Chapter 3 - Mother

The girl stood there wearing a concerned mask. She was so… life-like, but as with the other characters there was a part of me who refused to properly acknowledge their existence. It was as though I could only view this world and its inhabitants through the lens of a story. No matter how realistically her hair fluttered as she moved, or how detailed the callouses on her hands, I couldn’t help but doubt its authenticity.

She approached cautiously, as though I were some stubborn and wary cat. Of course, Marianne despised this girl and made no attempts to hide it. Yet, this girl -- Priscilla Tuvol Apollyon -- could do no wrong. Even to her worst enemies she would extend a helping hand, just as she was doing now. Regardless of how much the previous Marianne berated and bullied her, she would still come to check up on me to make sure everything was all right. Unlike Drake who did it out of a sense of duty, this girl was simply genuine.

“Mother?” Her voice was soft yet clear. Her shimmering blue eyes, undaunted by the years of abuse Marianne had thrown at her, stared straight at me. She glanced over to make sure I wasn’t hurt.

“What do you want?” I asked, rudely. It seemed like how Marianne would respond in this situation.

She hesitated. Nervously, she began to speak, “I was worried about all the commotion and thought something might have happened to you…” She was personally trained by Drake and I could see it. Her eyes darted around the room in a similar manner to his as she took mental notes of the destroyed wall. “Mother, your hand,” as she came closer she noticed the blood on my left hand left over from my previous experiment. She quickly dug through her pockets and took out a fine white handkerchief with a moon pattern embroidered on one corner. Without a moment’s hesitation she took my hand -- the hand which had abused her for so long -- and wrapped it with the cloth in an attempt to stop the bleeding. Of course, there were no injuries by this point as it had been healed through my passive regeneration. Still, this girl saw blood and thought to help first.

To be perfectly clear, I did not hate her; if anything, as a reader, I was always the one watching and supporting her through those tough times. In a way I… admired her character in the novels. Yes… in the novels. Then what about now? I wasn’t so sure; it felt like a large chasm had ripped open in my heart. A toxic darkness. She was still the same character, yet I couldn’t find her likeable at all. Despite how much I believed I was still me, an undeniable part of Marianne remained. Her thoughts and feelings had not dissipated when I took over; it was more like her characteristics had been diluted into my own. Like mixing a bit of salt into a cup of water. The salt was still there, just less apparent.

“This is a lot of blood. We should call the physician.”

“It’s none of your concern.”

Her eyebrows furrowed. “But how could I not worry?” she asked, still gripping my hand to apply pressure in order to stop the non-existent bleeding. There was a slight pause; it looked like she wanted to say something but only her lips moved and the words were caught in her throat. “I… I know you’re not too fond of me, but to me you’re still my mother. The only one I’ve had. It would hurt me if something happened to you.”

This girl was too…

How would I describe the protagonist of a fantasy novel aimed at women? Pitifully dull. She was honest to a fault. She saves the innocent, punishes the wicked, and treasures her family -- no matter how terrible of a person they may be. According to the novels, Priscilla’s mother -- her biological mother -- died giving birth to her so she grew up under the guidance of her father and the knights who served under him. Yet, as the head of the house and with the ongoing war at the time, he was unable to shower her with the attention she craved; it was a cliché to say she was a child starved of affection, and it would be erroneous as she had received the love of everyone around her. I suppose what she desires most was the bond of family. To be honest, there was something I never understood even when I was reading the novel -- why did Priscilla acknowledge Marianne as her mother? The difference in our age was merely about ten years -- I was young enough to be considered her older sister. I still couldn’t answer that question.

“That’s enough,” I said. I pulled my hand away from hers, though she didn’t seem like she wanted to let go. “The wound isn’t substantial so you no longer need to bother. Now stop being a nuisance and be on your way.”

There was a painful silence between us. She glanced back at me with that lingering, lonely face -- like a child whose parents were about to leave for work. Then she… smiled softly. “Okay mother, I hope you get better soon. Please rest up.” With no more arguments she left me to myself.

