The shadows of the morning rivet my frame with daring glimmers of dark gold. They ripple against me, as the waves of pain also do. I feel like the lapping waves of an ocean, to and fro, backwards, forwards. And just as one would feel when they stared endlessly out a the lapping sea, the dizziness, the sickness that swells within, it plagues me as much as the pain that ripples through every taut sinew in my body. Oh, oh this pain, it better be worth it. I turn my muzzle back to stoke my broad stomach, it quivers with life, with strain. Oh, sweet prince, you will be special. The idea, it floats in my mind like a feather, yet ignites like a flame. I shiver, a chill that reaches to the marrow of my bones. My mother, I wonder if she is somewhere, anywhere. The thought is only fleeting for there is a scent on the breeze that washes me in relief.
His shadow dances before I see his earthen form, and my glazed eyes eventually find him. He paces, and I quite smile at this, a broad little sliver. Many seasons ago, upon a midnight hour, where the sliver of a moon graced our presence, I would never have thought to see him pace with insubordinate worry. Oh, but it warms my heart, and twangs the chords of my soul like a fine violin.
At his touch, I seem to melt into the earth. A sweaty, muddy pelt of gold, melting like the sun would against the dark night sky. I moan, a quivering voice reaching my lips. 'You're here. That... that is enough.' the smile that twists my lips is a rarity, one like the archangel's bow, a simple and yet rarely witnessed treat. I call gently, my swollen vocals as hoarse as the dry bark that my head rests against. My sapphire eyes squint closed, tightly, ever so. The last wave of pain seems to be it, and with it I feel the release of life.
He's there, I can feel him. A bundle of leggy silver buckskin. I turn my head, weary, spent, to gaze upon the child. My eyes then lift to gaze upon Killdare. 'I told you, impatient boy.' my voice is a fragile wisp of what normality is. But again, such rarities were caught like fragile butterfly wings, pinned and saved for another day. I shook my head, weary legs knocking against each other as I heave my burdensome frame up to my feet. As I do the child shifts, grabbing and gasping for his first breath. I coil quickly around and snatch at the shell of life that sticks to him. In moments it is gone and the silvery bundle glimmers in the morning light. As the sun touches his amber eyes, the name touches my lips, as if spoken by another source entirely. A spell cast, a name dubbed. Christened beneath the morning glory, the chamber's distant ash and the raven's caw. 'Vercingetorix'
Wearily, my head tilts, eyes watching for any form of disdain upon my earthen knight. It was a burden to carry, the bundle within grown from a seed into a virulent life. I whicker, the soft melody low, hoarse. 'A son. We have a son.' the feeling, it sparks things within me. Protectiveness. A shrewd and keen eye that not only watches the borders of the chamber, because of the seedling, but now for my own son, our own son. I reach out my muzzle and gently nudge Killdare's brawny shoulder. Turning my head back to touch the colt's silvery head. He is already on his feet, a little unsteady, but he finds the sustenance as nature intends. I quiver, the feeling foreign, but natural.
E n g e l s f o r s
drink thy posion lightly dear. there are deeper and darker things than you
minister of the chamber |
