"But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura
She’d laughed to herself, making jokes about “oh, they’re just taking their time,” and “ah, I’m about ready for you to show up already!” She’d waddled around emerald fields, cursing the sunshine she used to bask in, searching for the one very specific wildflower for which she had a craving. She had thought about it ever since she’d gained the gradual (terrifying) awareness that her stomach was growing disproportionately, felt the fluttering sensation as tiny hooves moved inside her abdomen. Given, it wasn’t very fluttering these days. Sometimes her foal kicked so hard that it would wake her in the middle of the night. Really, objectively, it was a troublesome little thing, but she’d grown rather fond of it despite herself. She’d catch herself humming now and then, which wasn’t too uncommon- but they weren’t songs from the dark green world she missed, they were lullabies she’d thought long lost to her memories. She daydreamed of a little foal that varied in appearance, but always retaining those incredible yellow eyes. Predator’s eyes, perhaps, but to the spotted mare, they reminded her of a man she couldn’t stand to forget.
Certainly, she had dreamt these things, and fussed at the non-appearance of her child, but now all she was left with was fear.
Fear, and pain.
She’d walked in the ocean this morning, enjoying the way the saltwater felt as it rolled across her swollen legs. Now, however, she roamed the line of the cliffs on a mission, seeking out a spot she’d discovered only weeks ago. Annoyed with her failure to mark the place, she paced with purpose, occasionally grunting quietly as another one wracked her abdomen. She refused to call them by name- contractions- as that was somehow more real, more terrifying. She spied the familiar cave entrance finally and sighed with relief, only to feel warm fluid begin running down her hind legs as her water broke. Wide-eyed, she hurried to the cavern, ignoring the comedy of an enormously pregnant mare attempting to waddle down the beach. What a mess you’ve gotten yourself into now, she thought, cursing everything from his beautiful face to her own lack of experience. Such a fool to think that she was old enough, or good enough, or brave enough for this. Here she was, utterly alone, about to face the most terrifying thing she could imagine, and she was so profoundly unprepared. She trembled a little as she entered the cool little pocket of stone, feeling helpless. She had no time to waste on moping, however. Her stomach began to contort itself in horrifying new ways, working its wicked magic to force her foal into the land of the living. She hardly had time to find a smooth area of the floor before her knees buckled, and she found herself splayed out, groaning and pushing. The pain was unbearable, pulling her from the world she inhabited into a primal state of existence.
05-24-2018, 11:10 PM (This post was last modified: 05-24-2018, 11:10 PM by Wishbone.)
haze like a fever
i fell like a dreamer for sweet tea and lemonade; it clings to my t-shirt it’s loud and it lingers, designed to suffocate. i light up to find what i’ve known all this time, there’s some beauty here yet
Out of all the adventures Wishbone springs after (and all the adventures to come), motherhood might be the one to put her in her rightful place. All things considered, she might be a total fuck-up and end up ruining her child beyond help. Thankfully, such thoughts or doings won’t come until much later down the road, when she’s even old enough to have children.
Wishbone briefly considers that one adventure (the pregnancy, birth, and life of her own offspring) in a fleeting moment when she catches sight of the mare struggling toward the cavern. She’d been exploring through the tunnel system again, weaving between rocky underpasses to discover all their entrances and exits and dead-ends. She already knows the one the mare sneaks into is secluded and ends with narrow headspace, but the swollen mare seemed in distress and Wishbone finds her hooves dancing out of the shadows she’d been in to follow.
The sounds of labor echo through the cave, so the mahogany girl lingers at the mouth of the entrance, standing out of sight from the mother-in-progress. She’s heard the healthy cries of childbirth before, so Wishbone stands with ears pricked in case things turn dangerous. Assuming everything goes as planned, once the cries have dwindled and the sounds of a newborn awaken, the heiress appears at the mouth of the cave with a quiet nicker of a greeting.
06-08-2018, 07:47 PM (This post was last modified: 06-08-2018, 11:29 PM by traton.)
