[Author's notes: This is a strange little piece, dragged out of me in a
few hours; it attempts to take a look at one of the characters no one ever
really gives much thought to. It contains spoilers and should not be read
by anyone who has not finished the game. C&C is welcomed -- nay, begged
for -- and can be provided publicly or privately. Characters are not mine,
blah blah, you all know the deal by now.]
Mothers of the Disappeared
Sometimes, I can hear my son screaming. It's a high, thin sound,
like the keen of a rabbit dying, and it pierces me straight through. There
is no worse sound, for a mother, to hear her child suffering and not be
able to reach out a hand to stop that torment. Far worse when the
tormentor wears your face, and lets you look out from behind her eyes.
I dream, from time to time. I dream that we are a family, and we
are happy; my husband's hand resting lightly on my shoulder, me turning to
look up at him with love in my eyes and a smile on my lips; our son
playing at our feet, rolling a ball back and forth and chasing after it
with passion and conviction. I dream that we are whole, and safe; I dream
that the events of the last years have been nothing but a nightmare, and
the dream the true awakening.
When I wake, often to find that I have been walking and talking in
voice not entirely my own, I wish that I had the control enough to weep.
For the tears are there, hot and traitorous behind my eyes; but she who
wears my body like a garment will not allow me to let them fall.
I could grow to hate her for that, even if there were nothing
more.
How did we get this far? I remember -- god, how long ago it seems
-- being young and in love, and utterly convinced that the world would
rearrange itself for me. How innocent and naive I must have seemed! The
day that Khan finally asked me to be his wife seemed like the most joyous
day of my life; it could be eclipsed only by the contentment that I felt
when I finally held my son in my arms for the first time, gazing down upon
his perfectly-formed features. "Fei," I whispered to him, trying the shape
of the name upon my tongue, and I could have sworn he looked up at me and
smiled -- oh, I know full well that every new mother is convinced that her
infant is the most beautiful baby to ever exist, but grant me the
indulgence of motherhood for a moment when I say that Fei truly was an
exceptional child. His eyes stared out at the world around him in wonder,
seeking to absorb everything, to touch everything. I could tell, then,
that he would grow to be an extraordinary man.
Perhaps I felt it, then, even when he was back in the cradle --
perhaps I knew it while he grew underneath my heart, that this child would
be special. Perhaps it was only the fond glance of a mother. I cannot
know.
Khan was there for the birth, of course; Zephyr was not so
demanding as to send him away then. We had two months before he was next
called away, and perhaps that was the last truly happy time I ever had.
Certainly, it was idyllic; the young wife, radiant in the glow of
motherhood, the young father proudly doting on his son. That is the image
that I call up when I am in need of comfort. For shortly thereafter, it
all began to go sour.
I could understand, of course, why Khan was called away. Nor was I
so demanding a shrew as to blame him for the length of time he spent in
the Queen's service; I was fond of her too, and understood that the work
he did was terribly important. Even though he spent more time away than
home over the next years, I was not so blind as to ignore the fact that
she hated seperating him from his family thus; I could see it in the
rueful smile she favored us with whenever she brought Khan another
mission. I knew that she wished nothing more than to give us time with
each other, but she needed him; and who am I to naysay a queen?
Particularly when she took so much upon her slender shoulders. I knew her
burdens, for I had spent some time as one of her operatives as well,
albeit a home-bound and slightly bookish one. She gave her country so
much; how could we not give in return?
I did not know, then, what I would be giving.
/She/ came as a demon in the night, one of those
indistinguishable nights where my bed was far too achingly alone and
empty. I was dreaming, then: strange dreams, disturbing ones, where a bird
with black wings came to carry my child away and I could do nothing but
watch, helplessly. I can still remember the dream, and it chills me to
think that perhaps it might be true prophecy rather than simply
half-formed night-vision. I remember reaching out a hand, to Fei, but
falling to my knees. And it was then that I turned my head, and saw /her/,
wearing that hateful smirk on her lips. I did not know whom she was, of
course; I thought her to be another player in the dream. Perhaps that was
why my tone was sharp as I turned to her: What do you want?
