It had been painful.
So dreadfully painful.
She had writhed and panted and, at one particularly dark point, begged for death to take her. It had felt wrong and dangerous and the child was stubborn in its want to stay where it was warm and safe. And then, finally, she had emerged. Black like Prayer, smoky white like her father, Thorn. And Prayer had buried her face in the filly’s perfect neck and she had wept.
It would have been simple, easy, to heal herself. All she had to do was close her eyes and think it. But she had not. She had wrapped the filly up in her hot embrace and held her close and relished in the pain of it. Let it love their daughter even more fiercely. Because the pain had served a purpose, it had brought her their child. A perfect little girl who fidgeted and murmured into her mother’s skin. Prayer had never seen a more beautiful thing.
Days passed. And then weeks. And their child stood upright, proud, by the time Prayer worked up enough courage to seek him out. It took several more days. The journey was long, punctuated by long periods of rest because the child was still young and the legs could only carry her so far. And it would have been easy for Prayer to heal her, too, to eradicate the exhaustion. But it was important and difficult and she wanted the difficulty to prove just how important it was.
And when the child asked, Prayer told her exactly where they were headed. To find her father.
It is painful still, when she catches sight of him finally. The initial wave of relief immediately drowned out by the hurt that consumes her when she lands eyes on him. On the bleeding wound. When she remembers how he’d begged her not to touch him.
“There he is,” she whispers to their child, nodding in his direction. And the little girl tilts her little head, but she does not register the bleeding chest wound. She only grins and says, “he looks like me.” And it is their child’s innocence that gives her the courage she needs to close up all the space between them.
“Thorn,” she sighs, fixing her focus to his face, “I want you to meet somebody.” She glances down at their daughter then, their daughter who is wearing a nervous grin, like she’s not sure he’ll like her. “This is your daughter, Basilica.”
So dreadfully painful.
She had writhed and panted and, at one particularly dark point, begged for death to take her. It had felt wrong and dangerous and the child was stubborn in its want to stay where it was warm and safe. And then, finally, she had emerged. Black like Prayer, smoky white like her father, Thorn. And Prayer had buried her face in the filly’s perfect neck and she had wept.
It would have been simple, easy, to heal herself. All she had to do was close her eyes and think it. But she had not. She had wrapped the filly up in her hot embrace and held her close and relished in the pain of it. Let it love their daughter even more fiercely. Because the pain had served a purpose, it had brought her their child. A perfect little girl who fidgeted and murmured into her mother’s skin. Prayer had never seen a more beautiful thing.
Days passed. And then weeks. And their child stood upright, proud, by the time Prayer worked up enough courage to seek him out. It took several more days. The journey was long, punctuated by long periods of rest because the child was still young and the legs could only carry her so far. And it would have been easy for Prayer to heal her, too, to eradicate the exhaustion. But it was important and difficult and she wanted the difficulty to prove just how important it was.
And when the child asked, Prayer told her exactly where they were headed. To find her father.
It is painful still, when she catches sight of him finally. The initial wave of relief immediately drowned out by the hurt that consumes her when she lands eyes on him. On the bleeding wound. When she remembers how he’d begged her not to touch him.
“There he is,” she whispers to their child, nodding in his direction. And the little girl tilts her little head, but she does not register the bleeding chest wound. She only grins and says, “he looks like me.” And it is their child’s innocence that gives her the courage she needs to close up all the space between them.
“Thorn,” she sighs, fixing her focus to his face, “I want you to meet somebody.” She glances down at their daughter then, their daughter who is wearing a nervous grin, like she’s not sure he’ll like her. “This is your daughter, Basilica.”
@[thorn]