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The gift he was giving her was a marvelous one. Clouds swooped beneath her hooves, lifting her into the sky, to nirvana or Valhalla or gods knew where—but it was his lips against the roughness of her cheek that took the air from her lungs. She couldn’t understand it—this tender forgiveness that he offered unjealously, kindly meant. It baffled her that there remained some shred of affection for his failed Executioner—his lax and deplorable lady, the mother of children allowed to wander away, lost in oblivion for all she knew. The sky floated around the shadowmere, wondrous and grand; she stepped from the insubstance of cloudwork onto a solid spire of rock, floating amongst the heavens, and her Dauntless lead her to a place swathed with fragrant petals.

It was too gorgeous for Circe to bear. Amongst all these fine things of purity—especially the gentle love Archibald insisted on offering—she felt even lower than before, a mongrel, her fluttering heart fragile in its hope and façade of courage. She leaned into his shade as he groomed her; she closed her eyes and sighed, allowing herself to bask in his touch for some moments, before lifting her lips to his broad chest and reciprocating the gesture. The wind around her smelled sweet, and blew like a kiss against her neck; the confusion that rattled the shadowmere was tempered somewhat by it, her nerves calmed, her wits slightly less rattled than before.

His shadow was patient, silent; it did nothing to force her thoughts into words that she dreaded, merely coaxing her form her shell, constructing bridges stone by stone, brick by brick, that crossed the chasm surrounding her heart. She took a breath, the wind fluttering down her throat; she sighed it out, then took another, then another, before she could finally find some shred of courage to begin asking questions that frightened her with their implications. “Tell me....about our boys,” she murmured against him, as her teeth and lips continued to work against his hide. He had assuaged her need to hear of their safety; it was all she knew about the boys she had borne in a bloodied day of sunlit rain. “Abraham..? Reginald..? What…” she paused for a second, “You say Abraham has a dragon…?" It was a disgusting thing to slip passed her lips—this thing that indicated her ignorance to the whereabouts of her offspring, the disconnection so profound that left her children total strangers to her side. She could have melted from the shame of it; she could feel shards of her soul sparking out of control, threatening to burst, to scatter from her skin and hair in fright and sickened shame.

Archibald’s shadow was there, however; it was deep, and patient, silent. It bound her to earth, and soothed her into something mortal, and real. “How…have you been faring, Archibald?”



@[Archibald]
speaking

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It was difficult for her thoughts to gather themselves; Archibald, no matter how awesome his strength, had always been skillful with his touch. Her already-unsteady contemplations began to wander from their tracks, floating into star-shattered territory that gleamed in the edges of her mind; the perfume of the island surrounded and intoxicated, and his lips were sweet against her. She left off with her own grooming of his form, consumed by his ministrations; she sighed into him, her head resting against his own withers, her eyelids fluttering as she struggled to respond to his words, his comforts. Unbending herself; finding some way to allow herself this bliss.

She snorted, softly, as she thought of her boys--those bastards of hers, born in blood and blazing, numbing pain. How proud she was of them; how happy their existence had made her. Utterly, shatteringly happy. “The world has no clue,” she whispered against the blackness of his hide. She was no fool about her sons--evil little things they were, sparked with a hellfire she had often seen when they looked into her eyes. Reginald—gripped by rage. Abraham—consumed by glory. Her heart warmed as she thought of the dragon Gwyn; how proud she was of Abraham to follow in the footsteps of his father, the path of the bonded.

The World’s Edge—Circe remembered that place. A place of war, where she had spirited away a family, a woman and her children, who would end up being lost to darkness anyway. She almost couldn’t believe her Archibald when he described the tranquility of such a strange, magic-strewn place. She couldn’t imagine them accepting the General who had fought so hard for their destruction with open arms. She snorted—a chuckle escaped her lips, painful and awkward, releasing the tension in her throat. “I had wanted…” she began, husky and throaty; pensive, “I had wanted so badly to follow you into that battle…” She shook her head; her eyes were infuriatingly wet at the memory. “I was so angry. With you, with Ktulu….I had wanted to fight at your side, my General.” The chuckle came harder then. “My General. How things have changed….” Phaedra’s words echoed in her mind, those sparkling taunts; Circe’s eyes spilled some. She did not know of Phaedra’s death.

He spoke of the future, and it was as though the chill wind of blight cut through the warmth of this perfect place. She shuddered—pushed herself away from him somewhat, looking towards his eyes. “The future…” she said, her voice dropping, hitching in her throat, “What future should I dare to hope for?” The tears ran unchecked down her face, rain in the paradise. “I was your soldier once, my General. I was the mother of your children, our darling Callisto, our powerful Reginald and Abraham. I used to be strong once, and brave. Look at me,” she said desperately, breathlessly, “I cry now, at the very memory of my former self. What future could we ever have together? What future could you ever want with this?”

Her voice finally broke; she was very close to the thing she had been threatening to do. To shatter herself apart. “I am not the mare you fell in love with,” she shook, and hotter tears replaced the last, falling far more urgently than before, “I do not know where she is.”



[Laura Mvula is forever Circe muse <3]
@[Archibald]
speaking

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The tears were warm against her cheeks, welling as they were from the deep pools of blue-gray. His words were meant to soothe her, to comfort the shadowmere who grieved for whatever part of herself she had lost to darkness and pain. And perhaps he was successful, for Circe remembered the wrenching pain the fireflies had brought to her; how they had, little by little, chipped away the solid glass wall between her and her agony over her darling Callisto, until the torrent had gushed forth and she was consumed by the mighty waves of it, submerged and drowned, until the waters of misery leveled and the shadowmere was able to, at last, find some sort of semblance of equilibrium.

Such was the pain Circe felt at that moment, as Archibald’s warm, passionate words fell upon her shoulders, lightly and gentle, as a firefly might land upon her wither. There was no stopping the warmth that rushed from her eyes; she leaned into his neck again, that shadow where she drew the most strength from him. Her tears were quiet; she merely shook against him, allowing his words to wash over her, knowing it would be obstinate to argue against them. She knew her desire lay in the hidden wish for her own punishment—how could she deserve the affection of this stallion, one such as Archibald? How could she justify this love? The implication—the idea—the hope of his seed, the blessing of child in her womb, new life to be had?

Ktulu, her Dark Lady of the broken Foothills, that land laid to rubble—Circe remembered her words: We have hearts. Where would we be if we didn't?There was a time, at every cross-road, where one had to acknowledge their heart, the failings of their humanity—the promise of their rejuvenation. It was a lesson Circe found herself face-to-face with multiple times—and still she found it painful to learn, damn-near impossible to allow penetrating her skull. As her tears began to slacken, her chest rumbled deep within, a rolling chuckle as she contemplated her fate. Laughing at herself, at the dullness in her chest, the steady throb of pain and a weakness she could not place. It was a broken record, this pain. She had seen this before, and it was time to forgive something about herself.

“You would have me again, Archibald?” she murmured against the black sinews of his neck; she seemed to lose herself underneath his mane, the shadow of strength he lent her. She looked at him, her eyes puffy and red around her irises, the last vestiges of tears still clinging to her lashes like dew. Her voice did not waver—had not wavered all this time. She considered him for a moment, the terrible, glorious ramifications of his offer hanging still in the air, looming over hear heart, her head. Her gaze spun slightly, and she found that she was holding her breath.

“….Fine, then,” She acquiesced; her voice disappeared to gravel.




--fade--
speaking