed as sensory overload engulfs. Soggy lashes flare but for a second, closing again in an instant to deter that blinding exaggeration of light; in a stupor, face rises to wave about, helplessly vulnerable in the icy gale (mild breeze), which is such a contrast to home. A frightened cry slips by those peeling lips, and bloody, wet feathers shiver, fumble outwards until they lie sprawled - unfolded - to either side of her nestled shape.
Wretchedness chews a gaping hole in his logic, heart and mind; it feasts wickedly on the stew of his despair and the eagle stands motionless with a wrenched expression thrown to the sky - he looks to be frozen there, stuck fast by the weight of leaden sorrow. Ocean-blue eyes close across welling tears of concern, confusion; they web between pale lashes like hot glue and in cliche style, silent images of times past start to swell in the glum darkness around him.
The sun again hits her pinnacle and he slips from the baking openness of a long glade into dappled shade. Though now it plays eerily and quiet, he remembers well: Cicadae sing deafeningly, while locusts chant in shrill, sporadic bursts. It is difficult to hear anything else in between and that is likely the reason that he failed to notice her – nestled like a shy doe beneath a den of ragged scrub. His face turns left, then right as sea-green eyes swim between curious, bi-coloured pools; the darkest plane of her face and the sapphire socketed within, drive his gaze right (the paler perhaps is softer, quieter). “Are you hiding?” he’d asked her faintly, lifting his face momentarily to survey the grove - it had certainly looked that way.
His impromptu arrival had been an inconvenience – still more, a surprise!
She retaliates with unforeseen (unwarranted), hostility, defensiveness, and he shrinks a little from her stormy circle. The intensity of the reaction however, is fleeting and aggression gives way to something more familiar, relatable; uncertainty.
The bright blue-green eyes that reflect her splendidly elfin presence shine inquisitively, wonderingly, for she looks like nobody he has before come across. Her loveliness is astonishing, divine. The fairy before him is a queer trick of light, a sliver of shadow, a delicate illusion that might slip just as readily into the waft of summer’s breeze. There are thistles in her long, mahogany mane, smears of mud caked across narrow, coloured toes - the perfect pasterns above; old, subtle green stains upon pallid legs (the fine hair there is skewed) suggest a turbulent time. There is damage beneath her quiet radiance. He observes both the coiled, cautiousness of her stance, and recalls easily the pheromone which had filled each lung. Her dread was bitter, delicious - calling out desperately to the bravado of youth.
Beside her petite, porcelain figure, young Noah (barely a stallion) had felt all the more virile.
Another memory rises to tackle the turbulence of panicked thought, and it stirs a wistful smile through his demeanour: There she stands, so close that his pores scream for contact, craving the heat of that womanly curve; nearly months ago her angles were wickedly sharp, the flesh had been harried from her exotic bones by fear induced travel (or so he assumes), but now she appears before him like a goddess, an angel aglow that he dares not defile. Yet, he cannot help but be lured a step closer, her succulent perfume in the stagnant atmosphere (it haunts him, even now), so ripe for the taking, guides hungry nares in - something within him grows ravenous - and lips quiver, pressed together as they venture for collision.
She - every exquisite part of her - is bewitching, stunning, like the sun to night; more glorious even than his brazen expectation in this moment and his vulnerable male verve reels backwards (eyes sealed beneath quaking lashes, roll), and his lungs are robbed completely of breath. It takes him a minute to recover, chin pitched desperately towards the dark ceiling (for he was drowning indeed), and he wavers on the spot in a drunken stupor, with wings dropped limply to the cold, dewy-stone floor. The breath he had drawn - stolen from the bubble they were forced to share - was long, pronounced, but it restored and invigorated him. Bright aquamarine plunges, at last, lured back from oblivion by the shuffle of hooves; still nearer has he slid, defying the barrier that once existed between them, to sweep away silken forelock from her perfectly enticing eyes.
Movement below pulls him suddenly (reluctantly) from that moment - rattling, lusting nostrils suck naught but that soft pollened air of the present - and a web of worry weaves back into his mask. His lover, his dove; her neck bends awkwardly upwards amid heavy, rasping pants. Lips move to touch her, to reconnect and soothe, but something else nicks his focus and eyes glide to her rear, guiding his chin abruptly off course. Where did... how? There is a bundle of bony flesh, piled upon the ground against her; bloody afterbirth is strewn between them, the stench is overbearing, but his curiosity is more.
