Shirell woke to a darkness, screaming a fate remembered. Repressed memories etched through with bits of the new. There were these times when life crashed into her . . . her old one. The one she'd had before . . . with Ciroc, her son. Not that he knew. Not that she'd ever truly given birth to him or any other, but she may as well have. She'd done all else.

Fear had always existed, yet there was a brief time of acceptance. No. Never such a thing. That was folly and delusion. Even so, there had been a time upon Lagoon when she'd been tolerated and, well, used to further the tribe's ends. Ciroc was one such time. And they wondered why the hatred flowed.

Why indeed! Was it not her duty to tend to the tribe?! Was it not her duty to live and die at a whim?! Why else would they have cursed her with the implant? Only a few years into her miserable life she'd shown signs of a strangeness beyond all reason. Not that any truly knew why, but hers was a mind worth cultivating. Even so, a very real danger existed and must be reined in. How better than with the implant? And why not?! What was a little girl but a plaything to mold into a tool; a weapon to deliver the blackest of death?

She knew their thoughts. Slipping behind the fear and loathing, Shirell knew all too well the tribe, nearly as a whole, believed she should’ve showered them all with gratitude that they'd allowed her to continue her existence. Such was not the case and it was almost funny they actually seemed to believe the lie they’d so masterfully woven.

In time fear trumped usefulness. They could've killed her and would've. She wasn’t so invincible. She could die and they’d certainly tried, only not in the right ways. Shirell was new. None had ever seen her like. Mistakes were inevitable. Should another of her kind pollute this plane of existence they'd not fail again.

But what of Ciroc?! What of her baby?! He was damn well hers, too! Oh, birth was such a tricky thing. As was pregnancy, for she was there for that too. Upon the command of the council she'd used her mind to isolate the fledgling sperm, the dawning of Ciroc, and guide him well within Acissey's womb. From there she'd protected him from all that would end him, and there was much that could. There was much that tried. All manner of ill would've extinguished his very existence if not for her intervention. No one doubted that Ciroc was a miracle baby. Doubt simply arose as to whose.

Where was the question?! Why had it even arisen?! Had she not also pulled him through every second of his birth?! Had she not gone to war with the microscopic organisms that tried time and time again to claim his fragile little life moments after he'd seen his first daylight?! Did they know of her fight? Of course! She'd told them as much, not that belief followed. Surely, not even the abomination, called witch-maid instead of nursemaid, could do such things. The only explanation their limited minds could conjure up was miracle upon miracle, but never a one was. Truly not, unless she, herself, was seen as one . . . but THAT would surely require a miracle of unequaled precedence.

Ciroc, HER son, never knew these things. Never a doubt existed the tribe would bury the secret, but then she did as well. She had no need to be near him to reveal herself to his fledgling mind, but she hadn’t. In the beginning she actually trusted the edicts the council laid down. Even once that faded to black, she still believed this act of benevolence could and would win her back the hearts of Lagoon; that she’d be raised up as savior to ensure the future of the tribe. How utterly naïve of her. Salvation? Savior? Where was the chance of that? Really, where? Yet she had faith. They did not.

Still Shirell held her tongue, even after reality slammed her to the ground and ripped her very breath away. The wiser mind prevailed. What would it accomplish? What could it possibly accomplish? Such devilish truth could not but condemn Ciroc to her fate. She could not have that. It was within her power to grant her son the rare treasure she'd never had . . . acceptance.

Time passed as time does and her son grew apart from her. The pain of it bled her soul to nothing, even as she continued helping the tribe. Though how was it to be viewed as benevolence when simply obeying commands, as if she were some animal to be whipped otherwise? It all came to a head once demanded to repeat the whole process. That she could not do, not with such results as the last, which were assured. In their haughty minds nothing had changed. Was one truly not enough? The searing agony of another would shatter whatever remained of her. So in a bid for innocent mercy she did quite the opposite. She'd guided the new fetus to a quick death.

It was seen as a crime beyond all laws. How seemed utterly unimportant. In her rational mind, condemnation required acknowledgement of her ability. Was that not the way of things? Hand over all her glory, but retain all her indignity, so the council remained unblemished. Yet in this, Shirell couldn’t but agree. Mere moments after the heinous act, she’d seen the error of her ways . . . this was murder. In this, if nothing else throughout their ragged history, they'd found truth. It was begrudgingly plain. How was she to avoid it, when it was her own suffering she sought to avoid? The council’s complicity, be damned; she was the guilty one and admitted to the crime.