I can still remember the delicate arch of her eyebrows as she
stepped forward. I'm terribly sorry to do this to you, child, she said in
a tone that indicated she was nothing of the sort. But I have need of
something of yours, and I have come to take it.
Even then, I did not realize, did not run; not that running would
have served me any purpose. All I could say was, You will not get my son
-- the feeble dare of the lioness standing against the encroaching armies
to protect her cubs.
Ah, said she, eyebrows arching delicately, but I think I shall.
Among other things.
The next few moments are a blur in my mind; I think I have blocked
them out of sheer self-perservation. All I can remember is the way she
reached out for me, her hands cold blocks of ice as they touched my
cheeks; the way her eyes, cool violet, seemed to capture mine and hold
them. I struggled, of course, and I could not know that my physical
struggle in the dream-world had analog in fighting her invasion. I know
now, in searching through the scraps of memory that drift across my
consciousness from time to time, memory of women I have never been, that I
was the first to fight her in aeons. I could almost take some small pride
at that, were it not for what happened after that.
I fought, of course, but I have come to realize that there is very
little of-course when it comes to my story; my fight meant nothing, in the
long run. I blacked out, after long moments. Perhaps it was my
imagination, but I could have sworn I heard a light, malignant chuckle as
I lost consciousness.
It took what seemed like ages for me to wake; when I finally did,
it was in a body that was no longer my own. I was unaware for so long;
perhaps I drifted, in that endless formless void, unaware of even my own
name. It was the cries of my child that finally stirred me to
consciousness. He was screaming, terrible screams that should never come
from a child's throat, as the woman who wore my body abused the sacred
trust of a child for his mother. I opened my eyes, and saw the squalid
scene painted there -- the boy I had carried, had nurtured, had pinned my
heart and hopes upon, bound down while they --
I cannot bear to think of it.
I remember thinking, when Khan came home, that he would surely see
what was going on. But he was distracted, and did not hear that the voice
that greeted him was not my own, the hands that bade him welcome did not
belong to his wife. I cannot fault him, not truly, for it had been a long
lonely time he had been gone, and who can say how people might change? But
Fei told him -- told him what was going on, told him of the experiments,
of the torment ... and he did not listen.
I do not think I could have ever come closer to hating my husband
than I did in that moment.
I drifted, for a time more, and from the fragments of memory that
were available to me without making my presence known, I slowly began
piecing together the whole picture. I knew that the name of my violet-eyed
demon was Miang, and I gathered, from a few stray thoughts, that my child
was something terribly important to her -- indeed, terribly important to
the world, at least as she thought of it. I came to realize that I was far
from the first woman she had -- had raped, in this manner. I could almost
feel them, those other numena gathered around the cauldron of history,
crying for /their/ lost sons, lost brothers, lost fathers. And slowly, I
grew to be their voice.
I could not stir, lest my demon know I still lingered. But she was
overconfident, and did not often think to listen to the smallest, secret
parts of the mind she had stolen from me. Surely, she did not suspect that
anyone could have lingered behind; it was unheard of. I could not act
directly, lest she know I still remained -- but even demons must sleep,
when they wear human flesh, and sleep she did. I haunted her in her
dreams, a single voice calling lamentations -- a voice heard in Ramah,
Rachael weeping for her children, and she could not be comforted, because
she was no more. And only when she slept could I comb her memories, with
the patience of a historian, seeking the answers I fed upon to keep my
hatred alive.
When the stranger came to our cottage, I knew instantly that my
time was nearing a close. Again, I did not know how I knew; perhaps my
time as a ghost among the living had sensitized me to the careful
pageantry of the whole sordid situation. I had been burned down, by then
-- melted in the crucible of tragedy only to be re-formed in the mold of,
perhaps, my truest self. And perhaps it is only that which allowed me to
take hold of the demon's distraction to seize the broken body that had
been mine for so long, the body that Khan had loved so tenderly, the body
that had borne our child who would change the fate of a world, long enough
to say goodbye.
And now I am one of the faceless voices, wrapped around the
demon's heart; she wears another body, as she ever has, for evil cannot be
so lightly destroyed. But still I linger in my boundless prison, watching
through eyes that were never my own, and waiting.
For surely, the mothers of the disappeared must some day find
their paradise, and be reunited with their children once more.
-- 30 --