All's Fair in Revenge

Chapter 50: Home

The air changed whenever Ma'ma entered a room. Her presence stole attention. She soaked up all the available energy. That was until I arrived. Then we were two polarized magnets, abrasive, and repelling. Her expectations of me on one side. My incessant need to defy her on the other. It was no different when the door latch to my quarters clicked behind her.

She stood with her gloved hands behind her back, her form cladded in long panels of Kelvian blues and creamy healer whites. A white braid with a golden ribbon woven through it hung over her shoulder. She opened her mouth to speak, but I couldn't let her go first.

"If you're here to convince me to wait until the wedding, Liv already pleaded your case. Again." I walked to the sideboard and poured myself a thumb's worth of liquor; a habit I picked up in the castle. One that felt too human. Too repudiating. She motioned for me to pour her one as well. "Drinking? Outside a festival? What would the Council say?"

Her lips tensed into a line. "Ewe."

"Right." I handed her a cup.

She sat on an armrest of a squatting chair, her frame sunken with exhaustion. It reminded me of how she used to be when I was a child who hadn't yet disappointed her. She'd come home from a day of healing, take off her apron, and slink by the hearth at the center of our home. Ma'ma would stare into the fire for long minutes watching hot tendrils lick the cauldron before she spoke to any of us.

It was in those moments I think I best understood her. For all the pressure she would come to put on me, someone had put it on her first and she could only absorb so much of it. Part of that pressure came from training someone to replace her as she neared her wisdom season. I was the natural choice as her daughter as the most powerful of all the healing acolytes. That I declined the position time and again, resented it even, only added to the burden she carried.

While she rested by the fire, Arin and I would set the table at the far end of our home. Sune tasked each of us with various roles like making sure the furs covered the benches, laying the linen over the table, lighting the candles, and pouring drink. What quenched our thirst varied over the seasons, but mostly we enjoyed our water with cucumber and mint. Ma'ma only rose when Sune ladled our food from the cauldron into wooden bowls or removed the gridiron from the flame.

At the table, I sat with Sune, Arin with Ma'ma, and together we prayed to Eyr. Arin and Sune filled much of the silence with their laughter and recounting of the day while my mother watched me intently across the table. Arin did her best to steal her attention for a story about training.

Later in adolescence, I almost asked her what went on behind those burrowing eyes while our lives moved around her. I imagined much of it tasted like resentment, but I'd never been brave enough. Too often my questions, my voice, led to arguments and backhanded comments about my interests, my attendance, and my needs. I quickly learned to avoid her ire at all costs. My silence didn't seem like too high a price to pay for dinnertime peace.

Until I grew older and decided I didn't care what my mother thought or said any longer. In fact, I found it more enjoyable to instigate. So, I did. Often.

However, sitting there with Sybil in my quarters I could not brush away my mother. She had come for me. She cared for me. Loved me despite the numerous reasons I gave her not to. And seeing her deflated, both of us surrounded by our enemy's walls, I managed to push aside my nature and speak something genuine. "You should be with Thorne," I said.

"I will." She sipped on the lip of the cup. "I wanted to check on you first."

"I'm fine. Might be better knowing you were safely on your way home though."

Her lips downturned in disgust at the taste of the drink. "You've like this?"

I took her cup and placed both back on the sideboard. "Not really, but it's safer than their water."

"Come home then. That's punishment enough for them." I laughed and a rare smile permeated her lips. "I'm not here to convince you one way or another. If I know my dotir, nothing I say will change your mind once it's set." Amusement lit her face. "Especially if it's the opposite of what I want. I do worry about you waiting until the wedding though. They'll expect me to be there. If anyone notices I've disappeared before signing the contract, they'll—"

"No one will see you, Ma'ma. Alona knows a hidden stairwell leading to the beach. Thorne arranged your passage on a ship headed for our port after Highground."

She lifted her brow. "You trust her? This Alona?"

I shrugged. "Liv does."

"I see." Ma'ma nodded and stood. "Well, since you have everything figured out, I'll leave. They'll not wait forever." She moved for the door, her back turned to me, her silver white hair reflecting in the morning sun beaming through the stained-glass windows. Orange and yellow hues shimmered against the strands, painting them almost as well as the flames dancing in the hearth back home.

Tears did not well long before spilling out over my cheeks. My voice lodged itself in my throat. "Ma'ma?" Before she even turned all the way, I slipped my hands around her. Without hesitation, one arm wrapped around my shoulder and long fingers pressed my head into her shoulder. Skin warm and welcoming, Ma'ma smelled of spice and honey. She smelled of home.

Sybil pulled away first with a firm but gentle grasp of my shoulders. She wiped my tears with her thumbs, a pained smile on her painted lips. Her eyes glistened even in the darkest parts of the room. "Ama a'myra brihng humru," she said. May love bring you home.

At the softness of the Kelvian lyric, I struggled to form words of the fears as each road the crest of a wave crashing over me. "And if it doesn't, Ma'ma? What if love doesn't bring me home?"

Palms tight against my face, my mother's smile grew, wide and true as she said, "Then I will."