11-09-2017, 04:17 PM
THANA.
(as black as your soul)
She was tired.
She was tired of being tired, and so she became restless, no longer soothed by the darkness, nor by the quiet, rhythmic rustling of the leaves that enveloped her within the autumnal woodland she called her own. The ire is rife within the hearth of her chest, roiling and turning, just as her stomach seemed to do – nausea, crawling from the sinful pit of her belly and spreading through each coiled, rigid muscle, dispersing a sheen of discomfort from end to end. The sensation is unfamiliar, and uncomfortable – but it is not the stirring itself that unnerves her; it is the dawning realization of what it might be causing such uneasiness.
Her legs carry her away from the thicket of darkness that cloaked her and kept her from prying eyes – she is quiet, unusually so, keeping to the shadow that so easily hid her indigo silhouette within its clutches. Her body, though still sleek and feminine, is no longer as slender nor as slim – the swelling of her barrel may as well give her away; may as well give her .. condition away. There is a part of her, however small, that is delighted to bear her lover a son (it must be a son – nothing else would do; not for the firstborn). There is a larger part of her that is filled with dread, with uncertainty. She loathed youth, with their spindly, awkward legs, their vivid, often reckless curiosity – their innocence.
Would a son born of sin be any different?
Would she be fond of him; would he be all that she and Gryffen would expect him to be?
Gryffen did not yet know – she hid away from him, loathing the constant, steadfast biliousness that festered within her stomach, resenting the way her midsection slowly became heavy and burdensome with a stirring parasite, sucking her dry of her energy and of her vigor. She would find Gryffen, in time – she could never stay away from him for long, craving his touch, yearning to know what, in her absence, has stirred the inner-workings of the mindful madman that had somehow ensnared her callous, shriveled little heart.
Would Gryffen see her as a broodmare; conquered and marked?
When she does find Jah-Lilah, a stark crimson against the untouched dusting of white, she is wary of the sensation that stirs suddenly within her – the pitter-patter of her heart, the tight clenching of her stomach. She preferred power, prowess, and yet she felt bloated – distended, and not at all like herself and it only serves as fuel for her self-loathing. Her uncertainty. Her insecurity. Foul words, often spurned by the wry and dubious mare – but she cannot keep her mind from wandering; from wondering if the sin growing and blossoming within her womb would be her end.
There is a moment of hesitance, in which she is sorely tempted to disappear into the darkness yet again, to permit it to drape across her like a heartening coverlet .. but there is something rooting her; a magnetizing draw pulling her to the wicked soothsayer, and before she can hide away, her eye has met with hers –
And she can no longer hide.
With a soft, sullen sigh, her legs carry her closer to her, pressing the darkness of her lips to the familiar smoothness of her russet skin, coaxing whatever sinful part of her remained under the surly mood festering within her dreadful, brooding heart. Her dreary gray eye and its abysmal black twin quietly trace the heavy curve of her hip to the roundness of her barrel, and she is quiet for a long, lingering moment –
”How do you carry it so well?”
She was tired of being tired, and so she became restless, no longer soothed by the darkness, nor by the quiet, rhythmic rustling of the leaves that enveloped her within the autumnal woodland she called her own. The ire is rife within the hearth of her chest, roiling and turning, just as her stomach seemed to do – nausea, crawling from the sinful pit of her belly and spreading through each coiled, rigid muscle, dispersing a sheen of discomfort from end to end. The sensation is unfamiliar, and uncomfortable – but it is not the stirring itself that unnerves her; it is the dawning realization of what it might be causing such uneasiness.
Her legs carry her away from the thicket of darkness that cloaked her and kept her from prying eyes – she is quiet, unusually so, keeping to the shadow that so easily hid her indigo silhouette within its clutches. Her body, though still sleek and feminine, is no longer as slender nor as slim – the swelling of her barrel may as well give her away; may as well give her .. condition away. There is a part of her, however small, that is delighted to bear her lover a son (it must be a son – nothing else would do; not for the firstborn). There is a larger part of her that is filled with dread, with uncertainty. She loathed youth, with their spindly, awkward legs, their vivid, often reckless curiosity – their innocence.
Would a son born of sin be any different?
Would she be fond of him; would he be all that she and Gryffen would expect him to be?
Gryffen did not yet know – she hid away from him, loathing the constant, steadfast biliousness that festered within her stomach, resenting the way her midsection slowly became heavy and burdensome with a stirring parasite, sucking her dry of her energy and of her vigor. She would find Gryffen, in time – she could never stay away from him for long, craving his touch, yearning to know what, in her absence, has stirred the inner-workings of the mindful madman that had somehow ensnared her callous, shriveled little heart.
Would Gryffen see her as a broodmare; conquered and marked?
When she does find Jah-Lilah, a stark crimson against the untouched dusting of white, she is wary of the sensation that stirs suddenly within her – the pitter-patter of her heart, the tight clenching of her stomach. She preferred power, prowess, and yet she felt bloated – distended, and not at all like herself and it only serves as fuel for her self-loathing. Her uncertainty. Her insecurity. Foul words, often spurned by the wry and dubious mare – but she cannot keep her mind from wandering; from wondering if the sin growing and blossoming within her womb would be her end.
There is a moment of hesitance, in which she is sorely tempted to disappear into the darkness yet again, to permit it to drape across her like a heartening coverlet .. but there is something rooting her; a magnetizing draw pulling her to the wicked soothsayer, and before she can hide away, her eye has met with hers –
And she can no longer hide.
With a soft, sullen sigh, her legs carry her closer to her, pressing the darkness of her lips to the familiar smoothness of her russet skin, coaxing whatever sinful part of her remained under the surly mood festering within her dreadful, brooding heart. Her dreary gray eye and its abysmal black twin quietly trace the heavy curve of her hip to the roundness of her barrel, and she is quiet for a long, lingering moment –
”How do you carry it so well?”