- Jun 20, 2022
- 113
- 50
- 28
tw: child birth
Hyacinthbreath has warned her and warned her not to stray too far from their makeshift nest in the barn, but Pollenfur’s paws itch more than ever now that she must be confined. Her sister’s sickness had been awful news to bear—the Clans call it yellowcough, she’d heard, and it is deadly, the cure sparse or unknown. Regardless of which it is, she fears for Brightshine, for the unborn kits in her littermate’s belly, and she’s taken to pacing about the perimeter of the Horseplace to clear her thoughts.
Her belly swings low, perilously so, and Pollenfur’s joints begin to ache before she has gone too far. The earth-toned tortoiseshell’s steps slow until she’s trembling, all of her body suddenly gelatinous with weakness. “I’ve gone too far,” she admonishes herself, and she prepares to smile and look for assistance from one of the other cats nearby—when a pain so sharp she feels cleaved in two stops her in her tracks. Pollenfur’s maw gapes, and the breath she exhales is gasping and spluttering. “Oh! Oh, StarClan, what…”
There’s a moment of relief as it fades. She straightens, her heart beginning to pound. She’s far from her nest, foolish girl she is, and now she’s begun her kitting. Pollenfur’s tail begins to bristle, both in excitement and fear. “Please—please go fetch Hyacinthbreath,” she half-groans to the nearest feline. “Tell her it’s time.”
There is no medicine cat here, but Pollenfur is not concerned. Rose hadn’t been attended by a medicine cat during her kitting—only their father, surrounded by shadows and the earthy scents of the underbelly of the moorland. Brightshine, too, had brought Mallowlark and Echolight into the world alone, with her littermates beside her murmuring encouragement.
Pollenfur has Hyacinthbreath, and that’s all she needs. She’s determined. Despite the pain now threatening to claw her to bits from the lower abdomen down, the patch-pelted queen dives toward a half-built barn, a Twoleg nest that is maybe a fraction of the size of the one she beds down in now. She gives the air a cautious whiff, wincing as another contraction breaks through her body. There is no recent Twoleg scent, and the air is dusty. Dust is a sign of safety, she is convinced, though some of the objects within give her pause. Their edges are sharp, sour with the smell of rust, but—
There’s no time to find a more suitable place, she thinks with another gasp. Pollenfur scrapes together a hasty circlet of straw and loose chicken feathers, her body trembling. When she finally flops onto her flank, she can breathe, trying to focus. In through her nostrils, out through her mouth—the calming breaths, she knows this from moons of living alone in fear—and soon she’s regulating herself, driving the panic away.
Her kits are coming. Her babies, Hyacinthbreath’s second chance at motherhood—and after what feels like a lifetime of her insides heaving, her teeth clenched, tongue bitten up, the first kit is born. A little she-kit, pelt a soft blue-gray blend like a leafbare sunset. She sees peaches and golds softly clouding about her, a single white tip on her tail. Pollenfur’s breath catches in her throat, and she leans around to scoot the snuffling, mewling scrap closer to her flank. It searches, its cries frantic and growing louder as Pollenfur begins to clean her and lick her fur backward. Finally, she latches at her mother’s flank, and it couldn’t come at a better time—because she feels the pain of more kits coming.
By the time her mate is brought to the dusty, secluded nest they've had to make do with, Pollenfur’s body is straining again, and she shrieks, digging her foreclaws into the loose earth. This second kit takes at least an hour to come after the first. The sun is beginning to sink in the sky now, bathing the Horseplace in liquid sunset. Just before the gloaming, the second kit is born, snow white with the barest suggestion of smudged color at its face. It’s fur is soft as she begins to groom, but she has no time.
Frantically, Pollenfur pushes the second kit to Hyacinthbreath. “Clean her, and get her—get her to feed,” she gasps, and then she’s gritting her teeth again against waves of furious, shredding pain. When the last of the warmth fades from the sky and the world is cloaked in shadow, the final kit is born, a she-kit, sturdy. She’s like her middle sibling—white, though her fur is shorter and does not fluff up under her tongue in the same way.
The exhaustion is evident with every labored breath Pollenfur takes, but it’s over. It’s finally over, and she and Hyacinthbreath have welcomed three perfect kits into the world. She searches for her mate’s brilliant blue eyes, melting into them as though they’ve walked backwards through time. “Look at them. Look at how perfect they are,” she whispers, and her throat clots with unrestrained emotion.
Her pink nose grazes the firstborn, and she remembers the fear, the longing, that had driven her away from her family the first time she’d left home. Rose, the mother who’d left them in her grief, had somehow returned to her—it’s the energy, she feels it. Perhaps this is the reminder she’s needed to stay put, to make this community of outcasts at the Horseplace a loving and protective home for her children. “Rose,” she murmurs, half-whispering, spent. “Rose, to remind me why I stay.”
She tilts her golden eyes back up to Hyacinthbreath. “Go on… what will we call these two?” She smiles, and though it’s tired, there’s strength and warmth in every crevice.
