Neverwinter Forest lxxv. put your toes down in the water

@Fjall (& @Kjalarr perhaps assuming he stayed on with them?)

Time passed far too quickly, especially during the younger stages. 

Lótë woke with a gentle startling motion, conditioned by now to not move much whilst sleeping for fear she might accidentally crush or smother her newborn. But Fjall was a newborn no longer, as was quickly evidenced by what the cloudberry saw upon her veridescent gaze flying open. She'd been startled awake by the feeling of unsteady, almost scrabbling, movement against her underbelly. Movements caused by her son (who was already beginning to lighten from the color of dirty snow to wheaten ivory) as he attempted to find his way onto his feet and used her for balance. 

It was not the first time Fjall had attempted to stand or walk but it was the first time his mother had witnessed the woodlander's wobbly steps. Beaming, Lótë curled around to nuzzle him, cooing. "Little Ekkaiä," it was murmured in the pronunciation of her people, a full accent sneaking into her tones, "you are getting so big! Such a strong boy." The doe's tail beat against the floor. 

As she pulled back to smile at the tot, Lótë realized with another small start that Fjall's eyes were open to reveal the standard baby shade of slate blue. 

Though everything around him was a muffled blur, Fjall started to grow curious about his surroundings. In fact, the brightness emitted from the mouth of the whelping den seemed particularly interesting this morning. He tried to follow his poor vision, using his reliable nose to navigate towards the scent of an otherworldly warmth. He struggled to maintain his balance -- using his mother as a wall and tottering like a drunk along her side. The songborn had nearly detached himself from using the crutch when the Giver was startled awake.

Fjall flopped down, stalled but unshaken. He craned his tiny head to peer up at the goddess; her shapeless form a white beacon in the dark, den-walled atmosphere. He forgot all about his great escape and focused instead on his mother. Though his ears were still figuratively stuffed with cotton, he could hear the tone of her voice and he knew that she was talking to him. After milk and (more recently) spewed meat, hearing the vibrations of her speech was his favorite thing in the world.

Squirming, he turned the rest of his body towards the Giver, scooching towards her muzzle as he babbled incoherently in an effort to talk with her.

Lótë giggled, a sound she had not made since her first litter was this young, and rasped a tongue along the songborn's sandy spine. Soft babbles of her own escaped her maw as she curled closer around him -- leaning down so that she was within easy reach as the cub explored. 

"Amil," she murmured to him. "Anaa." "Mama." She gave him all the words for mother she knew. "This I am to you," she explained with a warm smile, though she knew he was too young to understand. 

Fjall squeaked as the familiar brush of his mother’s tongue caressed his spine, then clumsily plowed into the plush fur at her neck as a means to get closer. Sticking to her like a magnet, the pup sniffed eagerly towards her muzzle, curious to know if she had something “meatier” for him than milk, but he was just as interested in the sounds she made. 

Ah! he responded. Ahhmmm. Close enough. He started to rock forward and backward on his feet, his movements coinciding with forcing out the syllables he found easiest to repeat. Mmmmhh! Ah, ah, ah, ah, ah… And he went on grunting like that until she spoke again.

"Mmmammaaa," the dove trilled with exaggerated slowness, though the twinkle in her gaze of spring glen and the tempo of her tail against the ground spoke of how pleased she was. There was a prickling at the corners of her eyes but the cloudberry managed to keep it together as she encouraged her son, heart swelling with love to hear his voice taking on the shape of words.

After a moment, Lótë could no longer distract the seachild with speech and his nosing grew more insistent. "Alright, alright," she laughed, brushing her cheek along the top of Fjall's downy head. With a hack, the mother coughed up a reddish pulp of half eaten meat.