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In her jaded, bitter state, it was rare indeed for the shadowmere to be moved by anything—her heart being so cold and frozen, there was no possibility of budging it even an inch—yet here were two of the tiniest bodies imaginable doing just that. What trickery was this? The sorceress’s eyes never left those small things, clustered as they were beside their mother, the shadow Mirage. As her steely blue gaze settled on the children of the Weyrleader, something painful did lurch within Circe, sweet in its agony and stabbing in its caress. The clench only tightened, almost unbearably, as the small daughters inclined their tiny brows in respect for their guests. It was almost too much for the shadowmere to witness; a lump began to form in her throat, making it impossible for her to swallow away the bittersweet longing she began to feel.
Until this point, Circe had never considered herself a candidate for motherhood—she never allowed herself to do so. The memory of her mother, Hera, that blasted mare—it brought too much shame and blistering anger to the forefront of the shadowmere’s mind for her to properly consider children. She herself was but a child when she was abandoned; it was as though she were stuck in the limbo of her mother’s treachery, forced to live in a world where time stood stock-still, frozen in the moment of her deepest misery. The sight of the foals proved to break that trance; with a jolt, Circe realized fully her status as mare, her obligation to the Grey as an Executioner. It finally dawned on her just how old she felt, how far she had come since her youthful joys of the hillside. The full enormity of her growth shocked her, astounded her—and in one single moment, Circe knew how much it ached her to be a mother. A beautiful, radiant ache, but an ache nonetheless.
She shoved the pain away, stuffing it deep within the back of her mind for later scrutiny, tearing her eyes away from the scaled babes and back to full attention. Damn. With a feeling of shame, Circe realized just how long she had zoned out; her lady was apologizing for her wayward thoughts, though Circe wasn’t quite aware of how her Lady came aware of that. The sight of the children had completely dominated Circe’s vision and thought, not sparing any for her liege. She snorted softly, her breath lost in the warm, salty air of the herdland. Shameful indeed.
The thick, cleavable tension in the air, the bizarre turn of events surrounding her Lady, the sight of the foals and the affection they had on the shadowmere—all of it caused Circe to grow wary of this place. It was a strange, trickery-riddled land, causing everything around them to tilt askew and tear asunder precious boundaries and pleasantries designed to keep the peace of comrades stable and sweet. When the Pale Lady announced their intention to depart, it was with a rush of gratitude on Circe’s part. The venture to the other herds proved an interesting, enlightening experience—but she was done with it. With a polite, prolonged inclination of her head toward the members of the World’s Edge, Circe wordlessly followed her liege away from such unfortunate company.
The shadowmere wanted her Foothills.
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[O] Danger Looms [ranked Edge/circe/throat]
