We do what we must,
Because we can.
There are few horses in the world that Camrynn would even hesitate to screw over. Eight is one of them. Pevensie is another. Dominion might be on the list as well. But Bergamot is definitely there. She could have done so many things when they first met, back when they were both young and innocent – or at least, when he was young and innocent and she was doing such a heartbreakingly good job of pretending.
Back then, back before the Deserts competition, back before everything changed, she'd made him a promise. Let me show you the other kingdoms she'd said, her voice the sweet, innocent breathy child's voice that so enraptured everyone who heard it. Now, infinitely more a mare than a child, her voice enraptures for a different reason, but it's no less effective.
She appears on the edges of the meadow, knowing that she'll find Bergamot here. She knows that he will be alone, knows exactly where he'll be, even knows what he is doing. Her power is even more unleashed now that she's constrained herself (more or less) to her true form. She's a beautiful mare, young, in the prime of her life, her entire body impossibly black. True to magical form, she will never fade, will never be anything less than absolutely breathtakingly beautiful.
She has no markings, born a true illusionist, a blank canvas to become whatever she wanted to be. But over time she's grown a few decorations. The crook and flail of the Deserts throne contest stands out proud against her chest. It's etched in gold, living metal that curves across the planes of her chest in an unnaturally natural manner, shining bright in the summer sunlight. And as a final touch, a delicate line of gemstones traces across her left cheek, elegant like a necklace.
He wouldn't be hard to find in the meadow, even for a horse without her particular talents. His coat speaks more than he ever could, shifting and beautiful. For a moment she considers mimicking him, taking up illustrated coat shifting too, but just as quickly she decides against it. He doesn't know the truth of who she is, and she doesn't feel like hurting him. That means a rather delicate situation, exactly as she'd faced with Pevensie.
I mean she could just reach into their minds and tweak things so she didn't have any explaining to do, but that just really didn't seem like the sporting thing to do. And Camrynn is nothing if not fair.
And so, in the spirit of fairness, she approaches him the normal way, walking in from the edges of the field. He would recognize her, she hoped, and if he didn't she could always change that. Her tail brushes across the grass as she walks, impossibly free of tangles, dramatically elegant.
She says nothing, closing the distance between them with a gentle smile on her lips. Today her eyes are blue, cornflower blue, blue like the summer sky that stretches endlessly above them. Finally reaching Bergamot, she halts gracefully at conversation distance, the smile still playing with her lips. "Bergamot." she greets cheerfully, her tones warm. Her voice is like velvet, smooth and soft and infinitely pleasant. "Do you recognize me?"
C A M R Y N N
Why? Because I can
Image copyright MariannaInsomnia
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Just in case you wanted to pick them up again 
| Bergamot My silence is a roar...
The young stallion was often in the Meadow. He had no place within the Jungle, though it was still technically his home, he would never give his heart to it as his mother had. Perhaps he had a streak of pride. Given some of his relations, it wasn't impossible that the golden stallion contained a vice or two. He was no longer the innocent, carefree child that had once played with Cammie in the tall grasses but his heart was not yet hardened. Taller than his mother and somewhat more slender, he had become rather handsome.
Unaware he was being watched, his face was set in gentle contemplation of the clouds that crossed in the blue autumn skies as he mimicked them half-consciously on his topline. The lines of his face were definitely Arabianesque but the large eyes with dark lashes were his mother's though their irises were a muted hazel, not her deep brown. He had his father's long legs but a deeper chest, more along his stock heritage. The breeze set his short mane to flutter as he turned his head at the sound of a voice. There was something familiar in the velvet tones and his sharp ears flicked forward immediately.
Dark lips mute, they still opened as if he were going to give a greeting as he turned to regard the inky mare. A number of expressions flickered across his face rapidly, as did a number of illustrations on his body. They were nebulous and had no meaning, simply reflections of his surprise, pleasure, and then hurt. He knew the mare. It was Cammie, or it had been. Word of coronations spread quickly from one kingdom to another and he had heard of Camrynn, the black co-queen of the Desert. His handsome face darkened as he looked at her but after a moment he gave a nod. You never returned, he wanted to say. You lied to me, his eyes hissed at her. I was a foolish, trusting child, he chastised himself. She had been his first friend, and the first girl to pull on the strings of his young heart.
