Stavanger Bay the Cairn Kiln

Tacking an ending on this. Rest in peace, Whiskey.

[table width=65%][tr][td]

It took some coaxing, but eventually all three cubs were reduced to mere specks of white in a maelstrom of cobalt, barely discernible from the whitecaps that tried to drag them under. Szymon raced down the cliff to the shore, lacking the cold implacability that characterized his ilk, and in that moment decided that never having another litter would be a fine thing if it meant never having to endure the heart-wrenching ritual again. He waited tensely beside Doe, keeping one eye on her and the other on the waves as he awaited the Wickedness’ verdict, and when Isengrim flopped ashore in a gasping, coughing mass the anxious father got to work warming the boy. He and Doe laved the salt from the gunmetal gray boy’s fur and rubbed him roughly to promote blood circulation. Doe tucked her body around her son, and the wildness in her yellow eyes bred an answering frenzy in her bristling mate. Where the hell was Julep? Szymon turned his head toward the sea, peering helplessly out into the waves as he waited for his little girl.

When she arrived, though, he didn’t feel any better.

At first the black-banded Argosy felt the worst had surely happened: the Sea had not accepted Julep, shoving her dead body to shore in utter rejection. The fiery little tiger didn’t seem to be breathing, and water spilled in a pinkish stream from her nostrils. “No,” he breathed, dropping heavily to her side.

He pressed one tattered ear to her unmoving chest —

— it’s my fault — I’ve always been the weakest — I killed my cubs —

— and found her heart still beat.

“Julep!” he snapped, losing his patience as he tried to rouse her — tried to make her breathe. He cleared the bloody fluid from her nostrils with his tongue and pressed his cheek again to her tiny breast. Unless she breathed, he wouldn’t be able to tell where the blood was coming from — if it was somewhere deep inside that was wounded or merely a burst blood vessel in her nose from the impact. “Breathe!” he commanded her, and reared back to administer a controlled thump to her chest, forelegs stiffly outstretched. Closing his mouth over her nose, he pushed air into her, and then he thumped her again. “Damn it — Julep — if you — ” he gritted out, turning with a strangled whine to Doe. Slowly, as if he was tracking the progress of something flying slowly overhead, his golden eyes rolled up and back and he sprawled woodenly on his side as his body began to rock in the throes of a stress-induced seizure, the likes of which Doe had witnessed at the blessing of the bay. It lasted only thirty to forty-five seconds at most, but it left him ragged and weak and panting. When he came to, blinking blearily, Doe was trying to curl her tiny body around both Isengrim and Julep — and he wanted to tell her he was sorry for this — he was sorry for everything —

— but Julep was breathing.

Doe murmured feverishly to the ones who had lived — neither Szymon nor Doe had expected Whiskey to survive — and Szymon joined her soon after he recovered, his thick tongue unable to form the litany of comfort and encouragement and affection that whirled wildly in his mind. The Sea had blessed his children, and although part of him was alight with fierce triumph, he mostly felt cold and weary and sick.

Throwing back his head, he howled his pride and anguish.

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