That afternoon, the first whiffs of warm broth and herbs caught Lellia’s attention, prompting her to head to the kitchen and deliver the news of her imminent departure to her caregiver. She entered as the old woman was preparing a stew, chopping up a carrot next to a steaming cauldron. Clasping her hands together, she offered her assistance.
“Is there anything I can help with?”
The old woman set down her knife and turned to face her. Not once since Lellia moved in did she offer to help prepare a meal. She studied her expression and found a new glint of purpose in her emerald eyes.
“You’re going after all.”
Lellia nodded. The old woman pointed to an oversized onion on the countertop. “I hate slicing those damned things. Always irritating my eyes. There’s another chopping board over there, if you truly want to help.”
Lellia rushed over and pulled the drawer open to find a knife. She set the chopping board flat on the counter and rolled the onion onto it. With swift, dexterous movements, she cut off the stems and roots before easing into the flow of slicing it into smaller pieces.
“The deft hands of a former assassin never falter even in matters of the kitchen, it seems,” said the old woman, staring wide-eyed at Lellia’s precisive work. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say Vethirn offered you more than just your job back.”
“He has nothing of interest to me,” said Lellia, an overstated aloofness in her tone. “I’m going because I didn’t want your bed linens to be stained with my blood.”
“That sense of humor you two always had…” The old woman shook her head and tossed the slices of carrot into the stew. “How was it, truly?”
“How was what?”
“What do you mean, ‘how was what?’ You’ve just seen your partner in crime for the first time in two years. How was it?”
Lellia tightened her grip on the handle of her knife as she ceased chopping.
“I think it’s time you let go of your Lemrasi fantasies, Mother. We’re a bit too old now for you to be projecting them onto us.” She shuffled over to the pot and scraped the onions into the stock.
Two years. In two years, she had not called the old woman Mother. It was forbidden for guild members who were not in active participation. As often as she addressed her as such in years past, she never got used to it. The title left a strange itch on her tongue – perhaps attributed to the fact that she never called anyone else the same in earnest.
“I was asking a question, dear. No childish or fantastical implications.” Mother placed a hand upon Lellia’s bony shoulder, turning her so they stood face-to-face. “I don’t play coy. Nor do any fiendish gods plant any delusions in my head. Not yet, anyway. Hopefully I still have a few good years.”
“Very well. It was fine,” said Lellia, brushing the old woman’s hand away before returning to her station. “Though I’d have preferred someone different. Perhaps Beldroth. Maybe Avara.”
“Agonizing, then.”
The chopping board suffered a series of new dents as Lellia cut into another onion, but she said nothing.
“Are you ever going to tell them what you did to end up here?” asked Mother.
“No. I’m not. And frankly, Mother, I came to help with cooking as a distraction from these matters.”
“I see,” the old woman said, a low grumble betraying her disappointment. “Well, in that case, let’s enjoy making dinner together. This may be our only opportunity, after all.”
Their coordinated efforts continued, intertwined with much lighter talk, as the hour ticked away. The cauldron simmered as they tidied up. Once they finished, a few hours still remained for ingredients to soften and flavors to mix.
As Lellia scrubbed away at a stubborn stain on the countertop, winded and feeble, she leaned in to relieve the weight of her own body on her legs. For the duration of her supposed infirmity, she’d rarely left her bed for reasons other than hygienic. Standing for an entire hour was something she’d not done since the night she arrived, collapsing at the old woman’s doorstep after sprinting there from the furthest stretches of the city.
“You’ve helped enough. I will take it from here,” said Mother, reaching over to take the rag from her. Lellia put up no resistance as she fell under a wave of dizziness. Clutching her forehead, she stumbled to the nearest chair and crumpled up onto it with a sharp exhale.
“What am I going to do?” she asked, no longer able to dam up her worries. Her willpower was as diminished as her strength.
“You’re going to do what you need to, as always. You’re by far not yet old enough that you can’t rebuild your constitution.”
“It’s not just my physical fitness – I don’t know if I can face everyone. I didn’t just let down Vethirn. There are still dozens of others.”
“Is there a single one that will be harder to meet face-to-face than Vethirn?” asked Mother. Her query was met with a long silence.
“Perhaps there would be, if Velius were still around.”
The old woman nodded.
“I wasn’t sure what to think when I first heard Vethirn had taken his position. It hardly seemed out of place, but I still worried for him taking on such a responsibility.”
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
“That’s understandable, what with all the years you spent raising him and doting on him. Favoring him, even.” The last remark earned her a glance of equal scorn and surprise.
“Each and every one of you were my children where I had none. I favor no one.”
“Even mothers play favorites,” Lellia said. Lifting herself to her feet, she kept one hand held to her forehead as if to dispel her dizziness, the other flared out at her side to keep her balance.
“Not this one,” Mother said, rushing to her side to help her. Shaking her head, Lellia managed to right herself.
“Call for me when dinner is ready,” she said. “I will bathe and settle my mind.”
Very well,” Mother said. She returned to the pot to stir it, watching over her shoulder with a concerned glare until Lellia turned the corner out of her sight.
Lavender and honey filled the air with a pleasant, calming sweetness. Lellia swirled her hand throughout the warm bath, its water clouded with a generous pouring of goat’s milk. Drops pooled at her fingertips as she withdrew them, and after shaking them off, she pulled her shirt over her head.
A new curiosity welled up within her. She turned to the mirror, which was draped with a bolt of heavy burgundy cloth coated in dust. Having been apt to hide from her reflection until now, she hesitated before lifting it away. When she caught sight of herself, still holding the cloth, she fought a colossal urge to clutch it to her chest, to protect herself from this husk of who she once was.
