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….Who would’ve thought, the shadowmere thought shrewdly, that the only thing the sun was waiting for was for me and Archibald to screw?
Indeed, the horizon was ablaze with a dewy green light, twinkling over the edge of the tree line and the foothills dotting the backdrop of dying night. Some dark pain of glass broke; the night was being done away, and so did some black shroud over Circe’s spirit, the forbidding veil that had settled on her mettle like a weight these passed moons. Had Frostfall been so frigid—had Birdsong been truly so lusterless? It wasn’t until this point, with the dawn of a new day and the death of the previous, that Circe truly appreciated the depth of her despair. The fireflies had done their part well to help her accept it; but now the sun was here to obliterate it, to shake the loss from her shoulders, to clear her mind as water might wash upon a sullied crystal dipped in the tar of nightfall.
Circe snorted softly; she recognized the warmth in her figure, the fading radiance that the Dauntless had left after the conquest of her body. She settled in his embrace, melted by him, bones shattered and mended and rebuilt and caressed by him, her face buried by his mane and her neck obscured by the knots and muscles of his form. She was complete in her contentment, doing her best to heed Archibald’s words. Because he was right; it was wise of him to advise her to forget her fear. Even in those moments of the afterglow’s caress, terror bubbled in the pit of her stomach; panic threatened to break through this new-found peace. Circe knew exactly what was happening in her body, knew that both she and the Dauntless were fertile creatures; she also knew that, if she looked upon another Callisto after feeling the glow of a mother’s love….well. She didn’t know what she’d do. She’d only know her own destruction.
Cheekiness proved to be Circe’s salvation from her growing horror; a sly word leapt into her mouth, just as Archibald’s rough bass died away. “I haven’t driven you to speechlessness this time?” she purred against his hot skin, against that bulge in his neck she loved so much; a chuckle slithered from her lips and into his mane, and once more the bliss of his presence settled over her; her tail curled behind her in playful contentment, the new-born sunlight beginning to crest over the trees and enchant them into a brilliant gold. “Archibald, tell me something,” she continued, piqued by sudden curiosity; she pulled away from him slightly, his mane spilling from her horn and her eyes looking up to gaze into molten pools of gold, “Why did you believe me so willing to leave you side?” Her voice was quiet; there was still a purr somewhere, but it was direct enough, and in the throaty tones her interest was evident.
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