ORDINARY PEOPLE: birth

[lamb ♥]

a l b a , Alba wasn't sure where it was that it had gone wrong, only that it had, and that now she was alone and caged in the very Wood she had sought to leave behind. Young as she was, she fought desperately against what her father had called 'abandonment' – Kartik had not left her, he had not ditched her with a child in her stomach and an ache in her heart that no matter what she did, would not die – he was not like that, she protested, he didn't have it in him. And yet there she was at the foot of a hundred-year dogwood, bleeding, suffering and, most of all, on her own. Could she have been so stupid? Could she have been so unforgivably trusting? Naivete could only take you so far, she supposed, closing her eyes so tightly that she saw stars painted against her eyelids, white hot stars to match the white hot pain lancing up her slender, reed-like body.

I made a mistake, she thought, cutting the word into her bottom lip as she struggled not to cry. I made a mistake and now I am alone.

For what may have been days, hours, years, she lay at the foot of that hundred-year dogwood. Her breathing was as ragged as if she'd run miles into the sunset, the tears welling in her gilded eyes quelled only by willpower as her legs scraped uselessly at the dirt, as her hair grew damp with sweat, as blood pooled beneath her tongue. Where once there had been tangible thoughts and words to put to them, there was now nothing – her mind was a terrifying black abyss where nothing existed beyond the pain and the adrenaline and she in the middle of it, writhing in her forced silence. But she could not keep it up much longer, and from her lips escaped a low, keening, guttural sound; with a hollow thud her head struck the earth and she made no further movement outside of the deep rise and fall of her belly, the hiss as breath after breath escaped her lungs.

It was only after several moments had passed that she found the energy to lift her head and curl her neck back to where her child rested, blinking its bright hazel eyes at her with long, white lashes. Alba could only stare as it reached forward and pressed its nose to hers, wordless and pure and whole; and it was only then that she began to weep – for herself, for Kartik, for their terribly beautiful, terribly unwanted daughter.


open for anyone who wants to join, except for kartik because he's a douche ♥

[Padfoot]

P H O E B E; Phoebe wasn't sure what made her come to the sanctuary of the forest on that particular day, only that she had. The dark, ancient trunks had called to her in a dream, when she was far away on the sea shore, turning the roaring of the tide into the singing of birds, and the grit of sand beneath her into a bed of moss. What a disappointment it had been to wake up and find herself on the damp, windy cape, instead of in the cool serenity of leaves and ferns, branches and mist. Of course, the traveler had set off immediately, shaking her mane free of seaweed and sand as she went. She had no known relations, no friends, and very little responsibilities, and while occasionally there was a particular sadness from that kind of isolation, it also allowed her to come and go as she pleased; she had traveled far and wide without hindrance, without even a birthplace that could have once been called home to feel nostalgic for.

There was, now, however, a change from the cool calm she had imagined. A short while back a sound had reached her ears above the composing of the birds, the sound of a mare that seemed to be in some sort of distress; a small distance later she had caught the smell of her--it smelled of desperation and anguish, not only of the body but something deeply emotional. She was a strong believer in fate, or Kismet, or something to that effect, and went with unerring dedication to wherever she felt called; the plight of a fellow mare in labor had led the black-spotted mare forward with the same calm, placid walk she had always used, further into the maze of brown trunks and green vines, until the sounds of pain seemed to cease, leaving the mare with a vague sense of worry, and an urge to move a little bit faster toward her.

It wasn't too long before the appaloosa came upon the mare, a tiny thing curled beneath a dogwood with the still-wet foal laying beside her in the grass. Blood had stained the moss around them, and the light coat of the mare was darkened dramatically with sweat. None of this seemed to disturb the mare, however; there was no hesitation or break in stride as she came nearer to the pair, and lowered her head to the mother. "You have to break the birthing sac." She told her gently, her voice understanding. "Or the foal will suffocate." She would do it herself, but she knew the sacred bond that was supposed to develop between and mother and the foal, and dared not interfer.

[lamb ♥]

a l b a , It wasn't that Alba didn't believe in love, it was only that she was a child who hadn't yet felt the wind and known it to be real. And when it hit her, how it hit her; and when it cooed through her long hair and into her ear, how sweet was the sound; every word, every beautiful and destroying word, she had eaten and relished and cherished like a dream. She. Kartik. Kartik. She. She should have known that all good things inevitably come to an end, that eventually, she would have had to wake up and face the morning streaming through the cross-hatch of the branches, cloying against the gold of her eyes. But blame him, she thought, for the dark glint in his eyes and the careful, strong way that he stood beside her amidst the smoking, rainbow pools so long ago – Alba, young and reckless and curious, did not stand a chance against his games and his words, and now she was nothing if not alone with her mistake, left to tend to it like a fire signaling her enemies to where she slept.

