"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
And in the darkened underpass I thought,
"Oh Satan, my chance has come at last!"
The stress of being alone prolonged her pregnancy. Every step now aches and every breath is labored.
This isn't how she wanted it to be.
She wanted him here, with her, and with their children.
But he's gone now.
Her jaw clenches tightly as she draws in a sharp breath. This pregnancy has been much more painful, much more tiresome. When she looks back at herself she looks larger than she ever has before. "Covet," she finds herself whispering into the dense thicket of trees. If only he could be here to soothe her pain and reassure her that it will be okay.
His name is spoken on a wind that never responds. A frown creases her pretty face but then she can't help but grin because the stillness of the breeze reminds her of his stoic nature. He has to be here with her. He is in the shadows that grope after her as she slowly meanders through the Jungle until she is near a familiar hill.
The grave is overgrown with knotted vines. She peers up at it lovingly before her legs buckle and she is lying down on the soil. The earth caresses its former princess as her tiresome hours of labor begin.
Perhaps it's her age that is making this so difficult. The strain is etched across her face as sweat dampens her coat. It feels like an eternity as the humid air clings to her skin. From mid-afternoon until dusk, Myrina is struggling until, finally, the pain is just a dull throb and her body takes an exasperated breath. During the labor she had felt a foal slip out only to feel another jolt of pain that signified another. "Twins," she mutters to herself and to an imaginary Covet. With a brighter expression, despite the exhausting past hours, Myrina turns her attention to the two colts. A palomino tobiano and a bay. Both boys. Both healthy.
A smile tips up the corners of her mouth. If only Covet could see that she gave him boys, not only daughters. Her muzzle brushes softly against one then the other as she hums their names. "Rhonan and Tytos, my two precious boys."
But then a strange fear gripped me and I just couldn't ask.
If he were old enough to understand, he’d notice the lack of a father around. Someday, he will notice. Only time will tell if he’ll care, if the lack of a father figure will affect him in any such way. But right now, all he knows is green. Black first. Everything was black for so very long, with the other thing that kicked and he kicked back because that seemed logical. If it hits you, hit it back. Usually the kicking stopped after that.
Then the light. Something white and uncertain and he was out of the black and briefly, the kicking thing was gone. In these moments, he blinked around until he began to make some sense of everything around him. Green below, green above. The ground was soft and safe like the womb had been, but something about the rest of it seemed anything but safe. Harsh and difficult and hot. Though this too reminds him of the womb, where the world was all moist heat. It’s no different in the green place.
Then the kicking thing is on the ground next to him, and in the light and the green he can see that the kicking thing is sort of like him. It has hooves and eyes and ears and such, though they are not at all the same color. This thing is brown and black, like the place where they just came from. No wonder he had no idea what kept kicking him. But the boy knows he is might more brightly colored than his brother. He is gold and white. And already, he hates it.
Eventually his attention directs to the mare on the ground with them as she coos their names, and he knows that Rhonan is his. Tytos is his brother. Rhonan looks like she does, all gold and white. Great, he looks like a girl. Really, really great. Eventually, he gets bored of laying there though, and his stomach feels like it’s growling or something. All bubbly and uncertain, and he decides this must be hunger.
He scrambles to his feet without much haste, and then promptly falls over. Drat. So he does it again. And again. And again. And then he’s actually on his feet, though his steps are wobbly. Thank goodness his mother is close, because he nearly topples over again but instead falls into his mother’s leg, regains his balance, and then figures out how to get himself some food. Awesome. Food is good.
Maybe Sunday is drawn to pain. Maybe she's drawn to the newness of birth, the excitement in the air, the waves of the earth as it makes room for one more life. She likes to think it's the latter - that she's attracted to birth and life and love and not the complex other emotions that come with life.
Sunday is forever the optimist, drowning amongst realists.
She knows a sister is having a foal - twins. She can feel it in her soul, she can feel it on her fingertips. Empathy (she has named it this, and it's been shown to be true) allows her to peer into others minds without knowing intimate details. Still, she feels like a spy. Like she's seeing things she shouldn't. Secrets her sisters would rather kept hidden. She can see the colors that surround them (Essence? she hasn't named this yet) and watch them shift and maneuver into something resembling their emotions.
She gives the mare her space. After all, child birth is a lonesome task. Sunday wouldn't know, though. She is no mother.
After the deed is done and the foals (two lively, young, healthy colts) rise and feed she breaks from the underbrush. "Congrats," she says, her smile ever warm. Sunday is never one to lie, she is genuine in her emotions. She watches them for a moment, then studies Myrina carefully. They've met once or twice, they're not so intimate to allow her to ask, but that's the nature of an Empath - you're always intimate with others. She sees loneliness, longing, and mistakes it for a stallion who is not allowed to enter the Amazons.
