Wheeling Gull Isle Some feathers I stole from the birds

AW

She slept soundly on a bed of dried leaves exposed by the thaw, in a small divot she'd dug into the sand that cupped the round shape of her belly. When she awoke, she was laying on her side, and craned her neck around to see the skin and fur of her belly stretch and ripple as the pups moved. They were restless, and were almost always squeezing against her bladder. The time was coming soon, she thought- she only hoped that they didn't come before she had found herself a safe place to stay, for good. 

For the night she'd been permitted shelter though she expected she would likely face their leader who would no doubt come armed with questions. She felt fear mingling in with her emotions, knowing that she was extremely vulnerable here. Still- if her past enemies could show her such kindness and take her to a place where she would be safe, then those who didn't know her might be lenient as well, considering her condition. 

That went without saying that Niamh was at least a bit neurotic- and she feared perhaps that they had taken her in, and would wait until she'd delivered her children before banishing her, drowning her perhaps- and then keep the children for her own. She tried to suffocate that fear, though. If they knew Coelacanth...Perhaps they would indeed show her mercy. 

She felt optimistic when she lifted herself up, that life might finally show her a little bit of hope. She moved to go and visit the shoreline, striding out across the sand and casting her gaze over the straight of water that separated her from the shoreline. It was nice to know that she had a boundary, a real, physical boundary that she could have between herself and everything that had hurt her in the past. A breeze swept along the shore but she didn't feel it tickle her. She looked down to see a crab scuttling across the sand, though it didn't seem to notice her whatsoever. There weren't paws for it to scuttle over, or fur for the wind to tousle. No pawprints left behind in the sand, and when the next breeze came, her awareness went with it. 

Her body remained curled up, peaceful, quiet. Fur loosely tousled by the wind, but otherwise peaceful and unmoving. All life that had existed within her had drifted away; the shock of injury having finally taken its toll on her life, in the same, slow-moving way it had once stolen a husband away from her.

The Melonii had long prided themselves on their role as the lords and ladies of death. And Maegi, too, had inherited this. . .gift. Death followed her everywhere.

But she hated it. And she had thought that upon casting off her ties to Blackfeather Woods, so, too, would she shrug off that grisly mantle.

Hare in mouth, she'd traveled to Niamh's bed, hoping to give a former enemy some sustenance. For healthy babes, after all. And to talk. What had brought her here? Why so far from the rest of them? Had her enemy's pack finally disintegrated, just as her own had done?

They were questions that would never be answered. She dropped the hare gently at the woman's paws, and began to leave, thinking the golden wolf was simply sleeping. Even sleeping wolves, however, didn't lie that still.

Hey, Maegi said, and pressed a forepaw against the rounded side. HEY! she said a little louder, and began to push upon the Redhawk with everything she had, jiggling the body that merely flopped back to where it rested.

Face drawn, she sank to the ground, feeling death rise up around her once more.

Oh, Jaes, she whispered. When would it end? Oh, Jaes.

Mou had not been far. He was nervous of Niamh, sure, and they had history — but it wasn't all bad. He remembered a time where she was his favorite person, a confidante, and he entertained the thought they might be again. It seemed fortuitous that she would show up at the island seeking solace the way he had; strange as it felt, Mou was glad. He wanted to catch up and make proper amends.

He did not want to invade her space, though. There was no telling what had driven Niamh so far from the Redhawks. He was preparing a gift for her: a fresh salmon caught from an island stream, some scraps of fur to use as bedding, a small toy that he thought Niamh's children could play with (and Maegi's, together).

That was when Maegi's shout reached his ears. He wasn't sure what he'd heard, only that it was loud and sharp. He dropped most of what he'd bundled, dragging the fish the longest, but then released its tail and let it sink in to the grass when he saw them: Maegi pushing at the round golden body of Niamh with no response.

Mou raced to Maegi's side and then began nosing around Niamh, searching for breath, for warmth, for anything — but she was gone.

No, no, no no no, she — they — this couldn't be happening!

It was only when Mou arrived and she caught the word "they" did the entire picture occur to Maegi. It wasn't just Niamh—just was such a limiting word, but alas—

The babies, she said, abject horror painting each word. Can we save them? Can we—

She had tried once before. Well, sort of. Right here on this island, the babes had survived, but the mother had perished. And that was under the paw of experienced healers; she had only been a witness. Now, it was just her and Mou, and, oh, Jaes, the woman from years ago had been alive still when she'd birthed the pups, long enough to give them names. . .

This—was it too late?

