 
### A Mother's Love

Published by Marian Unn at Smashwords

Copyright 2015 Abigail Williams

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for downloading this ebook. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy from their favorite authorized retailer. Thank you for your support.

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Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

### Chapter 1

To be a mother is not an easy task. One must be wary of how they act, what they say, and how they treat their child. Every motion and word that a mother speaks and does count tremendously in the eyes of her child.

But how could I have known? How could it have even been possible that such simple little words could mean so much? How is it that the words of one child to another could form the child in such a way as this? What is a mother to do when her child has all but vanished? Devoured by a demon birthed from the words she herself spoke in her naïveté.

Yes, we must be careful, we must be wary. As mothers, we must love, we must have patience, and above all else, we must have faith.

*****

Their faces were of stone, and their eyes filled with pity, but still I bore my smile.

"Do you ever regret giving birth to that thing?" the soldier asked coldly, gripping the spear firmly in his hand.

Staring down at the courtyard, I spied the thin line on his face, the tight line of resignation that had beaten down his once brimming smile. For what use is a smile in the world he has created? Poor child, he has truly forgotten how to smile. That beautiful smile he had once worn as a babe had died so pitifully long ago; and even I, the boy's own mother, have begun to forget just what it once looked like.

Not turning from the window, I answered the soldier, "Even if you had come to me when he was just a babe, even if you had told me all the awful things he would do, and somehow shown me what he would become, I would reflect upon the images and things you had told me, but I would hold him no less tightly to my breast, and I would defend him just as strongly. I would then say to you 'his eyes were not always so black.'"

With a shaking grasp on his weapon, the infuriated man's voice echoed through the tall chambers. Cursing and flailing as the others dragged him out, I heard his words, just before he was to be forever silenced, "You foolish woman! That monster will kill you one day as well! Why protect that thing? Why defend that monster?!"

With that, the heavy doors slammed shut. Though they took him out so as not to have me see it, I still heard his cry. I always heard their cries.

There are no enemies, no rebels, no traitors, no prisoners, no missionaries, no hope whatsoever in _his_ world, and so there is none in this world which _he_ rules.

"Oh, my son," I whispered, grasping the cross that lay hidden beneath my clothing, "Oh, my son!"

*****

I remember when he was a child, so young, so innocent; yet even then I saw that there was something within him, something fragile that would one day inevitably break. I once tried to hide this from myself. A useless effort. For that fragile thing, when broken, would rebuild itself and then break and rebuild itself and then break again, until that gentle fragile piece of him would turn into a stone as hard as diamonds, and as rough as the pain that beat at his withered heart.

Looking back at it all, I nodded to myself, "Yes, I think it started then, at his father's death."

Though he widowed me, and I was a young widow, his father was a strong man. He was neither rich nor poor. And although many could not see it through the bangs which he had worn so long, he was a handsome fellow. I met him at his father's store. He was a cobbler, a mighty fine one at that. I was only a girl then, and he but an apprentice boy. So young and in love we were, and when we wed and Merek was born soon after, it was the light of my youthful marriage! Oh, but how short that light did last. Although a strong man, Jobel, my beloved husband, died so very, very young, leaving me a mere child of a wife to raise our four year old little darling of a boy.

I remember that day distinctly, the day we buried Jobel. All the other mourners had gone. It was only Merek and I left standing at his grave. Merek's tiny little hand squeezed mine, his tears having all but run dry. He looked to me with those big, dark brown eyes of his father, and he asked me a question that all children eventually ask, though no one parent can truly know the answer. Nonetheless, I tried my best to answer with what little wisdom a nineteen year old mother could give.

"Why do people die?" he asked.

"Well," I said gently, bowing my head to his, "People die, my son, for one or both of two reasons. The first is that God has seen that they were ready to go. And the second-"

He interrupted me, pulling at my fingers, he scrunched his little brow, "Does God care whether or not _we_ are ready to let them go? Doesn't he know we needed Daddy? Well, Momma? Doesn't he?"

Gently moving my hand across his face, I smiled wearily. "We are not God, Merek. We cannot know or say whether or not someone is ready to go. Only He can. We are not meant to know the reason why those closest to us die; we can only hope that the reason will help us grow closer to God."

I still wonder if those were the right words to say, if that sternly bent brow of his then was the beginning of the constant one he wears now. I wonder if all of this was my fault, if he lost sight of everything because of me.

I know now that if those words had indeed changed him, than the ones I was to speak later would most certainly transform him.

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### Chapter 2

He walked with booming steps. At the thundering of his boots, the remaining soldiers fled from the room. Stern whispering was heard through the door, a quick movement of feet, and BANG! Two more bodies fell to the floor. They were no doubt the two guards that had allowed the other man to enter my chambers, despite his being only a fledgling of a soldier. He was probably a spy of a rebel group who had infiltrated the guard in some futile attempt to cause chaos within Merek's ranks. I had seen it before. Such attempts never succeeded. Their plans would always abruptly shatter just before fruition.

The large wooden doors creaked open. Sheathing his sword, he walked towards me slowly, but just as they closed, he rushed to me. Bending down at my side, he pulled my hand to his face, and then looked up to me just as he had when he was a child. But this man was no child, and his eyes were not as bright as a child's. No, they were black. Cold and ruthless, they were constantly observing, trying to perceive some fault in everyone and everything.

I do not believe he is even worthy to be called a man any more, for he has reached levels too low, too inhuman to any longer be called such.

Merek, my child, my son. He is not even old enough by most standards to be considered a man; yet, to many, my child is already considered a monster.

"Mother," he whispered, pressing my palm tighter to his face, to the face of a creature which had just killed two men not moments before.

"Are you not a little old to be acting in such a way?" I asked, peering down at my murderous child.

He said nothing for a moment, then stood. "Please, not now, Mother," his voice shook. "I need you to console me. I need your motherly love right now. Please."

"How can I give love to a killer?" My lips quivered at the word.

His eyes were unphased, he neither smiled nor frowned. "You used to tell me that a mother's love is forever no matter what. That any mother who loved not her child was no worse than a mother who had killed her child, and you used to always tell me how I was and will be forever _your_ child."

Pulling away, he let my hand slip from his grasp. Standing tall, I rushed to the hearth in some vain hope that it would warm my trembling shoulders. "Do not sting me with such words! You are my child, and I will forever love you. But I cannot bear the thought of kissing the cheek of one who has taken the life of another!"

"But I have taken the life of not just _one_ other but _many_ others, and I _will_ do so again. And you Mother, do not, will not, fail to kiss me, neither in our greetings nor goodbyes, just as any just mother should." His hand on my shoulder, I turned to him reluctantly. Having learned to wrestle with the pain and tears as best I could, I embraced him in a hug. Cradling his head in my hands, I kissed his cheek and hung there for a moment. "Oh, Merek, if only one of God's angels could have raised you, then perhaps my heart would not bear the burden of your sins."

Without pulling away, his words struck sharp into my chest, "But you are my mother, and you did raise me. You made me who I am. I could not have wished for a better mother."

Slipping away from him, I returned solemnly to the chair by the window. Placing my hand above my heart, I bowed my head. It truly is my fault. Gripping the cross, I whispered aloud, "If only I truly had been a better mother."

Disregarding my words, he stared attentively at the hearth, the blazing flames within soaring upwards. "Do you plan to go to your meeting tonight?" Merek asked. Holding my breath I nodded. He must not know the nature of these meetings. If he learns, I fear the words of that soldier--bless he and all the poor souls who fell today--may not be far from reality.

"Well, I hope you and your," he hesitated for a moment, "gathering of colleagues goes well." We were both silent for a moment, the seconds passing like hours, the minutes like days. "Well, I really must be going. I have a meeting to attend to."

In silence, I stood as he came to kiss me goodbye, pulling my hand to his face as he always does. "I know your gatherings are a matter you claim to enjoy, Mother, but I must ask, why then do you return so pale?" Without a hint of mercy on his poor mother, his black eyes of poison bore into me, and I knew that he was not blind to the truth. Yet now I can only wonder why he still allows me to go. Does it make him proud to hold such a thing over his mother, knowing that a single word of it would have me at the guillotine's head?

"You are a cruel boy," I said without much thought.

"I am no longer a boy." He gently returned my trembling hand. "Have a nice time, dear Mother." The hollow wooden doors muffled not the sharp words that exploded from his lips as he left. Opening them once more, he spoke to me as if his words were the most common of things a child would say to his mother, "Would you wait here a while more before you depart? There seems to be a problem with the disposal of the trash."

Not looking at his face, I nodded. I had to respond in some way, for I am afraid of what would happen if I did not. I am afraid of my own son. What kind of mother am I? How can I be so in fear of someone whom I myself raised, whom I carried and birthed, whom I love? How can I be afraid of such a person? Moreover, why has my own son given me reason to fear him without ever having raised his hand to threaten me? Why? Why must I fear Merek so?

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### Chapter 3

"Your state of business, Madam?" the man whispered through the lock on the door. The wind itself appeared to echo the man's question. My frosted cheeks had only been exposed to the cold night air for a moment and already they were burning red. "Deus qui est spes nostra." I repeated the phrase I had said a hundred times before, its truth growing ever stronger as I say it again and again.

God is our hope.

"Hello, dear sister," said the priest as he opened the door, though you would hardly recognize him in his nobleman's attire. Greeting him with a nod, I shook his extended hand, "Again and again I see you come here, and over and over I see you hide your face. Indeed these times are hard when one cannot even show her face at a place of friends! I assure you no one will judge you here, whoever you may be, dear Madam." Smiling gently I did not hold back my inevitable sigh, "Oh brave Father, even when in the presence of God, man is still man; and man will always judge."

