| SKYLLA & CHARYBDIS oh my love, don't forsake me |
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If Faolain was as the moon to Charybdis, then Nzingha was the wind itself, serving as a powerful force that the half-blind mare believed would carry her far (and in days to come, it would be one alone that could breathe life back into her spirit). The revelation that the discussion between the two mystic-souls had revealed had borne Charybdis from Nzingha’s side in quiet contemplation, but in the following days, no matter how scattered her thoughts were (like the breakers crashing upon the rocks at the base of the seacliffs), nor how aloof she had been with the other inhabitants of the when whenever she’d deigned to descend from the heights she haunted and flow among them, her thoughts were never far from the midnight-dark woman with her face so pale. Eidolon, Charybdis had called her. “I hear you,” the salt-rimed mare would whisper at every gentle tug of the wind upon her two-toned mane. And as though she believed her voice would be carried to those delicately curved ears (which she trusted would be listening, as no-one else could listen), Charybdis would continue. “I’m comin’ back to you. Watch for me, wait for me.” But she was delayed by a great storm that affected only her. She felt helpless, standing amongst the crags of the eponymous ridge, staring blankly out to sea. There was nothing ominous upon the horizon, but within her, Charybdis felt as though great thunderheads were rolling in, and feared the devastation the unseen gales would wreak upon her. What darkness was this, that would turn her eidolon’s own power against her? The pale mare with her cloak of blood had never felt so small, not even when the ocean itself had tossed her about like flotsam in the tragic wake of a loss that had cut her so deeply that even after all the long months she’d been here, Charybdis bled from it still. The wound across her shoulders refused to heal. Whether it was the strenuous climbs up the cliffs, or the way the ocean tumbled her in its grasp every time she dared enter it (so that she was pushed back, always, to the sandy shore – as if some unknown force were telling her you cannot leave this place), just when Charybdis began to forget the pain of the jagged scar snaking across the place where the curve of her neck met her withers, largely hidden by the inky strands of her ocean-and-wind-tangled mane. More than once she’d imagined the pain receding from that burning point between her shoulder blades, banished by a gentle kiss, or a tender caress. It had helped, for a time, but the pain was real, and no matter how strong the wild mare’s desires were, phantoms of the past and figments of a future could not change what was. But many things lost to the sea are washed upon distant shores. This was how, in the wake of her internal storm, Charybdis found herself staring in slack-jawed disbelief upon the haggard lines of a face she’d thought she’d never see again. The mare hardly dared breath, and she nearly collapsed as she stumbled across the short distance separating the two mares, her legs threatening to give way. But even as she wrapped herself around the silver-maned mare in a heartfelt embrace, the wind coming off the sea howled a warning in her ears, and despite everything, Charybdis paid it heed. She hastened to retreat, even as she felt the muscles tensing beneath her touch, coiling and preparing to strike. (Some things come back different and damaged.) Skylla caught the ends of the knotted white forelock between her teeth, and a snarl rose in her throat as her quarry pulled free. “This one does not know you. Do not touch again, or there will be bloodshed.” The anguish that was shown clearly on the other mare’s face only served to stoke the maddening anger. Blind in one eye, the seal brown mare noted, even through the wave of pain the rippled from her core. A weakness, one that she would exploit if she had to. Even in her vulnerable state, she would fight, and fiercely at that. For the fight was all Skylla knew. It was her life, and one day, it would be her death. Not today though. Today was not her day to die. The struggles of Charybdis went unnoticed by Skylla. The pallid woman felt as though her lungs were burning, like there was bitter salt-water in her throat she couldn’t swallow. Her eyes stung as the cold, savage words spat at her, and she shook her head weakly, refusing to accept the threat, even though it had been delivered with obvious intent. Eventually, she found her voice, and croaked her bitter lament. “You know me, Skylla.” The other stiffened at the sound of her name, snarled at the contradiction. “It’s me, Charybdis, we journeyed, de two of us, and you--” The pale mare choked on grief, raw and ragged, and the darker one narrowed her golden eyes in contempt. “You gave yourself to de sea, so I would be spared from the storm. I lost you amongst de bones of Cimarron ‘imself.” “BONES!” (The screech had Charybdis scrambling away in fright.) “There won’t even be bones left.” It made no sense, none of it made any sense. Charybdis was at a loss, like a ship lost at sea, blanketed with fog and dead in the water, without a breath of wind in her sails to renew her strength and purpose. And even as she watched Skylla heft herself to her hooves, her stomach churned with dread, a great hungry whirlpool pulling in all life and hope, dragging in down to crushing depths and devouring it in darkness. A maelstrom of emotion tore through the heart of her, and Charybdis would have ripped it beating from her breast if she could’ve. She was wrong. She did not know this body before her, heavy with child. She did not know this twisted soul, nor these golden eyes dark with malice and bloodlust. And still, when the larger form crumpled in agony before her, like the tide Charybdis swept in. Swiftly she was rebuffed, but still she hovered as Skylla sank to her knees after hobbling a few paces further up the slope of the beach. It was a traumatic thing for Charybdis to bear witness to, so soon after reuniting with a loved one she’d thought dead. The pain of Skylla was her pain, and the bitter, savage anguish the labouring mare muddled through served to thoroughly confuse the white mare. The truth, when it dawned, broke the banks within her, and Charybdis groaned within herself as silent tears streaked down her already-salty cheeks. “Who did dis to you?” The words were no more than a broken whisper. |