Hyacinthbreath has warned her and warned her not to stray too far from their makeshift nest in the barn, but Pollenfur’s paws itch more than ever now that she must be confined. Her sister’s sickness had been awful news to bear—the Clans call it yellowcough, she’d heard, and it is deadly, the cure sparse or unknown. Regardless of which it is, she fears for Brightshine, for the unborn kits in her littermate’s belly, and she’s taken to pacing about the perimeter of the Horseplace to clear her thoughts.
Her belly swings low, perilously so, and Pollenfur’s joints begin to ache before she has gone too far. The earth-toned tortoiseshell’s steps slow until she’s trembling, all of her body suddenly gelatinous with weakness. “I’ve gone too far,” she admonishes herself, and she prepares to smile and look for assistance from one of the other cats nearby—when a pain so sharp she feels cleaved in two stops her in her tracks. Pollenfur’s maw gapes, and the breath she exhales is gasping and spluttering. “Oh! Oh, StarClan, what…”
There’s a moment of relief as it fades. She straightens, her heart beginning to pound. She’s far from her nest, foolish girl she is, and now she’s begun her kitting. Pollenfur’s tail begins to bristle, both in excitement and fear. “Please—please go fetch Hyacinthbreath,” she half-groans to the nearest feline. “Tell her it’s time.”
There is no medicine cat here, but Pollenfur is not concerned. Rose hadn’t been attended by a medicine cat during her kitting—only their father, surrounded by shadows and the earthy scents of the underbelly of the moorland. Brightshine, too, had brought Mallowlark and Echolight into the world alone, with her littermates beside her murmuring encouragement.
Pollenfur has Hyacinthbreath, and that’s all she needs. She’s determined. Despite the pain now threatening to claw her to bits from the lower abdomen down, the patch-pelted queen dives toward a half-built barn, a Twoleg nest that is maybe a fraction of the size of the one she beds down in now. She gives the air a cautious whiff, wincing as another contraction breaks through her body. There is no recent Twoleg scent, and the air is dusty. Dust is a sign of safety, she is convinced, though some of the objects within give her pause. Their edges are sharp, sour with the smell of rust, but—
There’s no time to find a more suitable place, she thinks with another gasp. Pollenfur scrapes together a hasty circlet of straw and loose chicken feathers, her body trembling. When she finally flops onto her flank, she can breathe, trying to focus. In through her nostrils, out through her mouth—the calming breaths, she knows this from moons of living alone in fear—and soon she’s regulating herself, driving the panic away.
Her kits are coming. Her babies, Hyacinthbreath’s second chance at motherhood—and after what feels like a lifetime of her insides heaving, her teeth clenched, tongue bitten up, the first kit is born. A little she-kit, pelt a soft blue-gray blend like a leafbare sunset. She sees peaches and golds softly clouding about her, a single white tip on her tail. Pollenfur’s breath catches in her throat, and she leans around to scoot the snuffling, mewling scrap closer to her flank. It searches, its cries frantic and growing louder as Pollenfur begins to clean her and lick her fur backward. Finally, she latches at her mother’s flank, and it couldn’t come at a better time—because she feels the pain of more kits coming.
By the time her mate is brought to the dusty, secluded nest they've had to make do with, Pollenfur’s body is straining again, and she shrieks, digging her foreclaws into the loose earth. This second kit takes at least an hour to come after the first. The sun is beginning to sink in the sky now, bathing the Horseplace in liquid sunset. Just before the gloaming, the second kit is born, snow white with the barest suggestion of smudged color at its face. It’s fur is soft as she begins to groom, but she has no time.
Frantically, Pollenfur pushes the second kit to Hyacinthbreath. “Clean her, and get her—get her to feed,” she gasps, and then she’s gritting her teeth again against waves of furious, shredding pain. When the last of the warmth fades from the sky and the world is cloaked in shadow, the final kit is born, a she-kit, sturdy. She’s like her middle sibling—white, though her fur is shorter and does not fluff up under her tongue in the same way.
The exhaustion is evident with every labored breath Pollenfur takes, but it’s over. It’s finally over, and she and Hyacinthbreath have welcomed three perfect kits into the world. She searches for her mate’s brilliant blue eyes, melting into them as though they’ve walked backwards through time. “Look at them. Look at how perfect they are,” she whispers, and her throat clots with unrestrained emotion.
Her pink nose grazes the firstborn, and she remembers the fear, the longing, that had driven her away from her family the first time she’d left home. Rose, the mother who’d left them in her grief, had somehow returned to her—it’s the energy, she feels it. Perhaps this is the reminder she’s needed to stay put, to make this community of outcasts at the Horseplace a loving and protective home for her children. “Rose,” she murmurs, half-whispering, spent. “Rose, to remind me why I stay.”
She tilts her golden eyes back up to Hyacinthbreath. “Go on… what will we call these two?” She smiles, and though it’s tired, there’s strength and warmth in every crevice.
-
please wait for @hyacinthbreath ! after that any loners or mousers at the horseplace may post :)
baby tags: @FINCHKIT @downykit -
—
pollen. pollenfur
— she/her ; loner ;windclan warrior
— pansexual ; taken by Hyacinthbreath
— long-haired chocolate calico with amber eyes
— “speech”, thoughts, attack
— penned by Marquette
— pixel by Birdman
