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The island, she thought, the very idea bleary in her mind, a vague impression that sent her legs moving across the heated plain. The island…I must go….the island…She snorted, nostrils trembling in the dry, throbbing heat that emanated from the smoldering sapphire flames of a holy land. Her body glistened with sweat—although she supposed she’d be sweating regardless of the warmth. Tremors wracked her body, a familiar pain gripping her in familiar ways; she groaned deeply in her throat, but still she did move across the burning, the stars above twinkling within their own inky black forge. The island…the island…

She knew her Dauntless had chosen to reside within the magical mists of the World’s Edge, that place of violet sunrise and the haunting of resent that she could not shake. The idea of going to live amongst those horses she had been so eager to kill sent shivers down her spine, a sour taste in her throat. The very thought of seeing her Dark Lady again, that smoky mistress Ktulu and the Poisoner Lakota who had once healed Circe’s birthing scars; to lay eyes upon Apollo, that merciful stud who had taken Ophelia’s place when she had fled with her skirts flitting around her legs; to see her fellow countrymen fat and happy, the past behind them, flourishing in the sand and the salty air—all these things that rushed upon Circe’s consciousness caused an ache behind her eyes to form and her heart to tremble dangerously in her breast.

She stayed away.

The shame was too much to bear—she knew how she looked whenever she gazed into the mirrored pools. She saw the haggard shadows beneath her eyes, the lost weight despite the ample fullness of a belly that hid a glorious treasure indeed. She knew that her spirit was just as broken, if not more so, than the crumbling corpse that housed it. She knew that the foolish glow that lay upon her features only added to the dismal caricature of her former self; a mother, idiotically giddy in becoming a mother once more. A warrior fearing herself a mother, once again, though this would be her fourth child passing.

Third child living.

Circe had not remembered Callisto moving inside her the moment her reckoning was due; it was a small detail, but all the more crucial and devastating in its simplicity. She had been a new mother--she had not known. And when her boys had come, they had wreaked more havoc on her body than she thought possible, leaving scars unseen inside her womb that the Poisoner had tried so valiantly to sew.

This child was different; Circe could feel the flutter of life inside her, but it was so faint, so calm and serene, gentle waves upon the water’s surface. Circe’s breath hitched as she felt her child move; her eyes grew wet and her mind became dazed with happiness, paralyzed with fear. Who are you? she would ask herself, dozing in the shadow of Birdsong, Are you my newest child? Are you my newest tragedy?

Who are you?

…

When the pain came—angry and hot, streaking all over her body as though hot brands pressed themselves against her—Circe almost laughed with the weakness of it. Oh, but she had passed children of hellfire, boys filled with hot piss and vinegar still in the womb! Her body seemed to be trained now, knowing to expect from this single child, a child that seemed tiny within her, squirming for release. The island, she had decided, I will give birth there, the place where I received my last chance, and this seedling. My child—my tragedy.

Her body was too trained, though; her hips opened wide, and the pain came in sickening, frequent waves. Circe had only just made it to those pale-blue flames that marked the sky-island’s entrance—and her baby was here. The island… she thought, futile, for it was too late. She dropped to her knees, to her side; the waves of heat washed over her and the stars twinkled far above, bright and watchful over the shadowmere as she lay helpless against the wills of nature.

Her child.

Her tragedy.


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“Oh….” She said—and that was all she could say, for her breath had vanished from her lungs. “Oh…” Her eyes were held wide, glassy saucers upon the form that squealed behind her, a warm lump that writhed and wiggled beneath the sheen of fluids and afterbirth. A lump that breathed and whined; a lump with a heart that beat.

“Oh, child,” she breathed, at a complete and utter loss. It had happened so suddenly; the shadowmere had lain herself down, expecting the hours of agony needed in order to pass a child. And then….quite simply…the child had slid from her, perfect and whole, and Circe was hard pressed to remember anything more beautiful that she had ever seen in her life. For the longest time, she merely gazed at the child, shocked—completely bewildered that shehad managed to give birth to something so sublime, so awe-inspiring.

Something was soaring within her; it climbed up her throat, left her eyes in hot, steady streams; it reached all four corners of her body and crevices she hadn’t dared to imagine existed, electrifying her, melting her and burning her all at the same time. She didn’t realize the radiant joy for what it was, pure and unadulterated, for it actually hurt her in its purity. Circe swallowed; her body throbbed once more. Her wasn’t aware that her head was spinning, or that the world was toppling; she could barely sense that she had stopped breathing.

Archibald, look, she whispered in her mind; but the Dauntless was nowhere, for Circe could not bear to tread upon the sands of the Edge, and she was too late to meet him upon the divinity of the island. Archibald, look at her. She could not help the tears that continued to leak from her eyes; a bubble of laughter erupted from her, sudden and new, as light as the joy that stung her from the inside. Look at what we made. A tiny, garbling cry came from behind her, and the child stirred from where she lay on the ground. We must have done something right this time.

Circe made to rise, to give her daughter, her daughter, the first drink of life—and for the first time, recognized the ruin of her body and the weakness of it, for the numbness was gone, and she could feel just how ruined her body truly was. Perhaps scars had been torn open, anew; perhaps the tiny horn of the child had slashed new lacerations within the shadowmere. All she knew was the puddle of blood growing beneath her, too fast and urgent; and the cold creeping into her limbs, the exhaustion that was descending upon her too quickly, too quickly…


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