Her mistake. (you have to break) Her mistake. (or suffocate)

Didn't even have a name, she thought, still sobbing softly into her knee now, oblivious to everything but the slow rush of her pulse, the child's weak breath on her forehead. To be weak. To be loved. To be held. “W-what?” Her mind was a cave with walls painted in the brightest colors, and she could see nothing because her light had gone out. “Oh, I … ” More strangers. Blindly she glanced at the spotted mare before looking to her daughter, and almost tentatively did Alba set her teeth to the thin membrane, almost hesitant to welcome her to the world. She had no use for sorry reminders of her naivety. But something in the girl's eyes stirred her tired, aching muscles, and with a violent gesture did she rip the cowl away. “I don't … ” Alba began, staring once more into her daughter's face, as pale as hers was dark, and her voice was a chorus of quaking aspen. “I … ” Couldn't finish. Didn't dare admit to what everyone already knew: that she didn't know what to do.

The little girl lived readily, little nostrils quivering with every waking breath and long, gangly limbs shaking as she attempted to stand and succeeded only in tumbling forward, hobbling towards her mother determinedly. Alba watched with a pair of weary eyes, looking at nothing in particular; if anything, she stared right through the babe and into the sun-dappled wood beyond, until she felt another warm, wet, iron-scented kiss on her cheek – and then Alba drew back in a heart-wrenching flinch, her ears pressed back, her neck drawn like a spring. Shuddering, she turned away and stared apathetically at the strange shadow of a mare. A blink, and then two, slow and stuttering. And then: “Who are you?”


sorry, a bit under par e _____ e

[Padfoot]

P H O E B E; The body of this new mother was here, in the forest, with the spotted mare and the little foal. It lay in the moss at the foot of a dogwood and stuttered about nothing, flinching at some unknown stimuli and turning unseeing eyes around at her companions; it left her scent on the surroundings and hairs in the branches. But it was a shell, a simple something that lived and breathed and talked, without a concious thought to guide it, because Phoebe knew that the mind of this tobino was somewhere far away, haunted and terrorized. It was achingly familiar, so close to the appaloosa's own mother in actions, that empty look of the eyes. And look at how well that had turned out.

"My name is Phoebe." The words were calm and steady as her pace, true but simple. Perhaps facts could ground this mare, bring her back to her foal and prevent the tragedy of Phoebe's childhood from repeating itself again. "And who are you?" There, a question. Engage and occupy, at least for a moment, and try to bring the mare back to the present. She didn't want to be the one to lick the foal, and guide it to its feet for the first time unless she had to, for that was a mother's job. But there was a responsibility to make sure that this foal survived its first night, and this mother her first birth.

ooc No probs! Still gorgeous.

[lamb ♥]

a l b a , She had never felt more like a child until then, watching her terribly beautiful daughter from the corner of her eye, realizing that that child, that terribly beautiful little girl, was hers. Alba was a mother. Alba was hardly four years old, still a little girl herself. “Phoebe.” She repeated the name quietly, more to herself than to anyone else – as the stranger had figured, she was a creature soaring that was never meant to fly, and the fact was a piece of dear and solid earth for her to cling to; and how she clung, drawing to the simple truth like a moth to the flame. “My name is Alba. And this … ” Couldn't quite bare to look into those eyes again, those soft and perfect, adoring eyes that were as bright as their father's were dark. It drew a shiver along her spine and she shifted away again, her silence filling the air like smoke. She hadn't even thought of names, you see. She supposed that it was something a mother did with joy, but she was afraid – of those thin, fragile bones, of that wide-eyed stare, of the utter dependency that manifested within them. She remembered suddenly when her father wished that she wouldn't grow up so quickly. It drew another ragged gasp to her throat, and she swallowed it down with more difficulty than she cared for, closing her eyes and bleeding her bottom lip dry. “Say something,” she managed to breathe, plead, beg, “Anything, anything – ”

[Padfoot]

P H O E B E; Say something... anything, anything--

"I--I..." She started, but for a moment, no words would come to her. It was just such a sad scene, the two frail girls, enough to take her breath away. They both looked so lost. "Where are you from?" She blurted the first thing that popped into her mind, recovering herself from her own flashbacks with only a prolonged blink to signal it had happened at all. Then she glanced at the child. It was standing now, still wet, it legs shaking as it searched for the food it would never have as long as her mother lay on the ground.

"Alba..." She began tentatively, almost afraid to bring the topic back to a subject that caused her so much pain. But that was the real world, take it or leave it. "I'm going to need you to stand up, dear."