The boys slept finally, entwined together in a tall bed of reeds and soft rushes that sufficed as their bedding. The colts were young; large indeed, yet still so fragile to the world, so desperate for the attention of their mother. This was only ever apparent in slumber, for the tiny things were spitfires of mischief and biding venom that leaking into their every movement—but the shadowmere supposed she had never loved anything as much as she loved those boys of hers. It was a desperate obsession she had over her sons, a wrenching need to see them, touch them, ensure their safety. She reveled in this mania of hers; it was a mother’s frenzy she possessed, and as her gaze lay softly on her resting children, her heart swelled in her chest; Circe turned away from them, straying some yards to graze and leave them in peace, though her eye continued to stray in their direction, ever vigilant, ever starving to regard them just one more time.

A cloying scent tickled the shadowmere’s nose, sweet and inviting—but she was well familiar with it by now. A small grove rested nearby, wherein an old, thunderstruck apple tree resided; only hours before Circe had warned her sons against becoming entranced by the sugary, overpowering scent of apples that wafted from the grove, for the tree had died some months prior and the fallen apples had long since been spoilt. With a glance behind her at her resting sons, Circe allowed a wry impulse to wrack her frame; she ventured near the grove, her steps hesitant in case she wandered too far from her treasured sons. Her worry was for naught; several of the apples had rolled far from their mother tree, and she was able to look upon many without losing sight of her children.

Circe looked down upon an apple--Rose-Madder red and somewhat soft on her lip--for some time, with a cautious and questioning eye. Her sons would disobey her—the shadowmere was certain of this. They were as cunning as their father and just as ballsy, though they lacked his discipline; just the same, Circe would be shocked if they didn’t go against their mother’s wishes and tasted the sickeningly honeyed apples. What will they do to my children? she wondered, venturing closer to the fallen fruit. She never allowed her sons to eat anything she hadn’t tasted herself, save for her own milk—and it was this caution that persuaded the shadowmere to reach for the first apple and taste it, to crunch into it and let the over-sweet juices lay on her tongue, tinged with a certain tartness that she had never detected before in fresher varieties of the fruit.

Why she tasted the second, or the third, was a mystery; Circe looked behind her, confirming that her sons were still lost in the wonderland of slumber, before moving on to her fourth. She had decided a while ago that it was right for her sons to avoid the apples, for her mind buzzed in a peculiar fashion that she did not want her children to experience. The apples had a pleasing taste, though; the shadowmere didn’t think she’d be poisoned by such tiny pieces of fruit. They were rotten—they weren’t lethal.

So she took a fifth.


@[Ktulu]



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As the juices from the sixth apple rolled across the shadowmere’s tongue—its bitter-sweet flavor filling her mouth and coating her cheeks with a savor she had come to enjoy—a voice broke and hissed through the din of the darkened meadow. Circe’s head raised sharply, ears pinned and tail lashing as she anticipated an intruder against her and her kin. Her sudden movement turned out to be a mistake indeed; Circe’s vision swam before her, the trees and the glade nothing but a hazy blur of images and colors, and when she finally laid eyes upon the dark form of the approaching stranger, the shadowmere swore there were two interlopers bearing down upon her.

There were no strangers to behold, however; as Circe blinked rapidly in an attempt to correct her vision, familiar features began to make themselves apparent; the white mane, the blazing red eyes, the blood-tipped horn, the bronze ink that etched into the powerful shoulder. The sorceress knew this mare—perhaps more intimately than some. “Con…Contulu?” she asked, her words clumsy and confused; the apples seemed to have thickened her tongue. As she said it, the shadowmere shook her head, trying to correct the idea of Ktulu and the Constrictor into a plausible train of thought. “Ktulu,” she blurted with a hint of surprise, taking a step back; her tail lashed wildly behind her, a foolish snake, attempting to balance the shadowmere’s ungainly steps. “’S been a momen’ since we’ve spoke, yes?”

In a sudden, non sequitr memory, Circe realized the impact of Ktulu’s early emboldened statement—these apples belonged to her? My ass! Circe thought viciously, taking a step towards her Dark Lady; her head weaved before her like a hypnotic serpent, taunting and dangerous as she leered at the Constrictor. “I’s here first,” she hissed passed her lumbering tongue and a hiccup, “Archibald and I. We have been here for a while, doing things. These apples are mine.” As if to prove her point, the shadowmere’s muzzled dipped down, deftly snatching a seventh and sloppily savoring it in Ktulu’s line of sight; she smacked her lips, slurping the juices with evident relish.

Something caught Circe’s eye, however; she blinked, watching Ktulu and registering something…different about the mare. Her faulty vision made it hard to pinpoint what exactly had been altered about her ex-Chieftainess—it seemed as though extra bronze glinted through the darkness of the meadow, but there was no way for Circe to properly articulate her findings. “You’re golden…er,” was all she could come up with.


@[Ktulu]



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