[FIN] Pangs (Willows-Breath x Swan)

[and be blue]

Her hips hurt. Not the usual, ran-too-much kind of hurt, not the slept-in-a-weird-place hurt, not the sharp stab of bruises or cuts, but something that was at once better and worse. It was a perpetual, throbbing ache that turned each step into something miserable, that was so persistent it was easy to forget about, until she stepped wrong.

Willow wanted these damned things out of her. They couldn't have been large, but she imagined she could feel them wriggling and kicking and punching her in frustration that mirrored her own, desperate to wiggle out into the world. She had dreams in which they spoke to her, scolded her, demanded that she eat weird things and abandoned her art entirely.

Not everyone was destined to be a good mother. Fortunately, she didn't have to be: she just had to keep them alive until they could curl up and sleep and come out on their own. And then daddy could deal with them.

She needed the blessing more to get herself through this than for their sake.

"Never again." It was a breath, shuddery, as she hunted Swan down in one of his haunts, and it was a vow that would likely go forgotten. "No more young bucks."  

[Rejam]

Swan was preening. This might have been acceptable, had he been in swan form at the time, but instead the ghostly shape of himself was shimmering nearby (and also, more appropriately, preening).

As it is, a dignified stag, hand-selected by the Motherswamp to handle power and responsibility, should probably not be caught out with his long yellow teeth buried in his feathers, smoothing and arranging. But then again, Swan lived in a perpetual fear of being caught out looking silly--he cherished, sometimes, the conversation the Motherswamp had with him about just this, and the nature of true dignity; a conversation he still struggled to truly understand--and so it was only natural that it was in this unflattering posture that Willow finally stumbled on him. He liked this glade: the straight trunks on all sides and verdant duckweed on the water showed him off to best advantage, and his darling doe--out hunting somewhere, for the moment--shone like a blossom in its leaves here.

Swan thought a lot of the importance of appearances. His teeth were exposed straight up to the gums and his nose was wrinkled. One of his eyes squinted.

He froze. And then, realizing exactly how he looked, he shook his wings out and cleared his throat with an impressive show of dignity, arching his neck for full effect. The translucent swan behind him followed suit with a quiet and gentlemanly honk.

"Er," he said, and then tried again, his quick eye and swamp-given gifts taking in the situation. "Come to ask for an abundant clutch, child?" His voice was a study in careful enunciation, but for all that, just managed to avoid sounding forced. The wings dipped back, ends dragging in the brilliantly-scum-coated water.  

[and be blue]

It was probably equally inappropriate for Willow to call him out on it. The polite thing to do would be to pretend she hadn't noticed and to serenely carry on conversation as if this were a perfectly normal meeting, as if he'd conducted himself with grace and elegance.

But she was pregnant. Worse, she was pregnant and grumpy and sore, tired and frustrated, and a little bit weird on top of that. So Willow snorted at him, instead, her chin hiking up and eyes going narrowed. "Some specimen you are. Maybe I should go elsewhere."

She didn't mean it, of course. 'Elsewhere' was likely to be much too far away. It was mostly just a goad. "I want them out of me, healthy and gone, but one more couldn't make anything worse..."  

[Rejam]

What embarrassment couldn't accomplish, frigid insultedness did. Swan's face became an icy blank of dignity. His wings betrayed his irritation with a flick that sent up a splash of green, but the translucent fur on the tips of his ears revealed that they were turning red, nonetheless. "I can't speed things up, you know," he informed her. "That isn't among my powers." His tone finished: and with that attitude, what is among my powers might not be offered to you at all, young lady.  

[and be blue]

She shifted where she stood, her own tail swinging back and forth with a twist and a curl that flicked along one of her hips to drive away a fly. She finally settled, front hooves planted neatly, and made an approving sort of noise. Now he looked more suited to the part, and she could eye him more seriously.

"If only you could!" Her tone, though, was still touched with a rough edge of frustration. Willow was like this to everyone, these days; he couldn't take it personally. "But, all the same. I would appreciate what you are capable of giving..."  

[Rejam]

Swan, to tell the truth, hadn't done this yet. He wasn't exactly sure what such a meeting should entail, but had decided long ago to let his instinct guide him. And any day now, Lead-Along would come to him with good news, and the practice would do him good.

He strode a little nearer--when he was not thinking about his appearance, when his thoughts were elsewhere, the majesty was more sincere, more humbling--and the spirit-swan glided along in his wake. His wings he held gently to either side, casting broad strokes of shade on the water. With his nose extended, he gently nodded to all sides around the doe, as though sorting out some invisible halo--which was, in a sense, exactly what he was doing.

"You are feeling the strain of carrying such a large burden," he assessed. It was not a question. And there was a curious emphasis on the word "large."  

[and be blue]

A soft sound wuffed out of her. It might have been a second snort, smothered this time, her eyes narrowing just a little. Willow had to bite down on something rather unflattering, something teasing about his pointing out the obvious. She was proud of herself for managing so well.

"Is that so." She didn't even roll her eyes. Willows-breath wasn't big on ceremony or propriety, would much rather have been dancing through the swamps and making a mess of her shimmering coat.  

[Rejam]

Perhaps sensing this, Swan allowed himself the tiniest of sighs and got on with it. With all the blessings in his life, having some vague sense of the future--and of the present, for that matter--was at times prohibitively depressing. To smell, as it were, the future of five--or six--little lives was to pick up the nuances of despair and fear as well as joy.

"You will find it easier," he said. It was both assurance and blessing; comfort and a promise. "Not entirely painless, because nothing is, but easier. And because all young things should have qualities which bring joy to their lives, and smooth their experiences, take heart that none of them will lack in beauty. They will, whether by virtue of their wit or hearts or appearance, enchant those that meet them. In this way," he added, because Swan was Swan even in the midst of simple ceremony, and could not help himself, "they will certainly take after their mother." And then he stepped back: just like that. Without cry and ornament, the blessing was done.  

[and be blue]

Now, at least, she relaxed -- relaxed by inches, the tension easing out of her shoulders and a sigh slipping out between her lips. It was relief, something grateful flashing just briefly across her eyes as she nodded at him, and then she was herself again.

"Well. Six would explain it. With Walks-Between it barely had any change on me at all..." But, of course, there had only been the two, that time. She dug one paw downward, into the mud.

"Even Wildflower-Breeze was tolerable." Not that she could actually remember it. It had been so long, she was just operating on assumptions. "But five or six? Swamp help me."