CLOSED 1x1 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.

 

[rissa]

Mearle was in the front gardens, toiling in the rich black dirt. She was both harvesting and pruning, cleaning up stock and ensuring new growth. As long as she kept the soil rich, she could grow tatos, wild corn, ardent peppers, and razorgrain for the majority of the year. Her nails were blackened when a voice called out to her and Mearle couldn't help but jump, despite expecting it eventually. She waved her hand dismissively and for a brief moment, her fingers didn't seem to be blackened from soil. "Don't call me that."

There was a bit of a snarl behind Mearle's declaration, a curl of disgust on her lips. But the woman grabbed a basket full of goods, including a glass jar full of brahmin milk, and walked closer, greeting Amaris with a bow of her head and an inconvenienced smile.

"Everything but the milk was sourced from the Fen. If it matters. Not sure if it does anymore, really." Mearle gave the young Micco a once-over, grimacing slightly. "When's the last time you ate, Priestess? You're skin and bone and robes."

 

[Nemopedia]

A dowager was still a sister, so Amaris always had been taught. To be a Micco was to be a sister for a lifetime to the fellow Micco. The sharp rejection by her saviour, whom she had expected to be friendlier despite the obvious rebellion against their teachings, took Amaris back, her hand unconsciously going over her abdomen.

"Then what shall I call you?" she asked instead, careful now not to repeat the mistake. Had this one failed her teachings? The flowers of Tartary were blooming fine, judging by the taste of the seeds, and the scent of its water wafted familiarly to Amaris, suggesting that her saviour still clung onto the effects of the plant.

For all the sharp tones and words passing lips and sounding in voice there was a carefulness in her preparation, however. "Thank you," Amaris whispered back, once more taken aback as her hand hovered over the milk. Indecision overwhelmed her as much as there was curiosity before the voice in her dream reminded her to retreat, going for the produce coming from the Fern.

"I was sent on my mission on the waxing crescent after the Wolf Moon," she answered, though it wasn't an answer to the question other than an indication of how her rations had lasted her, made worse by the state she was in.

"How long since you have left? I do not recall you amongst the faces of my sisters," Amaris posed a question herself. The Micco kept no record of their deserters and the ousted. They were just remembered like Amaris would never be recorded, only mentioned in passing as the sister that broke her vows.

 

[rissa]

"You wouldn't recall me," Mearle huffed, shifting the wicker basket so the weight rested against her hip. She made a face as she second-guessed her statement but eventually shrugged and continued. It's not like she'd know what the sisters and the mothers and the dowagers spent their nights whispering about. "You're young. Or look it at least. I left before you were born, most like. C'mon, I want a toke and some toast. My knees are startin' to hurt. Prolly means rain." Mearle urged, trudging onwards.

She kicked her sandals off before making her way into the house, the caked dirt and ashy sand an unwelcome intruder in her foyer.

"Word o' advice, now that yer outta the Fen? The afternoon showers ain't as kind. At the very least drape a blanket over yerself when the sky starts turnin' dark. Most showers don't last long, but if it doesn't ease up after five minutes? Find somethin' to hide under-- anythin'. Your pretty, pale, unblemished skin will surely thank ya.

"Anyways, c'mon inside. You can call me Mearle or Miss Pearl, it's up ta you. I don't really care either way."

Mearle placed the basket of food in the sink to be washed later and took a seat at the small dining table that'd been repaired and polished and was perhaps a bit shiny. It was the wasteland after all. She packed her pipe and took a long drag, beckoning to the chair in front of her. Mearle took another drag and then another, mesmerized as always by the red-hot cherry in the center of the bowl. She inhaled until there was nothing but ash and the fire in her lungs dissipated, and coughed into a faded handkerchief.

"What is this mission you speak of," Mearle asked, striking the ashtray as she spoke an old honorific she promised herself she'd never need to use again. "sister?"

