Wild Rye Fields we both know we ain't kids no more

@Deacon

Her pregnancy had been a string of days that she had felt she missed. For the most part, the honeyed she-wolf had tried to work for the pack that had so graciously extended a home to them, eager to not remain a burden upon them despite the extra mouths they brought to feed. It helped her to stay busy – to keep any of the more noisy thoughts from her mind. It was blatantly obvious to her how foolish she and Deacon had been, and while she didn’t feel unashamed of it, she wasn’t sure she didn’t have regrets. He had become her rock in many ways during the weeks that past, but that didn’t clarify their relationship to her any more.

Near the end of her pregnancy, and as her stomach swelled further, her assistance to the pack had greatly dwindled. Soon, days had passed and she found herself remaining nearer to the small den she and Deacon had claimed for their brood. She didn’t know what to expect. Kisla had gone through this and she had been there as much as she had for her mother.. but she was left in the dark to the more intricate details.

When the pain came, it swelled over her like a wave. The clench of her first contraction brought a startled gasp to her lips, and she rose, her eyes blinking against the darkness of the far too early morning. Her teeth drove at Deacon then – never aiming to puncture, but her insistent grumbles meant to drive him from the den as instinct demanded her to.

She paced – the pain only worsened, and she sobbed quietly to herself as dawn’s first light finally broke in to the day. Surely she was dying – the blood that pooled along the floor seemed to indicate as much. The pain worsened to the point she would lose her vision momentarily at each surge.

In and out of awareness, the tawny Baranski birthed four – three whom did not even emit a squeak upon entry to the world. Worriedly, the new mother nosed at them softly, a gentle whine drawing from her as she made to stir life in to them. There was no understanding of it, and hollowly, her green eyes glazed over with emotion as she stared at the three black boys – beautiful in their own right, and yet unearthly in their stillness.

It was the cry of the final one that caused her gaze to snap to the one tawny bundle among them. Sprawled upon the den floor, Lekalta inched forward, her muzzle grazing over their one survivor – a small girl. The cries sounded more like mewls, and in that moment Lekalta knew love like no other. She drew the girl against her, cleaning her and the soft rumbles of her daughter only quieted when she began to feed. Blinking quietly, the she-wolf lay her head upon one outstretched forepaw, ushering a gentle sigh as she tried to resist sleep.

He wasn't far from her these days, usually silently trailing her or even resting outside of the den like a lazy guard dog. Although he occasionally curled up in the den with her. His large form cradled her form with ease even through her pregnancy. It was her feverish bites at him that drove him out of the den in the early morning. He gave nothing more than a rough grumble before settling outside the den.

Most of the early morning was spent drifting in and out of sleep. Of course, when he finally noticed the sounds from the den of who he could only assume to be Lekalta, he forced himself to stay awake. Was it time? It felt too soon truthfully. He didn't feel like he had tended to her enough through the pregnancy. Anxiously he waited outside of the den, dark ears pressed forward with hopes of hearing something soon.

It felt like ages until he finally caught the faintest sound of something. He stood and paced wondering what he might be met with if he stuck his head in. After a few moments of weighing pros and cons, he gave up on staying out here. The large male lowered himself to the ground and stuck his head just barely into the entrance. "Lekalta?" He asked softly as his eyes adjusted to the den's lighting.

What he had not been expecting to see were the three children who did not move like the one nursing at her side. His stomach felt far too heavy at the moment and he could not find the right words to say. Deacon was not sure if he wanted to perhaps dry heave or cry and so he bit his tongue so neither would happen.

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