"How true, how true, dear sister. I will molest you no more with such questions, as I see how they perturb you so." Stepping into the adjacent room, I nodded farewell to the Father who returned to the door to greet and direct the others now knocking and whispering to enter.

It was a remarkable place, this sanctuary. I would try to come here discreetly, and as often as possible. Merek's close supervision, though, sometimes prevented this. However, Father Bart cleared all of guilt for their absences. He was a kind man who understood the difficulties of regular attendance; especially since the discovery of one's attendance at these gatherings was punishable by death. Nonetheless, many still risked coming here, for this shop was the sanctuary of the city. During the day, it served as an unremarkable little flower shop. The smell of dirt and pollen were always fresh in the air. But at night it had a higher calling. During the night, the little shop served as a secret place for worshipers to gather. At night, it was a church.

I used to come here with Merek regularly when he was a boy. We would buy flowers at a very low price from the owner. He was a good friend of my family and often gave us discounts, even free bouquets now and then for special occasions. Of course, this little shop was not a chapel then. It became one when all the churches were either burned or their buildings forced to become other institutions. An order of my son's I am ashamed to say.

I do not understand how he lost his faith.

I took him to church every week and cultured him in the faith as best I could. I always made sure he understood how to act kindly and how to be giving to others. Yet he somehow came to see the faith as just another obstacle in his path to power. And like all other obstacles and problems he faced, he chose not only to overcome the obstacle, but to utterly destroy every hint of its memory.

Carefully stepping down the steep stone stairs, I held tight to the iron pipe which acted as a support rail. These stairs were a part of a secret passage way that led down to the church. In the building itself, the passage way was disguised as a pantry within the living quarters of the shop. One need only open the door a certain way to find it and descend down, but if the handle was not turned correctly, the door would not budge. This was the second safety measure. Unfortunately, precautions such as these were necessary in these desperate times.

Upon reaching the bottom of the steps, I came to five great doors which creaked under the pressure of the solid earth above. This was the third security. Walking towards the fourth door, I knocked once.

"Have you a purpose in coming to this gathering?" the old familiar voice of the owner, Mr. Herlet, inquired.

"Sir? There is no password to this door."

"I know," he said, while a chain began to rattle from within. The door whined as four men dug their heels into the ground to raise it up "I just wanted to hear your answer." He smiled at me as I walked in; the slamming of the massive door behind me shaking the walls around it.

Pulling my hood tighter over my head I held my breath. When he rested his hand on my shoulder, I smiled at the old man, "Why did you inquire of me, sir?"

"Because when most leave here filled with hope, you leave here more lost than ever, pained even. We all see it, dear." As his grip on my shoulder tightened, I winced.

"You speak just like my son. He too says I am more sorrowful when I leave here."

"Well, perhaps it's because your boy ain't here. Would you not leave happier if your son was here with you, receiving the graces and experiencing the spiritual joy that comes from this place?"

"It would bring to me the greatest joy I, as a Christian mother, could ever know, if my son were ever able to experience such joy as this place offers," though I know he would much rather find joy in the desolation of this holy place than in receiving of its graces. However, I am not sure he is even capable of feeling joy any more. For his joy, too, I believe, was another of the many casualties in his selfish conquest for power.

"Well, I'll guarantee, if you introduce me to him, I'll convince him to come. And once he hears one of Father Bart's sermons, he'll never doubt of coming again."

"If only the matter were so simple," I mumbled, more so to myself than to the old owner.

"It can be! You just-" he paused; another knocking came from the door. Placing his ear to the hard wood, he asked just as he had before, "Have you a purpose in coming to this gathering?"

"Stop asking that question old geezer!" one of the four men who had lifted the door groaned. His words were kisses to my ears. This is good. It means he was not as curious about me as I suspected. "Hush now! I can't hear!" shushed the owner. Smiling after a moment, the old man motioned for the men to lift the door to allow the Father and the others behind him to enter. Taking the opportunity to slip away, I joined the masses in the pews of damp wood and cold iron.

The mass itself was not a painful experience for me. The beginning always made me feel blessed and loved. These feelings are elevated as I hear the scripture and Father Bart's powerful homilies that always reach out to the hearts of us all. Encouraging us to be strong willed and to live our faith out in the world, to battle the persecution all people now face, for it is but a stepping stone to salvation. Yes, his message is always so strong and clear, and the Eucharist never fails to uplift even the spirits of the lowest among us. It is when the mass ends that I feel the pain rush over me. Upon realizing it is over, I recognize its importance to me, to the world for that matter. I grow saddened knowing that not everyone can properly understand or experience something so wonderful. But more than any of these things, it pains me more to think Merek would want to destroy it. His desire to destroy not just my faith, but all faiths, tears at me inside. To acknowledge that my own son wishes to abolish any and every person or institution that could instigate the feeling of hope and faith is a thought too heavy a burden for my aching heart to bear.

Upon re-entering the shop, I shook hands with Father Bart once more. "Do come again, M'lady, and next time, bring your son." My hand became tense at these words. My heart racing, it felt as though it would leap from my throat at any moment, but I kept my composure. I had to.

"I heard of him from Mr. Herlet."

Breathing a low sigh of relief I nodded, "I only wish I could bring him, Father."

"And why can you not? As a mother, you should know your child, and your child should always honor your wishes no matter their age."

"We both know that is often not always so," especially when your son is the ruler of the land; but he need not know that last part.

"Yes, yes, well I will pray for you and your son, Madam."

"Thank you, Father" I bowed, entering into the cold air of the night, thinking if only the priest's words were true. If only he would listen and be obedient, then the world (in the most literal sense) would be a much better place.

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### Chapter 4

"Mother," Merek said from the chair, his feet by the fire. "Yes, my son?" "May I ask you a question?"

Resting across from him on an old sofa, I nodded, "You may ask, and I will try my best to answer." It was a very mournful time for him. I was trying my best to be as gentle as possible.

"When I was a child, you said people die for two reasons; the first being that it is their time to go. But you never told me the second." I looked at my fourteen year old son and saw within him the answer he so longed to hear.

"It is pain, my son." I stared into the fire while I spoke. "It is no specific pain. It could be the pain of someone else or the pain of the person who died. The pain could be mental or physical, and in some cases both."

"I do not understand, Mother," he said with trembling lips. "I do not understand what you mean by those words."

"Oh my dear son!" I ran to him, combing my fingers through his dark hair, I allowed him to cling to me as he had when he was a babe. His tears flowing out with even more passion and ferocity than they had at his father's funeral, for it is only when you are grown that you can truly understand and experience the true pain of loss.

My poor son. He had been so happy. He smiled and laughed and lived the life of a normal boy. We somehow got along without his father, and when he was old enough Merek proceeded to follow in his footsteps. He showed skills that would rival that of his father's, and even the master cobbler saw much promise in him. I was so proud. But oh the sorrows my son now held! He had met a girl, not unlike how I met his father. And, oh, she was a fine one, so kind and lovely! Her name was Arabella, and she was to be his wife. However, fate's hand was harsh. It robbed him of his love before it ever had the chance begin.

"Mother, I loved her so much. I loved her so much! Why? Why must I suffer like this? Why? Why, Mother? Please tell me why I suffer so!"

"My son, we suffer because God wants us to grow and become stronger. The pain that comes from loss is a part of His plan as well. Although it is indeed a hard truth to bear, we must be obedient to it, and grow in strength as He intended." I repeated the words I had learned from my own mother when I had lost Jobel.

Gripping my arm, he looked up to me, his eyes were glassy, and I fear this was when his mad resolution was found. "If God believes in suffering for growth, then so will I. So will I, Mother."

At the time, I knew not what to say, and so I simply smiled, hoping he would truly grow, thinking that all of this was for the best. What a fool I was. How could I not see the meaning behind his words?

To suffer is to experience pain, and if pain allows one to grow in strength, then I will use it to grow as well. I can only imagine his reasoning must have gone something like that. Whatever his thoughts, he would eventually choose to make pain his weapon. He would seek to control it, perhaps in some foolish expectation that control over pain would allow him to no longer experience it. How could I know he would develop such mad ideas, that he was growing on such twisted logic? How could I know that when he finally obtained the power to do so, he would force such mad ideas onto the world? How could I know he would truly believe-- no, it was more than that. Merek truly lived out the idea just as I had taught him. He used suffering and pain to gain his strength. This being his only truth, he forced it on to others. 'For if it is truth,' he must have thought, 'we must all be obedient to it,' just as I had said.

*****

It was not long after the death of his fiancé that Merek joined the militia. He did not confide his intentions in me, he simply left one day. For years he was gone, and for years I cried every night.

My sister visited me often, even though she lived fifty miles out in the farmland. She would come to visit me every week. I loved her so. She would often ask me to come live with her and her family out there; assuring me that the pain I felt would be so much easier to bear if I would live among my family. I would tell her, "Oh, if only I could leave, perhaps then my heart would heal. But how can I leave? This house is our home and this is where he will return when he comes back."

" _If_ he comes back," she would say. Heartless words I know, but she meant all the best for me.

I was very poor living by myself. I spent the little money my husband had left me in raising Merek. I also supported us from the small ration I earned from the selling of blankets, scarves, shirts, pants, and other cloth wares I had made by hand. On occasion, I would sell a doll. They made me four times as much as a blanket, but materials to make the dolls were too expensive to make them often. I was worse off now that Merek was gone than ever before. Jobel's money was spent; Merek's small salary from his work at the cobbler's was gone; and my little business was nearly impossible to manage properly without Merek's helping hand. It was evident to most of my poor state of living. I would often receive donations of food and small coins from the church. The shop owners would also give me discounts since I had known most of them all my life. Others were close enough to me to be called my friends, and they were all so kind and helpful. It was a truly generous town I lived in then, nothing like it is now.

