I guess that's how the story goes; dacian / chasmata

[aurorae]

aurorae

He asked her to stay—and she had, for the most part.

They had found a home in the Cove and, most nights, when they fell asleep, it was her twilight body curled against his own. It was with the heat of his breath against the back of his neck, the sound of his heart pounding against her. She found comfort in the routine of him, even though she knew that there was nothing routine about it. She found comfort in the roiling violence underneath the surface that always threatened to snap at any moment, the restraint that was just barely there, as though it may escape.

It was the kind of comfort that she knew best.

But even the weightiness of that was not enough to hold her close. It was not enough to keep her entirely rooted—and so she still wandered. She left their roost and moved beyond to find other souls that would captivate her for the night, although none made her want to stay in one spot so much as he did.

So she always returned.

And, tonight, she returns because of something else.

The curve of her belly had grown and the gravity is unlike anything that she’s ever known. She feels it in the labored breath and the sweat that makes her neck go slick. She feels it in the way her muscles seize together and then her knees go weak—the way she finally makes her way to the ground, legs folding underneath her as she groans, leaning into the pain that rises up and over her like a monsoon.

The hours pass in a blur.

When all is said and done, the night sky is at its darkest peak, save for the spattering of stars over them, and her child curls against her side. She curls her neck and stares in wonder at the aurora that covers her child too, Without thinking, she calls on the starlight above them and it dances in a silver ribbon, almost like an aurora of their own, beckoning to Dacian should he see it, celebrating her child even if he did not.

I said I never knew the moral but I guess that's how the story goes
my lovers never been a mirror in the hour that I needed it most

[Dacian]

you have forsaken all the love you've taken
sleeping on a razor there's nowhere left to fall

He had known from the moment that he had asked her to stay that she would not. Not in the way that he wished that she would, at least.

He had known that keeping the night sky locked in one place would be impossible, and even she spends most of her nights resting against him, it is not enough. Because he is greedy and wanting, he is possessive and jealous, and those few nights that she does spend away from him are enough to drive him mad.

He tries not to think of anyone touching her the way that he does. He tries not to think of anyone else pressing feverish kisses against all the places he has laid claim to because giving those thoughts even an ounce of control is enough to make the flames grow hot in his throat. Sometimes when he stalks the border after she has gone, he is not even aware of the smoke that curls from his mouth with each breath, and he does not even notice how his tongue burns hot in anticipation.

For her, he would burn this entire place to the ground, and there are moments while she is gone when the anger becomes so all-consuming he is afraid he would not stop himself from burning her with it.

He had seen her return, though, and he had to catch himself from going to her immediately. There had been a time in a previous life he had kept a small herd, and he had learned to recognize the signs. He watched the direction that she disappeared to, and this time an entirely different tension took root inside his chest.

He waits, and the longer the night drags on, the more he can feel himself beginning to grow agitated with his own worry. He has already started to make his way towards her when he sees the silver ribbon that lights up the sky, a beacon that he knows is just for him, and he is surprised at the relief that settles his into his bones.

He falters for just a moment when he finds her, and when he sees the small, aurora-colored filly curled at her side. Something in the deepest parts of his chest clenches, and he can't even remember if he has ever met most of his children or even cared about them.

“Aurorae,” he murmurs her name into the night and reaches down to press a kiss to her neck once he is next to her. He lingers there, brushing his lips across her temple before focusing his eyes on the little girl again, and asking her quietly, “What are you going to name her?”

Dacian

your body's aching, every bone is breaking
nothing seems to shake it, it just keeps holding on