Thorny black vines snaked over his form like the coils of venomous snakes until his golden pelt was almost as dark as her own and only his bright hazel eyes burned into her. He sighed soundlessly, only a whistle of air escaping his lips as the vines faded away from him and left him gold once more. Cautiously, an image of her as a graying bay filly formed on his chest and he nudged her with his nose, a deep frown on his lips as the figure disappeared to be replaced by a fairly detailed rendering of her current form. He couldn't replicate her with the same skill she did herself, the magic made her perfect in a way even his eyes couldn't record.
Why is she here? His pelt was the Jungle now, he knew that she wouldn't be returning to it. Had she ever planned to stay or was it a game? Was he a game or a pawn for her too? Mistrust and confusion clouded his eyes and he simply waited to see what she might do next. Was she really here to just see him? Or was he just a roadbump on her way to something else?
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so you wanna play with magic? She's not surprised that he distrusts her. She's more surprised that she dislikes his distrust.
Emotions flicker across his face and black vines curl across his skin, and she feels her smile fade, as though she too curls into herself, feeling sorrow and shame. She doesn't meet his gaze, not until he nudges her, and even then she looks with just half an eye, as though ashamed to look him in the eye. She watches his coat, hearing every thought, everything that runs through his mind. It's still so easy – he telegraphs it so loudly she's surprised every horse in the meadow can't hear his thoughts.
She sighs deeply, knowing that there's really just one thing to be done. Bergamot, she speaks directly into his mind, her voice soft as silk and gentle. It is not invasive, not frightening – in fact, the effect is rather like having a guardian angel whisper into your ear. It's handy, how being magic allows you to make yourself most anything. Her intentions with him really are pure – she really likes him, and he's so sweet, she doesn't want to be the one to break his little heart. She'd promised to show him the world, all she wants to do is keep that promise.
Let me show you where I went. Let me show you why I didn't return. her eyes are closed, and her face is partially turned away from him, as though she feels sorrow and shame so deeply that she simply can't face him. She is not tall and proud now; she is still impossibly graceful and beautiful, still something otherworldly, but she looks younger now, somehow closer to the child she had once pretended to be.
And even she doesn't know to what extent it's an act, and to what extent it's the truth. She's known forever that she has no desire to hurt the boy, and she does feel some legitimate shame that she's made him so jaded. Not only that, but she does have an incredible explanation for where she's been, and why she's been there. Once he sees what Scorch asked her, once he understands, she believes he will be relieved of his burden. Perhaps it will unwind the hurt.
It should say something that she's even asking him. Normally she'd just dive in telepathically, whipping him around through collective memory the way she'd slingshotted herself and Lokii through time. But this isn’t Lokii, this isn't just some horse – this is Bergamot, and like Pevensie, he doesn't deserve to be hurt.
And so she waits, wondering whether he'll give her the opportunity to dive deeper, to take him on a trip that will tell of gods and goddesses, of tests and intrigue and magic, or whether he'll write her off (as is his right) and she'll be left to decide which she values more: her sudden morality, or her desire to maintain his friendship.
CAMRYNN co-queen of the deserts, magical, mother of badassery
| Bergamot My silence is a roar...
Bergamot doesn't shy away from her shame, but observes her with the stern, patient expression of a judge. Is he judging her? Perhaps so, it seems petty somehow, but he can't help but feel resentment. For being lied to. For being left behind. For being made a fool of. Her intentions aside, his heart seemed to curl inward like a wounded caterpillar. How he longed for her to say something, to explain herself, to justify his anger or assuage it. He's soothed himself and prepared to listen to what she has to say but when she does finally speak it's so unlike what he expected that he jumps back.
Hazel eyes wide in wonder, his ears pinned to his head before turning sharply towards her like dowsing rods. Can she hear me? His thoughts are as loud as always but still not directed towards her, he isn't used to thinking that way. Moving closer, his fine masculine features almost touching her impossibly graceful feminine ones, he tries to catch her eye. The whole thing is so amazing and frustrating that he actually nips at her neck and digs one forehoof into the earth, leaving a raw wound in the grass.
What picture could he show her to express himself? Colors swirl around on his body like ink dropped into water. It was pretty to look at, but only a product of his exasperation. Finally he simply settled on the first image he'd shown her. He had gotten better in the months since he'd last seen her and so the sunrise on his pelt was so perfect he might have been a horse shaped piece of fallen sky. A small symbol, hidden just for her blossomed on his body where her golden, royal mark did, a lusciously dark calla lily. He would reserve judgement, his pale eyes looking at her with a clarity and maturity that made him appear a hundred years old rather than his scant two years. Show me. Keep your promise.
