Take me to the end so I can see the start

The children were found, all but Asavvi. The two youngest and two oldest were safe and that alone had been Megaera’s top priority. The small twins had been collected, corralled and consoled as well as she was able and now, under they eye of their father she knew they would remain that way. Nizho was almost grown and could make his own decisions and Mordecai?  Well…she was a force unto herself. Whatever needs or wants Meg had had for herself had been put on hold until she had been sure her streak of absent mothering had been put to a definitive end. Now she needed some time, and she took it, away from her family to do what she needed to do.

She erupted. 

Like a long-dormant volcano spewing lava into the air, the mare let loose all she had been holding back and it made for a savage scene. Rain came down in sheets, turning dust and dried grass into matted mud, and her hooves ravaged the wet ground as she moved across it. Kicking, twisting, bucking—fierce battle lacking only and opponent—but she took what release she could from the movement and her guttural shouts and growls. The meadow’s gentle slopes were torn into furrows where water pooled and mud splashed when her hooves came crashing down again and again. It was a release, a purge of every torturous emotion she had kept trapped inside. They all came at once in the viscous, twisted mess. 

Grief: the loss of Gaucho, her mentor, her captain, her cornerstone on which she had built her life had been taken, so quickly, so unexpectedly. Fear: a daughter missing without a trace, who might never be found. Regret: she had neglected her other children in her search for Asavvi. Uncertainty: where would she take her family now, how could she care for them away from the familiarity of the Throat? Bitterness: her position, stripped from her and given to another like it had only been a whim of Gaucho to name her to it and not something she had worked so hard to succeed in.

”SOMEBODY FIGHT ME GOD DAMN IT.” She hurled the shout into the dark meadow, needing some better outlet than this messy tantrum. She was dressed for it, had taken all her things from there hiding place in the heart of Dragon's Throat. The spiked leather across her back was already saturated from the rain and splattered with the mud she had already kicked up. For the first time since receiving it, she had also donned the skull of the Rift's wold god. It fit securely over the steel of her faceplate, it's teeth reaching down past her own jaw like she had grown her own set of fangs. It also cloaked her in shadow, not absolutely, but enough to make her movements strange and eerie; dark wisps bled off of her like smoke, swaying as she moved. In the overcast sky above, Gwaihir circled, a scavenger of his mistress's dark mood, ready to pick of the pieces when she was done.

”Megaera.”
Gwaihir

Setting :: Thistle Meadow; raining; muddy
Other :: mask and armor minus the feathers on the side of the sull, she never actually got those, but you get the idea

Words :: 512 - wordcounter.net
Attack :: 0/3
Summary :: Meg throws a fit in the mud.

take me where the fire still owns its spark

there's only one way to mend a broken heart

Megaera