I was even more disadvantaged than most poor folks. Without Jobel, I was no longer in a position to hear of news of the war. With my low position as a widow whose son was out of the house, I was often the last to hear of any news, whatever it might be. Most information of the war came by a messenger who would gather the most prominent men in town and hold confidential meetings to discuss it. They in turn would tell other men as well as their own wives, and more than one of them was a known gossip.

At the flower shop one day the old owner Mr. Herlet had stared at me for a long moment when I first walked into the store. I did not understand why, but it did not bother me much. He would not meet my eyes, and his moustache scrunched up against his nose as he chewed his tobacco more fiercely than usual. Picking the cheapest bouquet, the best I could afford for my departed Jobel, I admired the fine plumeria. In a low voice, the owner picked a few of them. Tying them together quickly, he handed them to me in the oddest manner I had ever seen him in. "These are on me this time."

"Why, thank you," I had said, confused by the solemn look he wore. I noticed the mournful look on many of the townspeople's faces. Cries echoed through the streets, many from the homes of people I knew well. I wondered what had occurred, but it was not in my nature to pry. It was not until I found my sister waiting for me at my home that I knew that whatever sadness had plagued my town was to plague me as well.

"The military unit 315 was captured by the enemy." When she said the name of the unit, my heart skipped a beat. It was my son's. "The sole person who escaped was the son of some lord, bartered off with a bribe no doubt. The word he brought back to the main camp, and to us for that matter, was that they had been sold out. One of their own had informed the enemy of their position. Do you know what he sold them out for? Thirty bags of silver! The greedy scoundrel is still there, too! He watched it all happen! Of course, there was no time for us to counter attack when the enemy came, and so it was a quick and brutal defeat. But those who died in battle were the lucky ones! It is said that the surviving prisoners were beaten, starved, and tortured in the worst of ways. The nobleman's son himself was barely alive. He said that one by one the soldiers were beginning to die off, some even committed suicide. 'The cowards,' he called them, though he himself was bought out! I know it ain't right to kill yourself, but what right does a selfish brat like that have insulting the dead? It just ain't right! If you ask me, he ain't no better than the guy who sold them out! Well, anyway, I heard that the nobleman's son also told a commanding officer that it would be pointless to rescue them, that by the time they could devise a plan and gather the men to save the poor boys, it will have been too late."

"He's a coward if you ask me," my sister continued, " but I suppose he's right if what he said was true. They were killing so terrible and fast there wouldn't be any left to save by the time we got there. He even said that it was pointless to eventually attempt to retrieve the bodies, you know, to give them a proper burial. He said that after they died the bodies were desecrated, pulled apart into who knows how many pieces, and bur-"

"Enough!" I could not bear to hear anymore. My sister covered her mouth, "I'm sorry, Rosetta, I don't know what compelled me to tell you that much. You need not have heard all of that." Shaking my head at her I pressed the flowers to my chest, breaking their stems and crushing their petals as I did.

"Sister, I will come to live with you now, if that is all right." I choked back my tears, but my voice was cracked, and I could hold them back no longer. "Oh, my boy! Oh, my baby! Why?" I cried, "Why my Merek?" my voice shook, my stumbled prayer breaking out of me as I fell to the floor. "He was not even a man! Not a man and he- and he- ! Oh my God why have you done this to me? Why? You steal from me my Jobel and my Merek! Why? What plan have you for me? How can my suffering lead to your love? How?" I shrieked out. "How, Lord?!" As I shriveled upon the floor, my sister wrapped her arms around me.

"Rosetta," she whispered gently, "let's go. You-"

"No!" I shook her off. Stumbling to the dresser in the corner of the room, I knocked over my chair at our little table and stepped on Jobel's flowers, damaging them once more. Pulling out a ragged little hat I had sown for Merek when he was just a babe, I squeezed it tight, soaking it with my tears.

"Oh my son! Oh my son!"

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### Chapter 5

Seven years ago my boy left me, and four years ago he left this world. Surrounded by my sister and her family, the pain was healing, but it never truly vanished. I still cried at night, but I did not wail as I had for the first few months after his death. My outbursts slowly decreased to the point where I only loosed a tear now and then.

My nephew was young, a little boy of only three. Because my sister's husband was always in the fields, and she and her other children always tending to the animals, I was often left to watch over the youngest son. The little boy did soothe my heart. Although he did not share the same face or hair color of Merek, he had the same spark in his eyes and a smile just as bright. I found in him a great joy that lifted my heart and soul. Those days I spent playing with him and teaching him were some of the best days of my life. They were nearly as good as those when both Jobel and Merek were still alive.

In this farmland, there was not much news from the town. My sister only went up to town twice a month now that I lived with her. She would hear news of the people in my old town. She told me of births, of deaths, of all sorts of changes, and sometimes, on a rare occasion, of the war.

"They say a new King's come to power," she told us over dinner.

"Is that so?" I said, uninterested in state affairs. It is not as if such political changes, major or otherwise, could affect much out here.

"Yes, they say he is young, very young, and handsome as well. They say he plans to move the capital to Vertensburg!"

I felt a string of my heart tighten at the mention of my old home. "Why would he do such a thing?" I asked.

"I don't really know, perhaps he finds the present capital boring, or wishes to make a fresh start. You know he is young, so it is possible that he is just rebellious and wishes to make a statement of some sort by moving the capital," she said, unaware of my growing interest in this particular matter.

"How young is he?"

"Stop that, John!" she shouted at her eldest son, who was caught scooping the potatoes from his sister's plate. "Ah, sorry dear, what did you say? How young? Ah, he is only twenty two, if you can believe it!"

Tightening my lips I breathed sharply, "The same age as my son would be." Placing her hand on mine, she smiled gently at me.

"What was he like?" the second youngest of my three nephews asked, his eyes large, sparkling with curiosity.

"Larcen! You know it is not a matter your Aunt likes to speak of," his mother scolded.

"I'm sorry, Aunty Rosetta. I was just curious."

"It is fine. I will tell you." Folding my napkin in my lap, I smiled at him. "He was tall as a young man, with deep brown eyes which sparkled like your little brother's do. His hair was dark and he-"

A knock came at the door.

"Oh, that man!" my sister growled. "I'm sorry, dears, I asked for Mr. Rakedson to come over for dinner next Thursday but he must have gotten a little confused again, what with his age. Welcome him kindly children!"

"Yes, Momma!" they all responded.

"Go on, Aunt Rosetta!" Larcen said anxiously.

"Very well, he was a soldier. A very brave boy, strong as well, he-" I was cut short by my sister's sudden cry which echoed through the house. Her husband stood up quickly. Running across the room he grabbed the sheathed sword on the wall, but before he could unsheathe it, she reentered the room, a look of shock on her weary face.

"Honey, what's wrong?" her husband rushed to her, looking past her down the hall, his eyes widened. "A-Are you the militia?" he drew back with his wife. My sister shook her head. She looked to me and then to the ground and then to me again.

"What's going on!" her husband demanded. "I have come for the woman called Rosetta, your sister-in-law, sir." The voice of a young man came from outside the room. My heart racing, I told the children to step behind me. Just as they did, a large soldier came through the door.

"What do you want of me?" I asked, hugging close to me my youngest nephew, who began to cry at the sight of the intimidating man.

"I want you to come with me," a voice said from behind him, the same one that had addressed my sister. Gesturing for the soldier to move, he turned the corner. He stood tall in his uniform, the metals and badges of a soldier and king on his chest. His dark brown hair the same color as I remembered it, but when I looked into his eyes, oh, his eyes...his beautiful dark brown eyes that used to sparkle so brightly...oh, what an empty black they had become!

"Merek?" I whispered. Stepping towards me slowly he nodded, "Yes, Mother?" Shaking my head, I fell to my knees, "H-How is this possible? How are you alive? Y-You-"

"Another time, Mother," he whispered, pulling me to my feet. "Another time."

"Now, will you come with me?" He extended his hand in the most formal of ways, one that I had certainly never taught him.

"Of course, my son! Of course!" I exclaimed, embracing my child as he stood stiff, awkward and statue like.

His hands came to my back and he whispered, "I'd forgotten a mother's love." Then in a change of character he calmly pushed me away. "Thank you, Mother, but please refrain from acting in such a manner. I understand you have been living in the country for a while and so your mannerisms have digressed, but you must act appropriately from now on. You are no longer a commoner, but the mother of the King." I stared at him bewildered. Who was this man? What had he done with my Merek? He was so serious and strange. What had happened to him?

"Her things have been collected," a soldier called from the hall, my leather bag in his hand.

"Very good. Now, Mother," he extended his hand once more. "Let us take our leave."

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### Chapter 6

I did not speak on the ride into town. I was overjoyed that my son was alive. Yet at the same time, I was deeply disturbed by his changes. Everything about him was different. He stood taller, spoke harsher, and his now cold black eyes stung everyone who met them, infecting the poor victims with their poison. Merek's voice was authoritative, which was to be expected of a king, but its harshness was so overbearingly strong! Oh, my son, how did you become this way? How did you survive and become the King at that?! The King! We were but peasants, low and humble, yet you climbed oh so much higher than I could have ever imagined. Yet was such an accomplishment worth such a terrifying change? Was it worth the loss of my only son?

