Nature's great masterpiece : an elephant ; the only harmless great thing.

“No, it’s Deimos’s,” his head whips from the colt, eyes wide and hurt, before seeing her sarcastic sneer, “Of course it’s yours, dispshit.” His gaze narrows at her deriding mumble, ears suddenly flush with his skull as she so easily satirized a question that shook his own soul. His lips part, teeth aiming to roughly nip her sweaty nape, so deep was his displeasure. Though his ears sweep forward and his attention was quickly drawn to their son, as Elsa’s was, by the wracking cough shaking his small body.

His concern was not as easily abated and still clung as lines around navy eyes that closely studied the new, pale body. An ear swept sideways, catching Elsa’s happy sigh, and his gaze glanced towards hers— freezing on her as all ire melted once her words sank in. “Name your first son. “ He stayed silent for a few, long moments turning to watch Edgar carefully greet the colt— his child.

The warmth in his barrel grew a grin on his face, slowly morphing to an outright smile as Elsa’s wing lifted slightly to show him more of their son. His muzzle reached out, gently pushing her silken feathers further back, “Let him stand, Elsa,” was his quiet, deep command. He needed to see his son stand, to know that he was real and truly alive.

Mbwene, in all her small annoyance, barged into the scene of the small family, heaving deep and trumpeting breaths. Pulled in by the strength of emotions emanating through their bond (awe, shock, displeasure, incandescent happiness), she pinned her bright blue eyes first on Edgar and, trunk waving, voiced her irritation at the zephyr for not waiting for her. Her attention shifted, then, to the small creature he was greeting (pointedly ignoring her bonded).

Slowly, she shuffled towards the heap of legs and wings beneath Elsa’s feathers— softly squeaking a greeting in passing to the Icebound— before her attention was wholly consumed by the creature that had enraptured her bonded. Her ears flapped, her trunk outstretched, first smoothing over the slick surface of his fur (he was cold), before poking and prodding all the angles of his wings and protrusion of his ribs. She harrumphed, this little creature should move, if he was so cold! Wrapping her trunk around one of his forelimbs, she sharply tugged.

Tembovu silently watched this, trying to find internal equilibrium in the face of being a father. But there was none to be found, for his world now lay nestled beneath Elsa’s wing. “Hawezi,” he finally said quietly, “for strength.” His gaze flickered towards the ice blue of his Queen’s, reaching his muzzle towards hers in a moment of solidarity— in sharing of happiness— before speaking to his colt, “Stand, my son.”