forward dated to september 1st
it's been a week since his birth; though not much has changed except for perhaps an increase in hunger. it rumbles within his belly like the crooning call of a dragon, only quieting when his belly is full with warm, sweet mothersmilk.
the quiet and and darkness are comforts that will not last long as the days bleed into velveteen nights; unknown by the ( happily ) ignorant thursday evening.
against his mother's side he coos, yawns and stretches.
Sunday Morning felt both happy and fulfilled.
She did not mind these days. To her, it was not idle work at all. The two that sat at her bosom had become as great a joy to her as the hunt always had been. As they grew, she learned them. Each new sound they made was responded to with the forward press of her ears and a sharp tilt of her head.
They had a sound for hunger. They had a sound for discomfort. And the pitch and tone differed, depending on the cause of that discomfort. Thursdays Dawn and Thursday Evening were a wonder to her.
All was quiet for now. Sunday Morning had slept lightly, curled loosely around them, and as she felt one of her young shift one bright yellow eye opened. The largest of the two moved, and Sunday Morning blinked both eyes and simply watched, for now. Her gaze was soft as she licked her chops, content to only observe what he would do for now.
there is not much discernible difference between awake and asleep; though thursday evening does not remember the time skip between naps while there is undeniably familiarity in the things he feels and an lingering awareness.
it grips him now as he takes in the soft, squishy blob of his sister and the cozy warmth of his mother's flank; a smack of his lips given.
a soft cry of hunger is the only warning that he gives his mother before he latches onto a teat and begins to suckle; hungrily.
Her little one is mighty already. He latches to her with a battle cry for warning. Sunday Morning found it difficult to consider a future past this. How did they grow so large? When would they be the size of she and her man? They require milk now, but in time it would be the slurry of meat.
This time is precious. Sunday Morning knows it, and embraces it. While he eats, she stares at him, at his sister. Gifts created by herself and Mountain Boulder. They had made such wonderful things together.
Sunday Morning does not interrupt his eating. For now, she tends to his sister, giving her a bath with her tongue.
thursday evening is left to his own devises as he nurses, filling his belly with warm, sweet mothersmilk; though he does not know it. blind and deaf and helpless as any and every newborn cub before him...but he can feel the soft shift of his mother's muscles; pressed so tightly against her.
she is his source of food and warmth and life before and now and into the future when he was growing and learning to be what he was.
but unable to imagine any sort of future beyond what he knows now, the cub suckles greedily until he is full and finishes his meal with a small babble; mothersmilk dribbling down the small furs of his chin.