some ancient call that I've answered before; birthing

[sochi]

there are wolves in my head and their howling
there was a garden of evil in the palm of my hand

She does not expect his love. Does not expect his loyalty. She has asked nothing of him and places no demands on his time, but still, there is a part of her, surprisingly feminine, that is glad when she sees the metallic sheen of him approaching. Her silver eyes flick upward, studying him, the iridescent blue of her face nearly shimmering. “She is,” she says simply, voice of smoke and fog. She notes the sickness that claims him, the way it branches through him, and recognizes it—understands it.

It was not so long ago when such sickness claimed her instead.

“Deep water helps,” her voice is calm, no fear sharpening the edge of her words, no fuss. “Sometimes cold and sometimes hot, if you can find it. It eases the ache and helps provide relief for the cough.” She glances up from where the draconic girl who has risen and latched onto her, feeding quietly.

“I am doing better,” she says quietly, not dwelling on what she has been through. The crimson slashes still stand out as they run jagged across her chest. The sickness has abated but she can feel it still, the cough that sends blood splattered on the ground before her, the aches that run deep in her muscles.

Such things are nothing to what has been awoken inside of her though.

Things she can no longer hide.

Things she can no longer lock up.

“I was the first to his throat,” she says simply, explaining but not apologizing for the role she has played in the disease that now spreads across the land. “I felt his body shred like paper beneath my claws before he fell, before he broke, before what lived inside of him spread so far.” She almost feels regret now, looking at Castile, wondering how she feels about the dragon stallion before her. The emotions are complex, layered, and she doesn’t have much luck in trying to interpret them. All she knows is that she feels something and that in and of itself is enough to want her to ignore it entirely.

Still, the truth of it lies between them—heavy and unmoving.

She wonders if he will rage at her, if he will demand her guilt, if he will simply turn his cheek.

If he will ask her to apologize for what she is—what she has become.

Sochi frowns, the motion flashing across her features, before it wipes away, leaving her face carefully natural again. Their child finishes feeding and stumbles forward, pressing into her chest. She leans down, breathing Reia in deep, the scent familiar and comforting—grounding when so much remains uncertain.

now I'm broken and bleeding, I’ll never find my way

S

OCHI

stranger in this land

@[Castile]