Falls of the Hinterlands sea water flowing from the middle of my thighs

pping @Tessa with permission. i also powerplayed @Issorartuyok in but more vaguely since im not sure what he'd do exactly, but figure he'd be there too! all welcome. also, i didnt want to write out all the details but labor was really difficult on antha and she'll be weak for some time

in the wake of that bloody night, the night that had seen the worst and cruelest of antha's fears made flesh, the witchlight had dimmed within her. it withered and died under the brittle, icy cloak of apathy she wore ever since she woke to the scent of blood, the destruction of the future she'd built of glass and lies. lies, yes; to herself, to tessa, to issorartuyok, to all the wolves of atautsikut.
she'd known she was cursed, after all.
tessa knew it too, though she pretended otherwise. they both had, for so long - and in the end it had led antha here. to ruin. she had known the day she poisoned her own womb, so many moons ago, that life may never find welcome there again. she had cradled the bodies of her would-be children, her would-be shackles to a life of torment, and she had sworn to herself that she would never regret it. perhaps she had lied then, too.
she could not say.
life still flickered within the hostile embrace of her womb, undeniably; indicated by her own senses, confirmed by tessa. if they died within their first moments, their first days or weeks, perhaps she would curse herself for an even greater fool. or perhaps not.
selfishness had driven her to purge the unwanted life from her body all those moons ago. selfishness that, perhaps, would always make its home at her core.

she'd fled; she'd fled the watching, worrying eyes of her sister and her husband, of lane and tuuluuwaq. hormone-addled and swept up in the throes of an old and bone-deep trauma, antha eschewed the careful planning of her keepers and vanished into the night. a tale as old as time; the lone witch, journeying under moonlight to her bloody fate.
but she was no warrior; she was no assassin, stealing through the night to snuff some vile beacon of corruption from the world. she was not even a mother, not yet.
she was only a woman, a witch, terrified and alone at the cusp of something she had never thought to see.
in the pale mist, there was little to guide her way save the wink of stars through the shadowy canopy. she came to the falls by chance. the trees thinned and gave way to a narrow clearing around the towering waterfall. in the mist, under the scant moonlight, a brilliant arc of color sailed through the air.
a rainbow.
the witch gasped, startled to see such magic in this dull place, so disconnected from the forces of the universe. a rainbow under the dark of night.
and slowly, the color began to fade away. within minutes it had vanished entirely. the witch's gaze followed the fading light up, up, all the way to the heavens. the moon was changing, a darkness spreading across its brilliant ivory surface. behind her, a faint gasp echoed her own from moments before.
the witch spared only a glance for her sister, who had trailed her as surely as the moon trails the earth. something was happening. the moon; her body; everything shifting, changing.
she shrieked; a broken, gasping sound, almost muffled under the mist. tessa rushed to her side, and the witch left herself.

beneath the bleeding moon two women labored amid the churning mists. the air crackled and sparked, restless, a caged beast awaiting its moment of freedom. the night was black and green and red all around them, enshrined in silver mists and blue shadows.
the sweet scent of herbs mixed with blood, sharpened by the cold night air. the witches toiled and cried, strained and wept - and they prayed. a tall man stood with them in the mists, a dark silhouette of a sentinel.
and when the moon filled to the brim with its own dark blood and overflowed into the night, the pale witch shrieked, and bore life; sickly, squirming life.
a red witch for the red moon, the magic of rubies and blood.
a witch of the night for the shadows of the wilds, a reign in onyx and stardust.
a wraith-witch of the mists, the icy power of pale shades and specters.

and finally, as the color began to bleed from the moon, one who did not belong.

or so thought the witch as she accepted this final, bitter gift.
a son. a dark and perfect boy, a mirror of the perfect image of health painted by his dark sister. he had stolen it from his sickly sisters, she felt for a moment, wildly, irrationally.
the moment passed, and the witch knew then that he was a witch too; fashioned from the ancient bones of the earth, born of the land with all its emerald life flowing through his veins.
they were witches, all of them. the tatkret witches, born under the bleeding moon. alive, and perfect, and hers.