The Unified Mother

‘You bull!’ I swear, as the free end of Yarcob’s staff slams into the back of my head sending me flying. ‘You know that’s my blind spot!’

Unfazed, he takes a single, considered step out of the shadows towards me. ‘I will again remind you, your opponent doesn’t care, so neither do I. Up. Again’. Muttering another witty insult under my breath I regain my footing and wipe the sweat from my brow.

Yarcob stood over me even as I stood tall, his face dark and expressionless as always, his form strong and powerful as he glides into his fighting stance. ‘Pick up the glaive or you lose today’s running privileges’ he threatens, his voice as unwavering as the rest of him. ‘Fine.’ I spit out, maintaining my pointed scowl at him while I slowly bend down to retrieve my weapon. ‘You’re even more of a grumpy bastard than usual’ I jibe as I rise. Just as I finish spitting this out, I take an ungodly fast spinning kick to the sternum that sends me flying backwards, the handle of my glaive knocking hard into my head as I careen into the floor. ‘Bastard!’ I choke out, winded. A slight smirk forms at the corner of his mouth. ‘You bull, you’re actually enjoying this!’. Without so much as a reply he resumes his immovable, neutral stance and commands ‘Up. Again’.

The tall, sculpted, limestone ceiling fills my vision as I hit the mat for what feels like the hundredth time. The ringing in my ears somehow bringing each intricate detail into focus. Soft lines in the cream stone, all lead up to the apex. Each of the spire’s four walls represented the four natural magiks: arson, skye, mirage, and terra. Each detailed depiction worn and dulled with time, yet timelessly enshrined. I often used to ask why religion and magiks were outlawed, laying waste to such beauty overnight, but as I lay here head pounding and body bruising, I remember why.

‘You’re done for today’. Yarcob’s voice cuts through my thoughts. ‘United Mother has requested Alisar to lead your protection for today’s outing.’ My attention snaps back to him at this news and I roll to my side to study his face, illegible as ever. I know he can see the glimmer in my eye by the disapproving eyebrow raise he was now giving me.

‘Don’t you dare Fi, or I’ll put myself on lead’ he warns. I always loved the sound of my name on his tongue, the way it makes his mouth curve upwards slightly, even if just for a second.

‘You know I wouldn’t do anything you wouldn’t do’ I tease with a smirk. His eyebrows rise higher at this then conflict floods his face. I may not be able to beat him on the mat but it sure is easy to mess with his mind. While Mr Straightlace tries to get a grip on his words again, I manage to get to my feet despite the protests from my aching body.

‘Phew. Same time tomorrow?’ I ask, breathless, as I pat him on his broad shoulder. His closely shaven head revealed the veins popping at his brow as well as the notable lack of sweat, considering he had just been beating me up for the last two hours. Being so close to him I notice he also smells notably clean, which is even more infuriating. Just as I start to pull away he looks down at me, catching my gaze, making my cheeks flush and stomach leap briefly before I push it back down. His eyes search mine. They were deep brown like the colour of coffee or an aged book. I find myself holding my breath as he studies me, threads of unasked questions filling the air.

After what could have been minutes or hours his face returns to its usual, shielded mystery. ‘No. Not today. It’s too risky. I’m assigning you to sim time instead.’

My stomach drops like a hangman’s noose. ‘What? No, Yar, I was just joking! I will behave I swear. Come on, I haven’t done anything!’ I protest, raising my voice defensively.

He turns his back on me and it’s clear I have lost his attention. ‘Not yet you haven’t, but it’s too great a risk. I’ve seen that look in your eye once before and coincidentally a whole tavern managed to burn down. So no, you’ll be staying here where I can keep an eye on you.’ His calm tone enrages me further, and as he starts to collect weapons from the floor I know this discussion is over. Face flushing red for an entirely different reason I storm out of the great hall.

‘Those trips are a privilege you know!’ he calls as I slam the door behind me.

Running was my only reprieve from here and he knows that. It isn’t my fault that Alisar is an unobservant imbecile. Stomping down the grey hallway I turn a hard corner towards my barracks. ‘AAARGGGHHH’ I yell in frustration, my stomping now a warning to anyone daring to walk this way. I wouldn’t have done anything noticeable. Alisar wouldn’t have even noticed me slip away, he’d be too busy ogling the bare-chested women on Greenhawke’s Passage, and he’s too scared of United Mother to report it right away, so I would have had a good hour of freedom for the price of a slap on the wrist. No harm done.