I watched her figure disappear from my room. It was eerily silent. I was reminded of how it used to be even just a few hours ago before I woke up in this strange situation. Back then this silence was normal…

I suppose in many ways the relationship between Marianne and Priscilla in the novels were reversed. If we disregarded the difference in age, Priscilla was the more mature one who tried to look after Marianne, while Marianne was the petulant child that would throw a tantrum if she didn’t get her way. Well… that interation of Marianne no longer exists to the same degree, so maybe it was a moot point to ponder.

Thinking about Marianne… I found myself staring back out onto the world through that same hole. This place wasn’t my story. Indeed, she had so little impact in the overarching narrative it wouldn’t have made a difference if I just decided to leave and never look back. The story would progress as intended; the empire would fall, the House of Apollyon would be dragged to war, Tessa would be occupied, the main character would fall in love… so on and so forth until the eventual happy ending.

But what about me? If I really left… where would I go? More to the point, what was it I wanted to do in this life? Of course, people weren’t born into the world knowing the course of their destiny, but at my age the thought often came to me. I failed to really live in my previous life; every waking day I merely went through the motions of life, never truly experiencing existence. Now that I found myself in a completely different world in a completely different body, it felt like I had gained the impetus to take the first step past my former self… yet the artificiality of it all made me hesitate.

Would my accomplishments in this world be genuine? Or would they be yet more words on a page in a story?

What was I to do?

What does Marianne Tuvol Apollyon want to do?

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Priscilla glanced over her hand which was now smeared in blood and winced. She thought her mother had acted a little… perhaps very strangely throughout that entire interaction; under normal circumstances she would’ve been more hysterical. She couldn’t count the number of times Marianne would berate everyone around her if something was even the slightest bit off from how she wanted. However, today her mother was uncharacteristically calm. Yes, she may have spoken with the same sharp tongue and rough personality, but for some reason her body language was much more subdued and contemplative. It felt like she was merely acting the part of her usual self.

Priscilla produced a similar handkerchief to the one she used to bandage her mother's hand, the only difference being there was a sun embroidered in the corner. “Oh.” As she wiped off her mother’s blood, she realised what was gnawing at the back of her mind. It was the first time in a while her mother hadn’t made derisive comments about her practising swordsmanship. She definitely would’ve noticed the callouses when they touched hands. The person known as Marianne was the quintessential template for a noblewoman -- she despised heavy labour, effort, and charity. For her, swordsmanship was nothing more than a waste of time.

Perhaps that’s where it all started; the unspoken chasm between the two was due to their separate approach to life as a woman. To Priscilla -- a noble born of the Apollyon family of knights -- the sword was a noble pursuit and duty, but to Marianne it might’ve only been a stain which dragged down the value of a woman. In some ways she could understand where her mother was coming from, after all, the vast majority of her noble peers in the capital seemed to resemble Marianne more than her. It would be so much easier too; to lay down the sword and live a comfortable life as a noble attending tea parties and making friends. No more tough days struggling to wake up before the sun and spending hours on end just running around in circles. Priscilla didn’t particularly enjoy doing any of it. Yet, weren’t hardships a part of the duty of those born to noble houses?

For the longest time she had only her father to seek guidance from. So then, what was her mother like? Her birth mother… was she, too, a knight? Or maybe she lived a life more similar to Marianne as well…

As she slowly walked down the hall in contemplation, her ears twitched at a faint sound echoing from behind. Someone had been quietly trailing her. The noise was too soft to be a knight, and too light for an adult. A child. There was only one person who fit this description.

Priscilla stopped and turned. Hiding just out of frame around a corner was a child of about seven years of age. Familiar black hair and meek amber eyes; his fragile figure seemed so out of place in this house. A boy who was not unloved but pitifully neglected by everyone due to his connection with Marianne. This was her half-brother, the child of her father and her step-mother: Edgar Tuvol Apollyon, the second heir to the House of Apollyon.

The two didn’t have a bad relationship, or rather, she struggled to say they had any relationship at all. Unlike Priscilla, Marianne deeply treasured her son more than anyone else, which made it difficult to find the opportunity to get along like normal siblings. It was obvious to see why. He was her step-mother’s ticket to securing the entire house permanently. While she didn’t know how he felt, Priscilla did not hate her younger brother.

“Hello Edgar,” she greeted him from across the long and empty hallway.