"You seem tired Mother," Merek said as the carriage rolled to a stop at the front gate of our old home. An extravagant carriage in such a small street must have been a sight to these simple townsfolk. Even as the one inside such a thing, I myself was astonished at its arrival at such a place.

The memories of this place, though many sweet, were so very often overshadowed by the painful ones. As I stepped out of the carriage and began to walk towards the house; all of the many wonderful and terrible memories this place had brought me throughout the years washed over me anew. Each step bringing another to mind; it was as if they had all just happened, not so long ago. From Merek's birth to Jobel's death, the recollection of these buried thoughts both kissed and struck me with a renewed force. One of my happiest memories came to me, the day when Merek told me that he and Arabella were to wed. The skies for Merek were clear in those days, and the sun of his smile shined ever so brightly. It was right here in this very spot that he told me, at this very door. I brushed my hand against the splintering wood; the cold from its touch reminding me of another memory, my most painful memory. It was also true that in this very spot that memory resided as well, the day I heard that Merek had died.

What memory, I wondered, would be left this time? In seeing this new Merek, I had little hope for a happy one.

What a great misery it is to be right.

From behind me Merek dared to turn the knob. "You told me you'd wait here forever," he said quietly, carefully opening the aged door. Upon entering the house, my eyes immediately set themselves on the chair I had knocked over the day I left, the day I received that dreadful news. The dusty remains of the flowers still resting where I had once crushed them, an air of death about them.

"I could not wait for a ghost in such a haunting place."

"Humph," he coughed. "Always with your ever so serious humor, Mother." I looked at him quickly, hoping to catch a smile, but none dared touch his face.

"What has happened to you, my son?" I bowed my head as I said this. Then gripping the chair tight, I set it up and pushed it back to its proper place. "Please, Merek, tell me why you-"

"Betrayal," he whispered sharply.

"What?" Was he the one who-

But before my thought could finish, he responded with disgust."I was betrayed by him."

Sneering at whatever thought had roused his anger; he caught himself and quickly threw it from his visage. "He was my friend. Like brothers we loved each other, protected each other, and lived on through it all so that we could one day return to our families with the honor and pride we would acclaim together!" Shuttering at the anger which had almost immediately resurfaced, he leaned against the old dresser and smashed his fist against it, splitting the wood as he did. The sight of Merek damaging Jobel's old dresser pained me almost as much as the sight of my own son's agony. The dresser had been a gift from Jobel to me on our first anniversary. He had handmade it for me, and it was one of the few things of his that I had left. Most of Jobel's belongings had been sold to feed his lasting memory, to feed Merek.

I placed my hand on his shoulder. "Merek." I hesitated. "You know your father would not have wanted you to act so-"

"The man is dead, Mother! Jobel is dead!" His eyes were as sharp as his words, like daggers they struck me. Who was this man, this creature so full of anger and hate? And what had he done with my Merek? Trying to sound as authoritative as possible, I stood erect. "Merek Jamels Brunnseth! Since when did you start speaking of your father in such a way?"

"I am sorry, Mother," he said quietly, "but you speak to me as a child, and I am no longer a child. Although I am young, I've more experience than most aged men and I've-"

"I imagine you have more experience than a thousand men but you are still my child!" I cried, placing my hand to his cheek. "My poor little boy." I traced the frown lines of his face. Just as my hand began to slip away from him, he held it close. "I will always be your son, but Mother, I am not a boy anymore. Perhaps I was when I left for the war, but not now," he whispered, "not now." His eyes glazed over; looking past me into a world I knew not, into the world in which I lost my boy.

"Merek," I whispered faintly, "What has happened to you? Please, Merek. Please. Please tell me."

He never truly told me. All he did say was that this infamous betrayer was his friend and that he himself, with his own hands, he-

"Mother," he said slowly, his dark eyes unfaltering as they gazed at me, "I killed him." With that he knocked three times on the door and soldiers poured into the tiny quarters of the house.

"Take it there!" he ordered. The soldiers began to remove all that remained of my home. In silence I watched them strip the room of every ornament, leaving Merek and I alone in the emptiness.

"I heard that Grandfather and Grandmother have passed in my absence." Nodding slowly at him I could not find the strength to utter a word, all my strength was at the moment being used to keep myself standing and conscious. How could my baby be so direct, so adamant and accepting of such brutality? I knew that with war he would leave a boy and come back a soldier, but to see such an alteration was more than my heart could bear.

With sooted hands, a soldier saluted him, whispering sharply in his ear. "Good" was all Merek said. There was neither pity in his voice nor remorse in his eyes. He said it with a placid face, "There has been a fire on the farm. There are no survivors."

"Now," he extended his spotless hand towards me, "will you come with me?" It appeared so clean at the time. Yet it appeared my son, this creature, had murdered his cousins, his aunt and uncle. He had robbed his mother, without a second thought or even a blink of an eye, of her only family left in this world, outside of him. What other choice did I have but to take the spotless hand of a killer who had simply washed the blood from his skin? He had taken my home and now my family all right before me. I could go nowhere else.

"Oh my son," I mumbled, my knees collapsing under me. He caught me before I could fall, but not before the tears poured down my cheeks. I had tried so hard not to, but I could no longer keep them from flowing. "Oh, my son, what have you become?!"

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### Chapter 7

"When I was away," he told me, "I met a beautiful woman. Her name is Felicia. She is my wife, and she is with child." He told me this as we rode to the palace. Apparently, he had been building it for the past few years. It was nearly complete. All that needed to be added were a few more guest rooms and perhaps a second dining quarter. It was a grand palace, I was told. Although not nearly as grand as other lords' manors when compared in size, its quality was beyond the finest. Even the richest of kings could not afford such luxury as this palace held. I found it hard to believe that this envied place was somehow built by _my_ peasant born son.

Upon the news of my grandchild, I could not smile either. My boy was to be a father. That is a happy event for most, and yet I could not seem to smile. "Is this your way of greeting your mother now my son?" I found some strength within my weakness, one strong enough to speak up to this creature that called itself my child. "Do you no longer know the difference between cruel and just? Do you no longer see the consequences of your actions? Do you?!"

With an unchanging countenance, he held his head high in a manner most imperious, "I know not of what you speak. Well, no, perhaps I do. If it is the matter concerning your sister and her lot, I find that there is nothing to be said on it. She is dead, and the dead can never be reborn again, or so you once told me. The only thing left of them in this world is their quickly decaying bodies, the possessions they treasured, and the people they touched. These memories we keep of them are nothing but weights that hold us down from moving on towards the future. Is that not right? Did you not once say we should look towards the future? I do. Ever since I heard those words, I have always been looking towards the future. For seven years. Seven years I have lived those words and looked towards the future. Mother, right now, my child is the future, and those who are gone from this world are of the past. There is nothing more to it. Therefore, we should talk of the future. Is that not right?"

My own words having been repeated back to me with such brutal application, I shook my head in remembrance of their cruelty. How could I have said such things to my child? What compelled me to say such deep and cold things to one so innocent? Was I not fit for such a delicate task as the raising of a child? Is this wretched man the product of the careless words I spoke to him when I myself was just a girl?

These questions danced around my mind in a tortuous bombardment. But I could not dwell on them at the moment. Merek's relentless stare and lingering silence evidently commanded a response of me. Drawing away from my worries, my mind began a new scramble in search of a response proper enough to address the vicious man before me.

"Yes, I suppose I did say that. I said it selfishly for myself. I said such terrible things because I was hurting. I was scared of all that was happening and wanted nothing more than to relieve myself of the pain Jobel's loss was causing me. I wanted to rid myself of it as quickly as I could. I did not think of the consequences in acting and speaking in the imprudent manner that I did. You should know that now! Though I might have said those things to you, they were always intended for me! I was telling myself these things in an attempt to run away from the fear and the pain my loss had caused me. As a mother, I am ashamed to have put such cruel thoughts into your head. I should never have said those things to you. I see now that such heavy words on a child can sway him to make even heavier mistakes as a man."

"Your words were not mistakes, Mother! In fact, they helped me to grow. They gave me strength when I thought all was lost. I only survived because I knew the pain I experienced at that time...in that horrible place...what I saw and what they did...I knew-" He paused, and with a shuttering breath he continued in a calmer manner, "I knew that the pain would soon become the past, and I was sure I could move on from it. It was you who gave me the strength to live. The strength to-" again he trailed off.

Seeing him in this disoriented state, the error of my actions became even clearer than before. "Oh my son I was wrong! Do you not see? I should not have tried to push off my pain as I did, or forget about the past. I will never forget your father, just as I never forgot you when I thought you too had left me. Neither will I forget my family, or my parents, or anyone precious to me! Merek, is it not obvious that suffering can bring something much greater than just the strength gained from overcoming it?" He did not answer. I suspect he knew what I was to say, for he appeared to hold his breath as if awaiting my response.

"It is true that I once wanted to leave everything behind and look only to the future. In the future, I could not see worry or doubt, fear or loss. The future's troubles were not here, and so I believed there would be no troubles in the future, and no worries of it plagued me. The thought of the future was my freedom from the pain of the present." I took a moment to regain my composure, grasping my own hand harder to stop my trembling. "H-However, I now see that although the future may seem wondrous, it is no excuse to ignore the past and its sufferings. Suffering can give us strength, but it can also be given to someone else. It can be offered in penance to God. No suffering is for naught! The pains of our past help us to grow closer to Him. His mercy for the suffering is always great, and He-"

"You are a hypocrite, Mother," his low voice interrupted me. "You say to draw strength from pain when you yourself are running from it. You are fleeing at this very moment from it. Do you not see yourself? You tell me there is strength in pain and to face it, when you yourself will not face it. You were running away from Father when you told me, a person left by him, to move on. You were running away from me when you moved in with your sister and her family. And now you are running away from the fact that they are dead and that I, the son you thought you'd lost, the living memory of your Jobel, the man who you know ordered your relatives death, now you run away to him. You run away to me; the person who is the true physical embodiment of all your pain." Leaning back against the seat, he laughed for the first time. "Perhaps you are not a hypocrite then Mother. Because you must have known that by running to me, you in turn face your pain."