Maegi pressed her cheek against the gilded abdomen, listening. Straining to hear some sign of life. She rose up, kneading, pleading with Jaes to save these children, they didn't deserve to die, too; they hadn't even lived—!

Please, she whispered, unsure of whether she spoke to her god, or to Niamh's silent body, or to Mou, or,

I, myself, have taken life with poisons, Pharaoh.

She wasn't meant to bring life into this world. All she brought was death.

Please, she moaned, but the belly remained unmoving beneath her busy paws.

His chance to reconnect went up in smoke. His chance to make amends, gone, and now all that was left was an empty vessel. Maegi took notice of how Mou paced and inspected the body; she began to act in tandem with him, both searching for signs of life internal. It was the longest of long shots — but something could be salvaged. Had they gotten here in time? Were they far enough along? If they were lost forever they were lost, another piece of a tapestry of death from the cursed life of Mou and Maegi.

Had they somehow caused this? Mou did not want to entertain the thoughts of old gods taking new forms — Sithis, carried within him. An infection of the spirit. Not his fault, not his fault — We have to save them.

He stopped moving, and he stared down at the golden idol with the future locked in to a dead womb. His one eye bright, unblinking. Cut them out. Give them breath. Maybe... maybe... Salvage what they could.

This was madness; he saw the body and heard the snap of fire with each shift of Niamh's coat beneath the spring wind. He saw her as this transformative thing, this portal between life and death. Please.

Mou's words brought it all into crisp, sharp focus. Cut them out. It was the only way, right? Niamh no longer could push them out herself, after all, and Maegi's kneading had done nothing to spur along that process post-mortem. 

If they lived and breathed—didn't they have an obligation—?

Nausea came over her, and she swayed where she stood, the world spinning. I. . .yes, she agreed faintly, though her voice lacked conviction. She had stolen babes from Parvati—but they had been born and into the world before the woman died at her hand. Maegi was a poisoner, a cold-blooded killer. . .

But a butcher? No. At least. . .not yet.

They must be saved, came a voice through her head, and she thought it to be Jaes, though it held the madness of her father's alter ego Sheogorath. It was the only way, but it was crazy. This was crazy.

Yes, she repeated, and then gagged as she thought of her muzzle within the flesh and blood of this woman, as if she were ripping apart some great kill. I don't think. . .I don't know if I can. . .

She stumbled back, and gave her husband a pleading look. 

She would help the children in any capacity—but it was Mou that brought wild ideas into life. He must do it, and she would clean up afterward.

Mature Content Warning

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It was a terrible idea but the only one that made sense to Mou as he watched the cooling body of his once-friend; they did not have time to argue of the morality of things, or judge the situation beyond the immediacy that those wriggling bodies presented.

Yes, they were alive — Mou thought he saw something shudder behind the wall of flesh and he held conviction in his next course of action. Maegi struggled and stumbled away from what remained of Niamh, a mess; Mou hummed a soothing note for her, for them, for safe passage of whatever piece of Niamh remained.

Maegi's pleading look was met with a worried expression of Mou's, but he nodded. He would do it. She could clean them and warm them after.

He took a shaking breath and then, with preternatural calm, set to work.

He did not know how to begin until he had repositioned the mother's body. She was stiff and cold, with parts frozen in place where she had tucked them.

Pulling at her scruff felt like ripping grass out by the root.

When his teeth sank in to skin it was like leather — tough at first, then well oiled by a thickly dripping ichor.

He had to be quick, careful, respectful, brutal; when all was said and done Niamh no longer looked like Niamh and likewise Mou, who had been a ghost before he began such desperate work, came away painted in shades of carmine.

Once the work was completed there stood Mou, and there sat three bundles as bloodied as he — nested in the putrid grass.

Welcome to the world, whoever you are!

Maegi kept her eyes averted for most of it. She had seen terrible things, but not this—never this. It was butchery; even done for the children's sake, it was butchery and there was no getting around that. Mou set to his task quietly, carefully, doggedly. . .and a trio of puppies came free.

Without hesitation, she ripped the sac from one of the bundles and began to lick it in firm, rhythmic strokes, trying to get its blood and breath moving. They were small and so still; she feared that they may not be able to bring them to life at all.

Help me, Maegi said between ministrations, gaze darting toward her mate. She dared not look at Niamh. Instead, she continued to work on the first pup—and to her great surprise and joy, it let out a mewl, a tiny cry, and began to scrabble feebly in the grass.

