like a heartbeat drives you mad, in the stillness of remembering what you had, and what you lost
The sun is low in the sky, encircled with a warm glow that illuminates the otherwise dreary haze that sidles slowly across the horizon. Vivid hues of tangerine and cerise drape across the atmosphere, its delicate light touching the very lining of the thick clouds that have gradually eased in from the east – a gentle rumbling overhead gives warning to an oncoming storm; the only semblance of winter in an otherwise temperature, humid climate.
The moisture in the air is palpable and the dampness caresses the surface of her golden skin, leaving small beads of sweat in its wake. The finely preened feathers that line the hollowed bones of her wings press firmly against a winding, misshapen sapling, scratching an itch that her teeth alone cannot reach. Beneath the canopy of her stark white feather appendages, her belly hangs low and wide, swollen with an unborn child that uncomfortably stirs within. Discomfort would be an understatement; agitation is an enduring, constant sediment in the blood that moves seamlessly through the stitching of her veins.
A weary sigh emerges from her tired lungs as her hazel eyes search the seemingly endless plain, quietly admiring the way the tepid breeze urges the long, thin stalks of golden vegetation to sway to and fro. The sky thunders once more, as the heavy and deep reverberations seem to rattle the very core of the tectonic plates laying beneath her. Her gold-flecked eyes glance up towards the rolling, darkening clouds above, and the pale line of her whiskered lips hardens in disdain as a speckling of raindrops strokes her cheek, trailing down the curve of her jaw.
Irate, she finally pries herself away from the dreary, dry shrub she had settled near, descending down along the curve of a slight slope as her spine aches from the sheer weight of her unborn child, and her hips seemingly creak and cry out in protest with each tedious, labored step. She is usually lithe, agile – everything that she is not in this moment, and though she longs to once again feel as if her body is hers and hers alone again, she is too aware of how worthwhile it will all be in the end. It had only taken one evening beneath a warm, cloudless sky, wrought with emotion, exposed and vulnerable, Magnus had covered her, and soon she would bear their third child (a girl, she was certain).
Her heart aches in wonder – how time goes on, reckless and continuous, as each new moment becomes little more than a distant memory by the days’ end.
A sharp gasp is pulled from her lungs as her shoulder collides with something solid, firm – and she immediately flushes in color, a reddened tint painted across her pallid cheek in frustration and embarrassment. Clearing the coarseness from her throat as her hazel eyes observes the hardened line of muscle and bone, following the way his russet skin gives way to a deep indigo along his long legs and mouth.
”Warrick, is it?” she says, adjusting her posture in a feeble attempt to appear as stately as she hoped she would. ”I apologize, I was .. distracted,” a pause. ”I don’t believe we have met – but I keep close watch.” She gives him a coy smile, as the embarrassment begins to ebb away slowly, as if it were the waning tide of the sea. ”My name is Ellyse. I am the Head of War – er,” She frowns, the ridge of her brow furrowing. “at least I am when I don’t look like this.”
.
@[Warrick]