Gliding past my bedroom I take a hard right towards the kitchens. Does he think I can’t handle myself? I consider, hands balled tight into fists. I came of age over two sols ago, and I have been training since my third. Does he think I’ve learnt nothing? Bursting into the kitchen I ignore all the startled faces as I continue on through. A mixture of steam and the scent hits me like a wall, everyone in the kitchen staring at me with equal shock and deference. Ignoring this I don’t stop to determine whether that shock comes with a dutiful bow or not as I keep heading towards the back door. I’ve done enough sims to know every inch of this city. I think in annoyance. Outside these walls no one even knows what I look like, for Mother’s sake! With momentum behind me I kick open the metal door in front of me. White light assaults my vision, blinding me for a second while my eyes adjust. Humid air fills my lungs and my feet warm on the heated tarmac. Holding up my arm to shield my eyes I march on, ignoring the beeping of supply trucks and the metallic smell of their fuel.

The anger that takes over my body says run, so I run. Slipping through the unmanned fault in the western perimeter. Tearing through the treeline until I find the main road, following it across the flat, dusty planes until I reach the city of Sakharr. The now setting sun illuminates the skyline of rickety towers and dilapidated housing.

Slowing to a walk I take it all in. Spreading out like an opening flower to my left and right - the city of sand and sun. Although the original, ancient city was destroyed under my Mothers orders to ‘eradicate the plague of all religions and magiks’, my sanctioned runs here are all that keep me sane. Letting out a deep breath I pick up into a jog again as I enter the looming city through a tall, sandy archway. Immediately the smell and noise of the city assaults my senses. Meats, spices, and less savoury smells alongside shouting and banging coming from the market a few streets away. Everywhere is crammed with people, all weaving in and out of one another like a river bends around a rock. I breathe in deep, home.

Continuing down the road to my right I enter the first pub I come across. If I’m going to be told off it might as well be for something good. The building is a timber framed, misshapen old nook of a place. Two small-paned windows sit either side of the large, bright, green wooden door that had warped into a strange shape with age. The entire place would be easily missed unless you were looking for it.

Ducking inside I smell the dust and smoke, and it’s dark enough that it takes my eyes a few seconds to adjust. Little, orange-coloured lamps are dotted around, acting as the only source of light. The place is practically deserted, which is bizarre for this time of day and considering how close it is to a market. This is almost enough to convince me to leave and find somewhere less dark and musty, but mother would most likely have half the force on the hunt for me right now.

‘I’ll take whatever you’ve got on tap’ I shout across to the bar keep.

‘That’ll be two and six pence’ she announces loudly in reply.

The wooden floor groans as I stride over to grab my drink, tilting my head down to shield it from the low ceiling. Passing a particularly dark corner I feel a spindly hand latch around my lower forearm. Shocked, I recoil, but the grip held firm. Dark brown, heavily wrinkled skin adorns this skeletal hand, like an ill-fitting suit. The arm attached to it leads to an old, shrivelled lady, with long wiry white hair and a worn, blue, raggedy looking dress that hung too large over her narrow shoulders.

‘Your mother is looking for you, my dear’ the old lady croaks.

‘I know. Let go of me, I’ll see her shortly I’m sure’ I respond, still tugging to escape her clenched fist.

‘You look like her a little, you know.’ The old crone says, peering at me more intensely now, leaning forward on her stool.

‘Look, old lady, I don’t know you and you certainly don’t know my mother. So let go of me and I’ll be on my way.’

She studies me with a confused expression, pausing for a moment as I continue to tug my arm more aggressively now.

‘She has kept it from you for all these years.’ She ruminates, the wrinkles on her face stretching as her eyes turn wide with realisation.

I’m done with this conversation. The loopy old lady, who clearly has no idea who I am, is eating up valuable minutes that I could have been using to get embarrassingly drunk. I have no idea how such a frail old woman could have such a death grip on me, but the added value of now being acutely agitated enables me to yank myself free.

Straightening my jacket I stomp towards the bar.

‘You can’t run from it Ophelia, your fate is coming. Your mother has found you.’

So she does know who I am, although she still isn’t making much sense. I turn around to face her.

‘Did you think she wouldn’t know her own daughter was missing?!’ I snap, but I lose my words when I see it is not an old lady that stands before me, but a young lady, no older than myself, dressed in white and adorned with a silver diadem. Most importantly she seems to … hover above the ground.

‘Your true Mother awaits. You will restore balance to this plagued planet. Embrace the magiks that swirl within you, Ophelia, run towards it, dear girl, before it is too late.’