However brushed she might have tried to make it appear, her hair still stuck out in frizzled strands. Its once vibrant, reddish sheen faded to a sickly, mousy bronze. A face where she never found much beauty to begin with had become gaunt and pallid, cheeks sunken in and jawline rigid with jutting bone. Outright ugly. Each one of her ribs was present and accounted for as well, and as she ran her fingers over them, perhaps the most disheartening of her aesthetic losses left her muttering in grief.
“Gods, even my tits are gone.”
She didn’t care to see more. Shaking her head, she stepped out of her trousers and lowered herself into the bath. The warmth cradled her, sinking into her skin and sending tingles through her body. Indistinct, blurred thoughts which raced across her mind soon slowed and retreated one by one, falling into the water. They floated on the surface like petals, making themselves known.
King Arzaneld dies, and so I must leave my comforts and live. Velius disappears, and so I must return. Vethirn lacks all manner of faith in himself, and so I must have enough for both of us, else I die at his hand.
Perhaps I should have. Perhaps mercy was too good for me this whole time.
Quite some time had passed since she last truly listened to her own thoughts – how bitter they’d grown as she became more helpless day by day. Her eyelids became heavy as her worries dissolved, melting into reluctant acceptance. Shivering away the last whit of discomfort, she stirred a fleck of lavender with her finger until she drifted off.
Lellia returned to her room in the evening, grateful for the chance to hide away after a somewhat busier day than usual. The conversation surrounding dinner proved just as grievous and avoidant as that during its preparation, but the food was enjoyable enough to recompense. She’d hoped for a more easeful experience spending her last day with Mother, but she found her nerves clashing insurmountably with the old woman’s curiosity.
The curtains were still open since that morning, and as time passed, the harsh sunlight had given way to the soothing glow of the moons. Zendine streamed in through the window and tinged the room purple, unhindered by the silvery light of its waning twin Pir. Instead of shutting it out, Lellia accepted the moon’s invitation, swayed by the beauty of the night. She unhooked the latch and pushed the window open, letting the breeze caress her cheeks. After avoiding such simple pleasures for so long, she grasped a thread of gratitude for the thought of more nights like these to come. She held onto it as tightly as she could.
Though she wanted to linger for a moment more, little time remained until she would need to rest – or at least try to do so. Her things were still not packed in preparation for leaving, and she’d spent the entire day fighting off the dread of even looking at her old gear. Each time the thought arose, her stomach bubbled with unease. The chest beside her wardrobe, tucked away in its shadow, burned the corner of her eye and demanded her attention. With a heavy, unavailing sigh, Lellia trudged over to it, retrieving the key from the wardrobe first.
She stood, staring down at the chest, trying to muster up the courage to open it. While each preparation she’d made that day was a step further from the embrace of isolation and closer to her former life in the cold unknown, this one in particular would be a ritual of confirmation. Only with the utmost certainty could she initiate it.
In that moment, one final pang of desperation sent her to the furthest corners of her mind, searching for any other option but to go. She could leave, flee to anywhere else in Nelthemar or beyond – but the Tear owned every cove, every nook, every path of escape. With the land bridge into Oakenvale Pass flooded for the season, too, the route north by thoroughfare was no option. Vethirn would find her no matter what.
But even if a clear path to freedom were laid out in front of her like an empty corridor, it would be the coward’s way out. This she knew, and it led her gently to the acceptance she needed to find. Were she to let the others down again for the sake of saving herself, the cost could be their lives this time.
Hands shaking beyond control, she knelt in front of the chest and wiped a swath through the dust. The lock clicked open as she turned the key, and after setting it down, she placed her thumbs in the crooks between the wood and metal for leverage. Eyes shut tightly, she shed the tension in her body as the last whispers of doubt quieted themselves. A crack sounded as she lifted the lid no more than an inch.
“Hearken, Elyn, goddess of life,” she muttered, “and weep, for I must seize your gift from your children when just.”
The hinges cried out as she opened the chest completely. Resting her hands on its edges, she gazed inside at its contents, untouched by dust and time. She reached in and took out her clothes first, a sleek set of black leathers with a hooded cloak. She was certain they’d now hang like a sack on her ragged body. Beneath them lay a folded parchment, the only letter she kept – the only one she had on her the day she left. In one snappy movement, took it out, and stuffed it away in the pocket of her cloak. A slight sneer tugged at her upper lip.
“Pass their candle with due care and tenderness,” she continued, “to your Forgotten, Lusmir.”
The last items, set aside from the others, were the tools of her profession. A belt, which matched the rest of her clothes, housed a sheathed dagger and a smaller knife, vials of dried-up poisons, and a pouch of darts. She reached in and draped it across her lap. A great hesitation overcame her as she tried to remove the dagger from its sheath, and so she continued her invocation louder and clearer to drown out all that might challenge her resolve.
“Let him punish them duly for their misdeeds, and me for mine against them when my time comes.”
She examined the blade. It shone without flaw, warping her reflection. No trace remained of the blood she’d spilled that night; she’d doused it in the river in a desperate bid for absolution. Memories of twisted faces and screams of terror flashed before her, leaving her momentarily frozen, statue-like. Still, she collected herself and resheathed her dagger, reaching next for the knife.
She pressed the tip of the knife to the pad of her middle finger, wincing as it pierced her skin. Holding her breath and biting her lower lip, she dragged the blade down. The pain dulled after only a few seconds, and she continued until she reached the top of her wrist. As warm blood pooled and dripped onto the floor, she finished her prayer. No more was there any hope of going back.
“Sing not a dirge for them, but a lullaby, so that death may be a cradle where all return to innocence.”