She was something out of dream;

Beautiful as cherry blossoms, strong as iron, sharp as folded steel. There was no gown of scarlet gracing her features, but the rusted stain of dried blood and the cooling carrion scent of her victories would cause her soul to blush with truth. The woman was a warrior and a maker of widows, all sharp edges and luscious curves coupled with the promise of sleep eternal. Within her a monster lived, ancient as the earth and immortal as the skies, and with each breath the lines between the mare and that beast blurred evermore, giving life to the notion that she was becoming less of herself.

There was fear there, too; yet another creature living inside of her, wriggling out a home at the base of the lass' skull and placing horrors heavy as stones upon her heart. In the night, in the twilight moments that existed between the planes of sleeping and waking, it whispered truths too massive to bear. "Maybe," it cooed into her dreams, "Maybe it is not that you are becoming less of yourself and more of a monster." She would feel it's grin as it brought her nightmares to life with a voice like a thousand serpents, "Maybe it is that you truly are a monster and are finally succumbing to your calling."

So the birth of the Boy Prince had been a blessing, an excuse to refuse sleep in the name of something purposeful.

And toward the child she had felt gratitude.

Yet as the nights stretched on, multiplied and stacked upon one another in blurred stream, Orithia's gratitude had transformed into something different. Something more.

Pastel eyes, hooded and heavy from exhaustion, softened as they rested upon the lanky Princeling - as she continued to deny herself and her heart. To watch the child grow and develop day after day, viewing the world through eyes glowing with the wonder of curiosity; so like his father, so like his mother, so like the joyous infant she had once been. It was nearly blasphemy, wasn't it? To adore the son of another as if he was her own? To feel the stirrings of happiness in her belly each time the boy discovered something new? To refuse sleep, food, hygiene, anything and everything, if only to witness the beauty that he bled into the world with every beat of that golden heart?

To love this child with a devotion borne upon the tides of a motherhood that was not hers to have.

A step was taken toward the boy, the babe she yearned to touch, to hold and comfort and let bloom beneath the sunshine of her smile, but the reverie was broken by the voice of another. Blinking rapidly, the mare jerked her head toward the roaned form of Dacianna, the echoes of her question taking a moment to pierce the thick veil of inattention. A tiny, hesitant smile sprung to Orithia's lips at the kindly priestesses' query, "Yes, every moment I can spare I guard him," voice even, the pale mare found her eyes wandering back toward the Child Prince, words tinged with the slightest emotion as she continued, "I have seen what this land does to it's youth and I want him to have a chance it his innocence. I want to let him experience the world through eyes filled with wonder, not pain." Never Pain.

The pastel lass would have said more, would have asked the stormcloud mare if she could teach her some stories to tell their young heir, but the comforting baritone of Tembovu drew her away. Invisible brows raised, Orithia noted the crease of concern and the faintest echo of worry gracing the behemoth's features. Licking her lips and rolling her shoulders in a poor semblance of a shrug, the blushed dove gave her reply in the form of a noncommittal mumble and a pointed lack of eye contact. She knew that for better or for worse, the towering King of World's Edge would notice the way her eyelids drooped and how her steps dragged, but for her Elephant, her sovereign, her dearest friend in all the world, she refused to acknowledge it.

She refused to be yet another item on his list of things to worry about.

Turning to attention back toward the tiny ball of laughter and light that had given the battered, ugly heart within her chest meaning, the ivory lass gave a grin.

"Hi, Wezi. You can call me Ori."