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Of course the shadowmere was affected by recent events--although, somehow, it felt as though she got off a lot better than the Dauntless.

Circe felt his bulk leave her, and a gush of cool air came in and replaced the heat of his passion. As chilly as the night was, the sorceress felt her whole body disheveled and drenched in sweat, the air biting her especially sensitive skin with its frost-promised nips. Her head hung low, breath coming in evenly, taking gasps of the thin shadow-air to cool her raging insides. Whatever the case, something warm had settled in the pit of her stomach, a tiny nodule that left the shadowmere’s body covered in goose-bumps, yet her knees remained strong and her stance balanced and sure. Despite her injuries, Circe was not--would not be-- some weakened puddle of swooning jelly that would fall into a heap at her General’s heels. Even if that’s how she felt.

What happened with Archibald….Circe was still trying to process it. He had certainly broken some piece of her, shattered and pulverized it completely to irretrievable oblivion; then he had melted the pieces, turning her to putty in his rough-gentle-berserk possession; then he molded her to him, shaping her, making and remaking her until, standing there in the pale, wavering shadow of the moon, Circe felt herself a stranger in her own body. It was not an unpleasant feeling, to say the least; a thick, woolen veil settled itself upon Circe’s mind and thoughts, sedating the mare into some happy state of docility and hopeless content. Surely this was the last vestiges of the euphoria she had felt—and perhaps the mare was slightly punch-drunk from their spar. Whatever the case, as the Dauntless spoke and Circe lifted her head to meet his eye, it was with an altered perception that she registered his words.

Circe had never been afraid of her General; they were herd mates and comrades, dedicated to the same creed and blood-bond that came with being a member of the Grey. However, he was a superior to her in many ways, least of which being her direct commanding officer. Their meetings previous had been plagued with that cool shroud of formality and detachment because of these things; how was she, Circe, supposed to consider her superior in any way other than with rapt formality? Yet here she was watching the nervousness to him, the uncertainty in his voice, the misstep in his discourse, the plea in his harsh demand—Speak, he was telling her—and Circe couldn’t stop the light of a gentle smile to lighten her gaze, and was just able to reel the chuckle from escaping her throat.

Look at him. The great warlord, Archibald the Dauntless, just as broken as Circe was.

“No, Archibald,” she spoke, answering his unfinished inquiry; the throaty, sensual purr that escaped her lips was surely inappropriate for her General’s ears, and yet the shadowmere was in a complete state of limbo wherein she gave not a single fuck. “I am not unduly broken…” Her voice melted into a wince, stifling her groan as she shifted her weight from hoof to hoof; her chest was still rather tender, the bite behind her ears smarted and stung, her elbow shook slightly in tingling weakness and pieces of her body that she hadn’t even known existed throbbed powerfully in unison with all her aches. The next time she slept would be brutal for sure as every single muscle would settle with deep-seated soreness.

No. She was definitely not hurt.

For now, everything was a dull haze of drunken smiles and cozy, complete feelings, all too smudgy for Circe to properly sit down and contemplate their situation. Somehow the notion that she was very possibly with child managed to break its way through the vortex, though it was an abstract idea rather than a solid fact. The more she contemplated it, the warmer Circe’s stomach seemed to get, as though she imagined the infant growing at a prodigious pace within her loins this very moment. It was a poignant, bittersweet sensation as the idea of being a mother started to settle on her shoulders; a gut-wrenching relief at the chance for redemption. For the chance to bring life and raise it, nurture it and bestow unconditional love for one of her flesh seemed the perfect baptism for the betrayed, jaded, heartbroken orphan. Hera had failed as a mother, leaving her offspring in the clutches of the enemy to be destroyed at their leisure; here was Circe’s chance to wash the stain of her mother’s sin from her skin and prove, once and for all, that the title “Mother” wasn’t synonymous with “traitor”.

Idly, Circe’s gaze fell upon the red malamute bitch that happened upon their grove; the dry, ice-cold light in the dog’s eye almost wrenched the hidden chuckle out of Circe’s breast, for the disapproval seemed rather comical to the shadowmere for whatever reason. “What is she called, I wonder?” came the absentminded murmur, her voice once again teasing out into the brittle air. As the words escaped her lips, Circe lifted her gaze once more to Archibald’s fretful demeanor; the smile in her eyes refused to leave, unaffected by his panic, for what was there to panic about?

“Tell me, though,” that sultry voice spoke again, her head lifted high and proud as she gazed into the Dauntless’s golden irises, “how do you fare, Archibald?” The true, unasked question hung heavy in the air; were you broken too? Did that affect you like it affected me?


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