the silence of the deep Posted on August 31, 2022 at 10:33:47 AM by charybdis
what secrets does it keep?
In this way, the Ridge serves her faithfully: she finds tunnels laid before her in the dense, shadowed undergrowth (like dried up riverbeds) and along these the lone mare slinks, almost invisible save for the there-and-gone flicker of white in the gloom. And she is convinced that this place, far-and-away the most mysterious stretch of land upon the isle of Atlantis (and perhaps, even, in the whole cluster of islands), with its deep, dark jungles, rivers rasping just beyond sight, and the towering, eponymous mountain-spine that had taken to shrouding itself with a heavy blanket of fog, one that the winter sun could dissipate, even in with a cloud-clear sky…
This place is meant to be hers.
It is not pride, nor arrogance, that leads her to think no other can govern here. Once upon a time, Faolain… (Faolain. The memory of the slender, ink-dark mare haunted the Ridge’s keeper like a shadow these days.) It is Belonging. Charybdis feels bound to this land, in ways she cannot explain, in ways no-one would ever understand. She’d sensed darkness falling upon the Isles so, so long ago, and she is certain the heart of it is here in her home, shadowed by the jagged mistbound ridgeline, hidden by the dense and wild jungle.
And she believes that if she were to ever leave her beloved Ridge, a great calamity would come upon Atlantis, and maybe the ocean would swallow it whole, and reclaim the verdant island as it had Cimarron, years before the ghosts trapped in the sunken stone had drawn her to the Islands of the Lost.
A call she has been waiting for (but had not thought she’d hear again; she’d feared, she’d hoped) rings out through the still, moist air, muffled with the distance, but Charybdis turns and follows the path she finds before her, and even with her eyes closed, she could follow it, for the murmur of the ocean echoes in her mind, and somewhere high above, the moon is there, all but unnoticed in the light of day, but not by Charybdis.
Never.
All rivers lead to the sea, even the waterless ones the Ridge carves out of itself just for the salt-stained mare. She stands close, still hidden, and watches as the familiar form of Drogon settles beneath one of the trees at the edge of the jungle, just where it gives way to the sandy shore. She does not remain hidden in order to eavesdrop, she merely wishes to give the travellers a moment to breathe.
And then she stepped out of the shade to stand, luminous, in the dappled light.
"If dat is what you wish, den I promise you, you will be safe ‘ere, and if it should come to it, I would fight to protect you and…" Charybdis tilts her head to scrutinise the young colt for a moment, before slanting a scrutinising glance toward Drogon, seeking to meet his gaze as she speaks, though she’s still angled more-or-less toward the unknown mare.
"Your son," she continues, and after holding fast to her study of Drogon, hoping to perhaps catch any shifts in his mood or composure (though she didn’t hold her breath, she remembers this about him, when first and last they’d met; he is steady and sure and stoic as the mountain itself). Instead, she notices how ragged he seems, and the tang of blood on the sea breeze, mingled with a darkly familiar scent, sets her heart racing.
Still, she chooses not to ask, not yet and not here. It’s clear as water to the half-sighted mare that the trio is tired, and she discerns that it’s more than just physical exhaustion. Whatever trouble Drogon and the blue and white mare had escaped from, Charybdis would see them rested and safe and then… Maybe they would stay. “Come, I take you to water dat is safe for drinking,” the mare lilts softly, almost tenderly, to the roan mare with the boy at her heel. (She does not look at the boy, she cannot.)
And with that, not wanting to linger any longer on the beach where it was so open, Charybdis turns and beckons Drogon and his companions to follow her. Hasty as she is to return to the shadows of her jungle, she does not race ahead, but picks a path that is easy to journey along, where the roots don’t twist up out of the damp loam, and the great leaves and branches don’t press in so close. It is a short enough journey - Charybdis leads them to the nearest stream that runs deep enough to drink from.
“Please,” she steps over the running water to make room, and pivots neatly to face the three newcomers. “Drink, rest. You are welcome in de Ridge. I am called Charybdis,” she introduces herself to the mare, pauses to allow her time to give her own name in turn and that of the colt (if the sabino mare feels inclined to). And then, her husky voice weaving in and out and through the whisper of the water that ran between them, she makes an offer. “You can stay wit’ me, and dis can be ‘ome for you.” Again, she shifts her attention to Drogon, hoping it is clear that the offer is for him too, in case there was any doubt.
She holds her breath, and anxiety tightens a fist around her throat. He had come back, and sooner or later, he’d ask her about his child - their child - the one Charybdis had left, and then lost to the Harbour. Where was the boy now? And more importantly, how would his absence and Charybdis’ abandonment of him be taken by Drogon?
To bridge the distance that time and circumstance had carved between them, and to reassure the mare at Drogon’s side that she had a choice, that she would not be held here if she wished to leave, Charybdis spoke, her words an echo that had become something of a mantra to her as of late.