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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