Maven
She left me.
Everyone does. Mother slithers through my skull, cold as a lonely bed at midnight. No one will stay with you but me.
My hands shake. After everything, all the secrets, the confessions, the vengeances, she still left. None of it was enough. Not enough to keep her by my side, to make her love me as much as I love her.
Nothing is ever enough.
You didn't want it to be.
My fingers slide over the manacles, over the silent stone which tied her to me. I was a fool to set her free. A joyous fool, drunk on her scent and her curves and the wondrous, wondrous scene of her shunning Cal for mel. Everything I wanted, laid bare at my feet, as I lay bare for hers.
How I ached to see her whither so. For my hands to bruise flesh tender from absence, from want of the lightning I could not give her. A spark hovered beneath flame, beneath the sizzle which could shatter me to embers. She was my sin.
And I was her chains.
Perhaps I could tether her again. Run towards my death in the hopes I might catch her, clamp silent stone on her wrists before her bolt strikes me. An idle fantasy. She would die within the year.
She'd deserve to. Mother returns the instant I let go. She sought to undo me, to erase all that made you strong so she could fill you with weakness.
You are better for her loss.
The words ring hollow, echoing to my deepest cavern. She is right. She is always right. Yet I can't bring myself to agree.
I don't want your pain anymore.
Pain has always been my lover. I let it bruise me as I deserved, as the crimes I couldn't confess to anyone else. It ate me one limb at a time, never gnawing long enough to do me in for good. Mother scabbed me over, numbed the scars so I could keep them secret to all who might wield them. Pain loved me. It beat me into shape so I could survive.
Or so I thought.
She's weak.
No.
She's infecting you.
You're wrong.
Mother shrieks, raking white-hot talons across my vision. The door lurks some feet away, twisting with the full force of migraine. One step forward. One step forward.
I can't do it.
Son.
I lean against the wall, head pounding. One step. One step, and then I will rest.
My hands reach for balance and find smooth stone, the sudden ease of clarity and pain chased away. Is this what it is to heal? To mend a mind long made a mosaic of misery?
I step forward, shaking, and find myself on the floor. My cheeks burn from the fall, from the whispers creeping up my lost grip. The bracelet hangs just out of reach, a piece of wood glimpsed before going under. No. Not like this.
Stay. Mother curls around me like a wisp of smoke. You've come this far. Let's make it worth it.
Obey, and the headache will ease. Obey, and the throne will be yours. Obey, and the girl will be dust trampled in your glory, your brother a fly crushed in your palm, the Lakelands laid waste by your clever negotiations.
Obey.
Obey.
Obey.
I retch, stomach empty, bile pooling in my throat as I haul myself up. My skin crawls with needles and flame, scorching the tile as I exhale. I will not burn. I cannot burn. Yet Mother forces fear along each of my nerves, shaking, trembling, sweat pooling to my palm so I slip to the floor again.
Obey.
Obey.
Obey.
I won't.
Not anymore.
Son.
You don't own me.
I made you.
My fingers clasp around the bracelet, gripping so hard I fear it might break. The tile scrapes against my nails, staining them with ash. I must look a wreck. I feel it still, despite the stone. Every limb shudders, a cacophony of malfunction, trembling as I crawl to the door.
I lurch to my feet, stumbling against the wood. My fingers curl around the knob, holding me upright. The hard part is over. But still I tremble.
Who knows what lies beyond this door. What fate awaits the fool who gave up a crown for a girl. Mare was never my happiness, and I was never hers.
But neither was the throne.
Perhaps that is what pushes me to hurl myself forward. To twist the knob as if unlocking a closet full of dust. To breathe in as if gasping from a long bout underwater.
Perhaps that is what pushes me to set myself free.