Placing my hand in shock to my lips, I could not bear to meet his eyes, and yet I could not find the conviction to look away.

This truly was my fault.

"One more thing," he said, as the bangs fell across his face. "The God you mentioned to offer all this pain up to, He will not hear your prayers. I know this for a fact. He did not hear mine nor anyone else's. No one's voice reached His ears. He does not care for us. He never did."

"Merek, you are wrong," I mumbled trembling. "You are wrong. He cares. He cares!"

"If he cared, then why did Father die?! Why did Arabella die?! Why did any of them have to suffer like animals and die like squirming worms in the dirt?! Why did I, as a mere boy, have to witness and experience the very definition of HELL-ON-EARTH?!"

I was silent.

I opened my mouth to speak but not a word could be said before Merek roared; his anger appearing to be his only emotion.

"Let me guess. It was for us to grow stronger. Stronger, right?! Then how come you only became weaker? Why was it that all you could do from then on was tremble and cry? Why was it that when you pretended to have strength, you chose to ignore the pain! You did not grow stronger from it! You grew weaker! Feebler! It is best to just stick with the better of your hypocritical philosophy! Just get rid of it! Get rid of all of the pain!" He clutched a medal that hung around his neck. "All of the hurt." He lowered his head, his shoulders bobbing up and down with his heavy breaths. "The pain that comes from such things, though I still clearly suffer from it now, I have decided to get rid of it," he said firmly.

In that instant, he regained his composure as the carriage door swung open.

When he nodded at the coachman, the man proceeded from his post. "That is why," Merek whispered, his eyes ablaze with passion, "That is why I have decided to rid myself and rid the world of all things that cause pain. Everything and everyone in this life that causes such a thing, I will destroy."

Leading me from the carriage, he set a long hat upon my head and whispered for me to bow my head so that the soldiers would not see my face stained with tears. Walking past them he spoke softly. "I have already started my plans," he said as we entered the palace. Walking through a great chamber, he pulled back a curtain at the end of it to reveal a brilliant spiral staircase. There must have been a thousand steps, but we flew up them all, his words so fast and breathtaking I lost track of time in my contemplation of them.

"I have first cast off my emotions, at least I try to. I still struggle with a few as you can see," he glanced at me, his strong hand on my arm like a chain on a prisoner. "I found that they all have the ability to lead to pain and so I discarded them. I discovered that this is also useful in controlling men. They fear the fearless you see, it is part of how I found myself in this position. Perhaps I shall tell you more of _that_ particular tale on a later day."

Window and painting and window and painting, again and again, so many we passed, and his words continued.

"I then saw a need to attack and institute laws for my mission. From a Senate Chair that I'd attained through less mentionable means, I manipulated the senators and used their power for my gain. From my new position, I led the senatorial campaign that would end the war. The people loved this, of course, and I quickly saw that my growing popularity with the masses would be a great aid in my conquest. I was therefore cautious about the actions I took and the laws I dispelled or enacted. I made sure every move I made was to the growing satisfaction of the masses. After only a few quick, yet simple, moves I found myself in my current position. I abolished the threats to my power, the Senate mainly, and I used the people as my justification. The nobles were not happy about this, but I found money and unearned glory were the best ways to appease them. It was an easy task really, and so no one noticed. Not the people or nobles, no, not one of them noticed my absolute authority quickly falling into place. The King was the last step, and the easiest of them all. Poor fool died with peace of mind, naturally pointing out me, his _loyal_ advisor, on his death bed to be the next heir. It was not a hard task to convince his failing mind to choose me, a young ambitious boy who was not unlike the ones he'd lost in war. How confused he was to see himself recover so quickly, and be dethroned and put to death by the loyal advisor he'd trusted with his kingdom." Merek paused for a moment, his eyes flashing with the memory, then quickly continued, "Gaining my position was a very quick and easy victory indeed."

Finally the staircase was coming to an end, but my suffocation grew stronger! The great hall I now found myself in held no windows, and its never ending twisted corridors made me very dizzy!

"Mother, I have achieved power, and so now I can achieve my dream." He spoke slowly and yet his feet marched to a quickening rhythm that beat faster with each turn and twist we made through the dark halls. "Mother, I instituted many laws and crushed many opposing factions. And even now I am in the process of crushing one of my most prevalent enemies." Halting at last, I had not a moment to catch my breath as he swung open two large oak doors.

"Mother, your room." He quickly shuffled me into the magnificent room. By just a glance I could tell it was big enough to fit twenty people, maybe more! Running through the room like a child, I looked around at this magnificent space in wonder. I first spied a bed fit for any rightly acclaimed royal, tucked away behind a wall. I ran through the living area, which I did not care to admire much, but ran back upon realizing it had a fire hearth of its own! And a small library of books all arranged so perfectly with their spines straight and neat! But I could not read. And this paper and pen--these art utensils! I can neither write nor paint nor draw!

"Merek, what is all of this?!" I looked to him, flushed and in awe.

"You are to become a royal lady, Mother. You must learn all these things."

So it is only for my role. Not out of love. "I see now." Sitting in a chair I nodded to him.

"Yes. Now, I must finish with my words. You will not like them, Mother." I could almost feel the crooked smile hidden beneath his cool features.

"I suppose you are to tell me the thing in which you will fight next. Your 'greatest enemy so far' you have said? Yes? I have a feeling I know what it is though I pray it not be so."

"Your fears are sure, Mother. I have come to understand that your God brings one of the greatest pains upon this world. And I plan to build a world without pain. So, pray not, or you too will suffer."

I shivered. "I knew by your previous words that you did not look kindly to God, but this is still too much! You cannot be serious about this! So many people are-"

"It is necessary!" he barked. "It is necessary for my world! For my world, not just your God but all gods must be gone! All religions! They must be silenced! Religion causes wars and a false sense of hope; it's a method of manipulation and a threat to my power. I must be rid of them, all of them! Do you not understand? It is necessary for the nation I will build, for the world I am creating."

My fear and my rage boiling within, I wanted to ask him: 'And just what is your world? What is a world where there is no God? No religion? No real freedom? What is a world where the source of so many people's hope and love is torn away from them?

In that type of world, there is nothing, absolutely nothing! It is a world of emptiness! An impossible world! You cannot force your world of emptiness onto one filled with people, people who seek love and a hope beyond themselves.

Without religion, people will look into the emptiness you offer them and seek something else to be their hope, to be their God. And they will choose something from that nothingness. Money. Pleasure. Violence. Pride. Maybe even an ordinary man, or a king. Such things will become their g _od_ , their reason for living. But when people try to find or make a god from nothingness, in the end their lives are wasted chasing after nothingness. Merek, when you take away religion and God, you take away their freedom and truth. The nothingness left behind is fed to them as truth, but, oh, what a grave thing nothingness really is. For if God is truth, and truth is everything, then the nothingness is a lie, and the nothingness is evil.'

I could not say these words. I was too taken aback by his own. And so I sat in silence as he left me.

"I'm glad you like your room, Mother, your lessons will begin tomorrow. Goodnight."

*****

I knew. I knew then that I would have to become strong in order to survive in this _new_ world he planned to create. And so I did become strong. But I am fearful, fearful that this strength of mine may lead me to one day become as cold and emotionless as him.

Dear God, can you save me? Will you save this world he has created? Please God...Please save my son!

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### Chapter 8

"Jobel!" I cried, as the little boy climbed across the arm of the chair. "Sorry!" he laughed, purposely falling off its side, a broad smile on his little face. "Grandma! Grandma!" he shouted, his big eyes shining. They were the stars on a cloudless night. The candle held before one goes to bed.

They were my new light.

"Grandma! Grandma!" he shouted again, rolling and laughing about, truly a light in this place of darkness.

"What is it?" I asked. Laughing at me, he ran around the room dancing and falling, so very childlike and free. "Grandma! Grandma!" he once again cried.

"Yes, dear?" I smiled as he laughed again, so innocent and filled with love.

When I look into his eyes, I see a tiny Merek, but he smiles oh so much more! There is so little to frown about in his blessed life. He never goes hungry, always has time for play, and both his parents are alive and together. Though I cannot say both are well.

When I first met Jobel's mother, Felicia, I immediately saw that Merek's initial description of her was no exaggeration. She was incredibly beautiful, but very young, and very frail. When she had Jobel she was even younger than I! Her small and weak body made it a hard birth; she barely survived it. I worry about her health, and fear her next child will be her death.

"Grandma! Grandma what are you doing?" his little voice brought me back to him.

"I was just thinking a bit." I smiled at the wild and curious little creature before me, his eyes sparkling like starlight. I could not help but gaze into his bright eyes every time I saw him. He really is so much like Merek was! However, as such, I feared for him; and wondered if he would someday befall the same fate. Would that light in his eyes someday dull? Would that brilliant blue (for he possessed his mother's eyes) one day cringe, twisting into a deep-dark-black? What am I to do with this child? How am I to keep him so pure and innocent as he is now?

