Nova Peak my arms are open

@Lorcan + @Kaldros

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elowen woke to a deep, gut-wrenching nausea. not the lingering sickness she had grown accustomed to, the kind that had haunted her mornings for weeks now, but something sharper. worse.

her body ached—throbbed—with a foreign, unrelenting pressure, and she knew, with the kind of instinct that made her breath hitch in fear, that something was wrong.

a tremor ran through her limbs as she shifted, barely lifting her head before the pain overtook her, dragging a soft, broken whimper from her throat. her belly felt tight, too tight, as though her body were bracing itself for something she was not yet ready to face.

"lore—" his name came out weak, barely a whisper. she swallowed against the rising wave of sickness, eyes squeezing shut as a fresh surge of pain coiled deep in her abdomen. too early. it was too early.

her breathing came quick and uneven, panic creeping into her chest as she tried to force herself upright, only for her legs to buckle beneath her. her nest, once a place of warmth and security, now felt suffocating. her pulse pounded in her ears.

"lorcan!" louder this time, a desperate plea, raw with pain. the realization hit her like a stone—she was going into labor. far, far too soon.

it was not long from the time that she called that he came. rushing quickly, a panic sending his heart fluttering.
legs burning as he quickly traverses the terrain, dirt and ice propelled from beneath paws and nails. reaching the foothills, striding fast now.
he comes to a skidding halt outside the den and then scrambles within, eyes wide as they land upon her. collapsed, laboring upon the ground.
too soon! it was too soon!
what— a panicked breath is drawn. he does not know what to do. his head a mess. he can only think to rush from where he was and call for @Ayovi.
woman would know what to do, yes? for now, he goes back to his dove's side, taking her paw in his. breathe, little dove. he says as calmly as possible.

She hears the cries winding up from the foothills— Lorcan’s howl braided with fear.  It could have been an ambush but her mind did not go there. No, somehow she knew the anguish in his voice, the type of sound only another parent could identify. “So soon,” she murmurs breathlessly— too soon.
Ayovi rips off Skorpa’s bear hide and rummages about their den, folding various plants and roots into a scrap of leather. But as the shouts persist she can bear it no longer and flies down the trailways.
Once inside their den, the huntress tosses her bundle aside, moving for the mother with a worried rush. Elowen’s face is contorted with pain, a little foot pressing against the taut skin. Ayovi knew little of childbirth, but it was clear in the twist of the mother—
“Has her water appeared?” The huntress asks Lorcan, nearly forgetting he is there. She rifles in the pouch for devil’s claw and rosemary. “This is for pain, Elowen,” she encourages, praying fear would not lock her up, summoning every memory of her aunts’ time. Some herbs are placed aside for local bleeding while the rest are offered orally. She reaches a paw to press against the young woman’s, squeezing. Then in a little gasp of disbelief and awe she addresses mother and father:
“The babies are coming!”

too soon. too soon, and yet there was no stopping it. no turning back. 

her body shuddered against the pain, a raw, trembling gasp slipping past her lips as her muscles clenched. lorcan beside her was the only thing keeping her tethered, though she could hardly focus on his words through the haze of fear pressing down upon her. 

her breath hitched as ayovi entered, the woman moving quickly, speaking in calm, assured tones. elowen clung to them—for pain, she said, and elowen nodded weakly, parting her lips just enough to accept the offered herbs. 

the squeeze of a paw, from her mate then the white huntress—both a comfort. then the words that sent a fresh wave of panic through her chest—the babies are coming!

"what—" a whisper, breathless and breaking. "it’s too soon, i—" another contraction stole the words from her, her body trembling as she pressed her forehead into lorcan’s fur, bracing, barely holding back a whimper. she was not ready. but it did not matter. they were coming.

Maybe a cameo, feel free to skip unless addressed!

There was a commotion.

The pregnant Waterstone cried out, and so Moon Runner was drawn to her wails.

Her dark mate was coiled ‘round like bittersweet while Cloud Dancer fret.

Moon Runner had been elder sister to her mother’s third litter. Childbirth was, perhaps, the most courageous and harrowing thing known to nature. And it was lonely – Waterstone must cross this Rubicon on her own four, metaphorical, paws.

Soon, it would be Cloud Dancer's turn as well.

Moon Runner hung back in the foliage. Her head lowered, amber-gold eyes afixed upon Waterstone.

Have strength, her spirit said.

lorcan presses closer, his nose buried against elowen’s brow. her pain is his own, a fire in his chest he cannot put out.
breathe, little dove. his voice is low. his heart hammers like a war drum. too soon. too soon.
ayovi works quickly, hands deft, words calm. he clings to them, even as fear gnaws at his ribs.
i’m here. he whispers, pressing a kiss to her temple. her body trembles beneath him, fragile yet fierce.
the babies are coming.
he swallows hard, golden eyes flicking to ayovi. they’ll survive? a demand. a plea. then, panic: should i go? he does not want to cramp their space.

