Wheeling Gull Isle kongeda

Caracal knew enough about pregnancy not to worry about Heda’s sudden bouts of sickness—in fact, it was probably good news—but he still fussed over her. He supposed that was his right as her husband, particularly one formerly trained as a medic.

He spent the early hours of the morning foraging in the sparse woods on the other side of the island. When he found what he was looking for, he gently plucked a few tiny, green shoots and went looking for his wife. He found her beside the water, the tips of her fur gilded by early spring sunlight. Caracal thought she looked rather holy.

Hey, beautiful, he said, the words only a little gargled by the items he held in his mouth. I found something to help with your nausea. Can I baby bird breakfast these to you? I don’t want to drop them on the sand or risk them washing away, Caracal explained, adding, I swear I’ll keep the slobber to myself.

But maybe not his tongue. Mostly he was here to tend to Heda, though Caracal would be lying if the idea of essentially kissing her deeply to push the medicine into her mouth didn’t make him a tiny bit hot under the collar.