|
……shut up.
It was a mental whine, an exhausted thought that Circe directed towards the shimmering Pegasus mare. Frozen in place as she was, Circe could feel the sheer force of weight leave her head and withers; it was an excruciatingly uncomfortable sensation, coupled with the vast amount of energy her magic was consuming. The trembling that came from the shadowmere became a tick for fatigue instead of a demonstration of her remorse. There was remorse there—but it was hard to manifest, especially after Phaedra’s heated words rent the air. Was there any point in arguing, any point in trying to rationalize with the flighty temptress?
In a heartbeat, Circe decided there wasn’t. “You’re right,” she said in a tired whisper, feeling the weight of gravity shift from her back, a sensation like being dragged from quick sand. Because, after all, Phaedra was indeed right. A warrior did not attack their own; Phaedra had proved that. The speckled Pegasus was not Circe’s kin. She failed to recognize the disrespect with which she handled the shadowmere. This was not about a mere question; if those thoughtless, embarrassing jibes had come from some stranger in the meadow, Circe wouldn’t have thought twice about it. They had come from someone who professed to be family, and it was there that the shame lie. The respect wasn’t there; the honor was lost.
Phaedra started her keening just as Circe’s knees melted from the weighted magic; all that was left to be freed was her hooves. It felt as though her feet were disconnected from the rest of her body; they were lead shoes, blocks of solid iron that refused to be budged. The sight of Phaedra trying to carry Stella in her clumsy feathers was almost laughably pathetic; no amusement lurched in Circe’s breast, however. Her heart was sick, her throat was distorted. The sight of the broken little bird afforded much more shame for the shadowmere than the Spy’s snarky words; this was an innocent caught in the crossfire of the passionate mares. Circe wouldn’t have changed her actions toward the brash mare—but she would’ve done anything in her power to keep her hoof from straying to the unfortunate bird.
But then Phaedra started her deplorable screeching, and Circe was compelled to try and take a step forward just to escape it, a step she didn’t succeed in making. Ears pinning, Circe screwed her eyes shut against the ruthlessness of Phaedra’s grief. It was annoying. It was suffocating; it was rending the shadowmere’s breast in two. “I’ll go,” she said through gritted teeth, a migraine already beginning to take root in her brain. Just shut up, by the Gods.
Once more, the sorceress tried to lift her hoof, and with what felt like a resounding pop, the tar-like bubble of her magic ceased to exist all together. Tiny tremors ran the length of her muscles; sweat began to pool in the crevices of her body; she could feel a pant pull at the air in her lungs. The magic took its toll well and truly on the shadowmere’s body, but Circe knew she was beholden to the tiny, shattered bird, if not to its obnoxious owner; as such, Circe beguiled her body into motion, springing into a bolt, tail lashing in the air as she sped deeper into the Foothills in search of the Merciful lord. Her forceful, scratchy voice was a bullet into the night.
“APOLLO!”
 |
.svg/2000px-Google_Chrome_icon_(2011).svg.png){kind=icon}
