"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 grows wider with every passing day, and though the growth is infinitesimal it is impossible not to notice.
Dorne has never been a small creature, but she knows that she’d fit between these two trees a month ago, and now she has to walk around them to avoid scraping the wide sides of her belly against the vine-wrapped trunks. The children inside her are not at all appreciative of the care she takes for them, and pummel her sides with their hooves night and day. If one is sleeping the other is awake, and Dorne has dark circles beneath her eyes from lack of sleep. She is grateful every day for her decision to come to the Jungle for her pregnancy; she cannot imagine trying to find a home in this condition, or to protect herself from danger.
She is accustomed to relying on physical strength and this pregnancy has her feeling like a bumbling fool.
Dorne also has an ever increasing resect for her mother. Vanquish had not been a small stallion, and while the father of Dorne’s children was no pony, she is grateful that the children in her womb are not the gargantuan creatures that her brothers were. A good portion of her day is spent imagining what they will look like, these two children living inside her. Will they have her looks or their father’s? She would not mind if they take after Ammit with his golden good looks and svelte build, but she cannot help but wish for them to at least inherit her spots. She pictures two dozing palomino children with her mother’s spots on their sides, but the perfect image is broken by a sharp kick from one of the little angels.
Sighing, Dorne shifts her weight and begins to walk again, waddling her way toward the stream in the distance. She’s not socialized much with the other mares here; she prefers to keep to herself. This is not her permanent home, after all, and it would not do to grow attached to women that she intends to leave someday.
Rhy has been somewhat absent as of late. There’s been so much going on, and in truth, she hasn’t wanted to deal with it all. No, wanted isn’t right. She’d been afraid of what she might do. She’s tired of playing mediator for Scorch and Lagertha, tired of pretending to be something she isn’t. The electric in her veins was beginning to boil, whispering in her to be the mare she was born to be. Powerful. Destructive. Electric.
So she disappeared. Because she could kill most of the sisters in this kingdom if she lost control, and that’s not who she wants to be. Though on some level, it is a part of her. There is a part of her that wants to be that mare. She wants them to fear her. Because she’s tired of being the golden girl that everyone can step on. Not that they do, they know better. But sometimes she is ignored, forgotten, neglected.
And when Kratos came. Oh, how impossible it is to forget what she can be. What they can be together. There were few more deadly than the pair of them.
She’s finally feeling more like herself. Bright and bubbly and okay again, and so she’s back, winding her way through the familiar vines and trees and underbrush of the Jungle, and it does feel good to be home. She’s missed so much – she’ll need to catch up – but she’s easing herself back in. Another mare, one she doesn’t know, catches her eye and Rhy offers a friendly nicker as she makes her way over to the other.
“Hello,” she says easily, the sparks that were on her skins only moments before dying again. Many of the sisters expect the sparks and know to stay clear of her, but with newcomers Rhy always tries to be respectful. They aren’t all used to her. “I’m Rhy.”
Even as she thinks of a golden horse one appears, but it is immediately clear that this horse is not the sire of her children. She has overo markings where Ammit had wings, but Dorne offers her a smile as she approaches nonetheless. Dorne notices the bright red flower worn by sworn members of the Amazons and wonder what it must be like to swear yourself to a kingdom and wear its insignia one’s entire life. The Tundra had their version – she has heard tales of her grandfather’s scars – but the idea has never much appealed to her. She is brightly colored enough; she has no need of colorful tattoos.
As she opens her mouth to say hello, her eyes catch the last of the dying sparks on Rhy’s sides.
“My brother did that,” she says instead of ‘hello’. “Sparked, I mean. He’d always torment Kreios with it – chased the poor boy all the way from the Dale to the Deserts with zaps.” She smiles fondly – mostly because she has never been on the receiving end of a serious strike. (She was always quick with her teeth, and she had the advantage of age and size on them as children.)
Realizing that she might have inadvertently implied that Rhy might also be sadistic with her sparking, Dorne quickly adds. “Not that you shock your sisters, I’m sure. If you treated them the way Kratos treated Kreios, I’m not sure they’d let you keep that pretty flower.” She gestures to the red bloom with a little smile, unaware that she’s mentioned a name familiar to the Amazon.
“I’m Dorne, by the way. Scorch is letting me stay until my children are born.” she’s sure that Scorch would be glad to let her stay longer, but Dorne has a life to get back to. One that is not in the sweltering heat of the Jungle, even if she has no idea where that might be. “It’s nice to meet you, Rhy.”
Her whole family has been golden. Riagan used to tell her of her golden family in the Falls, how all of them bared the color in some form or another. Except Kaelie, who was all her father. Riagan has been gold and white and black, where Rayelle had been simply gold and white. Both Rhy and Kora were gold and white as well, but Kora was literally gold. Flecks of it dotted her like spots, though really, now she was all blue and ice. Though Rhy could still see the gold, glimmering through the layer of winter that adorned her sister. Through the strange second skin that her sister now wore.
Not strange because it’s unusual. Rhy is electric herself, and she wears her sparks like a second skin. But strange because who would have ever thought that ice could be the thing to bring them together. That ice would give her sister strength and understanding, that ice would make Rhy kind and patient. But it had. At least a little bit.
It was a start. All they needed was a start.
The mare is quick to respond to Rhy though, and there’s no time to think of Kora really (though the mention of sibling always brings Kora to mind). She’s friendly, finding more to say than even Rhy often can, and the smile that creases the golden mares lips is easy and genuine, because she enjoys listening as much as she enjoys talking. Though as the mare keeps talking, Rhy can’t help the slight look of recognition and surprise that crosses her face. Though the surprise is short-lived, when she thinks about the similarities in build between this mare and Kratos.
Of course, now she probably has to say something? But what, exactly? That this stranger’s brother is Rhy’s other half. Not the better half – Rhy is the better half – but he’s definitely her other half. He’s the creature she longs to be sometimes, when she admits that darker part of herself exists. He’s fuel to her fire, and her to his. The electric calls to itself in each of them, and they cannot help but follow.
“I know your brother,” she says after a moment. She doesn’t think it’s been too long of a pause, but perhaps. Perhaps she gave it all away. Perhaps, in truth, she doesn’t care. “Though he was breathing electric fire at the time.” She chuckles, thinking of the day he followed her from the Dale to the Amazons. That’s how powerful the draw is in their veins. It’s hard not to follow it sometimes, even to the ends of the earth.
“I don’t shock them purposely,” she admits, “though I have accidentally once or twice. Actually, that’s a lie. Brunhild asked me to hit her with a bolt of lightning once, so I did. But to be fair, she asked.” And she remembers too that moment when she felt so wholly alive at how powerful she could be, the moment when Brunhild hadn’t shied from what she is but called her amazing for it. That is why she stays here. Because the sisters find her amazing, even if she’s something to be feared as well. But weren’t so many of the sisters worth fearing and respecting?
“It’s a pleasure to meet you. I wouldn’t mind a few stories I can torment your brother with, if your bored.” She grins, and laughs a bit, not necessarily expecting stories, but keeping the conversation going. She's certainly given their relationship (of sorts) away, but she’s realized that she doesn’t care. That they can all know. After all, he bears her claws marks now anyway. Half his fault, partially hers. It always seemed to be that way with them though. He started it, she played along, and he would provoke. But it was always so terribly, terribly fun.