The throes of birth have become intimate with Scorch. Nine births later, little has changed in the rat-like woman. If anything, motherhood has steeled her spine. One must deal with whining, crying, and over all bullshitting when parenting. If that wasn’t enough, plenty of her children were simply ass-pains; stubborn Kaida, wild Noori, dead Rain, unloyal Simeon, lackadaisical Shahrizai, stuck-up Ea, over-the-top Wrynn, disappeared Leiland, and now adorably disobedient Sarkis. And she thought ruling a kingdom would be difficult.
Unlike Sunday, Scorch cannot feel when a Sister falls into labour. She can, however, hear the struggles, the pain, and the rejoicing. The naked woman moves slowly towards the scene, vines brushing against her ragged skin. A part of her itches to switch her vision to heat so that she may watch the miracle unravel, but the better part of her respects Myrina’s privacy.
The Khaleesi slips into the thicket just behind Sunday, silence growing between the sisters and the two newborn colts. Maneuvering her way to the children, she slowly nuzzles the standing palomino, then the lying-down bay. She moves in this cautious fashion to dissuade defensive instincts from firing up in Myrina; Scorch means no harm.
“Welcome to the Jungle, nephews Rhonan and Tytos.” She murmurs as she raises her head to its original positioning. "Our family seems prone to twins," She muses allowed with a slice of amusement. Offering a proud smile to their mother and her “blood” sister, Scorch steps a few polite steps back, not wishing to crowd, but rather to offer her silent approval and sisterly affection.
And in the darkened underpass I thought,
"Oh Satan, my chance has come at last!"
She looks at the boys and she sees Covet. An aching burrows deep into her heart as she struggles to stand up. They are ambitious now and are already scrambling to feed. Rhonan reaches her first as Tytos casually bides his time. "Yes, grow strong and learn independence, my sweet boys." She loves them but they also remind her of what she has lost. Something wonderful had sprouted when she never thought it possible. She wouldn't - couldn't - reject her sons out of angst and depression. They are her keepsakes as much as Nayl is. They are her treasures.
She turns her head from one side to the other to carefully watch her sons as they nurse. One is so similar to her in coloring while the other is a darker mix of the passion that made them. A smile touches her lips, but it flickers when the trees and bushes rustle ever so slightly. They whisper to her as threads of her powers creep into the roots of the life around them. Her golden-flecked eyes narrow slightly but are relieved when she sees a sister of the Jungle approach. "Thank you," she replies gently with an airy grin. Exhaustion is painted across her pretty face. She was fortunate to have survived the birth at her age. Her body feels battered and her eyes are momentarily dull when she looks down at the ground. There is joy in her heart, but there is a physical weakness that is beginning to weigh her down.
Myrina sighs, but forces another grin as she hears Scorch.
"I think so, too," a low bout of laughter finds its way to her lips. "I just wish twins had happened before I was this old..." She trails off in thought as she wonders if this will be her spiraling descent. Will this be the beginning of her demise? A breath catches in her throat as Tytos nips her before he shoulders past to look at the two mares watching his mother and brother. "Um. Hi?" He reflects back to what has been said as his orange-gold eyes glance between the strangers. "So, you're my aunt," his inclines toward Scorch before looking at Sunday, "and are you my aunt, too?" He wants answers. Now.
Myrina shakes her head slowly with a barely audible chuckle before her eyes solemnly find her sisters. With her back greatly swayed now and with dirt clinging tightly to her coat, she suddenly feels an inkling that she is no longer beautiful, young, or even a vibrant Amazon any longer.
But then a strange fear gripped me and I just couldn't ask.
He is no treasure. He’s more like that pet rock that you don’t quite know what to do with, but can’t quite bring yourself to get rid of. He has little interest in the two mares that approach. They talk, saying things like congratulations. Which he doesn’t understand. Is he something to be proud of? He’s just a boy with wobbly legs and a pretty pretty princess coat (he will forever hate his coat, he’s already decided). Maybe Tytos is something to be proud of? But he’s kind of just an asshole, as proved by all the kicks in the womb and the nip to their mother.
Tytos is the one to venture out. Rhonan, for his part, peers from beneath their mother. Not in a shy way, but rather in a lazy way. More you are too far away to be bothered with than omg, stranger danger!. Really, he’s not stupid. His mother isn’t worried about these other mares, and so he isn’t either. No, his mother just seems sad and tired, though he doesn’t entirely understand this. He just knows she doesn’t look quite like the other two.
Thoguh, to be fair, the one is literally hairless. He’s not entirely convinced she’s a horse at all. Maybe a horse/rat? A super freaky crossbred? That could probably happen in Beqanna, right? He has no idea. But he stares at her for a while with those unsettling eyes of his, muddy brown with an orange ring. Courtesy of his father. Perhaps too much of him is courtesy of his father. That’s why he’s no treasure, no keepsake. He’s his father. And who the hell wanted that man around?
Well, except his Mom. Guess Myrina wasn’t dumping him off at the adoption den anytime soon.
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