 

[Nemopedia]

Banished sisters were a taboo amongst the Micco, and unspoken names were quickly forgotten. Amaris was not surprised that she had not heard of Mearle. She was surprised at how long the former Micco had left, the suggestion of her age giving away that her saviour couldn't have been much older than Amaris was now.

"My mission," Amaris repeats after Mearle, not even startled at being called a 'sister' as much as she wonders if she is even allowed to talk about her mission. Again her hand moves towards the lower part of her stomach, wonderly why Mearle was banished and if it was over the same reason as Amaris had been sent away for.

"Our sisters have been polluted, we try to find the source of the pollution," Amaris finally decides to explain. The truth, though not the full truth. "What was yours?" she returns the question, "no sister leaves without one."

 

[rissa]

"Pollution in the sisters, priestess, or in the seeds?"

The question was half a demand, shoulders squared and nose pointed down, hands folded into an imperviable pyramid upon the table before her. She held the stance without thinking, her childhood rearing it's ugly head the moment she took sight of a familiar unfamiliar face, one she'd seen a thousand times over in the Fen. It was comforting, really, the beauty of a Micco Priestess. It was disconcerting, really, to witness the grace of a Micco Priestess. The horror of slipping back into another skin made her quiver, ever so slightly, and the desire to set herself ablaze in shame had her packing her long pipe once more. She took a long drag and then sighed, studying the face before her.

Perhaps she was growing sentimental in her rising age. Perhaps she'd seen nothing but ugly mugs since the day she'd left the Fen.

Has nothing changed since my self imposed exile?

"Come now," Mearle coaxed, voice sweet and venomous and full of body and age like a vintage tartary wine only available to mothers in their prime; full of promises and stories to tell and food to merrily delight in. "Ain't goin' ta get anywhere beatin' round these bushes. Tell you what." Mearle said after a long, long drag, nose exhaling smoke.

"Gimme your mission and I'll give you mine. After that, we can start makin' dinner."

 

[Nemopedia]

For a moment the scarred sister (or dowager, Amaris hadn't been able to make out yet what the appropriate ranking was) didn't seem scarred, but like any Micco, terrifying beautiful and unblemished, untouched by the poisonous fern that had blemished so many of them not worthy of the title. For a moment Amaris was persuaded to answer without thought, as if answering a command as she said; "the dowagers, sister," before realising what she had revealed to an outsider, even if Mearle had been an insider one, snapping her mouth shut so deliberately and quickly that she refused to say anything else. Not that she trusted herself to say much more either.

"The dowagers report returned visions," Amaris finally rescinded, knowing that she had already said this much, what was the rest of it? At least that would alarm Mearle, for as a fellow Micco, exiled or not, all knew what the status of dowagers was now and was to remain and the insinuations of any threat towards it meant for the Micco in overall.

 

[rissa]

"And their eyes? Does their vision return alongside the ones sent by the Pale Mother?" There was a curious, desperate plea behind her tone that begged to be released in its entirety, but Mearle bit down on the desperation, removed it from this life and shoved it back to where it belonged. Without thinking her hands mingled about the dried leaves, crumbling and packing her longpipe once again, hands shaking slightly, the singed and blackened skin around her nails revealing fleck by fleck to be fresh and unblemished beneath.

She took two long hits in rapid succession, attempting to balance the nerves crawling back into her heart and how to frame her self-imposed mission. "I plucked out my own eye, you see, when I noticed my vision getting hazy." Mearle sighed, pushing the chair back with a rickety sound, her longpipe now empty.

Making her way to the sink where improvised gravity-fed pipes allowed water to flow and stopper easily, Mearle made quick work of washing away the dirt and impurities from the small harvest. "A stew sounds nice," Mearle said aloud, more to herself than Amaris. She busied herself with stoking the fire, bringing heat back to the smoldering coals. When she spoke again, she said it into the flames.

"My mission.... may have caused yours."

