I awake in a cold sweat. My hair is a messy tangle at my back, and my clothes are sticking to me. I lie, almost paralysed, staring at the roof of my tent, until a wave of nausea overtakes me, and I lurch out of the tent.
I don't vomit, however. Instead, once the nausea subsides, I stalk straight to the stables. Abraxos is waiting for me, worry in his eyes as if he knows exactly what just happened. In the still night of the crescent moon, I stroke leathery head, breathing in the cool night air.
When I no longer feel quite as shaken, Abraxos follows me down to the small stream that runs through our camp, and I kneel down by the silvery water, splashing my face.
As I watch the ripples subside, and when the water is smooth again, I look at my reflection. My face is pale and wasted, and there are purple bags under my eyes. My hair is a dishevelled mess down my back. I look exhausted.
I feel exhausted.
Abraxos comes up behind me, sticking his leathery head over my shoulder. We sit there for a while, peacefully, then, after a moment, I stand and climb onto Abraxos. There was no saddle, but I didn't need one. He flies up into the moonlit sky, dancing with the stars until sunrise.
When the sun does start peaking over the horizon, I turn Abraxos around and we glide back to the camp, touching down on the outskirts. Then, I organise my people into two large groups, putting Bronwen and Petrah in charge of one and taking charge of the other myself. I lead mine into the city where we work until midday, when we swap with the other group. Even immortals get tired eventually, especially after fighting a massive war.
In the afternoon, I train and train until I'm sweating and exhausted. Then, I exercise Abraxos, flying until nightfall, when the other group returns.
As food is cooked and eaten, Bronwen, Petrah and I sit around the leaping bonfire and talk. Mostly about the future of the Witch-Kingdom, but also about rebuilding. I don't say much, leaving them to do most of the talking, only intervening when necessary.
Again, I eat enough for about three people, my hunger strangely unquenchable. Occasionally, the other two glance at me strangely, to the point I almost snap 'what'. However, my sudden burst of anger passes the next second, and when they look at me next, I just smile viciously instead.
After I finish eating, I stand and depart, heading back to my tent. Once there, I change out of my tight, practical leathers and into something softer for sleeping.
A sudden urge for human contact hits me, and I pull the covers on my bed tighter around me. With a start, I realise I miss Dorian. Being so busy, I haven't even given him a passing thought in a few days, so my random need for him now...
I turn over, worming deeper into my covers. It's just cold, that's all. I don't really need Dorian - or want him. I am strong and independent, a survivor. Most importantly, I am the Witch-Queen, one of the most powerful beings in centuries.
I don't need anyone.
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Manon's Child
FanfictionAfter the war, everything has changed for Manon. All of her friends are dead and grief is eating her up inside. But then, she finds out she's pregnant and everything changes. Things with Dorian could be ruined, the witches are revolting - what else...