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CIRCE It was morning time; Circe could feel the Orangemoon mornings become watered down, diluted and milder than they were under the Tallsun heat. In the newly-minted air always was the faint aroma of coming rain—for this was the season of rain and broken heat waves. Not the sort of raging storms that the summer brought in bursts, no, these were gentle showers that lasted days on end, a lasting shower that ambled its way into a bout of early snow that heralded the arrival of winter. Now was the anniversary of a happier time, a period of almost dreamlike happiness that had descended upon the shadowmere as she had waltzed through the incessant rain showers, clumsy and radiant in her heavily pregnant form. It was during this time, ages ago it seemed like, that she had discovered the meaning of loss, had shaken hands with her greatest failure. Circe could not shake her mind from the thought of her dearest Callisto, a promise broken before it ever left the tongue. She knew what she had to do—otherwise her soul would roll and ache and threaten a descent into a familiar darkness, and Circe wanted none of that. She supposed she had business there, anyway, and so there was no reason to avoid the trip. She listened to the clatter of Reginald’s footsteps behind her as she navigated the fields turned amber, crimson, and marigold in the season death and water. His steps sounded surer and balanced than they were before, when trips like this had reduced his thin legs into hopeless quivering. Circe would never admit her worry for her eldest son; it was a heavy burden on her heart whenever she wordlessly watched him struggle with coltish tasks that his brother performed with absolute ease and vitality, and to witness a growing strength in his body was an inexpressible sigh of relief to the mother. She knew his pride wouldn’t allow such weakness to persist—and she wanted to stop the nightmarish thought of another lost child. She wouldn’t lose him, even if it took the sheer force of her will to keep him safe. “Stop here,” she murmured, turning her head to look down at the tiny form as he pulled up beside her. Reginald looked up at her with eyes sharper than a child’s should be—but he pressed against her, an ingrained, childish desire for closeness between mother and child. She touched his shoulder softly, breathing on him as she explained, “Their border is near, you can smell it, yes? It is poor manners to walk across a clearly marked border of herdlands. You must keep away from it and request an audience from outside.” “Must we?” came the whispered response, and Circe heard something cynical on the tongue of the boy. She pulled away from him, her expression stern; those grey eyes looked up at her, wide and boyish, and he blinked rapidly. “Yes, mother,” he said, and his tone was fixed, even though Circe knew his attitude continued to churn careless and challenging beneath his words. With a heavy sigh at the cheek and balls of her troublesome sons, Circe proceeded to belt out a heavy whinny towards the heart of the Foothills— a request for Apollo’s presence, a need to speak with a friend and soothe the restlessness of her heart. (@[Apollo] -- But obviously I can't stop anyone from intercepting <3 ) |
