06-21-2016, 11:54 AM
Trembling and uncertain, she had surrendered the entirety of her being to another mere months ago beneath the pale moonlight upon the very shore she had been raised upon. He had taken her with such craft and precision that for many hours, for many days after, her mind lingered woefully upon it. He was no virgin, to say in the least, but she herself had been - and though it had been nothing of what she had worried it would (he was a careful, calculated lover), it had been as empty and as hollow as her aching heart had warned her it would be.
And now, she is swollen with child - a heavy burden upon her curving spine, a plague to her neglected, glorious wings, which remain anchored to her widening sides, cradling the unborn from prying stares. She was now among the elite - the broodmares to a ruthless, manipulative King. A King she longs to love but cannot trust her heart to. The icy chill of evening washes over her as if it were a thick blanket of frothing salty seawater, but she welcomes it, as any movement now causes her silvery obsidian pelt to break into a sheen of sweat. She presses forward, uneasily stepping into delving pools of sand. Quietly, she frets over the idea of splitting a bone, of losing her balance, but with careful precision, she manages to find reprieve in the beckoning warmth of a lone cave.
With a wry cry, she collapses, the trembling pain that has surged up through her sinewy muscle pulsating once more. She knows that it is time, and terror seizes her heart. The unknown lay before her, and she lay helpless upon the dry, frigid rock, her doe eyes gaze out towards the sea longingly. She aches for the sky, for the sea and lands unknown, but for now she sweats and cries for the child bursting forth from her womb. Soon, as the caress of moonlight gives way to the warmth of dawn and a sheen of yellow and periwinkle flood the pallid sands, and with it comes the birth of new life.
"Arestor." She whispers gently, pressing the bridge of her nose to his damp skin, lips and tongue ridding him of the dreaded afterbirth. A deeply set instinct sets in, and she rises, urging her plum painted child to rise. He is radiant and beautiful; a saturated version of his father with nothing to show for the lines he carries. She worries for a moment as she gently nudges him up, urging him to stand, but she decides that he is flawless nonetheless - with or without wings.
As he cradles himself close to her, she peers out again towards the morning sky - and she calls for him, and knows in time, he will come. He has awaited this moment, and so has she - but as she peers adoringly at the still fragile, unremarkable boy nursing eagerly from her, her heart is filled with a weary dread.
And now, she is swollen with child - a heavy burden upon her curving spine, a plague to her neglected, glorious wings, which remain anchored to her widening sides, cradling the unborn from prying stares. She was now among the elite - the broodmares to a ruthless, manipulative King. A King she longs to love but cannot trust her heart to. The icy chill of evening washes over her as if it were a thick blanket of frothing salty seawater, but she welcomes it, as any movement now causes her silvery obsidian pelt to break into a sheen of sweat. She presses forward, uneasily stepping into delving pools of sand. Quietly, she frets over the idea of splitting a bone, of losing her balance, but with careful precision, she manages to find reprieve in the beckoning warmth of a lone cave.
With a wry cry, she collapses, the trembling pain that has surged up through her sinewy muscle pulsating once more. She knows that it is time, and terror seizes her heart. The unknown lay before her, and she lay helpless upon the dry, frigid rock, her doe eyes gaze out towards the sea longingly. She aches for the sky, for the sea and lands unknown, but for now she sweats and cries for the child bursting forth from her womb. Soon, as the caress of moonlight gives way to the warmth of dawn and a sheen of yellow and periwinkle flood the pallid sands, and with it comes the birth of new life.
"Arestor." She whispers gently, pressing the bridge of her nose to his damp skin, lips and tongue ridding him of the dreaded afterbirth. A deeply set instinct sets in, and she rises, urging her plum painted child to rise. He is radiant and beautiful; a saturated version of his father with nothing to show for the lines he carries. She worries for a moment as she gently nudges him up, urging him to stand, but she decides that he is flawless nonetheless - with or without wings.
As he cradles himself close to her, she peers out again towards the morning sky - and she calls for him, and knows in time, he will come. He has awaited this moment, and so has she - but as she peers adoringly at the still fragile, unremarkable boy nursing eagerly from her, her heart is filled with a weary dread.
@[Kirin]