CLOSED Mother's Blessing

[Nemopedia]

“It was love, sisters.” She had tried to convince them for so long. This concept foreign to her sisters, to the mothers, never taught to the daughters. It was a meek defence. Even for the days before the pale mother it was a defence that many would have laughed at, but for the mothers and in front of the dowagers this was a death sentence.

”Love is what we have for our children, sister. Love is not what you had with that man. Love is what the pale mother gifted us with.”

The words rained down harshly, as if spoken in unison by all of the mothers that had gathered together for her sentencing. The lessons she had been imparted with repeated in a damning rhythm that Amaris couldn’t turn away from, wincing at the lash of every word as she tried not to let the last words resonate through her entire being, bracing herself for the impact as their condemnation rang;

”That treacherous being within you. That is the fruit of lust.”

A foolish moment of weakness, a shining beacon and now she had been found, barely months in as she was brought in front of the mothers who had gathered in an emergency. It had been a long time coming, for the signs of peril had already shown themselves. The return of the psychic powers to the dowagers. Her own mark of sin. The bad crop of Seeds of Tartary this season. Calamity had struck the Micco Priestesses and their foundation felt shaky at best when a man, her man had woken after ingesting the water and exclaimed that the future was bright and without the Micco. A failed trial and the ultimate betrayal to Amaris who had given herself to the man.

”And if it was from your side, what has he left you with, sister?” The mother’s question was a harsh one, but it rang true, for the water had chased him away from her, if the trial in itself hadn’t already. The news of the seed growing within her wasn’t news that he had welcomed, much less had she herself, for what was a Micco with child to do?

“It is the pale mother’s blessing,” Amaris tried one last time, before the voice of the mothers sounded in unison once more, their voices haunting as Amaris felt her shackles unbound.

”Part with the pale mother’s blessing. Never return unless the damage has been reversed.”

Her task felt overwhelming. Her own state, the loss of potency of the water, the return of the dowager's abilities. All in the hands of the pale mother, the one closest to her and now the furthest away. Amaris didn’t know better than to obey. When she finally opened her proud eyes, when she brushed her prided hair behind her ear, when she took all what she was allowed to have with her and departed, pride and honour in shatters as all, including the Children, knew what had happened and watched a daughter leave the mothers aimlessly sent beyond the reach of the factions.

A day, two days, maybe a week, Amaris was still loitering around the Fen, unable to leave the safe borders of her homeland, the familiar wet terrain with its treacherous grounds. She tried to pray to the pale mother, but no answer came and the seeds of Tartary were running low, leaving her with precious little to rely on other than the first symptoms every dowager runs into once they stepped down. Was that a figure she saw, or was it another figment of the mind? Amaris had lost count how often she had hoped that someone would catch her as fatigue finally caught up to her.

Hoped, for she didn't dare to dream, for dreaming meant to give into sleep that eluded her and finding that the pale mother had truly abandoned her.

@rissa

 

[rissa]

The ache of temptation was sometimes too great to ignore. Mearle dragged her nails down the sides of her face, conjuring, manifesting, summoning to the forefront of her memory all the evils of the holy fruit. All that it had done to her. All that it had taken. A little wretched sob broke through her lips and she bit down hard enough to draw blood. She offered it to the Pale Mother— in reverence and as a desperate plea.

I need it.

But I can’t have it.

And yet here it is, sprouting, growing.

Not for me though. Can't be. Wouldn't be. The Pale Mother made that clear years ago.

Yet Mearle sat frozen, shaking, the thrill of tasting the flesh and the sweet, sweet juice of the tartary fruit warred with her reality. If she tasted another tartary seed, she would die, the Pale Mother whose blessings she still carried, had promised her that the day she left the Fen. And so, some time later, she dragged herself out of the hothouse on all fours, making it to her feet after her knees gave out thrice.

In a daze, she walked. One step and then the next. She was in her house then, packing her long pipe with dried leaves of the tartary. Mearle inhaled deep. It settled the nerves after a fashion, but still she was in a daze. She grabbed one of her go-bags, unlocked her gun safe, grabbed one at random, and left the house in her sandals— step after step after step guided by the Pale Mother.

Almost three days she walked, a freshly burst blister finally causing her mind to clear. South southeast, the Pale Mother had guided her. Nearest to the Fen she’d been in years. A reverential disgust flowed through her, and though Mearle inclined her head to the warped swamp that lied ahead, she had no intention of stepping across that boundary ever again.

That was until she found the reason the Pale Mother had guided her there.

Had caused her tartary bushes to sprout fruit after so many years.

Curled up in the crook of a mangrove’s nest of roots was an expat Micco, pale and pathetic looking. And most importantly, beautiful. Mearle sighed, remembering those days, long gone and plucked away.

”So it’s yer fault my tartary bush started growin’ again.” The voice sounded angry, haughty, accusatory but the gnarled and calloused hands that grabbed her and carried her back were gentle.

Whenever Amaris would wake again, she’d find herself in a guest room with an attached bath. A barrel filled with water lies by the window next to the tub and a makeshift functioning hotplate powered by power cells (so one could heat the water for their bath) rests solidly atop the vanity counter. Most importantly, however, are two tiny seeds of the tartary, barely out of their flowering stage, a pitcher of water, and a handwritten note that says, I’ll be in the gardens. Come and get me when yer ready.

 

[Nemopedia]

She was asleep. Amaris could tell from the darkness surrounding her, deaf and mute and blind, yet able to hear, communicate and see at the same time. The sensation so familiar and oppressing and yet cold, strange and freeing.

’Mother, don’t abandon me,’ a voice begged her, not spoken, yet in a distinct voice that had Amaris recognise the speaker instantly, without presence or appearance, yet already so vividly clear in her image. ’Don’t abandon me,’ the voice begged her again and Amaris felt her stomach churn, wondering who had abandoned who, the resentment piling up within her own heart as rejection forced itself out as the presence that had invaded her precious connection with the Pale Mother tugged harder, closer, the begging accelerating before finally the Pale Mother stared down at Amaris with empty eyes and begged;

’Don’t abandon me.’

The room was unfamiliar, but a welcome sight compared to the façade from which she had escaped, the water sweet against her dry lips, a welcoming cool kiss, before the seeds of Tartary were spotted, fresh and begging to be consumed. Her eyes swirled, Amaris knew her body was craving for the seed, but the voice within her rejected the idea for the life within her.

Pocketing the seeds and the note Amaris made her way out of the room, heading for the door that smelled of Tartary flowers, sweet and alluring, the seeds within her pockets burning through its fabrics to beg her to consume them, her eyes momentarily fluttering in weakness as she stepped out.

“Sister,” she called for the figure working in the garden, the air of a Micco priestess unmistakable, even in exile. “Thank you for saving u-” catching herself Amaris pretended it was an accent catching on with her as she corrected herself with “a sister,” for it still counted.