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so you wanna play with magic? How can he know that she hears everything? How can he possibly understand what she really is? He doesn't even suspect it, so strange is the whole thing to him. She knows that it must be introduced gently, carefully, and that she must not overstep her bounds. It is strange to her, to find that she wants to have him as a friend; a new sensation, and not one that she's entirely sure how to interpret.
He touches her, more a product of his own attempts to deal with the new shifts in their relationship than anything else. He is anxious, he is unsure, she can feel it as easily as she can see it. But for all the things she usually is, for all the deceptions she's been known to weave, in this instance, this one instance, she has actually tried to do right. By him, and in all her doings since she'd left him. And she is grateful when he is willing to see. Her lily – the calla lily – blossoms on his breast, a counterpart to her royal mark, and she smiles. It is small and tight, and her eyes are still shadowed, but she knows that it is a beginning.
And in the blink of an eye, they stand within the same field, watching as filly-Cammie leaves him after promising to show him the kingdoms one day.
"We're visitors, observers here. We can't be seen or heard, and we can't change events." She smiles a little. "It's nowhere near as artistic as what you do, but it gets the job done." she says, looking at him with a half smile. Filly Cammie returns to the Jungle, where she is approached by Scorch. Pledge yourself to the jungle, the mare asks, and become great. Cammie obliges. And then Scorch reveals the details: that Cammie is to go to the Deserts, to compete in their crown tournament as a sworn representative of the jungle. Cammie is to hide her Amazons tattoos, to trade on the time she's spent in the Deserts, to present as a native of the Deserts.
The tournament starts almost immediately. There is no time to do anything but head to the Deserts. "I had to leave immediately." she explains, her voice sad. "Scorch sent me." Not that it ended up mattering, she thinks.
The next moment, they stand within the Deserts, competitors pressed around them, the goddess Isis rising before them. Cammie steps forward, drinks from the purple liquid – and the next moment the two of them are observing Camrynn, the pure black mare with no tattoos, no markings whatsoever. Bergamot can feel her awe at being in the presence of Isis, her knowledge that this is infinitely more than she had ever imagined the competition would be. And he can feel the way she is certain that Isis knows everything, including why she had been sent there. The rest of the competition whirls past like a movie on fast-forward: the questions of Isis, Camrynn's statement to Isis that no kingdom of hers would ever be subject to another kingdom, her journey through the wastelands of the underworld and the way that Bergamot had been one of the voices that had whispered to her. He sees the magnificent throne room of the underworld god, the way she handles herself so brilliantly when the god simulates her into queenship, and the return to the Deserts with a gilded crook and flail upon her chest. He sees the final riddle, her answer – because truly, no one deserves a crown, the best they can do is earn it.
And finally, the fast forwarding stops as a quiet Camrynn swears to the gods that she will serve the Deserts faithfully, on pain of losing her magic. And the scene freezes as she turns to Bergamot.
"I am magic, Bergamot." she whispers gently, carefully into his mind, her eyes fixed on him. "If my powers have limits, I haven't found them yet." she says it simply, gently, a statement of fact rather than a brag. She is prideful with others, she plays others for the fool, she will dive down to the greatest depths a mare can reach – but not with Bergamot. Never with him.
"So yes, I can hear you. But I try not to listen, unless you want me to." and it's true. She may be terribly capricious about what she does with so many others, but he's one of the few exceptions.
She looks away, and the world turns again. It is a mass of diplomatic meetings, with her kingdom, with Scorch (and oh, if he thought she was terrifying before, what would he think of her as the dragon-mare, her words like barbs to Yael and Pevensie and Camrynn alike?) And finally, he sees the kingdom business quiet at last, and he sees her come to him, knowing she'll find him when she does.
And then the past dissolves into the present, the meadow noisy around them. She has shown him her greatest pride and her greatest secret (although it's rapidly becoming one of the worst kept secrets in Beqanna). "You're the first horse I've told." she confesses, somewhat sheepishly, her eyes downcast. "The other magicians just know, and others have kind of…figured out, but you're the first one I've told." her eyes raise slowly to meet his gaze. "I'm sorry I didn't come back sooner. But I hope maybe you can see why." she whispers delicately into his mind.
And then, she is silent. It's his turn now. CAMRYNN co-queen of the deserts, magical, mother of badassery
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