The harsh sun above proved to warm the river that cleaved the land in two, nestled as it was in the lush, sun-gold meadow. Waves splashed against the sides of the shadowmere as she waded chest deep in the crystalline waters; it was the swift current that fluttered far below the surface, near her hooves and fetlocks, which proved to send relief to the exhausted, feverish body—for it was only at this depth that the sun seemed to be unable to penetrate. Circe paced the length of the river, submerging her tail, dunking her head every few minutes, feeling the tepid droplets trickle through her mane, down the sides of her neck and the tips of her hair.

The falling sun cast shadows of marigold and amber across the burning land; only the fingertips of sunlight could be discerned over the tops of the tree-line, quickly fading before the coming relief of nightfall. Circe could catch the scent of her sons nearby, unseen though they were only yards away. She knew she should go to them—to feed them if they were hungry, to lay them down to sleep and keep her vigilant eye on their willful little souls. Yet the river felt too nice to her, especially the cool undercurrent that soothed the heat of the summer, the surface turbulence that washed the irritating dust and sand from her body. She trotted through the water, her gait slow and sluggish against the weight of the water; she reveled in the work of her body, the strain of movement against the current of the river. It was a power of nature, a force of will, and she did pit herself against it—for she was restless in the marrow of her bones.

Did the life of a mother bore the shadowmere? The honest answer was no; her sons proved to laden her plate with more than their share of mishaps and trials of their own, keeping their mother on her toes at all times of the day in order to intercept their possible miscreant ways. Miscreant; Circe knew the word shouldn’t be spoken with an affectionate connotation, yet here she was, doting on the little bastards that had broken her body on the way out. Yet even they couldn’t scratch the itch for a fight, the need to be used as a warrior, the craving for battle that swam in Circe’s blood. Her muscles ached to be used, and there was no reason to use them; with Archibald gone there was no one with which to spar and keep an edge to her blade, and it was frustrating.

The shadowmere finally brought herself out of the rushing current of the river, her body soaked to the skin, her coat clinging to every muscle of her form, every curve of her body. She shook herself once, her tail weaving in the air to knock the rivulets of water from her ivory plume; she twisted around herself to correct a particularly irksome ruffle that had appeared in her coat. The gentle breeze that wafted over the gold-tipped flora now kissed Circe’s body, and the normally fiery winds proved to soothe her further. If only it could ease the fever of her agitated passion—but that was another worry for another time.


@[Oliver]





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