Birthing// Castile, Any

[Sabra]

Do you think of me the way I think of you? 

I didn't go far, just far enough. Just far enough to be outside a kingdom. The river is beautiful. It's peaceful here, a rare smooth place in its flow. I haven't been to the river since that day when it all went wrong, and I think maybe that's why I wanted to cone back for this. To superimpose something happy over the darkness. 

Do you want for things most like as won't come true?

My chosen place is the loveliest I could find. In the midst of a willow grove, I have built a nest of sorts. Interwoven willow branches make for a lacy canopy over my head, quickly becoming covered with tender green leaves. Here in my bower I am a queen again. 

Queen of my own fate. That's what I told Despayr, and I want to believe it. She had revealed much to me. Such as that I will not be trusted within kingdoms any longer. I am a fallen usurper. A failed ruler. One not to be trusted. Blinking back the sudden tears, I stare at my quiet grove. I feel different today. Restless and irritable, though there's nothing here but small birds and peeper frogs for me to snap at. Pacing in a small loop, I pull an ice blue-rose pink plume from my wing, adding it the the collection that's been gathered in my nest of reeds and grasses. A sigh whispers past my lips as I fall to my knees heavily. Pressure is building noticeably, getting painful. Its happening... and he's not here. I had hoped... another ripple of pain rolls through my abdomen, driving me back to my feet with a groan. My teeth grit against each other. Up and down, up and down. I don't know where I want to be until I do. 

Do you dream of me like I dream of you? 

Prostate under my willow I lay panting, moaning as the pain begins to get too much to bear. I have to be strong enough. I was before, I can be again, but fuck does this hurt! Burning tears leak from behind my shut eyelids as the intensity grows to a fever pitch. For a moment I feel that it is impossible. This is too much to  sk, so please stop! And then the pain decreases into a dull, tolerable ache. Sweaty and tired, I look behind me to see a tiny pale mound in the grass, stirring cautiously. 

As I catch my breath to stand, an unexpected wave of agony rolls over me, as intense as before. This didn't happen with Kwartz. I'm nauseous from the pain, and exhausted already when the urge to push compels me again. Again? It's like deja vu, and like a rewound film, the pattern repeats, until I lay there panting and worn. It is sheer stubbornness that pulls me to my feet at last. Blood stains the paleness of my hindquarters, and tints the moisture-darkened hair of my two new children. 

Cleaning them gingerly, I get a better look, riding a high of endorphins that makes me forget my pain awhile. Twin sons, though I would not have guessed it had I not just birthed them myself. As unlike as brothers could be, they still bear the mark of me on them. Warm and cool opposites, one bears my flaming tresses and a soft brown coat. His brother is paler, and for a moment I think something went wrong. Ovely large bony curtains hang from his shoulders, wrinkled and translucent. After my initial shock, I have to laugh softly. Wings, yes, but in favour of his father. The magic of Beqanna manifests in peculiar ways. Already, their personalities are beginning to show, the flame maned baby nudging his brother in competition for the first taste of milk as they clumsily find their legs. Oh my beautiful boys...

Tell me darling, please tell me true. 

[Ivar]

I V A R i'll use you as a makeshift gauge of how much to give and how much to take The grey and white stallion follows the path of one of the river’s many feeder streams, knowing that despite the narrowness of this channel that it runs deep. Deep enough for a kelpie, he knows, and yet finds nothing more than his own reflection. As he draws closer to the main river, the scent of other horses grows more frequent. These are the common grounds, he knows, for idle conversation or residence, depending on your fancy. That looks like a residence, the scaled stallion thinks as his eye flick over a bower in the willow grove he has entered. Surely the greenery hadn’t grown in such an unnatural shape? Curious, I move closer, yet even as the wind gusts towards me, I see the occupants and know that is is not the mare I am looking for. (easy prey) but Ivar is not especially hungry. Still, it is entertaining to watch them struggle to find their feet on the earth strewn with silvery leaves. Lothbrok had been so small once, he remembers, though his son had not had to contend with leathery wings like the little palomino does. The kelpie observes from a comfortable distance away, not near enough to be a threat to a new mother. He glances from boy’s wings to the mother’s flaming hair, the faintest scrap of memory struggling in the back of his mind. Hadn’t he seen the mare before? Or caught her scent on someone familiar? Oh yes. That’s it. Ivar advances a few paces closer, though his posture is unthreatening and the hunger in his eyes is nothing more than a soft shimmer. “They’re Castiles?” He asks, glancing from the two spindly-legged colts to their colorful mother. making those promises that i could not keep in my dark times, baby this is all i could be

[Sabra]

So caught up am I within the magic of my infant sons. They are perfect, wonderful. While it is my own echoes I first noted, it soon becomes clear the ways they favour their father. The flame maned boy, colored like I used to be, bears his father's face and hints and his heavier built. The smaller, paler brother has the shape of my face, the elegance of form. He's almost over weighted by the oversized wings at his sides. The gawky, membranous things are still damp, fragments of afterbirth turning the blue sheen a murky violet in places. I so wish their father were here, to see what fine boys he's made. My throat tightens at the thought, but this is what I chose. This was what it was to love a wild thing. 

Holding close to my wobble legged lads, I hear the soft steps of approach. Close enough to know this is not just a passerby, my ears fold flat against my skull. He has emerged directly from the river which I had found so peaceful moments ago. He stands closer than I would like, dripping on the grass. My wings unfold partially, pulling the boys in close to my sides. There is a momentary standoff as I gaze defensively at the pied stallion approaching. There is no malice in his face, but my posture does not relax. Not until he speaks words I could not have expected. 