 

[Nemopedia]

The sweet tangy smell of the Tartary plant filled the room, billowing from the smoke that Mearle had lit. Instinctively Amaris breathed in the air, her lungs filling itself with that familiar flavour her body now craved double, nearly dizzying her in want. Had she been less learned, Micco would have missed detail of the vision, entirely forgotten about the first question that had preceded the admission behind the missing eye.

"You did it yourself?" she gasped, feeling small again, for she knew the Micco didn't mutilate their own. They had allowed her to leave intact after all, even with the forbidden fruit she carried. "Did they force it as a condition?" Amaris continued, her hand once more covering the flat of her stomach that one day would swell. Amaris had already made her choice in that, unable to face the possibility that the Micco had presented her with instead, but the words of her sisters still rang in her memory. She wondered if Mearle still could hear her exile in the back of her mind.

"What was your mission? What was the reason behind your exile?" Amaris was so full of questions. Questions mostly involving the why, as nothing of what Mearle had told Amaris so far connected to what she had known of the Micco.

 

[rissa]

Mearle waved a gnarled dismissive hand at the question that the Micco had forced her self-mutilation. Barbarians some of them were, the Micco— Sister, Mother, Dowager —were vain of heart and pain. Self-mutilation and the extreme adornment of flesh were taboo; they'd suffer neither a stranger, child, nor banished Micco to a fate such as that. "It was a spur of the moment compulsion, if I'm bein' honest. I think at least. My brain was so addled after my journey south into the Expanse... I-I, well." The old woman sighed, not really sure where to begin her tale. It was a long one, one with a lot of holes and stolen pieces.

After awhile, she decided she'd begin with the stew.

Grabbing an old plastic cutting board, her sharpest knife, and a handful of potatoes, Mearle set them down haphazardly in front of Amaris and waved her finger to signal she should get to peeling and cutting. "Here", she said with a grunt, dropping the wicker basket beside her feet. "Put the peels in 'ere. I'll put 'em in me compost later."

Mearle herself got busy as well, crushing tatos and ardent peppers and wild onions into a thick paste that she used as a base for a vegetable stew. She poured in a few containers of purified water and sprinkled a handful of precious seasonings into the pot before setting it on the stove to simmer. From the refrigerator Mearle retrieved two mirelurk eggs, some pre-cut gourd slices, and a Nuka Cola. She fried herself the two eggs, ate them with a slight shake in her hands, and took the cola with her to sit opposite Amaris once more.

Mearle packed a bowl, thick, with a bit of tartary hash sprinkled on top for the extra kick. "Lemme ask you something," Mearle said before her first hit, seriousness overcoming her for a moment. "Is there still a blue flower in the Grand Praying Room?"

 

[Nemopedia]

The sisters never sat idle. A habit that Mearle had carried over and into which Amaris fell into line naturally. Now, knowing that Mearle was a sister and an older one at that, there was a natural inclination to listen, hands moving and removing the skin of the potatoes.

The stew smelled amazing, familiar and yet foreign as well. Familiar in the warmth and foreign in the use of spices that the Dowagers didn't bother to use, believing that it interfered with the Tartary seeds they were required to consume with everything.

Amaris's eyes fluttered for a moment, the smell of the stew taking her back to where she grew up, the tents and the rooms there and the trials she had to pass, but the spices blocking some of that memory.

'Don't abandon me,' the familiar voice whispered again, but Amaris couldn't quite picture who and when it was when she last heard these words as her memory took her to the Grand Praying Room, the hole that every sister feared and in which every dowager lived out their lives, trying to beg the Pale Mother for a quick release from the mortal life without her guidance. Strange how some features of the room never became a true part of her memory despite their significance.

"Yes, the Pale Mother hasn't left," Amaris answered, though there was uncertainty within her heart as she made the claim. As if it wasn't such a given that the Tartary Flowers grew and bloomed and gave them the seeds that brought them closer to the Pale Mother.

"Has the Pale Mother abandoned you?"

Mother, did Amaris hope the Pale Mother hadn't abandoned her. Her appetite had, hurling at the first bite of the stew she had looked forward to before.