perhaps we've forgotten that we are still pioneers
and we've barely begun
Another child, another disappointment?
Quorra can feel the hour fast approaching. She is silent in the silky meadow, softly shuffling through the ferocious sea of shifting grasses. The milky buckskin crosses to the edge of the meadow, the start of an expansive woodland bordering alone one side. The speckles of her roan pelt reflect the stars above her, glistening earnestly in the late twilight sky.
She is anxious. Not about the labour, not about the pain. Those she can handle, because she knows they will pass. It is the thought of her child that scares her the most. The last one had been born with an unnerving number of eyes, unnatural and warped by some curse or another. Perhaps she will always be cursed? Every child to escape her womb will be a punishment for more crime from a past life?
Abruptly, the pummelling in her sides begins. She closes her eyes, accepting the strain, biting her tongue to remain soundless. She will not be weak, she will not scream. If this is her punishment, she will take it within her stride.
The labour soon passes, a babe is soon born. The moment she feels it drop to the ground, with a dread fast rising in her gut she turns to assess the damage. Quorra looks down at her second daughter, to find to her relief that she is beautiful. She sighs, the weight lifted from her shoulders, flooding her every pore and fibre, as if she were to feel that first lightening from submerging into a pool on a sweltering hot day. Except, she finds, that this feeling is much better.
"Anjou," she says, purring it down lovingly as she christens her daughter. The beautiful little black child with three ballerina-socks. In turn, the filly looks up, blinking at her dam. She holds her head high, strong and sure of herself even in these first precious moments. It is then that Quorra knows - this daughter will be just fine.
Quorra can feel the hour fast approaching. She is silent in the silky meadow, softly shuffling through the ferocious sea of shifting grasses. The milky buckskin crosses to the edge of the meadow, the start of an expansive woodland bordering alone one side. The speckles of her roan pelt reflect the stars above her, glistening earnestly in the late twilight sky.
She is anxious. Not about the labour, not about the pain. Those she can handle, because she knows they will pass. It is the thought of her child that scares her the most. The last one had been born with an unnerving number of eyes, unnatural and warped by some curse or another. Perhaps she will always be cursed? Every child to escape her womb will be a punishment for more crime from a past life?
Abruptly, the pummelling in her sides begins. She closes her eyes, accepting the strain, biting her tongue to remain soundless. She will not be weak, she will not scream. If this is her punishment, she will take it within her stride.
The labour soon passes, a babe is soon born. The moment she feels it drop to the ground, with a dread fast rising in her gut she turns to assess the damage. Quorra looks down at her second daughter, to find to her relief that she is beautiful. She sighs, the weight lifted from her shoulders, flooding her every pore and fibre, as if she were to feel that first lightening from submerging into a pool on a sweltering hot day. Except, she finds, that this feeling is much better.
"Anjou," she says, purring it down lovingly as she christens her daughter. The beautiful little black child with three ballerina-socks. In turn, the filly looks up, blinking at her dam. She holds her head high, strong and sure of herself even in these first precious moments. It is then that Quorra knows - this daughter will be just fine.
Quorra
because our destiny lies above us