when you speak dreams and reality collide

[Camelia]

I will run the streets and hostile lands, I will touch the rain with all I have
I will breathe the air, to scream it loud. My feet will never touch the ground.

Camelia has never abandoned a child in the Adoption Den. That is not to say she has never abandoned a child. Out of her two, she did the least pleasant job with Topsail (and that might be the reason why her daughter used to rule the evilest kingdom in Beqanna and why she laughed at the shadows and stroked bloodthirsty wolves and harbored a degree of darkness in her heart). She isn’t proud of that achievement. She didn’t want her lovely, beautiful, sweet daughter to end up as a queen of the shadows and wolves. That is what happened, however, and Camelia knows she can’t wish she could change her parenting method of the past, but only improve it in the present.

Perhaps that is why her feet bring her to the Den. Tephra is slowly blossoming with life, but Camelia finds she needs something more to do. Her mind and hands need something work on, something to love, something to cherish. And she knows children are orphaned frequently, sent to the doting fairy when their mothers are too lazy or unloving or busy to dote over them themselves.

The slender mare stands near the entrance for a minute, feeling her heart swell with compassion and grief over the lost babes. There are too many of them and they all cry for the warm breast and tender love of a mother. Camelia wishes she could take each one of them in and kiss their fuzzy heads, murmur soft words in their ears, and remind them that the world does not need to be a harsh place. But at the moment, she can only take one. So she scans the Den with careful brown eyes until her eyes find the sniffing silver black filly.

Camelia dips her head toward the fairy as she walks past. Although she has always been attuned to the whimsy and order of Beqanna, she is even more so aware after Beqanna tossed and labored and moaned. The dunskin comes to a slow halt in front of the little girl, her chest aching with sympathy. She pauses for a second, anxious and worried on how to approach the grieving filly. Finally, she lays her own body down beside her. It seems less terrifying to get on their level.

“Hello, precious.” She smiles softly and the warm look could almost melt the snow. “I’m Camelia but you can call me Cammy if it’s easier.” It sends a quiet pang through her heart to say such a name. Mast had called her that in their childhood, and even into their adulthood. She hasn’t seen him since Beqanna split apart and it worries her. “Are you cold?” Winter can’t be a comfortable season for a motherless foal, especially as she lays on the cold dirt.

Camelia