"But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura
She dreams a champagne dream; strawberry surprise, pink linen and white paper.
Her youth had long since given way to maturity - her once thin and bony limbs had become shapely and slender, with sinewy muscle enveloping over strong, fortified bone. Her hips, once bare with little else but jutting hipbones to shape them, had a feminine flare, stemming from a deep slope in her spine leading up to her thick, muscular neck. Long, pale tresses hang over her nape, draping in the way of her dark, wide eyes - golden flecks alight with a mischief that would never fade, not even with time.
Yet, it is not merely her bone structure that has changed - no, not even the lining of muscle or thick, heavily defined curves that had inevitably come from her genetics were the most noticeable change that time had wrought. Tucked away beneath the envelopment of her rib cage and nestled within the heavy swell of her barrel lay two, entangled with one another, their long and gangling limbs pressing uncomfortably against her side and stirring a groan of discomfort as her soft, but breathy voice broke the dense silence of the too-quiet, too-still grassland.
A sharp, thrust of agony stirs a ragged cry of wretched anguish - she is breathless, on unsteady legs, as the gentle tranquility of morning is shattered by the pang of pain and the gasping rigidity of uncertainty and fright settling into the tender marrow of her bones. She is stark, a muted blackness against the soft and subtle golden tendrils of vegetation lapping delicately along her skin, and she is exposed - a thought that is suddenly unbearable.
She does not waste another moment lingering amid the steam rising from roiling pits of water, nor does she seek the deep, bubbling warmth of the familiar rivulets of lava. There is a tempest stirring within her - an instinct she had never known she possessed, unburied by each contraction rippling through the length of her body, and she is eager and unrelenting in her search for the sea along the distant, fading horizon.
It is not long until she has found the solace of a dark and cleverly hidden cavern along the sea, where she is soon writhing with soft, huffing gasps - her body convulsing with each heaving push, aching to dispel the content of her womb. One, a rich russet and two, a deep, impenetrable blackness, both with a speckling of white, and each carefully encased in individual, unbroken sacs, which soon her teeth tear away at, her pounding, prideful heart bursting with a glee she could never have thought possible.
Gently, she presses each sac away from their dampened skin, drying each with determined vigor, her tongue cleansing them of the remnants of their birth.
She is weary and tired, but adrenaline courses through her veins, stirring a giddiness from deep within, drawing a mirthful smile as her own dark eyes meet with each of theirs - so perfect, so flawlessly carved from the gentle, but urgent tryst amid the thundering sky and falling rain so many months ago. She is quiet, urging each to rise, shakily and wobbling on each lean, scrawny limb, soothed only by her soft murmuring of encouragement.
Spear cannot be far, she knows as much - he is watchful, not unlike his father, and more observant than most. With a low, crooning call, she beckons him forth, to meet the son and daughter that were as much a part of his soul as they were of her own.
Lavender and cream, fields of butterflies, reality escapes her. She says that love is for fools who fall behind.
An enemy who gets in, risks the danger of becoming a friend.
If only he had known.
How she’d get under his skin and into his heart.
How taking shelter from the storm would lead to their first coupling unlike his times out on the grass with a mare or two that never meant a thing to him, how rainfall and love was sweeter than moonlight and passion.
If only he had known.
Each of them had changed;
She, growing more lovely and mature by the day and rounder in the belly. It was a sure sign that she was with foal though he could never have imagined it’d be two. How it never occurred to him that a twin could beget twins is beyond him but it didn’t. He thought only how he’d grown older, thicker, and more besotted by her by the day and how in him, he discovered on the cusp of the Mountain subsiding and the Restitution, that he had fire magic now. Well, it lead to more time spent from Antonia’s side and more time spent at his sister’s who well understood the sudden discovery of fire - something that had connected them but never manifested itself in them, and how alike to their father they were, troubled lives and loves and all of that. But he’d often kept an eye out for her - a red eye that looked and found and watched over her, and she was never far from his thoughts, even when he ran as a thing of fire as his twin’s side. He always came back to the sea and the way it reached for his hooves and that memory of rain that played inside his mind, over and over.
Spear looked for her now;
It was not like her to easily evade his watch but he had been caught in a moment of heavy dark thought. He pushed those thoughts aside as he realized she is not where he last saw her amidst the golden vegetation and the morning light. That can mean only one thing! He is a stallion and knows the natural laws of their governance, that when a pregnant mare goes missing, the hour of foaling is near. Spear scrambles down from his perch above the sea and begins to search her out, knowing that mares like birthing in dark safe spots that predators cannot get to them in. Antonia is smart like that, and he knows instinct would guide her as well and he felt a swelling of pride in his chest because she was a smart and beautiful mother and he cannot again believe how he was blessed to meet her that day before the rainfall.
He spies her tracks in the sand and the smell of her having passed this way but he hangs back, just outside the cavern she has picked for herself. Spear paces to pass the time, knowing that she knows he cannot be too far off from her and he awaits her summons until his ears prick and catch the low sweet croon of it from inside the dark cavern. He is anxious and excited all at once and nearly charges the mouth of the cave in his haste, remembering to tread slowly as he ingresses. “Antonia?” he beckons, his mouth going dry as conjures up small balls of flame that float ahead of him lighting the way to the back where she is with them - twins! He knew it! Mouth agape, his eyes shine with pride and love - he cannot deny it, as he looks upon this scene and realizes it is the most beautiful thing he has ever laid eyes upon in this world.
“They are beautiful,” he murmurs.
“You are beautiful,” as he takes a step closer to brush his lips against her cheek, mindful of their two small bodies between him and her. He can see that she is tired but full of adrenaline, and he has never been more proud than in this moment. “Beautiful,” he echoes softly, the only sentiment his brain and mouth seem capable of at the present.