As the mare pushed, seconds became eternal, stretching on infinitely in order to prolong her punishment. Punishment, she supposed, for only the briefest of touches in the grand scheme of things. One night, one blissful evening, for this. She cursed him in a muttered stream of breathless foul language, punctuated with ragged gasps. Not that it was any consolation; she didn’t even know his name, after all, yet here she was, giving life to his creation. How very godlike, how very cruel, that men should wield such terrible power.
Her eyes rolled back, tongue finally stilled as the mare groaned. The final heave wrung her organs like a wet rag, and she laid still a moment after, panting and blinking stars from her eyes. Was this death? Certainly, Traton could think of several better ways to go, but none of those stopped her from dying in this moment. It was only as she heard bleating little grunts, an infant’s impression of a whinny, that the spotted mare knew this was not her end. Her head shot up and she rolled onto her stomach, ignoring the protests of a profoundly sore body.
Traton was always somewhat easy to impress, when it came to others. Perhaps it was a function of low self-esteem that she found beauty in most others, whether that meant places or people or anything else. But when the mare laid eyes upon her fresh child, she saw the most beautiful thing she had truly ever put her eyes upon. She was in complete awe as she answered the foal with a whinny of her own, completely transfixed as the child adjusted to the cold world outside her body.
It is with a slight start that the spotted mare realizes they are not alone, but the youthful feminine voice soothes her as the other appears. “I- yes, yes I think so,” her voice sounds decidedly wearier than she’d expected, and the weight of exhaustion presses onto the mare’s body. Ignoring it, she gingerly pushes herself from the sandy floor, turning back to face the stranger and being cleaning her foal.
It had been months now, essentially from the moment she’d realized she was pregnant, that the mare had searched for the perfect name. She’d think this, or that, something or another, stick with one a few weeks until a better one came along. Funnily enough though, she couldn’t remember a damn one of them. It didn’t matter; she’d known the foal’s name from the moment she laid eyes upon her. “Gallia, I think,” she said softly. She paused her mothering for a moment to look gratefully at the stranger, suddenly aware of a thousand troubles she couldn’t have weathered alone. “Thank you."
she’s got jumper cable lips
she’s got sunset on her breath. now i inhaled just a little bit, now i’ve got no fear of death
There isn’t anything like a mother’s love for her child.
Although Wishbone rarely admitted it in her childhood (so caught up in the rush of adventure and thrill of discovery and determination to climb the volcano), her mother’s love helped shape her into who she is today. A mother is the first thing a child sees when they enter the cold, wide new world and, while it might not be the last thing they see before death, a mother is perhaps the most important of all the things to see. If a mother is a good one, she will shape and protect and teach her child everything to prove a successful life because of that love in her heart.
Thinking of the adoration of a mother — seeing that look of eternal admiration in the spotted mare’s eyes — brings a small prick of longing for Wound to the young mare’s heart.
There’s weariness in the new mother’s voice, an exhaustion that echoes off the dark walls of the cavern to bounce back at Wishbone. “I’m glad to hear that.” Her own voice is soft, albeit rugged in its tune, and the mahogany mare feels her muscles give way to relief. She hadn’t even realized they had been tense. “That is a beautiful name.” Gallia. It sounds elegant and sweet on the tongue, making Wishbone think of dancing in the rain. Yet there’s an undercurrent of bravery to it. The Tephran-turned-Leviathan certainly hopes Gallia will stay in Nerine as she grows up.
Although Wishbone is glad the mare and her child are safe, she can sense the atmosphere of the day is turning. “I’ll leave you two alone now. I just wanted to make sure you’re both alright.” While she would love to slip into the depths of the cave and watch the youngster try to stand and then discover the world around her, there are moments where Wishbone understands she must rein herself in. Mother and daughter must also get to know each other, even while daughter gets to know the world. “If you need any help, please call for me. I’m Wishbone.”
She offers them a gentle, easy smile before slipping away from the cavern’s mouth and disappearing along the shore.
