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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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