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The tears were warm against her cheeks, welling as they were from the deep pools of blue-gray. His words were meant to soothe her, to comfort the shadowmere who grieved for whatever part of herself she had lost to darkness and pain. And perhaps he was successful, for Circe remembered the wrenching pain the fireflies had brought to her; how they had, little by little, chipped away the solid glass wall between her and her agony over her darling Callisto, until the torrent had gushed forth and she was consumed by the mighty waves of it, submerged and drowned, until the waters of misery leveled and the shadowmere was able to, at last, find some sort of semblance of equilibrium.

Such was the pain Circe felt at that moment, as Archibald’s warm, passionate words fell upon her shoulders, lightly and gentle, as a firefly might land upon her wither. There was no stopping the warmth that rushed from her eyes; she leaned into his neck again, that shadow where she drew the most strength from him. Her tears were quiet; she merely shook against him, allowing his words to wash over her, knowing it would be obstinate to argue against them. She knew her desire lay in the hidden wish for her own punishment—how could she deserve the affection of this stallion, one such as Archibald? How could she justify this love? The implication—the idea—the hope of his seed, the blessing of child in her womb, new life to be had?

Ktulu, her Dark Lady of the broken Foothills, that land laid to rubble—Circe remembered her words: We have hearts. Where would we be if we didn't?There was a time, at every cross-road, where one had to acknowledge their heart, the failings of their humanity—the promise of their rejuvenation. It was a lesson Circe found herself face-to-face with multiple times—and still she found it painful to learn, damn-near impossible to allow penetrating her skull. As her tears began to slacken, her chest rumbled deep within, a rolling chuckle as she contemplated her fate. Laughing at herself, at the dullness in her chest, the steady throb of pain and a weakness she could not place. It was a broken record, this pain. She had seen this before, and it was time to forgive something about herself.

“You would have me again, Archibald?” she murmured against the black sinews of his neck; she seemed to lose herself underneath his mane, the shadow of strength he lent her. She looked at him, her eyes puffy and red around her irises, the last vestiges of tears still clinging to her lashes like dew. Her voice did not waver—had not wavered all this time. She considered him for a moment, the terrible, glorious ramifications of his offer hanging still in the air, looming over hear heart, her head. Her gaze spun slightly, and she found that she was holding her breath.

“….Fine, then,” She acquiesced; her voice disappeared to gravel.




--fade--
speaking