Hideaway Strath ceathairéad

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He is away on patrols when Lotte’s contractions start and though he understand why she has not called for him until after his children are born he cannot help the seize of jealousy as he scents Hemlock’s scent in the birthing den. The scents that assault him are familiar but it has been a long time since he has known them. The scent of blood and birthing secretions and the scent of sweet mother’s milk. Though he knows he is being irrational in his jealousy he cannot help but feel that it should have been him present for their birth though he is no midwife. He is intensely grateful for Hemlock’s presence for he knows that the babes are a week too early and thus their lives were in jeopardy but he cannot help but feel that he is denied his right as their father. Instead, someone else got to see them born into the world. He is bitter over so many things these days that he does not want to be bitter over that but he is all the same. It feels as if bitterness is all he knows these days leaving a sharp, metallic tang in his mouth. His ears slick back as he hesitates, cruel in his thought of why should he even bother to see them now? He was denied the most miraculous part of being a father: seeing them be born. His frustration of the events have yet to cease despite that he was swift and decisive on the matter(s).

The woman he loves has just given birth to their children. What the fuck is wrong with me? He should be happy but his happiness has been denied to him too. It was stolen from him the moment that Olive and Dakarai came crawling back to Teaghlaigh with wounds and a trail that led danger right to their fucking doorstep. His children are not out of the water yet, he suspects, and thus neither is he. He almost doesn’t want to shrug his way into the birthing den. Arturo almost doesn’t. He hears the sounds of suckling as they feed and quiet mewls as they sleep and he is instinctively drawn in. Lotte draws his eye first, as she always has and as she always will. She looks exhausted. He thinks it must be exhaustive: bringing life into the world but he is comforted that though exhausted she is alive and appears well. Hemlock would have to reaffirm his assumptions and reassure him but he is content enough with his own observation as he draws nearer to her, mindful of the tiny, fragile lives nested against her.

She is beautiful and his breath is stolen away from him as he extends his muzzle towards her to draw his tongue against her cheek and nuzzle against the cup of her ear. His gaze of twin suns moves down to finally look upon his children. Their children. They are beautiful — every single one of them. She has given birth to four healthy albeit small children. The largest is female, her pelage dark, beside her is a male, a pudgy cream puff. Arturo almost misses that he is not one wolf but that there are two ivory plumed babes — a male and female — and he thinks that is is a shame his mother is not here to see that her genes are still strong in her grandchildren (even though Arturo is not aware of the color changing thing of his wife’s family). Last but far from least his gaze touches the last — a boy, his newborn, downy coat already showing signs of taking strongly after the gangster’s own. He looks at the picture that is painted before him: the love of his life nursing their newborn children and feels a love so heavy he worries it might crush him. It’s not quite happiness but it is true love and it is infinitely better. Happiness could be fleeting but this kind of love was eternal. “They’re …—” The articulate gangster struggles for a word. The right word. None he could conjure seem to articulate what he is searching for adequately. “perfect doesn’t even begin to adequately describe it but it is the best I can do.” Arturo gives a choked laugh as he moves to kiss Lotte again. “I love you,” He murmurs against her ear.

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