11-12-2020, 12:25 AM
Winter could be unforgiving in Hyaline, with much of the region carpeted in snow and the frigid winds whistling between the mountain peaks. She usually did not mind the harshness of it; Ryatah has never been one to complain, and she took a secret delight in curling close to Atrox for warmth so that she might hear him sigh irritably and yet not move away.
There was still a part of her that did not entirely believe that he was hers, though it was overridden by the part of her that never had any doubt. It was strange and beautiful to belong to someone again, and even still, in a way that she does not think she has ever belonged to anyone. Because Atrox is somehow everything hard and unyielding, with parts of him that she still not entirely sure she will ever see.
And still – still – he is hers.
She is away from him tonight, though she would not be surprised if he is at least nearby. She had hoped that the twins – and she knew it was twins, as sure as she knew anything – would wait until spring, but she had known early this morning that that would not be the case. Now, she clenches her jaw against the pain that courses through her, her skin glistening with sweat in the moonlight.
She is quiet, or as quiet as she can manage, even when the first – a girl – is born. She knows that she is not supposed to be here. She knows that Breach's intention for this kingdom was to turn it into a home of shifters, something Ryatah was not. She kept mostly to the part of Hyaline that she and Atrox had carved out for themselves, but it did not keep her from being afraid of attracting needless attention.
There is hardly time to tend to the filly, hardly a moment for her to gently clean her face and press her nose into her damp neck, when she is forced to curl back into the unforgiving pain.
She is breathless and trembling in the winter cold, pulling the newborn colt to her chest, alongside his sister. She cannot see them, but she knows they are perfect. She knows it in the way her chest swells and tightens, in the way her heart flutters in her throat when she feels them shifting and stirring. She knows they are perfect because they are theirs, and she had almost forgotten what it was like to have children born of a love that she did not have to be afraid of. “Will you tell me what they look like?” She whispers when she feels him next to her, reaching from her place on the ground to touch her nose to his leg. If there is sorrow at the idea that she even has to ask this, that she cannot see for herself what they look like, it does not show. There are some things too pure for even that kind of sorrow to touch.
There was still a part of her that did not entirely believe that he was hers, though it was overridden by the part of her that never had any doubt. It was strange and beautiful to belong to someone again, and even still, in a way that she does not think she has ever belonged to anyone. Because Atrox is somehow everything hard and unyielding, with parts of him that she still not entirely sure she will ever see.
And still – still – he is hers.
She is away from him tonight, though she would not be surprised if he is at least nearby. She had hoped that the twins – and she knew it was twins, as sure as she knew anything – would wait until spring, but she had known early this morning that that would not be the case. Now, she clenches her jaw against the pain that courses through her, her skin glistening with sweat in the moonlight.
She is quiet, or as quiet as she can manage, even when the first – a girl – is born. She knows that she is not supposed to be here. She knows that Breach's intention for this kingdom was to turn it into a home of shifters, something Ryatah was not. She kept mostly to the part of Hyaline that she and Atrox had carved out for themselves, but it did not keep her from being afraid of attracting needless attention.
There is hardly time to tend to the filly, hardly a moment for her to gently clean her face and press her nose into her damp neck, when she is forced to curl back into the unforgiving pain.
She is breathless and trembling in the winter cold, pulling the newborn colt to her chest, alongside his sister. She cannot see them, but she knows they are perfect. She knows it in the way her chest swells and tightens, in the way her heart flutters in her throat when she feels them shifting and stirring. She knows they are perfect because they are theirs, and she had almost forgotten what it was like to have children born of a love that she did not have to be afraid of. “Will you tell me what they look like?” She whispers when she feels him next to her, reaching from her place on the ground to touch her nose to his leg. If there is sorrow at the idea that she even has to ask this, that she cannot see for herself what they look like, it does not show. There are some things too pure for even that kind of sorrow to touch.
R y A t A h
and you can aim for my heart, go for blood
but you would still miss me in your bones
but you would still miss me in your bones