> Mamavida

>

> Mother

>

> Type: Noun

>

>  

>

> Meaning: In the Menschen language, "Mamavida" is the term for "mother," encapsulating the essence of life and nurturing. It denotes the one who gives life. The term carries the weight of both the physical act of mothering and the broader, life-giving force that sustains all beings.

The underbrush crunched under Noctavia's barefoot steps through the forest. Her keen eyes fixed on the boar grazing obliviously in the silent clearing, only accompanied by the distant call of a bird as the boar nibbled on the fresh grass, unaware of the deadly trajectory of the arrow aimed at its heart.

There was no room for error; the bow was drawn tight, a curve of impending death, and Noctavia's fingers itched on the string, ready to release.

But as she took aim, her arms betrayed her, the bowstring slackening with a sigh. The weapon lowered with a wave of exhaustion washed over her. Fatigue clung to her limbs, sickness roiling in her belly like a stormy sea.

She craved the mouthwatering taste of meat, a longing driven by the endless mornings of eggs that Ulencia prepared, bland and repetitive. But her body was rebelling, drained of strength.

"Master?" The concern in the wolf’s voice was clear as the Spirit of the Howling Night materialised beside her.

"I'm fine, Howl. Just tired," she lied, her voice barely a mumble amidst the verdant whispers of the forest. Grit creased her brow as she nocked another arrow, refocusing on the boar. With a deep breath, she drew the string once more and let the arrow fly. It missed its mark again, and the boar bolted—only to halt mid-escape, suspended in the air as if snared by invisible threads. Time itself had frozen, a small mercy granted by Noctavia's will.

"Well, it's not cheating if no one knows," she muttered under her breath, a note of frustration in her tone meant only for her and the Howling Night at her side. Her hand found the copper dagger in her belt.

"You have been... irritated lately," Howling Night observed, his voice a deep rumble as he prowled behind his Master.

"Wouldn't you be?" Noctavia complained with a sharp voice that exposed her blade of emotion. "Half a moon has passed, and he hasn't returned. I can't sense him, and I don't even know if he's safe. If something happened to him or to the others. Or maybe he's—"

"I would know," Howl interjected.

"You would?" she pressed, her heart twisting with worry.

"And I would kill him for causing you distress and pain," Howl growled protectively. "Would shatter his bones, and he would hear each one of them crack."

"You would not, silly! Such a big mouth saying such big words. You adore him as much as I do, if not more," Noctavia retorted, her hand steady as she approached the suspended animal, her dagger poised at its neck.

"He does give excellent belly rubs," Howl conceded with a wistful tone that lightened the moment. "But he is not my Master!"

A soft chuckle escaped Noctavia's lips even as she made the clean-cut. "He sure does."

As time snapped back into its rightful rhythm, the boar collapsed to the ground, its lifeblood staining the grass a vivid crimson. The scent of blood mingled with the earthy dampness of the forest floor, overwhelming Noctavia's senses. She doubled over, retching beside the boar's twitching form.

Noctavia returned from the hunt with a quiet intensity. Silently, she retreated to her tent, sealing herself away from the world outside without uttering a single word.

After the feat that the settlement had thanks to Noctavia, Mediah hesitated at the entrance of her tent, his hand hovering just shy of the canvas. He had always felt a peculiar unease around her. Noctavia was as powerful as beautiful. Despite his reservations, Mediah knew she hadn't eaten the very game she hunted, and concern overrode him.

She had sealed herself away; the tent's closed flaps were an obvious proclamation of her desire to be left alone. Yet duty and worry propelled him forward.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

Swallowing his reluctance, he called softly, "Noctavia, may I enter?"

"What do you want?" The weariness in her voice was noticeable even through the fabric.

"I brought food," he offered.

"Fine, come in." The grudging permission was all he needed.

Mediah stepped inside, finding Noctavia enshrouded in one of Yeso's black robes, repurposed as a makeshift blanket. He carefully set a small plate of food on the table beside her bed, his eyes lingering on her for a moment.

Noctavia turned away, a grimace twisting her features as she caught the scent of the meal.

"You need to eat," Mediah urged gently.

"I just need to rest," she murmured, her voice tinged with an indefinable grief.

"Please, try to eat something," he insisted.

"It smells awful!" Her protest a clear rejection. "Smells like death and duck's feathers." Mediah, to prove his point, took a strip of the meat and tasted it. "No, it's the same as everyone else enjoyed. The food is good. I don't know what you're complaining about."

"I can't stand the smell," she insisted, "Please take it away!"

"Are you sick?"

