Running, fast and in such pain.
How she had nurtured it, hands delicately tending to the soil of the most vile flower.
The pain could not be seen, it was contained in a seed so small, so well hidden like the medicines she took- he swallowed it, and his throat closed up. As if refusing what he wanted so desperately to feel- to become. His body knew before he did what he wasn’t- his Mother.
Among the thickening incense, his mothers eyes weren’t subtle-cutting through the fog.
The warm purples and oranges coated the floor, soft blankets kept their feet sensitive to the temperature change of the early night. Cushioned pillows, intricate decorations and obsolete furniture he couldn’t place- antiques from the neighboring nations, some gifts. All favorites of the Queen, shiny and her own unique taste, and of all his dozens of attempts, not one thing remained on her pedestal.
At this point he expected it, yet some part of him hoped, that it would be different this time.
Setting his wrapped offering on the low rising table, the scarf he used to contain the gift was of a fine silk, creamy white tassels with sapphires embezzled the tips.
Eyes sifting over the various golden and silver delicacies, “Oh that’s new… “ his thoughts kept his mind from becoming muddled from the spirited aroma. Carefully raising a hand to billow some away, she knew he was
sensitive to her strong treatments.
A pinch of it sprinkled on the skin could send a cleansed man into euphoric resonance. About the same as almost dying combined with the most adrenaline you’ve ever experienced in your life.
It was so well blended among her pretty treasures that it would take a keen eye to recognize her true profit, her most beloved possession. Her treatment.
Anyone would be considered lucky to share such an evening sharing her prize, but not the son. His entire body rejected the fumes, as tempting as they twirled around even her masked servants.
The White Sand was such a painful thing, but so was experiencing happiness in a watched place.
He loved the setting sun and the warm breeze, but those sands… those waters, he despised it all. The ancient pools rested at the far ends of their reach.
Memories flashed of his Mother, in the morning of her most absolute medicated haze. Frayed and hand in hand with misery, She smiled. Her long peppery hair fell to behind her knees. She wore a soft blue he loved that day. He was younger then.
So many droughts have passed since then, but he remembers the icy blue waters edged and dipped in a putrid bright green. Such color he hasn’t seen again since the pools were sucked deep into the Hearth.
The center of the waters seemed to glow white, and he supposed now that the light beckoned her like those foolish moths to flame. He too was entranced, until dipping his fingers into it zapped him with such an energy that it gave him a tingle in his hand that hasn’t left him yet.
The sudden idea to swim in it was unlike her. He reached out to her.
She left, and she slipped into it, silent. He remembered there was no breeze and his memory was too bright, as if he had stared into the sun and baked his eyes to leave a white film over all he would see. It made sense, he remembered a white hot pain in his eyes then.
She was so far away, and her eyes were close to becoming submerged by the still toxic waters. Yet, when she faced towards him, somehow he knew she was staring at him. Her eyes were pitch black, a void, wide with an emotion he couldn’t describe. Agony, pure agony.
They were dammed to the dark, and his Mother was lying to herself every day after that she hadn’t seen it then.
He had seen it in her, those very eyes glazed over in thin slits staring at him with such judgement