She let out a sobbing breath, almost a laugh, and looked to Mou, hoping that he was starting to work on another babe. She sank to the ground and exposed her belly, drawing the little one toward her ever-swelling teats with hasty care. I don't know if I'll. . .be able to. . . she said, weariness evident in her voice.

While the first pup rooted for a nipple, she reached for the third pup, a silent prayer in her mind to Jaes—

Give me milk. Help me give them life.

I don't know the names of all three pups yet so I will just tag players -- @Kate @Aeglaeca @Khali. You can choose among yourselves who "wakes up" first here!

it me, melee.

the world changed suddenly, but it hadn't the words or understanding to describe how. it felt only wrongness. it mewled in angry defiance, kicking its tiny limbs to try to find the comfort that had surrounded it only minutes before. this instinctual strategy seemed to work; it was moved by some external force closer to what it knew as comfort. not the same as it was used to, but familiar... and a sensation it would someday describe as smell or taste awoke another instinct, as the mewling firstborn rooted for sustenance.

He was the last to be pulled from the catacomb of his mother's womb, cold and unmoving.  As life had slipped from his mother he'd begun to follow, but Maegi's tender touch coaxed him back to life.  In an instant, his small limbs were forced away from his body, impossibly tiny toes splayed in defiance of the unprotected air around him.  His mouth parted as he went to let out a scream, but only coughed up fluid from his lungs.  Once it was finished he began to squall, and was quickly tended to by the pale savior.

The world had began to change and unbeknownst to the middle child it would be one gruesome way to enter the world. The small sac that contained this potato was ripped from Niamh’s womb. As Maegi began to clean it, the chill of the ocean air had drafted over the little ones wet fur. As the cold consumed the potatos body a chilling scream was let out from her mouth. Eventually the little one started to squirm and was able to root for what nature had called for, milk.

Mou looked as if he had been buried deep in to a carcass by the time he was finished the work; his body was numb, the blood having cooled him considerably as it coagulated across his once-pale body. He looked down at the bundles the newborns formed in the grass and took a shuddering breath, tasting the overwhelmingly metallic flavor of Niamh's blood with each inhalation.

Maegi needed his help. The newborns needed him too. He tucked in close to them as Maegi cut through the sac of one, then another, and tried to gingerly remove the last from the final child before pushing them close to his wife's belly. She could at least warm them, groom the fluids from their little dark bodies.

His work was not yet finished though. He looked up at Maegi with an apologetic expression, his face drawn and red. He could not speak — but as Mou turned towards the ruined body that was once Niamh he appeared resolute. She needed a burial. The children were safe with Maegi for now, as far as he could tell.

Wordlessly Mou stood up and on shaking limbs (muscles weary from the toil of the birth he had forced to occur) he dragged himself a few feet aft, and began to claw at the spring dirt. His paws turned black with mud soon enough; when the pit was good and deep he would drag what was left of his old friend to it.

The sight of her blood-spattered husband may have made her own veins run cold, but she wasn't focused on him right now. Two babies down, and one to go—no, Mou was working on that one, and soon, all three were gathered to her belly. And when the one-eyed man departed to dig a hole—

Please, please, she repeated, staring at her swollen teats. They were rooting, searching; god, they must be so hungry. . .

And a selfish thought came to her mind—what if they drained her, and her own pups had nothing left? No good deed went unpunished, after all, and it was all too stark now. Life given, life taken away. And if she starved her own for the sake of being a Good Samaritan? 

The gush came a second afterwards.

She let out a sigh of relief as the pressure eased, though felt the familiar sting and tug of babies latching on. It must be flowing into their little mouths now, and while they weren't out of the woods quite yet, food would go a long way in making them strong. Maegi's prior uncharitable feelings began to fade as she craned her head and looked down at them.

Alive. They were alive, and she would keep them so—for their own sake, and for their mother's, too.

It wasn't much of a burial. As he worked he stopped thinking about the newborns, the arrival of Niamh on their doorstep, who the father might be - it was hard enough to cut through the sand and clay rich dirt beneath, exhausting work. His shoulders bunched and felt as if they were pulling away from the bone as he pulled Niamh in to the grave. Mount barely had the wits or energy to cover her again.

A few tufts of her aureate fur stayed visible. The seaside air played with it, let it dance where it had not been matted with blood. Mou looked at this bulge in the dirt and tried to catch his breath.

When he returned to Maegi's side he was a mess still; blood and mud and with a drawn expression on his face. He looked at the newborns nursing and then to Maegi, settling beside them to add his warmth to the pile.