--------------
A familiar scene played: the shadowmere was pulled from sleep by the pain that lashed inside her body. Circe jolted awake from where she slept beside the Dauntless; nauseous agony coated the back of her throat like bile, and with a groan she ambled away from Archibald’s heat, beguiled into motion by the intense bursts of discomfort in her abdomen.

I’ve done this before, she thought, trying to inspire courage where there was none—because the pain hadn’t been so unbearable on that morning of early snow. It was great, surely; but Circe knew of great pain, and could stomach it, and did stomach it, delivering her baby-blue child into world with little trouble…aside from the tragic death of her infant, of course. Now, however, her brain threatened to burst; her eyes pounded atrociously, her nerves screamed for relief, and her stomach and hips churned and rumbled in ways that made the shadowmere want to cry out. It wasn’t pain now—it was torture, and though the sorceress paced and rolled and paced some more, the agony was relentless, burning the air in her throat and her lungs and driving nails into her head. Why do you hate me? She asked her unborn child, hot tears of pain spilling unbidden rom her lids, what have I done to anger you so? Be born and be done with it!

Sadly, it wasn’t so easy. It was during the dead of night when the first pangs of labor hit the shadowmere. The pain continued to mount, the contractions continued to wrack her form; hours passed, during which the sun began to rise and clouds began to settle in the sky. Rain fell, drenching the meadow below for a time, enticing small puddles to form in the nooks and crannies of the hills; in due course the clouds dispersed and the rain ceased, leaving the air clear and poignant in its rejuvenated state. And still Circe continued to pace through the hurt of labor, wandering far in her fever.

Her mind was scrambled, her thoughts truncated and delirious; the only clear desire was for this child to finally pass. Once or twice, she actually threw whatever dignity she had left to hell fire and attempted to call for her Dauntless—Ktulu—anyone who might help her, ease her pain, anything. But her voice was gone, her lungs breathless in the turmoil of her angry child, and as the pain finally spiked and she fell to her knees, Circe’s mind went black with anxiety and relief, for this must be it. She could not endure this much longer--her body felt as though it were breaking, her pelvis cracking in two—and she allowed the pain to flow through her body, letting it ruin her frame instead of fighting with it, letting it do what it was designed to do….




…it was early afternoon when she finally felt a great weight leave her body. Her eyes blurrily found the sky, for it had begun to rain again; gentle droplets hit her face, cooling her feverish skin, and yet the sun shined in the crevices of the clouds. As strips of brilliant blue sky became visible despite the downpour, Circe thought of a saying her mother had told her, long ago: When the sun shines in rain, the Devil is beating his wife. For some reason, it struck the shadowmere as especially hilarious; she did not feel alarm as her body began to contract in pain once more, despite the delivery of a writhing grey mass at her feet. No, the shadowmere only laid her head on the soft ground and rolled with the pain, for it only seemed natural for her to accept the arrival of twins, though she hadn’t once entertained the idea before then. No, these were twins, and she would deliver them as the Devil beat his wife…




…It was the shrill keening of foalings that finally brought the shadowmere back to her senses. Whatever wrinkle that had settled on her mind seemed to shift at long last—and though her body throbbed with weariness, the pain she had endured for hours had finally ceased and dissipated into oblivion. Circe was tired beyond the marrow of her bones and her life-giving blood; every nerve screamed for her to lay there and sleep, to rest after such a harrowing ordeal, but she must see them. She must see what she had given birth to; Circe lifted her head, straining the tendons of her neck to lift her eyes just enough to confirm that she had indeed given birth, and not death.

To her sons.

“Two,” she whispered, eyes wide as glistening saucers, “two little bastards.” Her voice was nothing but tattered breaths that happened to slip from her maw, but the wonder was there; she laughed, actually laughed, the relief and the release of it freeing her mind, sending rivers of molten gold to flow through her war-torn frame. And though she had not slept, that her stomach craved sustenance, that her brow beaded with sweat and her legs lay uselessly in the tall grasses stained in the crimson of her blood, Circe had never felt such a profound totality before. She had given her Dauntless sons; large sons, strong sons, sons who screeched piercingly into the world, their lungs powerful, their legs sturdy. She was not a broken vessel, after all.

“Name your sons,” Circe said to her Dauntless—she spoke unknowing if he were there, but her heart told her that Archibald would find his children in due course. Her heart brittle and fearful of another fracture, Circe had not considered a name for her offspring, and her mind now floated too far and too gaily for her to consider her sons’ titles. For now, Circe needed to stand and meet her children and give them nourishment, to usher them into the new world in which she had thrust them—and though her knees buckled and her sides quivered with the effort of trying to rise from the ground; though the Devil continued to beat his lady and the shadowmere bled into the green of the Meadow, nothing could rupture the bubble of sunlight that had manifested in the soul of the sorceress.

@[Archibald]
@[Lakota]


speaking