Dragoncrest Cliffs look at the fire and think of me

staying vague. one of the kids will be born just before midnight and one will be born just after, giving them two different birth dates (august 4th & 5th) ; i'll leave specifics up to you guys <3 @Hermes @Dionysus

it's late when it begins. when it truly begins, that is, because the beginning has been here for awhile now, in a soft, vague sort of way; peeking through in winking fits of restlessness and instinctive urges more complex than any he's ever experienced. the den seems to find him more than he finds it, tucked at the edge of sapphique's idyllic meadow where a scant smattering of trees offers some protection from the elements. far enough from the lake and nearby tunnel to feel safe, but close enough to make the wraith feel a little less restricted.
all such thoughts abandon him when the main event — the moment he's been dreading — stutters out its beginning phases. the pain is like — no, it isn't like anything. his body is folding itself inward, turning itself inside out; every muscle in him is so rigid he immediately aches as if he's run miles and miles already.
he doesn't know how long it goes on. he only knows that it goes, and goes, and goes, until he feels trapped in his body, trapped in the pain of it all, until death seems as reasonable a release as the birth itself. it goes beyond his breaking point, through the last of his strength. hours pass, and he feels too weak to draw another breath, and still, it goes. his den is quiet, but in his ears there is a great roar like the crashing of livid storming waves.
then it happens. blood and mess and life, fleeting relief when the first of his burdens releases from the prison his body has become. he moves as if in a dream, instinct carrying him through the blur of temporary respite. he feels so deeply sore, bruised from the inside, he can hardly think of it as such.
then the bundle is nestled at his belly, and again he's gripped by scathing, crushing claws. there is no end to it. there is no rest. a shriek gnaws and burrows in the aching muscles of his throat, raw as if he's already been screaming for hours, but he swallows it painfully and he endures in silence. he will not scream.

it ends as it'd started; in starts and spurts, and then a great tensing of muscles, this time far more painful than the first. and then, finally, the second burden falls from his small frame. his second son. he cleans him slowly, sluggish and muted as if moving through water, taking the time to see and to feel now that the tension is leaving him.
he loves them both, he realizes then, as instinctual and agonizing and aching as the ordeal that had brought them into the world. in this moment, in his exhaustion, it seems like a fair trade: to be defeated by his own body, to be humbled and drained of all the pride and callous strength by which he'd defined himself — and then to be filled again, this time by a love so rich and fierce and vibrant that it seems to fill all the hollow spaces carved into him, and even the ones that had come before. a love that replaces all that he'd lost, and all that he'd been born without; a love that makes him feel, for the first time in his life, whole.
he curls around them with shaky limbs and muscles that feel watery, undefined. there is a deep throbbing soreness at his core, but for now he does not feel it. he feels quiet inside, numbed to all but what instinct allows him. he feels alone, too; profoundly alone, as if he never truly knew what loneliness felt like before now, but he isn't thinking about that. for now, all he can think about is how he has just met his children for the first time, and already he loves them more than he's ever loved anything.

Nothingness, limbo, and warmth. That was the existence little Hermes had grown used to the moment he gained some sort of consciousness. If he had any thoughts, he’d think this is how it would always be. He’d be wrong.

Hermes would learn early on that existence was subject to change. He was involuntary released from his dark cocoon and entered a new world. It’s cold and overwhelming. Nothing like the silent void from where he came. If only he could speak. He’d demand whoever brought him out here to take him back. Alas, he couldn’t say a word. The man he’d one day call father should be grateful for that. Still, he could be saved from Hermes’s squeals.

And he wouldn’t have shut his trap had his dad not guided him closer to his belly. It’s there he found warmth again. Warmth and food. Save for a few grunts, Hermes quietly drank. Then he slept.

the drunken trees seemed to still their buoyant boughs as lucidity caught dionysus by surprise, or more appropriately stupefied. his delivery did not go over easy, his little bobblehead blocking the  Suez Canal for a bit but eventually the package got there — a little past the delivery date. he docked, they couldn’t ask for anything more because he most definitely was not being paid enough for the whole ordeal. expect a summons to small claims court very soon.

the slight scents of boreal and stone teased his existing senses promptly after childbed. yes, he wailed with abandon until he was kissed and herded towards his father’s breast. shouldering hermes with the intent to strike warmth between their fleshy beings, ease bubbles in his mite-sized heart.

sons. two tiny bundles of perfection, cast in shimmering hues like a rainbow across the stormy grey sky of their father's heart. every color swirled into their tiny bones, layered into their damp downy fur.
colors.
zephyr's eyes crack open to the darkness of his den, then flutter shut again, remembering. a night in the mountains, when everything had changed. when his eyes had opened, only to be forced closed again by... by what? he can't remember yet, but it hardly matters. he clutches this tiny slip of memory to his heart, feeling the whole world churning inside of it. the world, cast in vibrant hues he hasn't seen in months. colors, everywhere.
slowly, zephyr starts to feel a little like himself again.