"Hey, Grandma," he said quieter, with more seriousness in his voice than previously. "I've been thinking about something, too." Tilting my head, I responded with my eyes opened wide, as is necessary to show your interest and attentiveness when speaking with a child of his age.

"Yes, dear?" I said again.

Puffing his rosy cheeks out he shook his head, "Papa," he began, balling his hands into tiny fists. "Papa says you go to a bad place!"

Astonished by his words, I fluttered my eyelashes dumbly, "Why, whatever do you mean?"

"I-I don't know!" he said weakly, playing with his tiny fingers. "Papa just says you are! I don't believe him! But, Papa wouldn't lie...right, Grandma? But Grandma is not a bad person so she wouldn't go to a bad place either, right? So, I don't know who is lying and who is not? I don't-" the tears welled up in his eyes.

"Now, Jobel," I whispered gently, his head digging into my knee, his tears of frustration staining my gown. "Jobel your father and I have matters we strongly disagree on. Some things that I find to be good he sees as bad, and some things I see as bad he sometimes sees as good. Our opinions are merely different you see. There is no need for distress."

Wiping his eyes he began again; tear stains still fresh on his cheeks, "But Grandma if you and Papa don't think the same thing, than which is wrong? Papa can't be wrong, and Grandma can't be wrong. But you both have different opine-opeeno- opinin-"

"Opinions."

"Yeah that!" he nodded vigorously, delighted that I had helped him figure out that darn old word. "If those things aren't the same, but you're both right...Oh no! I'm confused again! If Papa thinks something is bad that Grandma thinks is good, and Grandma thinks something is bad that Papa thinks is good, then who's right? Bad things can't sometimes be good and good things can't be bad, can they? That doesn't make sense! But if Grandma says it's all ok, then I'm ok! But I'm still confused!" He kicked his feet, a child's way of expressing that he is still in deep thought.

Sighing at this child's logic, I shook my head astounded. He was not even ten and yet he could so easily see the error in my words. What a witty child, just like his father. I can only pray that wit of his does not lead him to follow the same path.

Brushing my hand over his soft little head I nodded, "You are right, dear one, that is confusing. You are the one who is right. Bad cannot be good. There is good and there is evil, and they are not the same. However, it can often become confusing for people to distinguish between the two of them."

"Even adults?" he asked with gaping mouth and widened eyes. "Yes, especially for adults."

"Woah!" he stared off profoundly, "But Grandma, how do I know which is which? Which is good and bad? How can I tell the difference if even you and Papa get all mixed up over it?" He continued to kick his legs as his thoughts continued to grow, his big eyes questioning me for answers.

Here I was, back in this position. I knew that what I would say now would impact how he would live his life from now on. It would influence how he grew, who he would become. I knew I could not make the same mistake. What was I to say? What could I say in response to such a question? To such a question that even I do not fully know the answer to. But I cannot just leave his question unanswered; that may set an even worse example.

Oh God, what am I to do?

"Well Grandma? How can we know?"

"We know-" I breathed, thinking intensely, picking my words carefully and ordering them precisely before I spoke, "Right and wrong are very similar things simply because they are so different. Well, that is still confusing, I know. Let me say this in a different way then. As humans, we find difficulty in discerning the difference between the two because humans are inclined towards evil. This is due to something called concupiscence, which we, mankind, received a long time ago." Though it is not a good answer for a child, perhaps by exposing him to it I can guide him to seek out his own answer, a better one than my own.

"How long ago, Grandma?" he leaned in closer. I smiled at his ignorance. "Very, very, very long ago. It was received by the first humans ever."

"Wow that is a long time ago! Who were the first humans?"

"Adam and Eve," I replied, saddened by his lack of knowledge in such matters. By his age Merek new all the major events in the Bible and could retell the stories better than any other child. Yet here is my grandson who has never even heard of God. What a sad world he was born into.

What a sad world my son has created.

"How'd they get concup-consup-cosupce-" his mouth played with the word, unable to grasp it.

"Concupiscence," I told him.

"Yeah that! How did they get it?"

"Well, do you know how there are rules and laws?" He nodded to me, his eyes brightening, transfixed on mine. Attentive and breathless, he listened in awe with careful ears, his toes curling, at the edge of his seat. "Well, Adam and Eve had rules as well. Duties, is a better word for them. You see, they lived in a great garden, and they had the duties to take care of the garden and the animals, as well as each other. They only had one rule; and this rule was never to be broken. But they broke that rule. A great evil was done by breaking this rule, and so a great evil fell on Adam and Eve, and on all of their descendents. Descendents are like children, and since they were the first humans, all humans are their children. And so in breaking this rule they allowed sin to come into the world and started concupiscence, the inclination towards evil."

"What is sin?" he asked in the most innocent of ways. I shook my head at the question. This child! Oh this poor child! If only I could take him with me to that place, if only I could!

"Sin is evil, it is death. It is the opposite of good. It is bad and can never be good."

"But if those people made us get it and it's bad, does that mean we are bad, Grandma?" he looked at me and then down at his little hands. "Am I bad?"

"Heavens no! You are good my child! All people are good! It is our actions that have the ability to be bad. There are many bad actions taken by people throughout the world, these bad actions are the great evil! These actions are the sin! Not you nor I, or even your father!" My heart jolted at this, the memories of Merek's cruel words and murderous actions coming back to me. "No, not even your father is evil" He has done more evil than I have ever seen or heard of, but I will not yet tell Jobel that.

"How do we know an action is a sin?"

Although it was similar to his previous question, the answer for this one seemed so much harder to find. "Well, it is something written on our hearts, we simply know. And when we need help, there are laws. These laws were written down ages ago. They guide us to truth and help us to both identify and avoid sin."

"What are they!" he asked, flustered.

"Oh, my dear one-" I held my breath in pain of his ignorance. Shaking my head to myself, I knew what I had to do. "If I show you, will you promise not to tell?"

"Yeah, but why? Shouldn't everyone know how to not do bad things?" he tried to whisper but failed.

"Yes, yes they should, but as I said before, the good is sometimes mistaken for the bad. This is also one of those things your father and I tend to disagree on, and your father being who he is, does not take lightly to things that go against his way of thinking. You know this well. So you must keep this a secret. Alright?" As he nodded vigorously to me, I smiled gently at the boy.

Combing through the bookshelf, I pulled an encyclopedia from it. Opening the book, I laid it flat on the table. As I did this, the letters on the spine popped up. Pressing first on the "D," I followed by turning the first "E" to the right, and then lastly I pulled up the "O." With that, a click came from the book. The gears creaked, releasing a mechanism inside the encyclopedia that revealed a compartment hidden in its spine. Lifting the tiny latch on the cover of the compartment, I opened it and removed a tattered little book.

"That's amazing!" Jobel laughed, clapping his hands together. "What is it? What is it?" Pressing my fingers to my lips, I motioned him to be quiet.

"It is a bible."

"What is that?"

"It is truth."

"Truth sure is tiny!" He squinted his eyes at the little leather book I held in the palm of my hand.

"It is not physically truth, but tells us the truths that we are incapable of discerning by ourselves. It teaches us how to live and act. It also gives us the laws of life, helping us to discern between good and evil. But it is not an easy read Jobel, and so the true message of it is often distorted. We must have someone who has certain qualifications and training to interpret it for us. This person is called a priest. That is where I go, Jobel. I go to meet a priest so that he will help me to know truth."

Twisting his face he scratched his head, "But that doesn't sound evil or bad. Truth is good, right Grandma? So why then does Papa think it is bad?"

Sighing, I placed my hand gently on his shoulder, "Because Papa is confused and believes that something else is the truth, but it is not."

"Why don't you tell him that this is truth?" he asked simply. I laughed at his innocence, his childish naïveté. What a gift it is to be a child!

"Ha! Ha! It is not that simple Jobel. You see, I have tried to tell him, but your father is a stubborn man and does not like to take orders or listen to anyone, even if they are trying to help him. I tried to teach him this truth when he was your age but he never really grasped its meaning, only the content of it."

With big eyes, he looked at me wearily, "I still don't really understand why truth is so confusing," he said, scratching his head once more. "I haven't heard anything like this before, Grandma, and the more you tell me, the more confused I get. It is so confusing!" Folding his arms, he slowed his kicks.

"Yes, well, I suppose it is. Now, you will not tell Papa, will you? And no one else either?" Jumping from the sofa, he saluted me, then, holding his hand over his heart, he said "I promise to never tell." He then pretended to lock his mouth and throw away the key.

"Thank you, Jobel."

"Now will you tell me more, Grandma?"

"Of course." I went on to tell him of the creation story in more detail, of Adam, Noah, Moses, Abraham, David, and Jesus, of course. For hours he listened quietly to all the information pouring out of me; he soaked it all up like a sponge into his little head. For once, I felt like this was right, like I was making a real difference. I could change the fate of this boy! I could save him! I could! And one day, one day I would take him to church.

Hundreds of thoughts just as these came over me in the short hours I spent with him, and with each passing moment the thoughts were growing stronger and developing into a future I could almost touch. I believed, I truly believed, I could change his fate. But then, just as all the joyous thoughts were finding their place, I heard _his_ steps.

Closing the bible quickly, I carefully slid it back into the encyclopedia's spine and hooked the latch. Snapping the book shut, the lock reset itself. Running to the bookcase, I put the encyclopedia back in its place. Racing back to the sofa, I held Jobel's hands and smiled. "Remember your promise," I mouthed as Merek barged into the room.

