Qeya River [b] love of mine

the children born to silvertongue were just as perfect.
wren hated the helplessness of watching her wife labor so soon after her own, only being able to offer chaste kisses and squeezed palms, whispered words of encouragement for her keeling wife. her cries bring her nearly to her own tears as she kisses them away, allows them to seep into the ruff of her shoulder.
but she is not scared. neither of them are. and as the second boy is given earthen life, he is immediately joined by his two milk-siblings, all tucked in one little pile. rowyn is draped in his sire's brilliant white, and yet as she looks at him closer, she can see the rounded tips of her wife's ears atop his head. she marvels at him, coos incomprehensibly, overwhelmed in entire by the shock and amazement and relief and the adoration; how could any living creatures be so perfect?
their second daughter is soon to follow, and while silvertongue gathers her strength, wren takes to cleaning her and propping her up. the beautiful little girl, last but certainly not least; so much like her mama that it takes wren by surprise. she looks like you, baby, she whispers, kissing the pretty eyelids of her mate. they've both got your ears!
exhausted, still recovering from the residual soreness and jelly-limbs, wren is quick to settle all five of her loves in a pile of bedfurs and soft moss soaked with water. light spills in through the denmouth and scatters over the warm bodies, and for a while, the ambient sounds of puppy snuffling and the wind outside their shelter are all that can be heard.
we made them, silvertongue says, and wren laughs as she reaches for her wife's hand once more. we made them.