"No, I'm just sad... and tired," she confessed, her voice a mere whisper, lost among the folds of Yeso's robe.

"He will come back. You know that, right?"

"I can't feel him. He's probably doing something he doesn't want me to know..." Noctavia's voice trailed off as she retreated further into her cocoon of fabric and shadows.

"The Commander always has a good reason, and his heart is in the right place... with you. But right now, we need you," Mediah almost pleaded, "I need my elder to guide me."

"Need me? To guide you? For what? I'm not a Commander," Noctavia's voice rose. She sat up abruptly, her legs crossed beneath her. “I’m a Noctavia. I can teach you to sew.”

Mediah summoned his courage and sat beside her. The proximity left him even more nervous. "It's about Xendrix."

"What do I have to do with a human?" Her tone was dismissive, incredulous.

"Yeso promised him he would learn alchemy," Mediah explained.

"I don't know anything about alchemy! What am I supposed to do?"

"But you know about magic, about the impossible. After all, you and Yeso performed a hex... against all odds... and..."

"And he is not here!" Noctavia's protest cut through the air, sharp and anguished, a raw edge of vulnerability in her voice that she rarely showed.

"Please..."

Noctavia towered over Mediah, her form an arch of indignation, her voice a tempest of emotion. "Your human is not my responsibility!"

Mediah, taken aback by her imposing stance, inadvertently allowed his gaze to drift. It was then he noticed the subtle changes in her appearance; her cleavage, usually modestly concealed, was more pronounced, and her attire strained across her midriff, revealing a hint of her belly button beneath the fabric. It was out of character to the Noctavia he knew, the one who moved with lethal grace and whose attire always whispered of shadows and discretion.

His observation slipped out tactless amidst the tension. "Did you gain weight?" The words hung in the air, an ill-placed comment that seemed to slow time itself.

Noctavia's glare was spires ready to attack, her voice crackling with frost. "Is that really what you should be concerned with right now?"

Mediah's heart sank as he registered the gravity of his blunder. "No, I... I apologise. That was out of line," he stammered, the words clumsy in his mouth, his cheeks burning with shame.

But the damage was done. In a flash of movement, time that was frozen to all, Noctavia's magic lashed out, a force that seized Mediah and sent him tumbling out of the tent, the dish of food following to splatter across his face.

The door flap fell shut behind him, leaving him sitting in the dirt, food and mortification smeared across his features.

Inside, Noctavia collapsed back into the cocoon of blankets and Yeso's robe, burying her face into the pillows. Her breath came in muffled gasps, a storm of emotions raging within. Mediah's words echoed in her mind, a cruel reminder of the changes she could no longer ignore.

She had indeed gained weight, and deep down, realising what it might signify was beginning to dawn on her. Worse still, it came at a time when she felt most alone.

Noctavia was late.

> As a young boy, I was captivated by a mythical tale, a favourite of my Godmama. Beloved across diverse lands and cultures, this story was moulded uniquely by each civilization. Yet, its essence remained consistent: the saga of a little king and a Mage. The narrative centred on a young monarch eager to demonstrate his worthiness for his regal responsibilities. He enlisted the support of a formidable Mage renowned for her unparalleled power and striking beauty. Their journey for four enchanted relics—a chalice, a branch, a blade, and a coin—became trinkets of legend. They battled Leviathon, the Dragon Spirit of Water, for the chalice, confronted a colossal Treant, the Spirit of the Forest, for the blade, and braved the malevolent Wind-Eagle for the coin. As for the fire, I can't recall. Throughout their odyssey, they encountered myriad challenges, cementing their legacy in the annals of time. The little king, bolstered by the Mage's steadfast support, fulfilled his quest. This journey was more than a test of his royal mettle; it was a journey of self-discovery. The tale's conclusion, however, varied with each retelling. Some whispered of a royal romance, with the Mage becoming his queen. Others speculated her return to a mystical realm or suggested she was an ethereal Spirit for the king. Grimer versions hinted at a tragic betrayal, with the king using his newfound arcane knowledge to imprison and silence her, after failing to win her affection. He tortured her until Death finally found her remains. Yet, the grim reality I uncovered later starkly contrasted with the fabled narrative. It was a harrowing account of my mother's betrayal and murder by someone she trusted. This same betrayal was why alchemy was outlawed across Mir-Grande-Carta, the Great Continent. My parents seek to build bridges between humans and magic. But what they did was to show Death the way to their home. — "Between Lore and Legacy: The Mystifying Histories of the Menschen Vol. III" by Professor Edgar O. Duvencrune.