Neverwinter Forest The beams of first light [Birth (M)]

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Kjalarr had went about his morning patrols as normal, trying to avoid his wife’s aggression when he dropped the plump rabbits at the mouth of the den letting out a low chuff to announce breakfast before he had retreated. He deigned to give her, her space, though he could not help but think about how claustrophobic she might feel being cooped up in the birthing den as the days ticked by slowly: like the ache of blood beneath a bruise. He was on edge as he walked his patrol though there was no apparent reason for it. The winds were calm and the borders were fortified, empty except for those who patrolled them, like him. Yet, he was anxious, nervous, the yearning to be by Ondine’s side powerful. After a few minutes of this heightened anxiety he marked where his patrol ended and abruptly moved deeper into the forest, his movements swift with purpose. His hackles bristled with unease as the pungent scent of blood writhed around the birth den’s entrance. His first thought was of Maude, that she had attacked Ondine while his wife slumbered. For a moment, the viking hesitated and would he have been human might have paled significantly. Yet, the pirate’s scent was no where to be found around the den and another horrible scenario filled Kjalarr’s mind as he stood, frozen with imagined terror, staring blankly at the dark, yawning mouth of the den.

Yet, when the Norseman strained to hear past the rapid and loud beat of his heart within it’s prison of flesh and bone he heard signs of life. Ondine’s breathing, the soft sound of suckling and quick, rapid breaths. Not usual, that. He knew it in the marrow of his bones with a dread that dropped like the weight of an iron stone in his belly. Slowly, Kjalarr’s muscles thawed and the viking became animate once more, striding the rest of the way, shrugging his way into the den without invitation. His eyes adjusted to the darkness of the den easily, for he’d always been able to see in the shadows better. His gaze fell upon Ondine first, noting that she lay on her side before it flickered to the small blob: white against the dark floor of the den though for a second the child: their son almost blended in with Ondine. Except for the sand colored feet that to Kjalarr’s monochromacy looked grey. Though it did not seem like it should be possible: Kjalarr loved the boy: his boy already.

He sucked in a breath between his teeth, as his gaze slid to the girls whom nestled beside their brother. They did not suckle as his son did, instead concentrated their feeble energy on drawing breaths which were short, shallow. Labored. His ears fell back upon his skull and a soft whimper left the viking’s lips. They were unwell. Suffering.

It broke the young father’s heart.

His instincts begged for him to draw forth, to take the girls in his mouth and end their misery. They would not live long, anyway. Though he was not sure how he knew it, he just did. The same way he knew when he was ill, or when prey was a prime target because it was sickly or elderly or weaker than the others. It was just…instinct. “Ondine,” He tore his eyes away from the girls, struggling against the lump of emotion lodged in the strong column of his throat. He wanted to praise her, wanted to tell her that their son was beautiful; but he couldn’t. Not yet. First, he had to address their dying daughters. “They will not survive.” Kjalarr stated gently, accented voice raw and choked with pain. “I will make it quick and painless,” He soldiered on, pleading for her permission. He wanted to say more but found that he could not. It was bizarre to feel joy at the birth of his son: healthy and full of life but to feel sorrow and pain for his sickly daughters that would not survive the week, if even the day.

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