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09-08-2013, 09:10 PM
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CIRCE The pit settled in the shadowmere’s stomach threatened to boil over with its content; roiling anger that refused to settle, furious guilt, a whirlwind of shame, and just a dash of worry—all of it churning inside of her, threatening to combust at the slightest provocation and burst the body of the dark mare from the inside out. Her aches and pains continued to throb, the last physical vestiges from her confrontation with Phaedra; the scratches on her dock hurt the most, the taut, tender skin pulling painfully with every step, but she ignored this pain in light of the mental dilemmas she faced. Provoked as she had been, Phaedra’s childishness wasn’t enough to condone Circe’s crimes: she had attacked a fellow herd member. She had charged a member of her own family with the fullest intent to hurt, to punish; such an assault went against every creed Circe possessed. Had she not suggested a truce with the Assassins, for the express intent of making sure she would not have to fight the ebony Pegasus, Chemical? Yet here she was, willingly bringing hurt to an actual member of her own order. The most painful part of the ordeal was that Circe was not sorry for her actions; she knew, in the back of her mind, that if faced with the same situation, with a sneering little bimbo of a mare calling her names, that Circe would do the exact same thing she had just done. And it scared her. For her to be this apathetic towards her own herd members caused a chill to run the length of her spine. Why was this so? Were it Apollo in front of her, she wouldn’t dare imagine such a confrontation; were it her sister Lakota who jeered, Circe would not have felt anger, but only confusion for the abuse she would endure at the hands of the Poisoner. Hana was in no danger from the shadowmere’s wrath; not even her Ladies, both Dark and Traitorous Pale, wouldn’t be met with the same venomous spleen from the shadowmere. Archibald? He would not act so childish—and if he did, there was a dire, outlandish reason indeed. But that was it. Those few were the only ones with whom Circe lacked the slightest inclination toward conflict. And that was the terrifying part; in all of a herd of some several dozen horses, only 6 were the only ones whom she wouldn’t attack when provoked. This was wrong. A call sounded over Hills, the verdant plains of her home, and it seemed the hidden cauldron in Circe’s body really did boil over. Archibald. His very voice brought a whole other myriad of emotions stacked on top of her current predicaments; irritation at having stayed behind, worry for his and others’ well-being, an overpowering need for him, to see him, touch him, anything. And with this desire came Phaedra’s snarl of taunt: “There was an Invasion sugar, or were you too busy being Archibald's pet to do your damn job?!" Which only brought on her feelings of hatred for the mare, then the guilt simmered from it, and thus the cycle would begin again. It was a vortex Circe could not escape. She didn’t want to see him….well. She did want to see him, but the idea of facing him while bogged with so much shame and anger was abhorrent. She left regardless; her legs carrying her swiftly over the dewy grass of her home, Circe traveled towards Archibald’s call, her movement stiff with the pain in her loins. As she neared him, coming close enough for his shadowy bulk to loom on the horizon, Circe averted her eyes from him, but not before glimpsing that they would not be alone; both Lakota and Ktulu had headed the Dauntless’s call. Her ears began to burn in hot embarrassment; as she came upon them, Circe kept some yards away from them, standing with almost glacial rigidity, trying to hide the pain in her movements and the weakness she might show. To her consternation, her scratches had begun to bleed; tiny droplets beaded the edges of her wound, growing in size and finally coming to trickle over her side, even as she stood there with feigned solidarity. Her eyes downcast, Circe failed to see that her General had been injured; she also lost the will to bite with her words and rage for being left behind, as she had wont to do in days before. More childishness wouldn’t solve her problems. “My Lady,” Circe murmured in clipped, subdued tones, addressing those present and still avoiding their gazes, “Poisoner. My General. I have come.” |
