02-06-2019, 05:46 PM
living for the past
because the future's gone. praying in the dark that you won't go home. i should've said it better, i should've set fire to a letter. but i could run to your apartment, hope i get it started better than before; and i could write it in a poem, pretend i used to know you better than before.
Wishbone had been so consumed with making it across the channel amid the pressures and jabs of contractions that she didn’t notice the Ischian king nestled against the sand and the drowning sun. Perhaps it is a good thing she didn’t notice or she might’ve thrown a sharp arrow his way about the protective way he prepares to defend his home from her. Or perhaps he might’ve encouraged her, the sight of his blue-gold-white face in her line of vision.
Regardless, Wishbone feels a turbulent amount of angry and romantic at the sight of him when the most recent contraction finally fades. This uncomfortable (in all sense of the word) point of her life has left the mahogany searching for something akin to home. Nerine is bleak and cold. Tephra is unfamiliar and without her family. Wolfbane has disappeared with his other family. When Wishbone left Beqanna, she hadn’t expected her rearrival to be so full of change. She hadn’t realized it until this very point — soaked in sunset-dipped western water, whittled away by the hungry jaws of infection, swollen and aching with the weight of impatient children — but Ivar has become home.
“Ivar.” His name is rough in her throat, from the misuse of months alone and from the ache of pain beginning to unfurl once more across her abdomen. Wishbone leans into his touch and the comfort it brings. Her own muzzle reaches to run against the scaled length of his withers, but the hand of Mother Nature grasps her womb in a vise-like grip and Wishbone presses the length of her forehead against his side instead, the softest sigh of a groan slipping from her mouth. She doesn’t catch the suggestion of a healer, nor his quip of her appearance, because there is a roar of a hundred windstorms in her ears, urging her to let out a bitter scream in the face of labor.
Yet Wishbone is stubborn and the contraction fades with only that mere groan and her reliance on Ivar to speak of its presence. When she pulls her dark face away from his side, it takes her a moment before the pinpricks of dizziness fade from her vision. “They’re coming, Ivar.” She is purposeful now — a soon-to-be-mother dressed in the colorful garments of battle. The world is briskly clear in the moments that count the time until their arrival and the look in her amber eyes suggests she will take no arguments. Wishbone is primal in this form, enduring the pain her ancestors have endured, and determination lines every inch of her narrowed face.
Her gaze finds his for another moment, strands of darkened forelock twisting against her mahogany cheeks, before she turns toward the treeline. Wishbone curses herself for being so stubborn; she has little time to find a place secluded enough to birth two children. For a brief moment, she wonders if it will also be her grave (the instincts of childbirth hold the brutal strength of infection at bay for now, but it is only a matter of time before it is unleashed with a worsened attitude than before). “Come with me.” She calls to Ivar over her shoulder, hellbent on making the most of the moments before another pain drags itself against her body.
If things had been perfect, she would have found a cavern nestled against the rock structures in the heart of Ischia. But Wishbone acknowledges that things are not perfect and decides to birth beneath the numerous branches of a banyan fig tree not far away from the shoreline. Just as she turns to speak to Ivar, another contraction washes against her body, the fiercest of them all. Her body is burning and aching and throbbing and pushing and screaming to get the children out. Wishbone’s ears lace back against her skull and a low growl rolls in the back of her throat as she nearly stumbles to the ground, weak and at the mercy of labor. Thankfully, it fades without the result of a child and the mahogany is able to center her balance again in the twilight.
Her amber eyes fasten to Ivar’s with quickness and severity so forceful it might be physically felt. “Ivar.” It’s a strong, yet slow word. It’s drawn out to indicate how serious she is about her following statement. “If I die, promise me you’ll protect them.” It’s the only time she’s ever relied on someone such much; this very moment is perhaps the pinnacle of both her strengths and her weaknesses. She might never be this brave again. She might never be this terrified again. “Swear to me that you will raise them. I refuse to let our children die because of me.” Wishbone can feel the next wave coming — an ocean-tide that will bring a new purpose to her life and a new face to the earth — but her eyes remain on Ivar’s, unwilling to press her body to the soil until he has promised her and promised their children.
Regardless, Wishbone feels a turbulent amount of angry and romantic at the sight of him when the most recent contraction finally fades. This uncomfortable (in all sense of the word) point of her life has left the mahogany searching for something akin to home. Nerine is bleak and cold. Tephra is unfamiliar and without her family. Wolfbane has disappeared with his other family. When Wishbone left Beqanna, she hadn’t expected her rearrival to be so full of change. She hadn’t realized it until this very point — soaked in sunset-dipped western water, whittled away by the hungry jaws of infection, swollen and aching with the weight of impatient children — but Ivar has become home.
“Ivar.” His name is rough in her throat, from the misuse of months alone and from the ache of pain beginning to unfurl once more across her abdomen. Wishbone leans into his touch and the comfort it brings. Her own muzzle reaches to run against the scaled length of his withers, but the hand of Mother Nature grasps her womb in a vise-like grip and Wishbone presses the length of her forehead against his side instead, the softest sigh of a groan slipping from her mouth. She doesn’t catch the suggestion of a healer, nor his quip of her appearance, because there is a roar of a hundred windstorms in her ears, urging her to let out a bitter scream in the face of labor.
Yet Wishbone is stubborn and the contraction fades with only that mere groan and her reliance on Ivar to speak of its presence. When she pulls her dark face away from his side, it takes her a moment before the pinpricks of dizziness fade from her vision. “They’re coming, Ivar.” She is purposeful now — a soon-to-be-mother dressed in the colorful garments of battle. The world is briskly clear in the moments that count the time until their arrival and the look in her amber eyes suggests she will take no arguments. Wishbone is primal in this form, enduring the pain her ancestors have endured, and determination lines every inch of her narrowed face.
Her gaze finds his for another moment, strands of darkened forelock twisting against her mahogany cheeks, before she turns toward the treeline. Wishbone curses herself for being so stubborn; she has little time to find a place secluded enough to birth two children. For a brief moment, she wonders if it will also be her grave (the instincts of childbirth hold the brutal strength of infection at bay for now, but it is only a matter of time before it is unleashed with a worsened attitude than before). “Come with me.” She calls to Ivar over her shoulder, hellbent on making the most of the moments before another pain drags itself against her body.
If things had been perfect, she would have found a cavern nestled against the rock structures in the heart of Ischia. But Wishbone acknowledges that things are not perfect and decides to birth beneath the numerous branches of a banyan fig tree not far away from the shoreline. Just as she turns to speak to Ivar, another contraction washes against her body, the fiercest of them all. Her body is burning and aching and throbbing and pushing and screaming to get the children out. Wishbone’s ears lace back against her skull and a low growl rolls in the back of her throat as she nearly stumbles to the ground, weak and at the mercy of labor. Thankfully, it fades without the result of a child and the mahogany is able to center her balance again in the twilight.
Her amber eyes fasten to Ivar’s with quickness and severity so forceful it might be physically felt. “Ivar.” It’s a strong, yet slow word. It’s drawn out to indicate how serious she is about her following statement. “If I die, promise me you’ll protect them.” It’s the only time she’s ever relied on someone such much; this very moment is perhaps the pinnacle of both her strengths and her weaknesses. She might never be this brave again. She might never be this terrified again. “Swear to me that you will raise them. I refuse to let our children die because of me.” Wishbone can feel the next wave coming — an ocean-tide that will bring a new purpose to her life and a new face to the earth — but her eyes remain on Ivar’s, unwilling to press her body to the soil until he has promised her and promised their children.
@[Ivar]