- Feb 8, 2023
- 47
- 10
- 8
wordcount: 766
cw/tw: kitting, stillbirth, death, child abandonment/replacement, graphic depictions of bodily fluids; anything super triggering has been spoilered (you have been warned!)
cw/tw: kitting, stillbirth, death, child abandonment/replacement, graphic depictions of bodily fluids; anything super triggering has been spoilered (you have been warned!)
Oh, we don't own our heavens now, we only own our hell —
Nothing, absolutely nothing, could have ever prepared sootspritespark for this.
The reality of giving birth did not match up to the woman's expectations, no not at all - not even with the comforting scent of her twolegs swaddling her where she lay hidden beneath her favorite couch, the dog locked outside for the night for good measure as furless paws shuffle about and quiet howls can be heard. She wants to respond, wants to tell them she is fine, she is okay, wants to purr and nuzzle against them the way she always has, but she can't.
The pain is overwhelming, each contraction bringing yet another wave as the hours pass in a flurry of spasms until she can no longer tell how long she's been laying there. All thing considered, she should be happy - should be well. Nothing seems strange, nothing goes wrong - at least with the process itself. Tiny bundles of fur and flesh and fluid are spilled out into the earth, and the queen simply knows what she is to do. An instinct she wonders, or perhaps starclans guiding paws - it doesn't matter.
Pink tongue moves swiftly, scraping and sliding against her kits, trying to breath life into them. And at first it works - but only at first. One little kitten, as black as night just like his parents comes into the world with a gasp, chest moving the way she knows it is supposed too. The next are not so lucky. Two tiny girls, with tiny paws and still folded ears and still closed eyes do not wake, no matter how hard she tries - no amount of licking, of pleading, of snuffling against them will wake what is not sleeping. They come into the world already snatched away by starclans grasp, cold and silent.
But she has no time to mourn, no time to grieve - the pain has not stopped, there are more to be born. It takes longer this time, so long that the first is already suckling away in unknowing bliss by the time the next bundle is brought into the world. Yellow gaze widens in surprise, and finally the tears she'd been holding back begin to spill down her cheeks as a sense of crippling horror sets in, as she realizes what has been done.
For it is pale fur that meets her eyes, even slicked back and crumpled as it is, and a nub of a tail even smaller than the others. A tom, so pale and pink and white and frail that she worries her very touch might be enough to break them, but she cannot stop - not now. He takes his first breath with a mewling cry, a noisy little thing she thinks, and she cannot help but soften, but warm to their very presence. It does not matter that this is not what she planned, she will not regret. She can't - she won't.
And then finally comes another, the last she thinks wearily as pain begins to subside, yet again all dove pale hues instead of the coal grey she'd wanted. Pink nose, pink tongue - and this one has even less to show for his tail than the last - none in fact, and any lingering doubt left in her mind is gone with the birth of her final child. And oh, they are his, really his. Theirs.
As things settle down, and tiredness begins to set in, those who did not make it lie cold and cast aside, forgotten. They are dead and gone, and no longer matter, Starclan has given her something better - a replacement, an improvement. It is a shame, she thinks, that she will not be able to raise them, but it is no great loss. She hardens her heart, hardens her thoughts. As far as any will know, she only ever gave birth to three - the three healthy kittens curled up against her side - three future skyclan warriors.
Something warm coils in her chest, squeezing and constricting around her heart, leaving her feeling fluttery and breathless. These are hers - her kits, her babies, hers hers hers. "Littlekit.... Thistlekit... and Fennelkit," the names that fall slowly from her lips are heard by none but starclan themselves, but they feel right. Littlekit, her firstborn, her hard work paying off - for his small size, all delicate and dainty. Thistlekit, after his sire, her love, the one that had gotten away. Fennelkit, her last, her little miracle - the ones who should never have been born, that had gone against her so carefully laid plans.
But she loves them, these kits. More than they will ever know.
— and if you don't know that by now then you don't know me that well,