Bumping, in case Faun didn't see . . .

Bumping . . . .again. *has a sad*

The stag heard her calling. His entire body like a freight train barreling through the birch where he had been resting after gathering more raspberry for Roe's increasing sickness from pregnancy. He had forgotten all about the raspberry leaves, leaving them to blow in the cold wind.

The sight caused the stag's legs to shake. The smell of blood and sickness wafted through the oak's great cavern. Roe... mh... relax, lay down... The stag steered her toward the nest, helping her down and in to the softness. Relax... Relax... He breathed, running his nose down the length o her abdomen, feeling her muscles convulse.

Ohnononono His thoughts raced, the smells strong and promising.

Roe looked through bleary eyes at her beloved mate. "Iphea . . ." the doe's voice was weak. She tried to stand in spite of the stag's efforts to keep her laying. "Iphea . . .something is wrong. Our fawn . . ." She couldn't continue. As another wave of pain wracked her small frame, she could do nothing but look helplessly at the stag.
Roe knew something was wrong - instinct told her that much - but she didn't know what. Or what to do about it. Her body had taken over and she had gone into labor. They would be having their fawn whether they were ready or not.

Roe heard the command - push - and began to tremble. "Iphea, I . . .I can't." Even as she spoke, her body took over. The urge to push was more than her mind could override and the doe bore down. Her brow furrowed as her eyes squeezed shut. Each wave of pain caused the doe's body to tense as she pushed their little fawn out.
It happened quickly - only a few pushes - and as the little fawn was born, Roe felt relief and terror. She turned immediately, almost knocking Iphea over. There was something wrong with the tiny being. The doe began licking the fawn, cleaning her, stimulating her. The small form lay there limp, covered in the sticky afterbirth. No motion. No sounds. For Roe, time seemed to stop as realization hit her.
One word.
"No."
She nuzzled the little fawn, licking frantically. Her large grey eyes raised to look at her mate, tears brimming. "Iphea . . ." She could barely get his name out, her attention turning again to their daughter. And again the doe licked frantically, trying to rouse the stillborn fawn. A sob wracked Roe's body and the tears began to fall. "Bawewin . . ." it was a whisper. "Little Bawewin . . ."

(not gonna lie - I teared up a little writing this)

The stag moved, his body sluggish as he lay down and nuzzled the shell where his baby's soul should have been. There was no little light above her head, no little light in her eyes. Iphea's heart plummeted as he watched his mate frantically try to clean, stimulate, anything to bring Bawewin to life. The forest is too much for deer born outside to have children here. The stag rose to his hooves, giving his mate a long nuzzle before nudging Bawewin on to his long mask. Her form was so small and delicate, like a fae... a dream-catcher... a little dream. His little dream, born from his flower. Iphea nuzzled the fawn as if she were asleep, not quite sure he could handle the emotions welling inside his heart and tearing at his chest.

He pulled the mask close, laying it in between his form and Roe's. From the pile of herbs he had been slowly gathering, he pulled a little sprig of flowers, baby's breath. They were supposed to be to get rid of the smell of the birth, but Iphea now had other plans. He placed them under the chin of his baby. There, now she would have.... the stag began to shed tears, pressing his face to the smooth insides of the tree. It thrummed around them in what was supposed to be a song of life... turning in to a funeral dirge.

Iphea let his head rest on Roe's shoulder, creating both a link between them and a cover over their still fawn. A deep sound rumbled from his chest until his entire being thrummed with a low and mumbled chant. It seemed comforting yet arousing, entrancing as it mingled with the Oak's hum. The stag let the sound fill him if only to protect him from his mate's crying, to soothe the pain they both felt at the never-warm being between them on the mask.

The words he dreaded invaded his head. Fire... stone... Bawewin would have to have a funeral. The stag tried his best not to move too much as he gathered the fragrant herbs to surround his daughter in a nest. He would go and find the jars to catch the funeral fire, but not at the moment. For the moment, he would take the time to cry, to comfort his mate, and to catch the last moments with Bawewin's silky yellow-cream fur pressed to his side.

Again the stag gently kissed and nuzzled his mate, fearful of the days to follow.

After crying a bit... ok, a LOT... I did this for you two.



:'( Love for you <3, from Adaryn.

;___;