You prayed for our hope; day and night in the church of Mother Marrow. Prayed until your knees were bruised, until your hands were raw, until your voice was hoarse.
And then, finally, it came.
When drought had fallen, the Perennial invaded our estuaries. Invaded for the water in our rivers and the water in our veins. They were endless and they were winning.
But we had our hope, my love; we had you.
And that was why I wept.
They demanded our ruler, for parley, for peace.
So we sent them you. Escorted by your honor guard. Triple-locked in a box that doubled as a carriage. No food, no windows, one door. This is what you asked for, to be pure in the grace of our Mother as your transformation took hold.
But still, I hesitated.
“There must be another way,” I pleaded. “I can’t let you do this.”
You chuckled at that; in that old way you did when the doldrum of legislation dragged on and the faces of the old ministers puckered like raisins
“This is what I prayed for,” you said. “This is what I want, my love.”
I wanted to claw at the steel of your prison; our hope wrought by you. Claw until my nails bled—my only way to give back my blood, to dare approach what you would do.
“Stay with me,” you whispered as the sound of water sloshed within those metal walls. “Take me downstream.”
In the estuaries, we have a tradition.
When the old die and the young are born, we make boats. Little vessels with a single drop of blood. A red diamond to commemorate who they were, or to hope for what they might be.
We have seen so many boats go; fragile constellations borne down the riverine stretches.
The blood of the Mother is not given but borrowed, and it must be returned.
The Perennial found us on the road to the capital. A patrol crowned with imperial azure. Twisted and sickly men. Strong of arm and dull of color; our war had nourished them well.
They asked what we transported; I told them. Showed them our documents: signature of our minsters and the script of their empire.
They asked to inspect you. We refused.
“It’s for your safety,” they said, just after I had told them the exact same thing. I was about to hoist my glaive, when I heard your voice. It was different now, sibilants slick, tone icy. But there was something beneath it all, something still so inherently you about it – that cracking mask of a long day in the court, taking my hand and asking me to go down to the rivers together.
“Come in,” you said.
My fingers bit into the prayer beads around my palm.
When the commander entered, I prayed for the mercy of the Mother. When he thrashed and gurgled, and your prison leaked water, I only prayed louder. I sang, my glaive sang; our enemies fell, blood wasted upon the earth.
And what a waste it was. For within their bodies was our blood.
No, the Mother’s blood. All things borrowed are returned.
“Come join me,” I told you on the night after your prayer was answered. “Come by the rivers; you are tired and hungry and so am I.”
Together we sat, watching the idyll water go. The same rivers that had once borne the blood of our ancestors, and would, Mother willing, bear the blood of our descendants.
“You don’t have to leave,” I said. “Our enemies are many but their power is fickle; we can hold them. We can still live, together.”
You smiled at that, a little, tiny thing. A glint in your eye to match the glint of the flicking foam.
“Watch what I do,” you said. “So that we shall not be like them. Watch me; so when it is your time, you will know.”
Your skin was already cold to the touch, and still I held you.
When the spires of the Perennial capital loomed, another obstacle barred the way.
“I am guarding your coffin,” I said before your carriage, glaive brandished, teeth clenched. “I am taking you to your grave.”
Your voice, from deep within your prison. Like waves on the bank, like tears in my hand.
“You are only taking me downstream,” you said.
We delivered you to him in the splendor of his palace. The lord atop his throne wrought in the treasure of a hundred nations. Skin pale, and eyes bright; fed immorality by the blood of our people.
“Why does she hide?” he asked, standing tall with cloak rich and red. “Let me see her.”
Back home, statues of ancient saints lined the parapets of our walls. Women with bodies like flowing streams and men with eyes like crystal-water.
But when your prison opened, and what was now you came out, I knew they would never compare. You were terrifying like a spring flood, beautiful like the depths of a summer sea.
For a single moment, you turned back, and in your eyes, an answer. An answer to the question I had asked all my life.
When it is your time, you will know.
Your wrath tore through proud marble and stout stone; the capital washed away under you, and not all of your honor guard survived. They were young, and I was old.
And still, your answer, held close to my chest, a little tincture of water against the heat of my heart.
When the deluge was gone, so were you.
When the boats reached the end of the estuaries, our people danced and feasted. Fireworks lit up the heavens.
But we had stayed together, holding each other tight. Sitting on the side of the river banks and watching the boats drift away, out to sea.
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A neurodivergent writer currently teaching English in Wuhan, Dom D. Borg often takes inspiration from spirituality, and what was and might be again. His work has appeared in Sci-Fi Shorts and Andromeda Spaceways and is upcoming in Hyphen Punk Magazine and AUSTRAL. | |