“Um, hello…” his voice was quiet and reserved. He continued to hide half his body behind the corner as he spoke. “Um, did something happen? I saw everyone run to mother’s room a while ago… but no one said anything.”

She paused for a second, wondering if she should tell him about his mother’s injury. “Sorry, I’m not too sure myself.” She ultimately decided to refrain from causing unnecessary worry. “But whatever it was seems to be mostly resolved for now.”

“Oh, I see.”

There was an awkward silence for the two who had never shared a proper conversation. The only times they really saw each other was during meals, but even then Marianne would cut between them and mostly ignore her. Of course, living in the same house they’d often run into each other, yet that too would only result in her younger brother avoiding her whenever she got close. The reason why he wasn’t running away now was because something concerning his mother had happened.

“Do you want to go see her?” she asked. “Should we go together?”

The boy thought about it for a moment but shook his head. “I think mother prefers to be alone. She wouldn’t want me to bother her.”

“No, I don’t think she…” Priscilla wanted to deny it. It was very unlikely for their mother to refuse his visitation, but at the same time she did seem a little different. “Maybe you’re right; she seemed a little off, but once things calm down be sure to go see her.”

Edgar nodded in agreement. “Okay,” he said. Once more the awkward silence filled the hallway as the two couldn’t find the words to continue their conversation. The only sound to break the deafness of the void was the subtle breeze hitting against the window. It was Edgar first who broke the tension, yet even then he only opened his mouth to say goodbye. “Um, I’ll see you later…”

As he turned to leave, Priscilla shouted, “wait, Edgar!”

Her sudden loud voice startled the boy. His shoulders shook as he nervously turned back to face his older sister. “Y… yes?”

“Oh. Sorry…” realising she had scared him, Priscilla became flustered as she scrambled to find the words. “Ah, it’s nothing. I mean, I just wanted to tell you to take care… Edgar.”

The boy anxiously nodded and scurried off before she could say anything else. Seeing the little figure run away as though she was a predator deflated her spirits. As mentioned before, Priscilla did not hate her younger brother and actually wanted to try and get along, unfortunately things never seemed to work out well between them. From their personalities, their circumstances, their ages… everything felt so far apart it was difficult to find common ground.

If there was one commonality between them it would be the fact they were both legitimate heirs to the House of Apollyon. However, if Priscilla was being honest to herself she didn’t much care nor possess the ambition to take the position of the head of the house. She was more interested in swordsmanship than administrative duties, helping the people of the territory through labour than by legislation. In her eyes, Edgar -- the quiet boy who excelled in his studies -- was the much better candidate to lead the family. Unfortunately, it wasn’t what the people around them wanted; because Marianne’s influence needed to be quelled they expected Priscilla to take over as soon as she was legally allowed.

Priscilla sighed. “Oh mother…” she muttered bitterly. The only problem with everything was that: Marianne. Everyone -- from the governing board of Tessa to their relatives and all the way down to the servants -- wanted Marianne removed from power, if not outright gone. The only two people in this house who thought otherwise were her son and Priscilla herself. Most people probably wouldn’t understand; why she held so much hope and care for the woman who tormented and abused her for so long. Her emotions were confusing even to herself. If it hadn’t been for one single event which took place over seven years ago she would’ve likely felt the same indignation as the others.

It was seven years ago, when her father was still alive and Marianne was pregnant with her younger brother. Perhaps her pregnancy had induced a moment of weakness or lucidity. There was a time when Priscilla had fallen sick and her father was absent after being called away to the capital for business. For some reason Marianne volunteered to nurse her back to health. She spent that entire night next to her bed. Wiping off her sweat and holding her hand until she could comfortably fall asleep. It happened such a long time ago that she could easily be convinced it was all a sickness-induced hallucination, but the memories of her mother whispering to her, “I’m sorry,” remained engraved in her heart.

In the end, those very words might’ve been a curse; it burnt the embers of hope in her for the past seven years. She felt it even more as she grew up watching her younger brother receive all the motherly affection she dreamed of. After all these years she still thought back to that one night when she was barely ten-years-old.

Priscilla Tuvol Apollyon, seventeen-years-old, first heir to the House of Apollyon… was jealous of her younger brother.