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For it all she was banished. That was truly the belief, but no longer did they possess such power over her. The simple reality was the guilt ate away at her, so she allowed it to happen. Past all this she could no longer bear to be near Ciroc without being a part of him. Be it her sacrifice or not, as he grew she could no longer deny how much she loved him . . . and needed him.

Shirell had actually believed this would bring an end to her agony. She'd convinced herself Gabriel's Tear was far enough from Lagoon that she'd no longer feel his presence. She couldn't have been more wrong. If at one time it could've been true, her powers seemed to have done little other than expand. None of it was tolerable. Especially not now that she'd sought solitary atonement for her sins. She'd single handedly caused all life on and around Gabriel's Tear to flourish. More than this, so much more, through genetic experimentation she'd given birth to the Wraiths, her own children. These were an indescribable horror, but that wasn’t their fault. She loved every last one of them and they loved her.

Ciroc was loved as well. That had never died. That had grown beyond itself into something blooming within her. For it, how could she not intervene? Not that she could escape her prison. The nature of the place imprisoned her. That, however, didn’t mean she'd lost the power to form a connection with her son. Her mind threw open the door of possibilities.

She refused to shred his sanity by simply introducing herself, and much less as his true mother, but something subtle existed in the minds of everyone who drew breath. Telepathy was not a concept begun with her. No. She'd just broken all the barriers. The reading and controlling of minds had long since become a natural thing to society all over Shard.

Getting to know her son was never a doubt, but now she'd decided to turn a corner. Now she'd take that first awkward step to letting him get to know her. No taboo could keep her away any longer. How could it? Shirell, herself, was the incarnation of taboo. Her one misdeed had evolved into a curse laid low upon all children. Yet, she was near the end of sacrifice and suffering. She’d a simple choice; move beyond it or move below it, which meant death. She'd made the fateful decision to reclaim her son and in so doing turn the tables on all of society.

# # #

Ciroc saw it as no strange thing that other minds shared the space within his head. He was often lauded and admonished without a single word spoken aloud. Not that speaking was any less common, particularly since not all could read minds. It was something of a hodge-podge mix of the two and it had become more normal than anything else he'd ever known.

Nor was it unusual for him to return the favor, which was exactly what he now did. Mind to mind a warning was sent, but that was child's play. So was it to call the warning anything so mundane. It was relayed with an urgency and though it remained solely a thing of the mind, it was not so much spoken. Far from it. It was screamed.

Night had long since drawn its curtain to a close and when the call came Diote was torn from a freshly discovered dream. It wasn't a pleasant thing, her dream. The day hadn't called for anything so sweet. Sure, she'd found joy in her escape with Ciroc, but something of the beachside scene remained. It hadn't simply been boring for her. She hadn't simply wanted to play. She'd wanted to run. This was the house of fear and it was creeping in. Her own older brother, Tion, was set to brave the same sea in little less than a week. Was this to be his fate? A bloated, incomprehensible thing washed ashore as if so much refuse?

Not that Ciroc's scream served to ease her troubled mind, but it gave her pause for a new escape. He was good at that and it was nearly always needed. It was why they were friends. It was why she was so open to all he had to say. The message was so simple for its urgency.

"NEVER A NAME SPOKEN!!! SHE'S FOUND US!!! THE WITCH, SHE'S FOUND US OUT!!!"

Here silence reigned. Ciroc waited for a response, any response, but none would come. Not tonight anyway. Not unless he went to her. Then a brief moment of sense reminded him . . . Diote had not the gift. She was mind-mute, as most called “lesser”. Naturally she could still hear him. He knew that she could, but she was impotent to reply.

Of this, he'd never cared. All others seemed to. Lessers had their place in this society, but mostly as labor, and the men as fodder to war, as if they were all so utterly stupid. Being mind-mute did not make them brain dead. It was so incredibly obvious this was the true reason his mother, Acissey, disapproved of his friendship with Diote. Any other girl with the gift would do just fine, but Ciroc saw nothing wrong with her as she was. Moreover, he was brave enough to say as much. His mother chose to call it naivety and was avidly working on teaching him better even though there was nothing to fix.

So Diote couldn't answer. Unfortunately this wouldn't spare her from being cursed right along with him. Something had to be done, not that he knew exactly what, but the first step was actually being able to communicate. That meant now. Who could know when the witch would strike next?

"Meet me."

It was all he said. It was all that was needed. They both knew now and they both knew where. Not that anything was ever so easy. The power of the mind notwithstanding, it was trust that allowed them to do untrustworthy things; that and sleep with a clear conscience. All thought they'd learned their lesson. In essence they had, but there was no recourse. Breaking the rules was necessary to find a way to never again have to. Breaking the rules was necessary to find a way to save them all.