08-12-2016, 01:47 PM
no matter what they say, I am still the king
He is near – as always. He is never far from the Valley, never unaware of the comings and goings, of the turmoil that may be boiling up beneath her skin. And oh dear, was there things arising. The Valley stirred like a mother with unrest – she knew the triplets were coming. The maelstrom of the three that would change the fate of the Valley – wind and rain and might. And mighty they were.
Eight heard the call of Topsail ring throughout his mind – but he was already there. The Valley had told him, the magic in his veins had told him – the wind whispered throughout the trees and the blood in his veins throbbed deeply; they are coming. And so he had been there. He had followed Topsail, her body heavy with child, frothing with sweat, a battering ram ready to take on the world. He trailed invisibly, silently (we mustn’t let her think we think her weak) – following the weighty steps she took throughout the land. He was ready, and the Valley ready too - give them to us - she whispered to his bones, his heart, the electric buzz in his veins.
And then, it was time. She called to him – and he knows it was not out of weakness or company, but for the sheer terror that her body may split in two. For the thought that these three hellions may eat her from the inside up, may tear one another into bits and pieces in their tooth and nail battle to their Nightmother the Valley. And so he came – appearing from the mist like an oil spill, seeping to steady feet away from her. Not too close to insinuate that they were one – that their coupling had been anything more than the adrenaline of the battlefield – but close enough that she knew, the Guardian was there.
The time etches out – the steady heat of the summers day scorching down on the laboring queen. Eight did the little he thought necessary – misting rains when she seemed as hot as the sun, her body ready to combust with the ever circling planets inside her – shreds of wind to dance her mane in the wind when it stuck too tightly to her sweat ridden body – bays of the Valley wolves to sturdy her mind from anything but the pain. As she labored, he riddled the world with a taste of magic, steady as the Valley mountains.
And then – they came, in rapid succession the three spilled from her body and onto the ground. They were the palette of Topsail – a grullo sheen for each of them – and with her emanating delight, Eight knew that the genetics of his color he had spun with magic was exactly what the queen had wanted (and who ever thought Eight would care what another wanted?). And still, Eight stood dormant at the edge of the clearing, the quiet queen cleaning and tending her brood.
Moments pass, the nurturing bond of mother and child was not something Eight cared to embark on – he was not a fatherly figure. He was after all a guardian of the Valley, and while these children were borne of him, they were just another part of the Valley to protect.
As the youngest colt came solidly to his feet, and Topsail had finished preening and naming – Eight stepped closer, giving a nod to the queen. “ Formidable names, Topsail.” He reached gentle tendrils out to the children, soft wisps that wound themselves throughout their veins, feeling out for what may be inside the children. “It seems they will live up to them.” He gave a quick nod of his head to the youngest, Keel - “He has his grandfathers terrible strength – and your gift for telepathy.” He turns to the only filly, a diamond amongst the rough of her brothers. “She too will speak with her mind.” And finally, the eldest boy - “And he will move things with his mind.” Looking back to Topsail, he nods once more. “Well done, queen. The future of the Valley looks promising.”
Eight heard the call of Topsail ring throughout his mind – but he was already there. The Valley had told him, the magic in his veins had told him – the wind whispered throughout the trees and the blood in his veins throbbed deeply; they are coming. And so he had been there. He had followed Topsail, her body heavy with child, frothing with sweat, a battering ram ready to take on the world. He trailed invisibly, silently (we mustn’t let her think we think her weak) – following the weighty steps she took throughout the land. He was ready, and the Valley ready too - give them to us - she whispered to his bones, his heart, the electric buzz in his veins.
And then, it was time. She called to him – and he knows it was not out of weakness or company, but for the sheer terror that her body may split in two. For the thought that these three hellions may eat her from the inside up, may tear one another into bits and pieces in their tooth and nail battle to their Nightmother the Valley. And so he came – appearing from the mist like an oil spill, seeping to steady feet away from her. Not too close to insinuate that they were one – that their coupling had been anything more than the adrenaline of the battlefield – but close enough that she knew, the Guardian was there.
The time etches out – the steady heat of the summers day scorching down on the laboring queen. Eight did the little he thought necessary – misting rains when she seemed as hot as the sun, her body ready to combust with the ever circling planets inside her – shreds of wind to dance her mane in the wind when it stuck too tightly to her sweat ridden body – bays of the Valley wolves to sturdy her mind from anything but the pain. As she labored, he riddled the world with a taste of magic, steady as the Valley mountains.
And then – they came, in rapid succession the three spilled from her body and onto the ground. They were the palette of Topsail – a grullo sheen for each of them – and with her emanating delight, Eight knew that the genetics of his color he had spun with magic was exactly what the queen had wanted (and who ever thought Eight would care what another wanted?). And still, Eight stood dormant at the edge of the clearing, the quiet queen cleaning and tending her brood.
Moments pass, the nurturing bond of mother and child was not something Eight cared to embark on – he was not a fatherly figure. He was after all a guardian of the Valley, and while these children were borne of him, they were just another part of the Valley to protect.
As the youngest colt came solidly to his feet, and Topsail had finished preening and naming – Eight stepped closer, giving a nod to the queen. “ Formidable names, Topsail.” He reached gentle tendrils out to the children, soft wisps that wound themselves throughout their veins, feeling out for what may be inside the children. “It seems they will live up to them.” He gave a quick nod of his head to the youngest, Keel - “He has his grandfathers terrible strength – and your gift for telepathy.” He turns to the only filly, a diamond amongst the rough of her brothers. “She too will speak with her mind.” And finally, the eldest boy - “And he will move things with his mind.” Looking back to Topsail, he nods once more. “Well done, queen. The future of the Valley looks promising.”
∞
and now the storm is coming, the storm is coming in