"But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura
I was confused, as confused as the birds as they realised there eggs had been stolen by greedy predators. As heartbroken as the willow as it weeps it leaves in autumn. My body quivered, against the cold, against the feelings that surged through me with searing hot rivulets. A spike here, right through my healing ribcage. My lungs expelled, attempting to gasp for a lungful of air, but failed and I stumbled to my knees, just short of the vast tree in the heart of the Gates. I scuffed them against there ground, mud marred my chocolate frame as I rolled to my side, my swollen barrel rising and falling, rising and falling.
What was happening? Was I dying? Was this what those dreams were warning me about? the darkness that slipped my mind, the shadows encasing me in dark, dark, darkness. Was it predicting that my heart would give out, right here, my lungs would just… stop. The thought felt like an arrow, slipping from my ind and aiming straight for my torn and broken little heart.
It struck it’s mark, right then and I was reminded by the iron steed; his steely body cold, like winter against me. the uncomfortable pain that shot through me, another reminder roof what had happened. I had been deflowered, taken like some broken little thing and tossed aside. Filled with a growing life. Oh, I had been so foolish, too broken to even see that this would be the end result. I quivered, my eyes wide, the threat of tears a promise as the hot saline trickled from the corners and fell down my cheeks. I called, I called multiple times. I was frightened, far more frightened of this than of the shadows that followed me at night, than the monster that lurked inside of my head. I was far more scared of the pain on the inside, to not notice that my thrashing at opened old wounds. Primarily the large strip along my ribcage. It blossomed like a red rose, the crimson burgundy against my brown coat.
My voice felt strained, captive in my throat and wilful in it’s escape. Even to my own ears, it sounded like a death call. A vulture overhead, cawing for friends to come and enjoy the meal. I pushed my head into the spring grass, thrashing my hinds, kicking at the darkness that I felt riding my heels. Oh. they were after the product inside of me. The thing, the life. they wanted it as much as they wanted me. It broke me, as much as the pain. The feeling of regret, the feeling of hopelessness. I called again, a ragged cry, piercing and wrought. My hinds quivered, pulsed against the surge as the life slipped from me, drained my eyes, my heart raging, threatening to leap from it’s ribbed cage. Oh, the pain, the pain was far more than the blood, than the tearing and shredding of flesh. I felt like my insides were fire, and I was burning alive.
the pain then ceased, but not without one final whinny, that very cry had spurred the life along and it slipped from me with ease, falling in a puddle of claret and mess. I lay my head, against the cool ground. My body foamy white with sweat, my lungs heaving with breath. It took me minutes to turn my head and see the bundle that lay motionless. My hollow grey eyes steeled themselves, as I pulled my weary frame to it’s feet. Lowering my muzzle I pressed it against the small form. Recoiling back in the horror of watching as it’s side rose and fell, ever so slowly. I took a few steps back and watched as the child shifted, shallow breaths stolen, it’s little heart quivering beneath it’s new flesh. I stepped back even further, lowered my muzzle to the ground. I was a mess of blood tendrils, a newly bleeding side and sweat marred me. the cold wind took my tresses and coiled them about my face. My eyes met the bundle and I watched, shivering, ’I.. I broke you. Reuen ruined again…’
Reuen the little ruined girl resident of the gates
OOC: Foalies are due tomorrow, but I am so knackered and have more stuff to do tomorrow, and seeing as how I've written up all my birthing posts, might as well post them all tonight. =]
Mother was gone, off attending to some sort of alliance business. I was pouty if I am perfectly honest with myself, I had wanted to be a soldier, to be a fighter. Too young I was told, wait until you’re older. I didn’t want to wait, I wanted to be grown, to be more than some feeble child no one took seriously. I was capable I thought, capable of learning the ropes, of training my muscles and my mind. I stomp through the meadows, the bright green shoots tickling at my stilts, though they cannot bring a smile to my face.
A break in the air reaches my ringing ears, though it is muffled I manage to know the sound. It was Reuen’s cry, I could know no different, the agonized tones a sullen and familiar tune. I knew I had to see what was the matter, there was really no telling with the slow minded mare, trouble tended to find her. My pace is quick, sure footed for a youngling, picking my way through the grasses and budding flowers. She flounders, a mess of sweat and blood, red running down her bodice. She was always covered in blood wasn’t she? The metallic scent reaching my nose, and a scrunch my maw at the invasiveness of it.
I am a silent watcher, a witness to what some called the ‘miracle of life.’ It was a mess, fluids and insides leaked about the pristine terra, a horrific Christmas scene. Birds came then, drawn to the pool of life that beseeched the earth, their calls made me on edge. I wouldn’t let them have the child, rearing with a shriek at the sky, a warning of what was to come should the scavengers descend. Reuen looks as confused as she ever was, peering down at the child uttering how she has broken it. ”Reuen,”I find my words gently calling to her, “you have to clean it Reuen.” I press, oddly somehow one tends to become the adult, mimicry of words my mother has spoken.
Tentatively I approach, unsure of how welcome I am to such a personal experience. ”It’s not broken, it’s just dirty, he’s just dirty.” I correct myself, my copper gaze studying the remnants of birth.