Though everything around him was a muffled blur, Fjall started to grow curious about his surroundings. In fact, the brightness emitted from the mouth of the whelping den seemed particularly interesting this morning. He tried to follow his poor vision, using his reliable nose to navigate towards the scent of an otherworldly warmth. He struggled to maintain his balance -- using his mother as a wall and tottering like a drunk along her side. The songborn had nearly detached himself from using the crutch when the Giver was startled awake.
Fjall flopped down, stalled but unshaken. He craned his tiny head to peer up at the goddess; her shapeless form a white beacon in the dark, den-walled atmosphere. He forgot all about his great escape and focused instead on his mother. Though his ears were still figuratively stuffed with cotton, he could hear the tone of her voice and he knew that she was talking to him. After milk and (more recently) spewed meat, hearing the vibrations of her speech was his favorite thing in the world.
Squirming, he turned the rest of his body towards the Giver, scooching towards her muzzle as he babbled incoherently in an effort to talk with her.
Lótë giggled, a sound she had not made since her first litter was this young, and rasped a tongue along the songborn's sandy spine. Soft babbles of her own escaped her maw as she curled closer around him -- leaning down so that she was within easy reach as the cub explored.
"Amil," she murmured to him. "Anaa." "Mama." She gave him all the words for mother she knew. "This I am to you," she explained with a warm smile, though she knew he was too young to understand.
Fjall squeaked as the familiar brush of his mother’s tongue caressed his spine, then clumsily plowed into the plush fur at her neck as a means to get closer. Sticking to her like a magnet, the pup sniffed eagerly towards her muzzle, curious to know if she had something “meatier” for him than milk, but he was just as interested in the sounds she made.
Ah!
he responded. Ahhmmm.
Close enough. He started to rock forward and backward on his feet, his movements coinciding with forcing out the syllables he found easiest to repeat. Mmmmhh! Ah, ah, ah, ah, ah…
And he went on grunting like that until she spoke again.
"Mmmammaaa," the dove trilled with exaggerated slowness, though the twinkle in her gaze of spring glen and the tempo of her tail against the ground spoke of how pleased she was. There was a prickling at the corners of her eyes but the cloudberry managed to keep it together as she encouraged her son, heart swelling with love to hear his voice taking on the shape of words.
After a moment, Lótë could no longer distract the seachild with speech and his nosing grew more insistent. "Alright, alright," she laughed, brushing her cheek along the top of Fjall's downy head. With a hack, the mother coughed up a reddish pulp of half eaten meat.