Hesitant footfalls draw the eagle nearer, and gaze caresses the perfectly petite skull which turns blindly in the breeze. For a second, he is unsure and he stalls, swinging cascades of flaxen from one flinching flank to the other. Dimpled chin trembles as it ventures through the open, closing the distance between the fruit of Nora’s labour and the miniature bird as it spreads its toy wingspan through the grass. “It… It’s alright,” he coos gently, voice stirred to life by the very rumble of his softened heart. Eyes examine tenderly the loosely fitted tapestry of liver and white (further colour was hidden below), and alien emotion ignites within him - like those strange, sultry, steaming waters of the basin, course within. Teeth inch nearer, tempting towards to the tiny creature’s ears to free them of sticky sac; likewise, he begins - a matter of instinct rather than want - to clean his daughter of the larger fractions of mess.
Her uncertain squeal of dismay becomes the club of reality, crashing itself my pounding heart. The lure of infancy skews our beguiled, choked trance into one of renewed anxiety and sensibility. Labored breathing accelerates, spacious two-toned brows narrow upon the golden eagle…sharpened, aggravated by how effortlessly he closes the distance toward our helpless cherub… Seconds ago, his presence had been welcomed as my lover, guardsman, my beloved companion. But now…sensibility is blanketed with the mantle of exhaustion and maternal instinct. He has become the predator, the greatest threat. Sour, conflicting emotions scald like acid in my bloodstream. Mortal promises couldn’t shake the horrible facts of nature; this naive heart wouldn’t so easily ignore centuries of tragedy for new mothers who’d failed to conceal their young. Nestlings who’d barely snapped their cord had fallen to the aggression of their ‘fathers.’ Damp lips curl, revealing narrow swords; audits flash rearward to aid their clear warning while the butt of my muzzle becomes tense, protective.
…if he chooses to bash this symbol of our union, retaliation would come too late…
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Stormy, cheerless wails of desolation echo down those lonely, sandstone hallways for hours without cease. Vocalized anguish strikes the cord of pity in so few…most (out of grief) have grown deaf to that heartache. After the first day, a few babes would dry their trembling sorrow and join our alcove. They’d cross the room on twigs, balancing their oversized heads and gaunt, heaving bellies. Many pinkish mouths would open, screaming their questions, ramblings that would produce mother(s.) “Silence,” the head of our cluster (a mere child of eight months or more) would sharply retaliate, “Votre mère est occupée,” quivering lips would pucker as fresh tears begin spill from dished, lackluster eyes. “Elle n'a pas le temps pour vous!” Some (the adaptable youth) would be scowled into silence, they’d mill aimlessly until hunger or exhaustion lures their focus. Eventually, they'll find a cluster of taller bodies to cower behind and eat (often by stealing) from the rations our grandfathers provide.
There are many who don't quiet their grief, no matter the threat or bribe; their sorrow had become overpowering. They refused food, water – words of anger/tenderness were shed from their minds like waxen leaves.
We’d find them a few days later. Mercifully silent…
-----
Somber anticipation studies his every gesture, primed to uncover hints of aggression, annoyance...anything to feed the mouth of cynicism. Temples crunch, prying apart his tone despite the translation for his utterance needling through the barrier. Mini me, having weathered the internal storm, appears with her expression wreathed in light; those figurative lips curl into an effortless beam as she gestures, ‘look how gentle he is.’ His soft-hued, whiskered lips (massive compared to our fairy) brush aside the forsaken tendrils of molten afterbirth. I couldn't detect an ounce of bitterness or animosity…his regard is unchanging, candid and bemused.
Ligaments notably soften...
Those protective swords are sealed away once more while these opposing ears slowly resume their ascended perch. Sweat flecked shoulders rotate center and cue these stiff forelegs to gather strength beneath me. Though their trunks are trembling with fatigue, they become stiff and give the portrait of obedience to insistence. They thrust against the spongy turf and push me into a half-sit. Liver splashed hindquarters responsively shove against the floor half a second later, loosening the terrain while simultaneously jerking my rear aside in an effort to avoid the chance of an unintended collision with our cherub. Pinions extend wearily, attempting to shuffle loose the foreign matter they gathered before coiling into their sweltered sheath.
