Rhoswen ►

Their great nation had crumbled beneath knees that were once forged of iron and steel, reduced now to sand -- endless silent sand. The gold dunes, turned silver beneath a crescent moon, gleam on and on into the night as though to mock the women and the failure they carried in pales over each shoulder. But their defeat was not final: it was not the closing chapter of book set down by the Raum and then burned by the Davke. They were survivors of their own ilk: Seraphina in war, in the devastation of her identity -- Rhoswen in her willing to set fire to the chains of Denocte, to breach the lineage that clung to her bones. This would not be the last time they would meet, and it was not the end of their fable. It was just the beginning. And the red woman's daughter had her own tale to write, too. She glanced down at the filly, mirroring Seraphina's gaze as her words fell into the night. Yes, he had been just that: wise enough to cool the flash of heat around her neck, wise enough to still her hummingbird heartbeat. "Maybe not yet, but you will." And Rhos believes it. The silver could never have made it this far along this road without an unusually large arsenal of resilience, and Rhoswen knew it had not been depleted yet: she was still here - still standing, still ruling. An impressive feat for such a creature as young as she. 

She cannot think of Raum. Her wrath was a sin to drag her into the darkness. The mere thought of his expression, as he watched her crest the final slope toward the Night capitol, thrust her blood into a song that screamed for blood - the smugness, the pride - she would destroy it with his own knife; snatching it from his side to slice open his neck. Oh, to watch the redness gush from mouth and eyes and throat. Her crow would pay for what he had done to Bexley, to her, and nothing would be the same again. 

Seraphina speaks in a voice that startles Rhoswen - her tone was soft and thin. The nebulous tumour in her lungs grew as she studied her queen, it contracted with every mild syllable falling from ashen lips. Rhos could not bear it; could not bear that Seraphina was not punishing her, could not bear that she understood. Her chest swelled with the malignant force stirring in its cavern, and still - still - she choked on the tide of guilt. It was said that time healed all wounds, and oh, she hoped that was true. "Thank you," it is all she can muster, what more could the broken apostle say, "I hope the calm comes soon."

Her words are interrupted by the crackle of undergrowth to their left, and instantly the pair surged into movement - fluid and electric. Seraphina twisted like a cat to face the oncomer, flanked by the pulsating bloodred mother at her side; exhaustion had not dulled the adrenalin that crashed through her veins. But the effort was in vain, for through the greenery emerged a Solterran guard that blinked and stilled at the sight of them. Rhoswen cooled, loosening the tension in her muscles as she eased back toward her daughter, and reached out to brush a velvet muzzle against the girl who had woken briskly at the commotion. The child rose, startled and confused, upon bluebird legs to lean against her mother - unaware of the long journey still to come. Rhoswen watched the older horses as words were passed between them, and she could not quell the blooming of relief at the knowledge that she would not have to guide her newborn back alone: such a feat might have been something close to suicide.

"You have my gratitude, Seraphina. I hope to see you again soon, to repay my debt at least." It was with heavy eyes that she dipped her cheek in farewell to the sovereign, watching then as the silver disappeared into the desert night and knowing that thoughts of the queen would linger on long after she had vanished. But for now, there was no time to dwell; Rhos turned to Teague, offering a small thankful smile before nudging her child toward the oasis. With the Davke lurking around any corner there was no time to waste.