The last to arrive proved to be the greatest struggle, as the kiln of her distended belly shuddered and quaked with effort. He was alive but did not know it; the word, the sensation of being brought in to the world, sent the final Sveijarn in to a state of shock. He was quiet even as Tuwawi extruded him. Fur slick with a glaze of birthing fluids, dust of the den, and errant fur that had attached itself upon his entry in to the world, he was a mess of particulate; a composite of mountain and fire just like his older siblings. A fine piece of kneaded clay in the shape of a fuzzy mound eventually took shape.
As Tuwawi administered her tired tongue across his body and busied herself with cleaning him, rousing him from whatever stupor that consciousness granted him, the child barely made a sound. He whistled through his clogged nose, sucked air, and was gradually introduced to the warmth of her neighboring body. The suckling sound of his siblings went unnoticed, but the slightest motion, the subtle jostle of a brother or sister nearby, caused the pudgy blob to refuse Tuwawi's teat; he would latch on with his gums for a few moments, then a nudge or vibration from nearby would spook the newborn in to a gap-mouthed, silent squeak. Eventually he would adjust to this, as they all would adapt to the new life before them.
The final Sveijarn burrowed against his mother's belly with her urging, and rested.