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…
-----
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."
[hover over text for a translation!]
@Noah
…if he chooses to bash this symbol of our union, retaliation would come too late…
-----
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."
[hover over text for a translation!]
@Noah
