06-03-2020, 08:39 PM
l e p i s
I never throught it was a question of whether
In the west, the sun hangs low, turning the Sylvan forest from autumn gold to orange fire. Behind me, the soft purple dusk creeps in from the Hyaline mountains and overhead the summer stars begin to show their faces. The air is thick and smells of peonies, for it is on a bed of their green leaves and brightly colored blossoms I rest. The child within me stretches, and from the way its hooves push against my belly I know that it means to arrive soon.
I have birthed all my children alone, and this one will be no different.
---
By the time he arrives, the only light comes from the stars and the thin slice of moon that hovers over Loess. In much the same way, I hover over the small colt. I had not known what to expect of him, nor of myself at his arrival.
I had wondered if I might be able to kill him, to solve many of the problems that face me with a single act of violence. I’d certainly sounded capable when I had threatened Neverwhere. A single quick blow between those violet eyes, and he would never face the lifetime of suffering that threatens him, never grow to understand the reason he exists. It is the merciful thing to do, I know.
Uncertain, I fall back on instinct, and bathe him gently from the edge of his soft white nose to his flop of a tail. I had done the same for my firstborn, still as he was, and I think of the small buckskin boy and the life I might have led if he had lived.
I touch the small wings, downy and grey, and know that I cannot harm him. At least, not now, not like this. If I succeed - when I succeed – he will be harmed regardless. He will be a boy without a mother, but surely that is better than being dead.
I trace the black markings along his face, and the clean white along his neck and shoulders that I decide have come from me, and not the colors his father wore at his conception. I should have known – after Celina, after Elio – that the Curse had changed more than just the mind, and yet I am still surprised by the way the colt in front of me so resembles the disguise. I brush aside the memory of the ache at seeing the dappled colt a few weeks earlier, simultaneously thankful that at least this child will not be a visible reminder of what I have lost.
He will remind me on other ways.
“Kestrell,” I name him, taking the name of a fierce bird and hoping that it will give him strength. I give him some as well, the softest touch of confidence to encourage him to stand.
@[Kestrell]
I have birthed all my children alone, and this one will be no different.
---
By the time he arrives, the only light comes from the stars and the thin slice of moon that hovers over Loess. In much the same way, I hover over the small colt. I had not known what to expect of him, nor of myself at his arrival.
I had wondered if I might be able to kill him, to solve many of the problems that face me with a single act of violence. I’d certainly sounded capable when I had threatened Neverwhere. A single quick blow between those violet eyes, and he would never face the lifetime of suffering that threatens him, never grow to understand the reason he exists. It is the merciful thing to do, I know.
Uncertain, I fall back on instinct, and bathe him gently from the edge of his soft white nose to his flop of a tail. I had done the same for my firstborn, still as he was, and I think of the small buckskin boy and the life I might have led if he had lived.
I touch the small wings, downy and grey, and know that I cannot harm him. At least, not now, not like this. If I succeed - when I succeed – he will be harmed regardless. He will be a boy without a mother, but surely that is better than being dead.
I trace the black markings along his face, and the clean white along his neck and shoulders that I decide have come from me, and not the colors his father wore at his conception. I should have known – after Celina, after Elio – that the Curse had changed more than just the mind, and yet I am still surprised by the way the colt in front of me so resembles the disguise. I brush aside the memory of the ache at seeing the dappled colt a few weeks earlier, simultaneously thankful that at least this child will not be a visible reminder of what I have lost.
He will remind me on other ways.
“Kestrell,” I name him, taking the name of a fierce bird and hoping that it will give him strength. I give him some as well, the softest touch of confidence to encourage him to stand.