.svg/2000px-Google_Chrome_icon_(2011).svg.png){kind=icon}
09-21-2013, 07:08 PM
|
CIRCE *"You are injured, sister."* These were the words with which Circe was greeted; not an accusation for inaction and irresponsibility, not a tongue lashing laced with ruthless words of petty childishness. No, it was with worry the Poisoner looked upon Circe, healing the shadowmere’s wounds without preamble. Circe’s throat caught; she could barely look upon the mare with the amethyst eyes; she suspected that her voice might break, and her resolve would finally crumble into a mass of weeping. Like sunlight blinding in the eyes of the shadowmere, Lakota’s kindness was too radiant; it was undeserved.“I was,” Circe answered in a whisper of her purr; she accepted Lakota’s touch and returned it, a gentle gesture of gratitude for the unconditional display of fondness. “Thank you,” Circe breathed, eyes still averted in almost shy gracelessness. This was the difference between her herd and her family. This was the dividing line between wolves at one another’s throats, and legitimate concern for a brother or sister of blood. The blood of battle is thicker than water of the womb—Circe believed in this mantra. It was why she chafed with every lost opportunity to demonstrate her devotion to a herd that did not want it, did not need it; she had wanted to shed her blood and battle for the good of this herd, but what of it? One of her herdmates had won the privilege—scorned it—then proceeded to mock Circe in her face with hot words, insinuating Circe would stoop as low as to shake her ass in the nose of her General to persuade him to grant a weakling’s safety behind the parapets of the Foothills’ defenses. There could be no understanding between the two; the rift was created, and Circe was done. Archibald was done too; his words came to her, a rumble of bass-heavy beat that sent her heart careening against her ribcage, her heart breaking all over again as he mentioned their lost, precious Callisto. Circe’s eyes finally rose to watch him speak--he was watching her. Those golden eyes of his, piercing despite its capability for warmth, his touch against her shoulder sending a spark reverberating throughout her sore, weary body; he was done with this skewed sense of honor as well. He was leaving. Ktulu and Lakota would follow. His gaze spoke to her; Circe heard the words, regardless of his silence. Do not lose faith in me, I am stronger. Never did she doubt his resolve—but the dilemma was apparent. Ophelia had already left this place, and Circe’s disgust had been in high evidence; now Ktulu was ready to depart as well, as was two high ranking members. Circe was ready to go as well; wasn’t there hypocrisy there? Surely the shadowmere would feel the sickening vice of guilt, a strangle-hold she was still lost in where Phaedra was concerned. But it was a different, diminished sort of shame, a tiny glass shard against the heat of her injustice. It wouldn’t hold up. It was Lakota who had found Circe in those far flung woods, all those seasons ago; it was to Lakota that Circe offered her warrior body and fighter’s heart to use. Lakota deemed her worthy of healing; The Foothills refused to use her. Refused to use the General’s pet. Circe looked right back at Archibald. Her gaze was level; the turmoil that was Phaedra and Stella was stifled for now. It was not the moment for that sordid affair. It was their moment. I know you’re strong. |
