The Daughter of a Mother.

Kana Le Saintelle’s first memories were… she wasn’t actually sure what her first memories were. She simply remembered being. Just being alive, living. Her, and her mothers, Fisyene and Geroivia, in their cottage home, in their home town, in the shadow of the great hill where the great citadel that overlooked them all stood.

Her mother Geroivia was a giant among giants, even from the view of a child’s world where all grown-ups were giants. She stood taller than her other mother, and even some men. Kana rarely saw her. She was a soldier. That meant leaving Kana alone for long periods. But that was all right, it made her kisses and hugs ever the sweeter, even when it was Kana running to the door, hugging her metal-encased leg when she came home, before she would pick her up, swinging her around with a joyful laugh, as mama Fisyene would come to welcome her wife home.

Mama Geroivia didn’t tell her much about her work. When Kana asked, she would grow silent, with a melancholic glint in her eyes. Every time, she merely gave her a wistful smile and told her she would understand when she was older.

Her last memory of mama Geroivia was when she was seven. She and mama Fisyene were in the living room. She was in her full armour. They were pressing their foreheads against each other, whispering words she couldn’t hear. Mama Fisyene left, and then it was just her and mama Geroivia.

Mama Geroivia told her she loved her no matter what, to be strong for her, and that she would be proud of Kana wherever she was. Kana didn’t understand why she or mama Fisyene were crying at the time. Mama was strong. She would always come back like she always had.

But mama didn’t come back.

The men and women who went and came back several moons later called her mama a hero. They said she stood holding back hundreds, on a bridge alone. They carved her name into the Monument of Martyrs in the town square, one among the hundreds.

Then they left her alone. Just her, and mama Fisyene.

Mama Fisyene grew distant. Before she was always aglow with smiles and laughter, she now shut herself in their room. Kana tried calling for her, but she always seemed tired, with bags under her red and puffy eyes. She still took care of Kana, but rarely did she play with her anymore.

Kana tried to be strong like she promised. She went to school, like she always did, even on those days when mama didn’t wake her up like she used to.

At school the others seemed… distant. Their eyes. They held pity for her. She didn’t need pity. She was strong. But she never felt so alone. Her friends treated her differently. Like she was frail, made of glass.

She tried to continue as she had. Laughing, playing, occasionally fighting, as everyone else did. But now, when she japed and laughed, her friends’ laughter sounded hollow, forced, as if afraid of offending her as they laughed along.

When she approached them to play ball, they paused for a second when they hadn’t before, eyes darting to and fro as if like prey, looking out for a predator, before answering yes.

When she got into fights, being provoked and provoking, her opponents seemed more distracted than they had been before, when they had put their heart and soul into besting her. When she stood triumphant over them, their eyes held a deep bitterness, resenting her.

One fight too many, and one of the girls, the sister of a boy she had beaten into the dirt just days before, let loose her venom as she laid on her hands and knees on the ground, looking up furiously at her.

“Abomination.” She spat at Kana.

Kana didn’t know why, but it felt like someone had thrust a cold dagger into her heart. She looked around. The boys and girls surrounding them looked away wherever she turned.

She ran.

Ran away from school. She didn’t stop running until she reached home, then up the stairs, into her room, flinging herself onto the bed.

Once the adrenaline wore off, her mind played those words over and over again: “Abomination”, “Abomination”, “Abomination”.

Her stomach churned and she felt dizzy every time she repeated those words in her head.

That night at dinner, when mama Fisyene asked her what was wrong, she asked her what the word meant.

Her mother froze and didn’t answer for a second, asking her where she had heard that word.

Kana asked again.

Mother just left her there, at the table.

She wanted to know. She had to know, what it meant, why her blood felt like ice and her limbs lost all their strength when that girl called her that.

Her mother said nothing, continuing as she had done, before that day, cooking meals for them, washing their clothes, but face devoid of all emotion.

Years passed. No one ever called her an abomination again. But the pity didn’t fade with time. She hated it. Hated them all. But most of all, she hated her mama.

She who held the secret of why those looks came. She existed there, near her, but almost like a stranger.

Not the woman of Kana’s memories, the one who sung and danced with Kana and mama Geroivia. She still performed the functions of a mother, but she wasn’t her mother.