Around them, the small balls of fire burn bright above their heads lending brilliance and warmth to the cave.
She dreams a champagne dream; strawberry surprise, pink linen and white paper.
It is not long before he is near, with the raw masculinity of his features lit by flickering flames - they are undeniably vibrant and bright, with warmth and light filtering into the cavern and filling the once dark crevices of jagged pumice and ore. Her heart is still for a moment in her chest (almost disbelieving that he is here, standing before her), before thundering raggedly against the confinement of its cage, kept at bay only by the curving bone of her ribs as it threatens to burst forth from her breast.
He had been wrought from her side by the pure energy of his newfound magic, and even now, she can feel the dull fluttering of jealousy stirring within the pit of her belly blending with the overwhelming delight washing over her. It is not unlike the dull roar of the ravenous sea, lapping hungrily at the shoreline behind him, while her heart pines for him, longing to be the match that had lit the fire in his belly. Alas, she is not, but she does not fault him for seeking out his sister in the aftermath - she knew well of their bond, admired it even (her own brother and sister were wild and unwieldy wanderers; she barely knew either of them), and so, she understood.
It did not quell the loneliness when he would inevitably pull away from her in the pale light of morning, the softness of his kiss lingering on her skin even hours or days later. Before the fire had sought him out and filled him with its unpredictability, he had spent many a day roaming the many islands encapsulating the volcano with her, and in between fervent kisses and secrecy shared, she had begun to fall in love with him. Beneath the stoic exterior, he was tender, kind, and thoughtful - he had a deep, unshakable wisdom about him that drew her to him, like a delicate moth to the very burning flame that had made itself a part of him.
How fitting it is, for her to feel so passionately for the fire that could inevitably be her ruin.
He is in awe, his expression one of hopeful uncertainty becoming enthrallment and immense pride and she, herself, is glowing - and not at all because of the burning ember so near to her. She cannot suppress the faint smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, while her dark, endless gaze peers out at him from behind a tangle of pale tresses, dampened with sweat and draped over her forehead.
Beside her, their son and daughter (such flawless perfection, each of them). She is young, perhaps too young to be blessed by motherhood, to feel the weight of their bodies leave her untouched womb, to bear the inevitable marking of a birth-giver - and yet, it is suiting to her. As suiting as the age-old wisdom of his two-toned gaze, dark and mysterious, but with a gleam of tenderness that she could not and would not ever tire of.
They are beautiful, he murmurs, and her mouth twitches - she is all too aware; if she were any more filled with pride she might burst! You are beautiful, he whispers against her cheek, and her heavy, long lashes close over the abyss of her searching gaze, savoring the warmth of his touch across her cheek, and gently she presses her own mouth to his jaw, placing kisses where a deep ridge of muscle covers the hardened bone beneath.
She is quiet, absorbing the beauty of the moment. She has missed him, so terribly, but her soft breathing and haphazard kisses gracing the surface of his skin is enough to tell him of her yearning. Their daughter and son give her strength, nestled tightly against the hearth of their chests, heartbeats pounding in tandem against their precious ears - fluttering and flickering, while their wide, curious eyes observe the floating orbs of fiery splendor with captivating wonderment. When she finally does speak, it is a hushed murmur against his jaw, reverberating into the tangled mess of his mane.
"What should we call them?"
Lavender and cream, fields of butterflies, reality escapes her. She says that love is for fools who fall behind.
As he looks at her, he wonders how he could ever have deserved her…
How, in all this, could he have found her - so understanding, so resilient, so damn beautiful that no sunrise nor sunset or sea froth could compare to the mare that stood before him, having just pushed not one but two foals from her sweaty sore loins and above all else, she looked at him like he was the only one in the world for her.
(He looked at her the way a starving man looks at his first meal - hungry, desperate, thankful, disbelieving.)
Damp with sweat and exhausted, she had never looked more beautiful to him.
Not true, his fire-laden heart whispers to him as he thinks back to the moment he first laid eyes on her upon the shoreline. She’d been damp then too, from the sea’s own spit and the wind had whipped her hair all around her in small ragged pale flags that snapped and fluttered. She’d been every inch as beautiful then as she is now, and he wonders how his heart has yet to burst from all the love filling it.
He can feel her kiss, feel her go quiet beside him and the burning orbs of fire start to dim just a little. The cave needs little light now, or warmth as he stands beside her and breathes in her scent unable to stop the light fluttering of his nostrils against his skin as he trails his nose from her cheek to her neck and nibbles tenderly at the slope of her shoulder. Spear could stay this way forever, pressed tight against her, nose to neck and her nose to jaw - so quiet, so content, so full of love… and their foals nestled in close to them, but she asks him what they should call them and he laughs, because yes, they need names! Good strong names!
Spear pulls back just the slightest to regard the pair of foals that stare wonderingly at the fiery orbs; smiling, he changes their shape from fat little balls to long-legged little foals that run and buck along the rocky walls. He can hear them gasp as one, much like how Spark and him used to be, but he spares her the slightest thought as his eyes lift from the delighted pair to well, his beloved. He feels it, thinks it, and it settles deep in his bones - deeper than the fire and the magic of it can go, and he just feels something terribly right in that moment as he takes in the sight of her just behind the wide-eyed colt and his sister. Antonia. Her name is a breath of welcome wind in his mind and he smiles at her.
“Iron,” he gestures to the boy. “and Wine,” he nods to the girl.
All he kept hearing was the wind sigh her name in his ears, in the pathways of heart and blood - Antonia, Antonia, Antonia, and he knew he’d never be the same again and Spear was okay with that - happy even, happy to smile at her and their children and rub his nose against her cheek in the full bliss of being in love.