I snort in surprise, bobbing my head in confirmation. "They are, yes." The restless babes poke their heads from the downy embrace of my wings. If this stallion has some vendetta against Castile... I dare not let them roam just yet. "You know Castile?" I have to ask. For all that I felt that primal connection to the draconic male, I had to admit that I knew next to nothing of him out his past. 

@[Ivar]

[Ivar]

I V A R i'll use you as a makeshift gauge of how much to give and how much to take The kelpie hadn’t noticed the new mother’s defensiveness, but he does stop his advances as she tucks the twins closer to her sides. That was a clear enough sign, and Ivar hadn’t meant to startle her. He takes a longer moment to inspect her this time, from the tips of her pink ears to the fiery ombre of her tail. It had taken Castile a rather embarrassingly long time to find a woman, but Ivar does appreciate his taste. She’s a pretty thing, small enough to make a man feel protective, and Ivar has always been a sucker for a good pair of feathered wings. Castile's, he reminds himself, just as the mare speaks his name aloud. “We grew up together,” Ivar replies,“And lived together in Loess for a while, too.” It has been some time since he has seen the draconic stallion; years, he realizes. Castile must not live in Loess anymore, Ivar thinks;  why else would his children be born here at the River? “Where is he, anyway?” Ivar's amber gaze flicks up and down the length of the riverbank, but no familiar figure emerges. Why isn’t he here guarding his newborns? The kelpie, ever opportunistic, glances back at the trio that might potentially be up for the taking. Ivar has a history of snatching things out from under Castile’s nose, though he never means to. It isn’t his fault that Isobell had come on to him, after all. He’d even left her in Nerine and returned to Loess, content to live out the prolific life of a herd stallion. His sister might be a little different than his lover though, Ivar supposes. Best not make a move quite yet. “What’d you name them?” He asks instead, gesturing to the two curious heads that pop up from beneath the shelter of Sabra’s wings. making those promises that i could not keep in my dark times, baby this is all i could be

[Sabra]

Im tired. The experience of birthing had drained me more than I'd realized, and the last thing I wanted to be doing was entertain a guest. My time as a ruler serves me well, though, as I am practiced in maintaining a pleasant expression. But as this stranger begins to talk more of his connection to Cas, the smile becomes more genuine. It's surreal meeting someone who seems to know him so well. Cautiously, I relax my grip on the twins, letting them totter a few feet away from me. One eye on them and one on the newcomer. Clearly, I don't have enough eyes. 

My burgeoning good mood dips at his question. For a moment I didn't respond, choosing instead to watch the boys trample tall grass. After a few deep breathes I felt calm enough to face the music. "I don't know. I haven't seen him since... since autumn." I left the implication hanging in the air. Desperately, I needed to believe that Cas was everything he appeared. That he wasn't another Klaudius, and could be trusted. Stallions... 

Turning back to him, what was his name? I smiled again, perhaps a bit weaker than before. The babies seem to have expended their new stores of energy, curled up to rest beneath the bower I had built. They were nestled much as I imagined they had within me. My mismatched bookends. "I've been considering several today. But I think I've settled on Raul for the buckskin, and Santana for the palamino." It was a more pleasant train of thought, the naming of the children. Saying them out loud made it more real, gave them the beginnings of identity.  Speaking of identities. "I'm sorry, I seem to have forgotten my manners. My name is Sabra." My expression turns vaguely apologetic as I await his own introduction. 

@[Ivar]

[Ivar]

I V A R i'll use you as a makeshift gauge of how much to give and how much to take She is just beginning to relax, Ivar sees, and then his question about Castile strips it all away from her. The mare had not seen him since the conception of their children then, he surmises, yet had still managed to survive a winter alone burdened with a double pregnancy. She is strong then, not just lovely. And alone, he is reminded as she shares the names of her children. Ivar’s expression had been neutral, and though a small frown creases his white forehead at her admission of Castile’s absence, he smooths it quickly away as she changes the subject. If she doesn’t wish to linger on the subject, then he won’t. Raul, he thinks as he looks at the buckskin colt with his mother’s hair. Santana is the tobiano with Castile’s dragon wings. “Castile had feathered wings like yours when he was little,” Ivar says absently to Sabra, remembering the gawky colt and the grey shore of Nerine. “I guess the dragon is stronger now.” His genes are anyway, thinks the stallion with a wry smile. The boys curl to sleep beneath her, which Ivar is grateful for. They are Castile’s children, which makes them safe, but they are still children. He is not the best with children. She introduce herself, and the name is familiar for another reason. He can’t recall it now though, and it’s not especially important. There will be time later. “I’m Ivar.” He tells her. “Though you have more important things on your mind than manners, now.” The kelpie glances down at the dozing children and then out at the green willow grove around them. “If you want to rest, I’d be glad to keep an eye out.” The offer is not uncharacteristic (Isobell had always assumed Ivar would take the responsibility, and she had been right). “I owe Castile a bit of babysitting, anyway.” he adds, failing to mention that he owes a solid two years, having left his daughter in the dragon’s care. The kelpie is not close enough to bewitch her with a touch, but he suspects she might just be strong enough to resist it anyway. Sabra does not strike him as particularly weak-minded; she’d carried twins alone and survived it and that is not a simple task. making those promises that i could not keep in my dark times, baby this is all i could be