"There you are Jobel! I have been searching everywhere for you!" his voice took an almost worried tone, but his facial expression remained placid. "Mother," he looked at me warily. "What have you been up to here?"

"It's a secret!" Jobel blurted, giggling as he did. What a fool I am! Why did I tell it to a child!

"Is that so" he said, his dagger like eyes looked to his son who simply smiled unaffected by them. They were, after all, all that he ever knew.

"Let's go now, Jobel. It is time for your lesson." Placing his hand on his son's shoulder, he led him out the door to wherever his studies were to be.

As he left, I walked towards the beam of the bed and dug my face into its draperies as if to hide myself from him.

Soon his footsteps once again boomed forth from the hall, a new passion in his pace.

"Mother," he seethed with hate, slamming the door behind him. "I know you are not yet tired. Come here." I did not move from what I considered, for some foolish reason, to be my hiding place. Racing to me in fury, he knelt beside me just as he always had. This time I turned from him, afraid that if I looked to him, he would see through me and discover what I had done. More than that, I was simply afraid to meet his eyes.

Oh his eyes! His dark eyes did strike fear into my very core, but I did not turn. If I did, he would see my horrified face and learn of my fear. And I dare not let him learn of this. He cannot know! He is my son! And I cannot let my son learn that his own mother has not the courage to face him because she is afraid of him! I cannot let him know this! I cannot!

I breathed heavily for a moment and regained what I could of my composure.

"Your hand." His tone was demanding, hard and cruel. "Why do you mock the past with such repeated meaningless actions?" My hand was again forcibly pressed to his face. He said nothing; neither did I. Both of us were caught in our own silence.

Still refusing to meet his eyes, I dug my head into the drapes. Like a child who had committed a petty crime, I hid my face.

"Should I send you away, Mother?" he whispered. My heart pulsed at these words.

I did not want to lose my family like this! Not again! Not like this! I will not let him rip me away from my happiness! Not again! Not when I had made such progress with my grandson! Not when I had so much more to give to him! Not when I had so much more love to receive! Falling into his trap, I snapped away from the curtain to meet his eyes. I was caught. Pulling himself up from the ground, the dark orbs in his skull reached out for me, suffocating me. I could not find my breath in their grasp. They were like a spell of death, one from which I would surely die, if I sought to stare any longer or deeper into them.

"Why would you say such a thing?" I asked with a shaking voice.

"Because you cause me great pain." He tightened his grasp on my wrist. "You say I mock you by my actions and yet all I wish is to commemorate the past. It is you, Mother, who is mocking."

As he snatched my other wrist, I did not try to squirm away or cry out, though I felt my heart and mind tearing away. "You mock me," he continued, his suffocating glare unwavering. "You mock and sting me with your words and your actions, your standoffishness and your fear!" He grasped my wrist tighter, and my composure began to fade as I tried my best to fight back the tears and control my trembling. "The way you fear me brings me a great sorrow. It brings up in me emotions I have tried my best to throw away! All of them but these I have thrown away! Yet you, Mother, you continue to bring me pain! You, the one person I truly have left in this world. Why is it that I find you the source of my continued suffering?!"

"Merek, I am not the only one you have in this world. What of your wife and Jo-"

"They are nothing! I feel nothing for them! Nothing at all! That boy is but my successor and that woman's only purpose is to bear me sons! They serve no other purpose! They live for no other purpose but to serve me!"

"Merek!" I cried, my own anger surfaced from his words. It shot past my fear and through the barrier I had used to withstand his attacks up to this point. "You should be ashamed to say such words! Humans are not things to be used but people to be loved and cherished! Especially your own wife and child! And I know you feel more for them than you say! Why would you choose that girl if her only purpose was to bear sons? You know she has a weak body. She told me, and most assuredly you, that she was a sickly child and has only become well in recent years. She is a lovely young lady, but there are so many beautiful young ladies out there. You know none can match her tenderness, not even I! And your only child came from your union with her! Your beautiful son, who you named after our beloved Jobel, your son is always smiling as Felicia does. You love him, you love them both. I know you do. You refuse to accept or show it, but in your heart you love them very dearly! I know it! So do not say words you will one day be unable to take back!"

My chest heaved back and forth. The blood which had rushed to my now red features began to recede. And my anger like a summer wind had come, and before I could even reflect upon what I had said, it was gone from me. The fear raced back stronger than ever as my son, who had turned from me, bowed his head.

"I cannot possess such things, Mother," he said coolly.

"But you are human, Merek, and as a human, you will have such feelings. They are natural and good. We need them to live and make the right decisions to the problems that we will come to face in this life."

"You are right, Mother."

Astonished at this confession, I nearly fell back, catching myself on the bed post. "Y-You see this to be true?" I asked breathlessly.

"Yes," he replied. A smile came to my face. Have I done it? Have I changed him? Can I change the world by him? Have I? But before the joy had even a moment to settle its roots into the soil of my heart, he quickly rushed his words. Without remorse, he spoke them plainly. The smile I had longed for all these years spouted cruel and painful words, which uprooted my little piece of joy as soon as it was planted.

"You are correct. I have seen what you have said to be true, and so I must either train myself to cope with such weaknesses or destroy them." Walking towards the door, he did not turn to me. His sharp words sliced through my last tiny bits of hope and threw them into the fire: "Thank you, Mother, for giving me the opportunity to recognize these troublesome faults in my life."

*****

That night, I heard a terrible sobbing coming from down the hall, a horrible, terrible shrill cry, and then silence. An eerie feeling came over me that night.

From my bedroom window, I could almost hear the coachman's whip against the horses; their piercing sounds rang through the night. The sobbing faded with the rumbling of their hooves.

*****

"You sent them away?" I asked when he came to me the next morning, while two soldiers carried my bookcase from the room.

"Yes."

Staring out at the courtyard below, I kept my posture strong and my quivering was held tight by my squeezing together my folded hands. But I could not stop a single tear from rolling down my cheek; the first one since I had come to this prison. The light of this cell was now gone, and so thus was my little joy. He was taken from me and driven far away. Nothing remained here of any meaning to me.

Nothing.

Yes, this place is truly a prison, nothing more or less than that.

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### Chapter 9

As mass came to its end I pulled Father Bart aside. "Father," I began, pausing for a moment. "Yes?" he asked calmly, though his eyes were eager, thirsting for whatever words I was about to speak. It was clear that he had been awaiting this day for a long time, the day that I would call on him like this.

"Father, I will tell you now, what I should have long ago. It is about the reason I leave so 'pained' as you all say." He held his breath and gestured for me to continue "Father I am pained by my son. He has become a horrible man. Day after day, I see him grow more and more wicked. With the passing of time, I have come to discover that I myself am the instigator of this wickedness. I can do nothing for my boy. I can neither chase away his darkness, nor go against his wishes, for the power his wickedness has given him is great. As my wisdom continues to be lacking, the evil within him continues to grow. I fail to have both the words and the strength necessary to teach or change him. I cannot console him, the one thing he asks of me, for my fear keeps me at a distance. I no longer know how to talk to him properly without trembling, much less turn him from his wicked ways."

With a gentle smile, he patted my arm, "You must pray for your son often then?" he asked kindly. I nodded to him. "Every moment, " I whispered, grasping the cross under my clothing, as I always did when the pain struck me. "What is it that you pray for, may I ask? If it is not too personal that is. You have no obligation to-"

"It is alright, Father," I stopped him. "If you could somehow come to an idea of how to cure him of his evilness, by my telling you my feeble prayers, then I would gladly tell you them all!"

"Go on," he smiled. I hesitated for a moment, unsure of how to phrase my words so that he would not discover who my son, or I, for that matter, truly was.

"I pray that he may return to how he once was as a child. He was a very good child. I remember this. I ask God to have mercy on him, to take all his sins away. When I see him, and am distressed by his cruelty to others, I beg God to help him. I beg God to save him and -Now, I know this sounds awful, but I ask God to take him into His kingdom. I would wish he had been taken from me as a babe and raised by the angels, for they would not have allowed him to turn out as he did. I am a cruel mother to think such thoughts, I know. Yet I cannot help but believe that death in innocence is better than life in wickedness. For we both know, a life lived in evil leads only to an eternity in evil, and that is what I truly fear most for him. And so I plead with God, I desperately beg him not to let my poor child slip any farther into the darkness! For the thought that he would die with the sins he now bears on his soul, I cannot— I cannot think of—" I placed my hand to my mouth, suppressing the violent wail that thrashed alive within me. "He has hurt so many. So very many!" My verbal cries were subdued, but no motion could stop the physical tears from falling.

"Please pardon me, Father. For some reason I can speak no more." Grasping my wailing heart, I bowed to the priest. "Please excuse my rude behavior. I am sorry for bothering you."

About to turn from him, the priest snatched my wrist right where Merek had grasped it. Slapping his hand away, I held my throbbing wrist.

"I am terribly sorry!" we both cried. I shook my head in apology, "Please forgive such strange behavior, Father!"

His eyebrows tipped upwards, "Oh, little lamb!" he called me. "Oh, my dear sheep, what a terrible Shepherd am I! I am ashamed to say I acted so on purpose. At communion, I saw your bruises as your sleeve slipped, and I just could not have you leave without me addressing them. I am the one in need of forgiveness, not you, little lamb, no not you."

His gentle eyes tried to search my darkened features for some kind of recognition that I had forgiven him. I knew he could not see my facial features, and so I nodded. He then continued, "Even a sinner like me can see you suffer from your son's errors. But it is through no fault of your own, dear child. You are not the cause of your son's sins. Though you may blame yourself for it, it is clear to all that no such thing could be your fault!"

