bitterness is thick like blood and cold as a wind sea breeze
if you must drink of me, take of me what you please
It is time.
It has been too long, and he has been without answers—been without the ability to save his sister from this prison. So he has done what he could. He has protected her, shielded her away in a land run by one of their many relatives. He has kept her away from prying eyes, protected by the heat and the sulphur. He has fed her whatever magic he can—enough to keep her healthy and preserved. Enough to protect her.
And he has plotted.
He has spent many nights staring out at the ocean, his eyes sharp but entirely blank, his mind having left the physical to instead trace along the magical roots that run deep into the soil of Beqanna. He has followed them, at times languid and hurried, bring to find a spot where it would deepen. A place where the connection would be enough to power something more—something enough to finally free her.
When he found the coupling of Ether and Faultline, both sides of his family tree once again converging and meeting, he had known what it would mean. It had been easy enough—the blood spilled little—to intervene. He had found the seed planted within her and split it and then split it once more: three children to triple his own draw of power. And then, he had waited, keeping a loose eye on the mare.
As the time for birth came closer, he had reached out, pulling on the subconscious threads of her own mind to draw her closer. He has watched from the shadows as she comes close, as she stumbles into the soft glow of the cave and as she finally sinks to the cool cavern floor. It is then, when the final contraction hits her and the birth begins that his eyes roll back into his head, as he pulls long and deep on that power, the perfect children coming into this world. With them, he ties the essence of his sister, whispering to her that it is time, that she is needed, and when the mare brings forth her children, he pulls forth his sister.
It is time, Bright, he thinks. It is time.
woolf
I am loathed to say it's the devil's taste
