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Antecessor
She stops and looks back. Far behind her, barely visible, the last vestiges of her home seem to become part of the fog. She looks forwards again. The forest is close now, and its silence scares her. She shivers and holds her child closer, feels his warmth wash over her cold and tired body.
She tries to remember that she is alive. The draconequus had nearly driven her insane, and it was only due to her husband and the princesses that she still possessed even the faintest hint of her rationality. She sniffles. Then she takes flight through the trees, cradling her child all the while.
He does not make a sound.
It’s hard going for the mother, but she eventually arrives at her second home. Her husband might have gotten angry if he had known about this place. He could not get angry now; dead creatures had no emotions.
With a stroke, she sweeps aside the hanging ivies and enters the antre. An unlit torch is all that adorns the stone walls here, but the mother quickly lights it and lays her child down in a crude bed of decaying moss.
He does not make a sound.
As the sun sets in the forest and the light shining through the canopy dwindles, she cradles her child. She sings softly to him, hollow lyrics to an emotion that she does not feel. The mother whispers false words of assurance to her child, telling him that he will grow up in a world where harmony and peace reign, where doubts and fears can be spoken aloud without consequences.
A coughing fit overtakes her, and she touches her chest, avoiding touching her damaged rib cage. She gives a weak smile to her child and resumes the ersatz soothing words in all of their damning serenity.
He does not make a sound.
The next day, she gathers food and branches. Wincing as a sharp pain shoots through her abdomen, she plucks fruit and herbs alike from their domain and places them into a large satchel, which sags from the weight.
Sticks are gathered, wrapped with vines and lichen, and flown up to the roof of the cave, where she arranges them into a ramshackle box, large enough for her to crawl in and lie down. The mother flinches as she shimmies her way out of the crude hut and makes her way down to the grotto’s interior. She gathers the herbs and, with two large stones, begins the arduous grinding process. The child lies in his bed.
He does not make a sound.
With a fresh poultice applied, the mother bites into a ripe fruit, trying not to gag at the taste. She knows they can only help her, but that does not mean that she has to like it. As the juice runs down her throat, another lance of pain causes her to spasm, and for a moment she forgets herself and a shriek emanates from her.
Clapping her mouth shut, she looks out the mouth of the cave. Nothing of importance hears the outburst, however, and, shaking, she returns to the depths of her secret dwelling. She sits on the ground and curls her limbs around her child, quiet tears falling on him.
He does not make a sound.
She is awake. There is pain. There is only pain in her, and she is only pain. She flounders for air. She stands and takes wing. The rickety wooden structure on the roof is waiting for her. She collapses. Scrambling, she pulls herself into the construction and lies down. The unblemished moon should be bright overhead. The clouds think otherwise. The tops of the trees make a perfect viewing window. The mother murmurs a prayer to her child. There is one more instance of pain, a needle-like twinge in her heart.
The mother bursts into flame as she dies, her ashes igniting her crafted house and sending up an enormous plume of flame and a rising pillar of smoke. In the shelter below, her child does not move.
He does not make a sound.
An indigo light pulsates its way into existence. With a final flash, it takes on wings and a slender horn. The pyre still flickers with dying embers. The alicorn glides down into the cave. She sees the child, lovingly nestled in its bed. She picks it up and makes her way home, the purple dragon egg snugly wrapped in her embrace.
She does not make a sound.
She tries to remember that she is alive. The draconequus had nearly driven her insane, and it was only due to her husband and the princesses that she still possessed even the faintest hint of her rationality. She sniffles. Then she takes flight through the trees, cradling her child all the while.
He does not make a sound.
It’s hard going for the mother, but she eventually arrives at her second home. Her husband might have gotten angry if he had known about this place. He could not get angry now; dead creatures had no emotions.
With a stroke, she sweeps aside the hanging ivies and enters the antre. An unlit torch is all that adorns the stone walls here, but the mother quickly lights it and lays her child down in a crude bed of decaying moss.
He does not make a sound.
As the sun sets in the forest and the light shining through the canopy dwindles, she cradles her child. She sings softly to him, hollow lyrics to an emotion that she does not feel. The mother whispers false words of assurance to her child, telling him that he will grow up in a world where harmony and peace reign, where doubts and fears can be spoken aloud without consequences.
A coughing fit overtakes her, and she touches her chest, avoiding touching her damaged rib cage. She gives a weak smile to her child and resumes the ersatz soothing words in all of their damning serenity.
He does not make a sound.
The next day, she gathers food and branches. Wincing as a sharp pain shoots through her abdomen, she plucks fruit and herbs alike from their domain and places them into a large satchel, which sags from the weight.
Sticks are gathered, wrapped with vines and lichen, and flown up to the roof of the cave, where she arranges them into a ramshackle box, large enough for her to crawl in and lie down. The mother flinches as she shimmies her way out of the crude hut and makes her way down to the grotto’s interior. She gathers the herbs and, with two large stones, begins the arduous grinding process. The child lies in his bed.
He does not make a sound.
With a fresh poultice applied, the mother bites into a ripe fruit, trying not to gag at the taste. She knows they can only help her, but that does not mean that she has to like it. As the juice runs down her throat, another lance of pain causes her to spasm, and for a moment she forgets herself and a shriek emanates from her.
Clapping her mouth shut, she looks out the mouth of the cave. Nothing of importance hears the outburst, however, and, shaking, she returns to the depths of her secret dwelling. She sits on the ground and curls her limbs around her child, quiet tears falling on him.
He does not make a sound.
She is awake. There is pain. There is only pain in her, and she is only pain. She flounders for air. She stands and takes wing. The rickety wooden structure on the roof is waiting for her. She collapses. Scrambling, she pulls herself into the construction and lies down. The unblemished moon should be bright overhead. The clouds think otherwise. The tops of the trees make a perfect viewing window. The mother murmurs a prayer to her child. There is one more instance of pain, a needle-like twinge in her heart.
The mother bursts into flame as she dies, her ashes igniting her crafted house and sending up an enormous plume of flame and a rising pillar of smoke. In the shelter below, her child does not move.
He does not make a sound.
An indigo light pulsates its way into existence. With a final flash, it takes on wings and a slender horn. The pyre still flickers with dying embers. The alicorn glides down into the cave. She sees the child, lovingly nestled in its bed. She picks it up and makes her way home, the purple dragon egg snugly wrapped in her embrace.
She does not make a sound.