She had barely time to shake herself fully awake before she was scrubbing her paws in witch-hazel and layering peltskins of mink and otter by the woman’s tail.
“It’s all right,” Ayovi encourages the father, the three awash in nerves. But Ayovi forces her mind to calm. Elowen needed her now. “Many strong warriors of my tribe were prematurely birthed, and the great among us are early rises. It means only they are eager to meet you,” she reassures them both, hoping it is enough to stave off the fear.
Nemage’s scent wafts from just outside the den, and Ayovi is grateful she remains close in the instance of complications. She gestures for Lorcan to remain near his wife’s side just as another convulsion seizes her. A quick prayer to those protective spirits which surround the mother, then she finds the still blue of Elowen’s eyes:
“It’s time to push!”

he is not ready.

not for air.
not for light.
not for the world that waits with teeth.

but the pull is stronger than the stillness. the tide of life pushes him forward, a fragile thing coiled tight in the warm hush of his mother’s womb. until it is no longer warm. no longer hush.

he slides free in a rush of blood and water—limp, frail, still.

a silence follows. thick. terrible.

his chest stutters. ribs no bigger than a curled leaf struggle. the world is too big. the cold too loud.

then—

a cry. thin, warbling. barely there.
but there.

he screams, because it hurts.
because he lives.

breathe, little dove.

her body does not listen. it wracks and heaves, trembling under the weight of something she is not ready for. lorcan is there—his nose warm against her brow, his voice the only thing keeping her from drowning. but the tide of pain pulls her under, relentless.

she clings to him, to his steadiness, as ayovi speaks and moves quickly, a rope to hold onto. they are eager to meet you. elowen exhales shakily. it is a nice thought, a comforting one, but fear still gnaws at her bones. she nods despite it, eyes flickering to ayovi, then lorcan. she needs them both. she cannot do this alone. she does not wish to.

another contraction grips her, tearing a ragged gasp from her throat. she tenses, pressing her face against lorcan’s fur, her breath sharp and shallow. she wants to protest ayovi's command, but her body does not give her a choice. she grips lorcan’s paw, nails digging in, and bears down.

the world blurs. she is only pain. only instinct. and then—relief, sudden and startling. the rush of something small, slipping from her body. silence. no, no, please, no.

she barely registers ayovi moving, barely hears lorcan’s breath hitch beside her. it is too quiet, and her whole world zeroes in on her child. her chest tightens, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes—until it happens.

a sound. a thin, warbling cry. weak, but there. living, breathing. she exhales a sob, a broken thing, her head lolling to the side, seeking. her baby. the pressure in her body does not lessen with the babe's exit, the relief does not last. before she can reach, before she can beg, another contraction grips her, and she is pulled under once more.

he lives. lorcan breathes it more than speaks it. his chest caves as the sound of his son cuts through the silence—thin, broken, but enough.
he does not cry, but his eyes glint wet as he leans, brushing elowen’s temple with his nose. he is strong, he says, voice tight with something deeper than fear. just like his mother.
then, he feels her seize again beneath him. she’s not done. lorcan tenses, eyes flashing once to ayovi, before resettling on elowen. breathe, dove. just breathe.

The mother’s breathing is quick; a pain which endures up Elowen’s muzzle and fuses with the glisten of strenuous labor in her eye. Ayovi is all but still while her mind hums those same doubts— is there more to be done?
But then it happens; a little wet bundle glides from his mother out onto the furs and Ayovi can do nothing more than look on in glistening awe as deep rooted instinct drives the mother to clear them from the slick encasing.
A boy; a gorgeous, tawny-pelted boy just like his mother. Furious coos invade the den as Elowen’s body contorts with another pang.
“Again, Elowen,” Ayovi urges, this time with a broad-toothed smile.
It is time for more of Lorca’s cubs to find their way into the world.

again.

she does not have time to catch her breath, to marvel at the fragile, breathing life beside her. her body tightens, and the pain returns, merciless and all-consuming. elowen gasps, hisses a curse.

"just breathe, dove." lorcan’s voice is there, steady, grounding, but not quick helpful. still, she clings to it, clings to him, because he is her anchor in this storm. the white woman at her side is far, far to happy for the agony that elowen is in. could they not see something was wrong?

again. she obeys, as best she can. breathes. bears down, and another rush, another little body slipping free.

the silence lingers too long this time. elowen blinks through the haze of exhaustion, her heart thudding dully in her chest. she shifts, trying to see, trying to reach, but ayovi is already moving, already tending. 

elowen does not question it, she only nods weakly, willing herself forward, willing herself to finish what must be done. her body is heavy, and she grips lorcan tighter and pushes once more.

something is not right.
no tiny cries. no writhing limbs. only silence, pressing down like snow upon a bowed branch.
he does not want to look—but he does. gold eyes flicking nervously to the sight. a bundle that does not stir, and the one that lives writhing weakly.
another comes. still, lifeless.
horrors lorcan did not think might ever exist in his lifetime. it is a sharp ache that lances through him, fierce and unforgiving. his jaw tightens. but he must be strong.
his embrace upon elowen is firm, tight, and he smoothens his nose along her brow. taking a shaky breath and flicking a glance to ayovi. holding elowen's head in his grasp so that she may not look yet. protecting her from the truth of it.

Mature Content Warning

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The participants have indicated the following reason(s) for this warning: mentions of stillbirth

Another strain and the second head crowned, arriving with a wet rush that Ayovi moves swiftly to clear. She braces her ears for screams that do not come. The body is limp.
She can only look on in cold astonishment, trembling with frightened breaths like an elk’s guttural death rattle. A slow hand moves over the baby, timidly at first— then with greater insistence. She finds the tiny chest and begins to pulse. Methodically, steady, up and down, again and again.
They must survive!