The boys slept finally, entwined together in a tall bed of reeds and soft rushes that sufficed as their bedding. The colts were young; large indeed, yet still so fragile to the world, so desperate for the attention of their mother. This was only ever apparent in slumber, for the tiny things were spitfires of mischief and biding venom that leaking into their every movement—but the shadowmere supposed she had never loved anything as much as she loved those boys of hers. It was a desperate obsession she had over her sons, a wrenching need to see them, touch them, ensure their safety. She reveled in this mania of hers; it was a mother’s frenzy she possessed, and as her gaze lay softly on her resting children, her heart swelled in her chest; Circe turned away from them, straying some yards to graze and leave them in peace, though her eye continued to stray in their direction, ever vigilant, ever starving to regard them just one more time.

A cloying scent tickled the shadowmere’s nose, sweet and inviting—but she was well familiar with it by now. A small grove rested nearby, wherein an old, thunderstruck apple tree resided; only hours before Circe had warned her sons against becoming entranced by the sugary, overpowering scent of apples that wafted from the grove, for the tree had died some months prior and the fallen apples had long since been spoilt. With a glance behind her at her resting sons, Circe allowed a wry impulse to wrack her frame; she ventured near the grove, her steps hesitant in case she wandered too far from her treasured sons. Her worry was for naught; several of the apples had rolled far from their mother tree, and she was able to look upon many without losing sight of her children.

Circe looked down upon an apple--Rose-Madder red and somewhat soft on her lip--for some time, with a cautious and questioning eye. Her sons would disobey her—the shadowmere was certain of this. They were as cunning as their father and just as ballsy, though they lacked his discipline; just the same, Circe would be shocked if they didn’t go against their mother’s wishes and tasted the sickeningly honeyed apples. What will they do to my children? she wondered, venturing closer to the fallen fruit. She never allowed her sons to eat anything she hadn’t tasted herself, save for her own milk—and it was this caution that persuaded the shadowmere to reach for the first apple and taste it, to crunch into it and let the over-sweet juices lay on her tongue, tinged with a certain tartness that she had never detected before in fresher varieties of the fruit.

Why she tasted the second, or the third, was a mystery; Circe looked behind her, confirming that her sons were still lost in the wonderland of slumber, before moving on to her fourth. She had decided a while ago that it was right for her sons to avoid the apples, for her mind buzzed in a peculiar fashion that she did not want her children to experience. The apples had a pleasing taste, though; the shadowmere didn’t think she’d be poisoned by such tiny pieces of fruit. They were rotten—they weren’t lethal.

So she took a fifth.


@[Ktulu]



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