01-21-2019, 01:45 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.
Winter had been hell.
Wishbone is grateful for the warmth of spring. Her body is a Picasso-painting of adaptation: first the intense heat of Tephra, then the lonely chill of Nerine, the vibrant array of weather climates during her adventures, and finally the stinging blizzards of Nerine again. Her first winter in Nerine had been a rough transition between volcano-warmed hot springs and wind so fierce it might fling a body straight off the granite cliffs. The bite of the snow had been painful against her thin mahogany skin and Wishbone had spent much of the winter months nestled in the inner-workings of a cavern in attempts to stop the intense shivering.
Nerine is ungracious to her this winter, even with the infection and the twins.
She’s certain that there’s two of them. Her belly is swollen beyond the distance of the mothers carrying just one and Wishbone can feel their arguments in the dead of night, tiny hooves striking against ribs and against one another. She feels — and looks — like hell. The smooth, lithe curves of muscle that used to line her bones have been melted away by the heat of fever and sickness. Her hips are angular points just behind the large, rolling mess of her pregnant belly like two jagged mountain peaks at the edge of a heaving, swollen sea. The snarling of winter is too cold and the heat of the warmer countrysides are too intense.
She is constantly hungry.
Although Wishbone attempted to make it through winter in the northern kingdom, it was bleak and empty. She hadn’t seen Breckin since her arrival back in Beqanna, something that brought a frown to her face, but she’d been too exhausted to embark on an expedition to find her friend. The common-lands were crowded with the plagued — infected blood and various other bodily fluids ran through the snowdrifts and meager water supplies, draining from the bodies of scattered dead — and she knows better than to labor among the illness.
She’d resolved to settle somewhere between Ischia and Tephra. The comfort of the volcanic kingdom eases her nightmarish, unrestful nights. Wishbone knows Ischia is populated (with Ivar and his harem, but at least there are signs of life) and warm compared to Nerine’s unsettling quiet and searing cold. Throughout the heavier months of her pregnancy, she lingers in the unmarked corners of the two kingdoms: sweating and struggling her way along the beach, spending full-moon nights enjoying the cool of the darkness, soaking her swollen and heavy legs in the salty waves.
It’s on one such day — standing knee-deep in the warm waters that run between Tephra and Ischia — that a twinge of pain catches itself in Wishbone’s lower abdomen. It fades easily, a simple indication that something (no, somethings) will be coming later in the day. “Well, fuck.” Wishbone whispers the words to herself, barely heard above the gentle rush of the waves lapping the shore.
Her stubbornness had kept her away from crossing into Ivar’s borders; the fall night of her rearrival had brought about the exact consequences Ivar had been looking for, she is certain. His determination to procreate would never cease to amaze her. Yet Wishbone knows her weakness will not allow her to cross the channel when the tide is high, as it is now. She contemplates bringing forth the bones of the ground to build a bridge to cross with, but she isn’t certain if she will be able to hold the formation until she is safe. So she waits.
The sun is beginning to lower into the sky when the tide is low enough for Wishbone to manage. It’s another spectacular sunset, just as it had been when she’d first arrived in the fall, and the colorful rays still manage to coat her in hues that bring life to her otherwise nearly-dead body. The contractions have begun to increase in both frequency and intensity, yet Wishbone knows she still has a long way to go. Instinct is urging her to find security and warmth to deliver, but she pauses on Ischia’s shore for a moment to catch her breath.
Although Wishbone is stubborn, anxiety is beginning to grasp her. She is incredibly ill (as evidenced by the thinness of her body and the weakness that hides in the amber of her eyes, among the other signs of the infection) and became so in a short amount of time. The weight of carrying twins has only further increased her misery; as another contraction ripples the muscle along her stomach, she laces her ears into the thickness of her tangled dark mane. As much as it might hurt Wishbone to do it, she calls for Ivar in a simple tone as the last of the contraction is fading.
Wishbone is grateful for the warmth of spring. Her body is a Picasso-painting of adaptation: first the intense heat of Tephra, then the lonely chill of Nerine, the vibrant array of weather climates during her adventures, and finally the stinging blizzards of Nerine again. Her first winter in Nerine had been a rough transition between volcano-warmed hot springs and wind so fierce it might fling a body straight off the granite cliffs. The bite of the snow had been painful against her thin mahogany skin and Wishbone had spent much of the winter months nestled in the inner-workings of a cavern in attempts to stop the intense shivering.
Nerine is ungracious to her this winter, even with the infection and the twins.
She’s certain that there’s two of them. Her belly is swollen beyond the distance of the mothers carrying just one and Wishbone can feel their arguments in the dead of night, tiny hooves striking against ribs and against one another. She feels — and looks — like hell. The smooth, lithe curves of muscle that used to line her bones have been melted away by the heat of fever and sickness. Her hips are angular points just behind the large, rolling mess of her pregnant belly like two jagged mountain peaks at the edge of a heaving, swollen sea. The snarling of winter is too cold and the heat of the warmer countrysides are too intense.
She is constantly hungry.
Although Wishbone attempted to make it through winter in the northern kingdom, it was bleak and empty. She hadn’t seen Breckin since her arrival back in Beqanna, something that brought a frown to her face, but she’d been too exhausted to embark on an expedition to find her friend. The common-lands were crowded with the plagued — infected blood and various other bodily fluids ran through the snowdrifts and meager water supplies, draining from the bodies of scattered dead — and she knows better than to labor among the illness.
She’d resolved to settle somewhere between Ischia and Tephra. The comfort of the volcanic kingdom eases her nightmarish, unrestful nights. Wishbone knows Ischia is populated (with Ivar and his harem, but at least there are signs of life) and warm compared to Nerine’s unsettling quiet and searing cold. Throughout the heavier months of her pregnancy, she lingers in the unmarked corners of the two kingdoms: sweating and struggling her way along the beach, spending full-moon nights enjoying the cool of the darkness, soaking her swollen and heavy legs in the salty waves.
It’s on one such day — standing knee-deep in the warm waters that run between Tephra and Ischia — that a twinge of pain catches itself in Wishbone’s lower abdomen. It fades easily, a simple indication that something (no, somethings) will be coming later in the day. “Well, fuck.” Wishbone whispers the words to herself, barely heard above the gentle rush of the waves lapping the shore.
Her stubbornness had kept her away from crossing into Ivar’s borders; the fall night of her rearrival had brought about the exact consequences Ivar had been looking for, she is certain. His determination to procreate would never cease to amaze her. Yet Wishbone knows her weakness will not allow her to cross the channel when the tide is high, as it is now. She contemplates bringing forth the bones of the ground to build a bridge to cross with, but she isn’t certain if she will be able to hold the formation until she is safe. So she waits.
The sun is beginning to lower into the sky when the tide is low enough for Wishbone to manage. It’s another spectacular sunset, just as it had been when she’d first arrived in the fall, and the colorful rays still manage to coat her in hues that bring life to her otherwise nearly-dead body. The contractions have begun to increase in both frequency and intensity, yet Wishbone knows she still has a long way to go. Instinct is urging her to find security and warmth to deliver, but she pauses on Ischia’s shore for a moment to catch her breath.
Although Wishbone is stubborn, anxiety is beginning to grasp her. She is incredibly ill (as evidenced by the thinness of her body and the weakness that hides in the amber of her eyes, among the other signs of the infection) and became so in a short amount of time. The weight of carrying twins has only further increased her misery; as another contraction ripples the muscle along her stomach, she laces her ears into the thickness of her tangled dark mane. As much as it might hurt Wishbone to do it, she calls for Ivar in a simple tone as the last of the contraction is fading.
@[Ivar]