Not really.

Not anymore.

A stranger, in all but name.

On the cusp of her graduation from the military academy, she borrowed a horse, courtesy of some friends of hers. She rode to the city of her mother, where relatives she had not seen for years resided. She didn’t know where they lived. Nor if they even still lived, but she had decided to seek someone else. Someone who she did know.

She went to uncle Goniol. He who had known her mother Fisyene since they were children, and who had marched off with mama Geroivia that day.

Kana remembered how he had fallen to his knees in front of mama Fisyene begging her forgiveness, apologising again and again. He had held her tight in a hug as Kana heard her mother sobbing behind her. He left a few days after that, once they had hammered in mama Geroivia’s name into the Monument.

Occasionally he still visited them but mostly talking to Fisyene. He rarely had time to talk to Kana, but she enjoyed whatever brief time she had with him; one among the last of those who still treated her the same, though he never told her about what he talked to mother about.

His silver hair glimmered in the sunlight as he opened the door, a shade darker than mama Fisyene’s. He beamed when he saw her. She felt guilty about cutting his pleasantries short, but she had a task. She told him about the fight, and what that girl meant.

Uncle Goniol stiffened quickly, but deflated just as fast, motioning at her to follow as he disappeared down the hallways, into his study. He murmured and twitched as he scanned the many books of his study.

“Read this.” He said, setting down a thick tome, its covers ancient, faded leather: ‘A Study of the Mechanisms and Applications of the Mage craft of Life.’

“Page 56. I know this must be hard for you but remember that your mother…” Uncle Goniol’s voice faded as her eyes rapidly scanned the words written on the page. She didn’t understand all of it, the book clearly meant for full-fledged mages, or at least those capable of studying it.

The words flew by as quickly as she could comprehend them: “Genetic material. Life Magic. Birth Creation. Only mages of the finest calibre can perform this act. Implant. Rare. Considered by some to be unnatural.”

She slammed the book shut; she had read enough. She glanced at the window; the sun had already begun to set. A ritual, for those who could not conceive naturally. Like her mothers. That meant the girl all those years ago was right. She was… She was… an abomination.

Why didn’t mother tell her? She was a fool; the others had always treated her differently. She had always been a freak of nature. Mother should’ve told her.

Uncle Goniol had insisted she stay for a meal, before riding back, but her head was still spinning. He sent her along with the next caravan back, but she rode away before they reached the town. There was somewhere she needed to be.

The graveyard was surprisingly pristine. She tied her horse to one of the fences and searched until she found the one.

‘Geroivia le Saintelle. Captain. Hero of Uxfyrd Bridge. Loving Wife, and Mother.”

She sat down by it, resting her back against the cool stone. She wished she could talk with mama Geroivia one last time.

Her strong, brave mama, who would fix everything with ease, and whose plate armour would look as radiant as the sun itself when she stood under it.

The book had said the cost to the parents would be high; not merely in money to pay for a mage of sufficient skill and talent, but to create a child, part of their life, their vitality would be taken, shortening both their lives. To sacrifice so much just to carry a child who was their flesh and blood... Kana didn't know what to think of that.

“We wanted you to be safe.”

There, in front of her, stood the willowy figure of Fisyene.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Kana… I’m sorry.” Her eyes seemed forlorn, staring out into the distance.

“Why.”

“I begged her to join the Garrison, so we could raise you together, but she couldn’t. She always had her duty.” Fisyene wiped away a tear.

“When she died, I was so lost. It felt like half of me died that day, on the bridge with her. I’m sorry Kana. I couldn’t deal with all that. And when you came home that day asking me that, I wasn’t ready. I didn’t know how to tell you.”

She walked forward, placing a white rose onto the grave, one among the many, older ones.

“I come every week, hoping Geroivia will give me strength. I didn’t know what to say. I still don’t. I failed you Kana.” She took her face into her hands, but quickly shook her head, fighting back the sniffle.

“I hope you can forgive me. You likely already know, but if you’d like to hear it from me, I’ll be home. Mama will always be home for you. You're no abomination. You're my daughter. Our daughter.”

Kana watched as she turned and left, thinking.

Kana would be strong like she promised all those years ago. For mama Geroivia, for mama Fisyene, for herself.