PINK RIBBONS | Eirene Mareno

[zuziee 4004]

 

The arrival of Eirene Mareno, c. 2064 

@sarahbarah

 

The outstretched vastness of the Empire made it one of the loneliest places to be. Often, one cannot make it from one end to the other in a day’s stretch. Circe knew this very well, and she frequently added to her isolation. 

 

She’d hide behind closed doors, moping for hours on end with no true goal in sight. The curtains of her seaside room were always half drawn, not enough to shut the world out entirely, but enough to suggest that she could in one single motion if she wished. On this particular day, the afternoon light slanted in through the tall windows and settled lazily across her chamber, catching on the carved edges of her vanity, the embroidered pillows on her bed, the faint sheen of polished wood that no one but the servants ever noticed. 

 

She sat perched on the edge of her bed, chin on hand, staring at nothing in particular. The house was always so quiet, so peaceful. The room smelled faintly of rosewater and old parchment, reminding her of all the duties she had been putting off due to her most recent lapse in mood. A single slipper lay abandoned on the floor where she had kicked it off earlier in a small fit of irritation that no one had witnessed. Her head tilted, her reflection now watching her from the mirror, all heavy sighs and distant eyes, her hair loose and unbothered, her posture resigned in the way of someone who had long accepted that longing was simply a permanent state of being. 

 

She was just beginning to consider the merits of flopping dramatically onto the bed when a sound reached her. Not a knock, not a voice, but a soft rush of air. A flutter.

 

She turned toward the open window, and on her stone sill, a stork was perched. 

 

Not a metaphorical stork, nor a painted one from some foolish museum. This was a real, unmistakable stork, tall and pale and dignified, its long legs folded neatly beneath it. Its feathers were impossibly clean, as though it had never known mud or rain. Around its neck hung a thin ribbon, pink as early dawn.

 

Circe blinked. - The stork blinked back.

 

For a long moment, neither of them moved. Circe wondered if she had finally been driven mad. She considered waving her hand in front of her face, just to test reality, but before she could decide, the stork shifted and gently nudged something forward.

 

A woven cradle.

 

It was small, intricately made, the reeds braided with care and patience. The stork pushed it just far enough that it tipped into the room, landing softly on the rug at Circe’s feet. Inside was a bundle of pink, a blanket so large it seemed almost comically oversized for its occupant.

 

The bundle moved, and Circe gasped. She dropped to her knees without thinking, hands hovering, unsure if she was allowed to touch what had so clearly arrived with purpose. The blanket shifted again, and a tiny face emerged. Strawberry blonde hair peeked out in soft wisps, catching the light. Dark eyes opened, wide and solemn, studying Circe as though they had been waiting for her specifically.

 

The baby made a small sound. Not a cry, but a thoughtful noise, like a question.

 

“Oh,” Circe whispered.

 

The stork inclined its head once, slow and deliberate, then spread its wings. The rush of air stirred the curtains, sent papers fluttering from their spots, and before Circe could think to ask a single question, it was gone, leaving only feathers drifting lazily to the floor.

 

Circe knelt there, heart pounding. She looked up, toward the ceiling, toward the skies beyond it.

 

“Well,” she said quietly, “I suppose that settles it.” She gathered the cradle into her arms with reverence, lifting the child as though she were something holy. The baby fit against her chest with surprising ease, warm and solid and undeniably real. Circe laughed then, a small, breathless sound, tears already blurring her vision.

 

She took this as a sign from God. Not because she was particularly pious in the traditional sense, but because there was no other explanation that felt sufficient. Lonely people did not simply receive miracles through open windows.

 

Circe carried the child to her bed and sat down, cradling her carefully. She brushed a finger over the baby’s soft cheek. The baby blinked slowly, then yawned, utterly unconcerned with the magnitude of her arrival.

 

“You’re mine now,” Circe said, voice steady with sudden certainty. “And I suppose I am yours.”

 

[sarahbarah 7105]

Eirene Mareno did not yet know words, nor did she know promises, but she did know warmth. She knew the steady drum beneath Circe's ribs, and the way her arms curved around her like a shelter innately learned and loved. Her eyes fluttered, dark and unfocused, reflecting nothing but light, shadow, and the blurred outline of a face she felt, somehow, she had been waiting for. 

 

If she could have spoken, it would not have been you're mine or I am yours. 

 

It would have been something simpler.

 

Home.

[Nectorist 12869]

Cassius Mareno, looking out over the stormy, rocky cliffs of Trident's Peak, is struck by a glop of bird poop right atop his bald head. Grumbling, he looks up to see the damned seagull that was resp-

 

What's a stork doing all the way out here?

[Lalosia 988]

 

Clementine of Dover suddenly had the urge to visit her long-time friend.