.svg/2000px-Google_Chrome_icon_(2011).svg.png){kind=icon}
|
CIRCE Circe found herself in a situation that was all too bitterly familiar; Archibald had left, travelling swiftly for the Foothills after a call of trouble had sounded across the meadow. Once more her ex-General thundered at the bugle for battle—whether there was actually bloodshed, Circe wasn’t quite sure, but she did not doubt her mate’s readiness for combat should he need it—while his ex-Executioner was made to stay behind, to “hold the fort” and keep away from the action she had coveted for so long. There was only one difference, but it proved to be an extraordinary one in its own right: While Circe had been forced in the form of orders to stay behind in conflicts past, now was the first time she elected to abstain from the tumult. The reason for this shift in paradigm now trotted behind her on four pairs of tiny hooves that strove to keep up with her longer adult paces. There was no possible way, in this world or the next, that Circe would ever imagine leaving behind her precious sons, casting them away for the sake of slaking her own blood thirst. The time for such self-indulgence was long passed; rancid apples and their lingering stench were one thing, but the shadowmere could not even fathom running across the land towards glory and pride, all the while leaving her boys stranded in a world that sheltered danger in every shadow, in every ray of sunshine. No, she would stay and watch her twins, keeping them out of any sort of immediate danger, and the shadowmere did not grumble once with her decision. In fact, it only sparked her newfound sense of motherly obsession to kick into overdrive, for her imagination to race far passed any current event. It was true Circe would never voluntarily leave her boys—but what if she had no choice? What if her children were separated from her—what if they wandered and became lost in stranger territory? What if Circe herself became captured by the enemy? What if she…what if she and Archibald were finally defeated? What then? Circe snorted, her agitation clear in the arch of her neck, the lashing of her tail behind her. They were young, but the memory of her Dark Lady’s words rang in her ears: *"Death holds no prejudice."* Young as they were, Circe understood that, so long as her children held life, they were eligible for death. She would be damned for all eternity if she did not teach them to properly defend themselves, to at least give them a fighting chance in this dangerous world she had labored them into. And so they walked under the pines and the oaks of the ancient forest, the sun’s rays cooler, milder from underneath the shadow of the canopy; she walked on the shore of the bloodstone pond that sat in the center. They were close enough to their home, the Meadow, in case Circe should have need to swiftly deliver them to safety; they were near the Foothills as well, in the off chance that her assistance might be desperately needed. Circe doubted she would be called—she hoped she wouldn’t be. She had business with her sons, and though the motherly piece of her brain hissed and wept and bucked at the thought of her children being subject to the threats of Helovia, the warrior side berated herself for waiting so long already to begin her sons’ training. They were bound to get into trouble—they would need to be prepared to meet it. “Abraham,” she said, stopping in the copse of the ancient fir tree, the crimson gleam of the water reflecting off her side, off her frosted horn, “Reginald. It’s time you’ve learned how to properly use your bodies, how to wield the horn upon your brows so you might live in this place.” She turned towards them, looked down upon her sons with a warrior’s stare. The mother inside glowed at the sight of her children, crying out desperately at the thought of the oncoming violence, of the idea of teaching them the trade of the warrior. Circe silenced this piece of her mind. She was a soldier at this moment, and her sons were her new recruits.; inside she dared them to mention the lingering odor that marked her unfortunate, drunken escapade. They just had to deal with it. There were more important matters at hand. “Tell me,” she began, her eye roving over the broad bodies and the thick tufts of baby fur that had begun to fall in their age, “have either of you used your horn in any way? To pierce something, to pick up things, to play with each other?” The shadowmere supposed she should see how much they know about their own bodies before she began instructing them on how to use them. @[Abraham] |