Frayed emotions ask for the cream, honeyed cheek of said eagle; limbs shift toward him, eager to drink the vibrant essence that had been perceived as dangerous. Whiskers are sent to slide affectionately over the curves of his face. Teeth uncoil, nibbling gently at the smooth surface with their painless flats…my focus slides to the pixie child below us. Pastel lips join his effort to dry the sticky gunk from her clammy, beautiful coat. Papery nostrils quiver, sampling that sweet, alien musk of infancy. Attentive rims skim the shapely, flushed crown; they trace her arch where the first wisps of mane have begun to sprout. Warm, murmuring kisses sigh in adornment, “Doux bébé,” Her shrunken, fledgling arms draw my notice; endearment inclines, pushing emerald blades aside to view those contrasting hues and urge the warm light to dry those soft, velvet pinons, "parfait."
Multi-tasking was not something that came naturally to the eagle, so as he tended to and fussed tentatively about the scrawny, lanky, putrid babe by his hooves, the heaving mass of mare to his left seemed for the moment to evaporate from awareness; perhaps for the better, given the snarling, motherly instinct pinching an otherwise exhausted expression.
Though awkwardly uncertain, Noah meant well.
The babe seemed to soothe as he touched her, worked with (seemingly) impossible gentleness to smooth roughed hair upon neck and shoulder. It fed new confidence through his rattled mind and compelled him to strive further, caressing the coldness of her coat to restore warmth through dryness; it felt surprisingly easy, natural. Soon too, his beloved dove rose along side and brief pause was taken to inspect her also wetted hide, and to nuzzle with more easily found affection, the bared length of her neck.
Blunt, careful ivories ghosted down across the hump of shoulder before arriving at the sullied spread of (longer), pasty feather. Though the babe stirred below, whimpering pathetically for reconnection and physical touch, the stallion couldn’t help but prioritise his lover - she after all, was whom the very universe revolved around.
When the last feather was safely set straight among stained sisters, Noah moved once more to drink in that strange, stupendous flavour of new life.
Nora had resumed the mission to cleanse away the muck (her method seemed effortless in comparison), and he in turn, was more than willing to wait by and watch, take up the position of guardian - which conveniently filled his own need for validation. All at once, as though the revelation of fatherhood had at last dawned upon him, the eagle’s breast pigeoned with just born pride.
In spite of the copper, ambiotic after taste, her blossoming essence is remarkably sweet; woven delicately into babyish dimples and curls. Underlaying the tart, disruptive essence of birth, her newborn flavor has a presence entirely it's own. Paternal signals are committed to the natural drive of motherhood; whiskered lips/tongue lavish our nurseling with unquestionable, unshrinkable affection. Creamy, moist hues give darker impressions, but as they dry, they reveal a canvas of pure alabastor. Brims work tirelessly to clear the sticky remains from her petite, shapely head. Somewhere in the drive of fascination, delightment and bewitchment -- concern for my personal well being is forgotten. No thought is given toward the sore, travel worn pillars which support me, nor the tired, windblown, soil crushed arms that hang lazily from either side of my dirty, foam speckled waist.
When Noah moves aside - relinquishing the demands of this primal task to my inexperience - a flick of the ear quickly splits my concentration unevenly with the large majority of my focus solely upon our newborn cherub. Fibers anticipate his touch, the warmth of his comfort becomes the salve which eases my hesitant nerves into surrender; her sire doesn't remove himself entirely from the soiled aftermath, our miracle. He ventures closer, correcting those ruffled, dirty pinions; granting reassurance through the steadiness of unspoken resolve. Meanwhile, I follow the gradual bend of her crest and stubble, tuffed bristles. Cleansing kisses venture a gradual trail southward, addressing the drying residue on those splotched, honeyed shoulders. The sole witness to our struggle, glimpses hotly down upon us with his unblinking eye. Spurting cramps accelerate, gravitating over these swollen loins; but their intensity is pale compared to the laboring agony summoned to bring forth new life. Weariness lessens the glow of amazement, but the statement that appears is dripping with admiration, "un nom?" A title worthy of his pedigree, "Miette?"
