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The chill in the air was palpable as the Dauntless sent his bitch away; Circe could almost taste the thick tension as it slithered in their wake, and in that moment she was certain there was something amiss between the warrior and his companion. Loretta’s eyes found Circe; the shadowmere could feel the voiceless plea that came from the malamute. Something was broken between her and Archibald, and somehow Circe would be able to fix it….but how? It was neigh impossible that the two of them would break in the first place; it must’ve taken something truly harrowing to cause such a rift. How did one such as the shadowmere find the power to fix a bond that was supposed to have been unbreakable?
Archibald granted her wish; he indeed spoke to her cold words, defiant words, words laced with crackling anger and pride. Circe listened; she did not run from his mounting anger, his passionate outburst, with her tail between her legs. She didn’t feel her insides boil with indignant, misplaced anger; she didn’t feel the need to rebuke his words. No; she listened. Every word that fell from his maw were hammer blows in the shadowmere’s core, resonating within, an echo of thought and emotion that flowed on the same wavelength and heartbeat. Did she understand him fully? No; Circe would admit that, in the great scheme of things, she knew relatively little about him. “Are we not of the same mold, though?” she whispered, almost murmuring to herself. Because it was true; his desires were her own, his urges were her temptations. Circe hadn’t been born in a herd; her purpose was to destroy them. The experiment of the Foothills confirmed that. She was a creature of family—but of a herd? There was no place for her. She was too savage for that.
Archibald came close, and though his movements were coarse, he satisfied the innermost wishes of Circe’s body. As his muzzle came to touch hers, something sparked within her chest, something achingly familiar and still so alien. Some piece of her whispered in her mind, gently, You’ve done this before. There’s nothing to be afraid of--but it was wrenching control out of her hands. The night sky, the glade bathed in moonlight; these things were quickly becoming forgotten, as it was the presence of the Dauntless that started to dominate Circe’s perception. How he stood in the lush grass—how his tail lashed behind him in his anger—how his voice rumbled like an avalanche and shook the marrow in her bones--how his eyes broke the darkness, almost glowing, watching her, causing her hear to pulse unbearably in her chest—
*"I want you so much, but if you knew what I have done you would not wish to stand alongside me."*
“Don’t tell me what I would or would not wish,” hissed Circe; her words were hoarse and fierce, but it wasn’t with anger. Whatever was happening to the shadowmere forced these things from her throat. She couldn’t control it—and as she deduced what her body craved, Circe debated whether or not she truly wanted to regain control. “I turned my back on the Foothills because they proved to break the bond of brotherhood. I attacked one of them, Archibald; I attacked her and almost killed her companion in the process. I didn’t—“ a thin crack appeared in the surface of her voice; she rallied almost at once, “I didn’t mean for such bloodshed. Her maw needed to be closed; foolish things, she said to me. She said I was your pet.”
A blaze became lit, the same rumbling anger that had exploded all over Phaedra’s chest and Stella’s tiny heart. “I’m more,” she said, and Circe moved closer to him; she moved to bury the side of her face into his thick mane, to drink him in and feel his bulk, as her desires wont her to do, “I’m more to you than that. I’m more—I could be more. She refused to see her careless mistake; so she paid the price, and I took my leave. I will not be wasted.”
“You’ve…never wasted me,” Circe continued; a certain thickness was overcoming her voice; her tail curled with increasing intensity, and she knew what she wanted to do with it. The mechanics of nature were taking over. “I wanted to go to battle with you so bad, Archibald. I...was angry for a time. I wanted to be with you, but even then I wasn’t wasted. I never was. Don’t…” her voice was falling into a whisper; she moved her maw upwards, towards his ear, “Don’t presume me lost. Don’t expect me to leave your side. I’m more than some wayward pet of yours. I’m more….I’m…”
She was losing it; stars seemed to pop in front of her eyes, and focus was gone. The speckled Spy and her unfortunate companion ceased to exist in Circe’s mind; things became warped black shapes on the edges of her sight, and she was dimly aware of the white plume that settled near her withers. She barely had a voice anymore; all that was left were ragged breaths. “I…Archi….” She backed away some, so that her eyes may find his. Should she regret this later, or find shame in her actions—it mattered little, because these were the churnings of natural discourse, and those were a sort that refused to be disregarded.
It was her eyes that spoke: If you want me so bad, take me. I'm yours.
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