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12-30-2013, 12:49 PM
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CIRCE As the piebald shadow of Apollo emerged in the languid mists of daybreak, Circe felt a most imperceptive pressure suddenly lift, relieving her shoulders and once again giving her lungs room enough for breath. Until this moment, Circe hadn’t noticed how anxious she had been to once again return to these borders; she hadn’t acknowledged the lingering doubt that lay in her mind like cobwebs, the suspicion that she was waltzing to her own execution and bringing her child along to witness the beheading. Some inkling of an idea had festered in Circe’s brain that her actions with Phaedra had caused some sort of bounty to be placed on her head, an idea debunked by the brown warmth that greeted her from Apollo’s own eyes. He could not feign such affability—she knew this. The hard edges of her gaze softened as she looked at Apollo, the corners of her mouth lifting slightly as she inclined her head once in respect. “Apollo,” she murmured, cordiality settling in her own throaty purr. It was curious; she was quite unprepared for the sudden rush of affection she felt for the stallion. He was a piece of the foothills she had left behind, the piece that still lingered in her waking dreams, a home-sickness and never an afterthought. Her eyes flickering down to her eldest son—who watched Apollo with wide, curious eyes, never once looking away—Circe said to the Merciful, “I’d like for you to meet my son: Reginald. His brother Abraham is with his father at this moment.” She paused, wondering if it was even required to name the father of her children. Somewhat tentatively, she brought her muzzle down once more to nuzzle Reginald’s shoulder, murmuring as she did so, “Reginald, this is Apollo the Merciful. He is Chief of these lands.” Her smirk growing wider, she nudged the thin shoulder of the colt, whispering, “It is impolite to stare.” Raising her head and once more giving Apollo her attention, something somber seemed to etch itself in the lines of her face, in the sag of her eyelid. Still she smiled, for she was happy to be here, yet her errand was not a joyful one. “I’ve been well, Apollo,” she said, and her tail agreed with this claim, curling behind her languidly in expression of her pleasure, “very well, in fact. But there is something I must do for myself here, and I wonder if you could help me?” Her words failed her for a moment; she wasn’t quite sure how to voice this personal quest of hers, which, until this moment, had been the chaotic reverberations of the tones of her soul, aching and crying out without ever having proper voice. Now, she gave it one. “I know I no longer live here,” she started, feeling Reginald’s bony frame pressed into her shoulder, “I know I no longer patrol these borders. But I—may I visit Callisto’s grave, Apollo? Her stone is erected in these lands.” Something heavy seemed to pull at her throat, dragging her voice down into a most melancholy octave. “Chaperon me, if you must. I will not be long. I…just want to see my daughter.” She could feel Reginald's stare as his eyes swiveled up to his mother's face, but she did not mind him at this moment; she would explain in due time. |
