isolt griffin

I'm more alive than I've ever been

Had she possessed the power to capture a moment as one might the flickering beam of a firefly in the glass fortress of a Mason jar, Isolt would have certainly done so to keep this moment for herself forevermore. She yearned so entirely to commit every part of this moment to memory, to ink it unto the sprawling fabric of her recollections for the years that lay ahead of her. It was effortlessly and undeniably perfect: the look in the eyes of her lover at the revelation that she, herself, had come upon in weeks past. It was a look so fraught with emotion, not least among them a grand measure of sheer disbelief, that it coaxed a quiet chuckle from her. Perhaps greater even than the look in Damon's eyes was the sensation of his hands upon the subtle rise of her stomach; for all of the sensual moments that they had shared together, whether twisting creases into their bedsheets or testing the durability of the desk in her office, Isolt was certain that this caress was far and away the most intimate one he had yet bestowed upon her.

His query served only to broaden the unabashedly gleeful simper upon her lips, the nodding of her head coming before the words could even skate the curl of her tongue. "Yes," she offers in a hushed whisper, some not-inconsiderable portion of her still unbelieving of the assertion she offers. After all, she was a physician; everything that she had been taught, every medical axiom, screamed for the treachery of reason represented by her current state. And yet... life had indeed found its place within a womb destined to be barren; life had overcome the obstacle of death in order to present this momentous gift to her and her betrothed.

"It's real," she continues, her hands offering his a light squeeze before rising to frame the hard line of his jaw. "I'm pregnant... I can't believe it." The suppleness of her brow draws a tight furrow then, Isolt nibbling on the cushion of her bottom lip in a gesture that nodded to a feeling of trepidation. Trepidation, of course, for Damon's reaction... was the simper upon his lips simply a mimic of her own for want of any other readily-available and coherent emotion? It was hardly feasible for her to guess at what his reaction might have been, for they had rarely discussed the notion of a family given the presumed impossibility of such a thing. Should she kiss him? Comfort him? Or, the most worrisome, should she fear the reaction of her lover? The next few moments would determine everything, she had only to wait.