Stavanger Bay caught between heart and hemorrhage

[table width=80%][tr][td]

A strange, fluttering tightness in Szymon’s chest causes his breath to catch as Qilaq stretches, flexing her toes, and then seems to wilt. The feeling intensifies as she presses herself insistently against him; he lifts his foreleg to drape over her lengthening frame and rumbles to her, an undulating current of comfort and reassurance. The close proximity allows him to recognize the subtle changes in his daughter: she has lost the frightening frailty of her youth but retained a lean, petite build despite her evident growth. “Qilaq,” he says, continuing to preen at her fur, realizing only when a sob edges it way from between her teeth and she buries her face in his chest that something is amiss. He probably should have realized it when she seemed less than excited to see him, but subtleties are often lost on the black-banded Cairn.

He’s briefly troubled by the sudden bout of tachycardia that a normal wolf would associate with great joy and affection — in Szymon, the sensation of dizzying breathlessness is just next door to anxiousness. He felt it the day he taught Qilaq to swim — the day Doe and Qilaq had thrown themselves from the cliff — the day his children were born — and maybe most of all, the day Doe took him as her mate.

A low, uncertain whine drifts from his nose on the wings of a sigh as he adjusts his position to accommodate her nearness. “What happened, little stargazer?” he asks, then thinks better of his phrasing, repeating his question but using her name to ground her, keep her with him: “Qilaq, what happened?” He continues to groom her, his teeth and tongue gritty with salt and sand that he flicks away with a shake of his head. He smooths his tongue carefully over the fur between her ears as he begins to hum to her, a song without words meant to soothe her hurts.

[/td][/tr][/table]