"Your words are kind, Father, but it is my responsibility that my son is the way he is. I raised the boy and taught him wrongly. I did not use the right words when teaching him; and now he not only denies God, he detests him."

"Oh, dear lamb!" he cried out once again. "Dear lamb, you are so innocent and pure. I have seen it in the way you speak and your actions here. You always donate a large quantity of money and the finest of foods for the poor. You hide your face, but your love shines through as you sing the loudest and kneel the longest. Listen now to me, dear child. He hears your prayers! They have reached His ears and your son changes not for a reason! For a purpose! I am but a foolish sinner, and myself do not understand why it is you continue to suffer so for your son's wrongs. But you will be rewarded in heaven for your sufferings now. So do not give up hope! Do not give up faith! That is what the devil wants! That is what he wishes! Continue to pray for your son, continue to love and care for him and perhaps he will change. But know that if he does not, it is no fault of your own. It was his own decision to go against God and so he will be the one to pay. And though I know these words are dreadful to a mother's ears, you must simply have faith that God has not willed this. He has allowed this to happen for a reason. Do not let the devil fool you for he is like the trickster King of this land. God bless his sinful soul, as venomous as it is. He is poisoning the people with his words, sucking them dry of hope and faith with his pretty speeches. Do not fall to them! Do not fall to the devil!"

"Oh, Father, I will continue to pray. But I cannot rest at night knowing my own son is to befall the same fate as so many other vicious and venomous men. I will continue to pray for him. Will you please do the same?"

"Of course!" he bellowed confidently, his breath short from his speech. I nodded to him in courtesy for his advice, though his words only brought me more pain. It stung every time I heard my son compared to the embodiment of evil itself, to such a detestable creature. But I had unwittingly grown accustomed to it. What a horrible thing it is for a mother to have grown accustomed to hearing one's own child called the devil.

"One more thing," he said, before I walked from the shop. I turned to him one last time, exhausted by his talk. "You will one day be unafraid to show us your face. I know it!" Smiling at him, I nodded for, hopefully, the last time. I was desperate to leave.

I allowed the words I would not say to surface to the forefront of my consciousness. 'I will show you who I am when you meet my son. For no words will be there left to say when you see who my awful, cruel, devil of a son is.'

*****

Upon exiting the shop, I walked for several blocks.

Down the street I stood, waiting for the carriage to come. The cold night blew through my dress, its hem dancing round my heels. This spot looks so different at night with no one around.

The empty street caused me to sigh as I rethought my talk with Father. If only he knew what a sinner I truly am. Staring across the road at the furniture store, I frowned. The church which was now underground had once been in that very building.

It was not a very big church, there were only five pews on each side of the church, and there was no vestibule either. It was small, but it was beautiful, simply beautiful. The white walls and colorful windows set an array of lights shining on the Eucharist when it was raised for the blessing. The stations of the cross were painted with simple colors and made of wood. However, the incredible craftsmanship made them astonishingly lifelike, instilling deep and powerful feelings which truly allowed the congregation to grasp hold of the importance of the event they portrayed.

It was a beautiful little church. My church.

I still remember standing here, my son himself pulling me back. Holding my arm, he forced me to watch them take each sacred object, smash, burn, and utterly destroy them. He did not blink or utter a word against my furious struggles to save the tabernacle. All those who tried were themselves thrown into the fire, and so he held me by his side, to witness this... this...this damned "great step towards the future," as he called it. But such a terrible thing was nothing short of murder and the gravest sin of all.

Not all was lost that day though. Father Bart was one of those thrown into the fire, and he miraculously survived! Taking the tabernacle, he somehow broke through the line of soldiers and was lost in the masses of people gathered there.

One could say the little church lives on under the flower shop, for the tabernacle it once held lies underground there as well. Its holy gifts are given to more people than the little church could ever have hoped to help. When I think of the increased patronage, I begin to see God's plan. I begin to understand why he let my son become the way he is now. In his destruction, many people found themselves driven to seek God, an unmoving truth in the ever growing world of lies Merek was building as his kingdom. My heart feels a tad lighter when I think that someone is saved through my son's rule, though it becomes heavy once more when I realize they are saved as a result of his cruelty.

A carriage of fine horses accompanied by a well dressed coachman halted in front of me. Opening the door, I did not smile at the man. I learned a long while ago that he would never smile back. Crawling into the carriage, its dark innards familiar to me now, I crept into my seat. And for a moment I let my walls drop. Removing my hood, I permitted the cool night air to blow through the open window. My hair twisting around my ears, I felt refreshed as the wind kissed my cheeks.

'What a luxurious life I have,' was the thought that always came to me during such fine moments. However, another thought would always creep into my mind shortly after the first, 'at what a heavy cost it comes.'

While peering out the window, I spied a peculiar old woman walking by herself, a feeble demeanor about her. She limped oddly, a crooked cane barely holding her up. "Halt!" I cried to the driver. The horses grunted in protest as he pulled on their reins. I jumped from the carriage as it stopped. Without a thought, I ran to the old woman. "Dear Madam, where are you going so late at night by yourself? Please allow me to offer you a ride back to your home."

With old eyes the woman smiled, "That would be kind." I smiled back in return. Guiding her across the street, I eyed the worried looking coachman so he would help her into the carriage. "Where do you live, Madam?"

"On Willow-Forest will do just fine," she replied gently. "It is where the old bakery used to be, the one called just that, _Ol' Bakery._ A silly name really, but it was a darling shop. It's been many years since it's closed, well over a decade." Shouting the street out to the driver I nodded softly at the mention of such an old place, of such an old name.

"Yes, I knew of it well." I smiled at the name of my Father's shop. "Madam, that place is very far away. Why would you walk so far this late?"

"I could ask the same of you," she said winningly, her soft eyes not leaving mine. Her wisdom was shown clear through her wrinkles and worn clothes. Yet the sparkles in her eyes were bright and seemed to laugh like a child's.

I nodded to the woman in respect as she kept her eyes on me. "Did you ever know the owners of the bakery?" she asked. I nodded at the seemingly harmless old woman. "Indeed, I did. They were good people."

"They were," she whispered. "The accident was a shame." She quietly looked away for the first time just as I did. "It was indeed," I mumbled. I knew a response was necessary to wave suspicion from me. Leaning back so that my face was hidden in the shadows, I hid the pain its mentioning had brought upon me.

Our eyes were averted from each other, and she continued, "It really was a shame. They were such lovely people, good in their trade as well. I went there once or twice a week."

"Did you really?" I tried to hide my discomfort on the issue through a tone of curiosity. Why was this woman speaking of such things? Is it really just an old woman's ramblings? Yes, that must be it. That _must_ be it.

"Yes, very often I would go to it. The owners and I became good friends. They had the most adorable little girls you know." She paused, her eyes coming back to me. She could not possibly know! "But," continuing in a hesitant voice, her tone became low, "when my husband died, their store became too, well, above my standards. I would still go there now and again to hear about their daughters and the lovely young man the youngest had gone off with. They say the poor man died, and that the little girl, who'd once run so freely about the shop, had become a mother herself, if you can believe it! And they say that she and her child were left alone. That is until her son went off to war, never returning."

It frightened me how much this woman knew of me. And as the moon reflected its light upon her face, she appeared more and more familiar.

"I felt so bad for the poor soul when I heard about her parents passing on because of that fire. I just couldn't bear to think of the poor dear alone with nothing. I'd have given her something if I'd anything to give, but as you have heard, my husband had passed and I needed to support my own children at the time." Sighing, she smiled. "It is good now since my children are grown and no longer need their poor old mother anymore."

I nearly cried at these words, in both resounding joy and crushing agony. "My boy still keeps me by his side," I laughed. "He cannot seem to let go of me."

"That is not a bad thing, dear. I wish my children would care for me like that."

I shook my head at the old woman. "It is much better for them to grow up."

"Indeed it is," she nodded, as the carriage rolled to a stop.

As the coachman was jumping from his seat, I smiled with the old woman once more, and from one mother to another, I could feel her sympathy towards me, and I knew she felt mine towards her. Again, the thought struck me when she slowly stood to get out of the carriage, she looked so familiar.

Replaying her story over and over again in my head, I tried my hardest to recall who she was. As the coachman opened the door, the clouds parted for the moon, which shined brightly on the old woman, now standing in the little familiar street. Her dress I now saw was a faded pink and her shawl a dirtied cloth, once white most likely. Her curly gray hair and soft hazel eyes all shouted to me in a strange way. It was not until she smiled once more with the wooden stick of a cane in her hand and the copper ring on her finger, that they all rolled together.

I know who this woman is.

"Mrs. Reylina?!" I gasped at how aged she was. I raced to the old woman, brimming with joy at me, and embraced her in a hug. "Oh how you have grown!" she patted my back softly.

Pulling back from her, my eyes were wide. It seemed impossible that this was _that woman_ , the woman I had known so long ago. But the closer I looked at her features the more they mimicked that once tall and beautiful lady. She had indeed come to our store twice a week! Her husband was a carpenter, the very one, in fact, whose grandfather had made the wooden statues that were once hung so beautifully in the little church. This little hunched lady was nothing like she was in her prime, but her eyes were indeed just as bright as they were then. And her hair just as curly, though faded from its dark brown to its now silvery-white.

"I remember this dress," I told her. "It was once a bright fine pink! And this shawl was a spotless white! Why, where has your hat gone, Mrs. Reylina?"

"Away!" she waved her hand. "My youngest granddaughter holds it now, with her own brilliant pink gown and spotless white shawl, which her own children will no doubt someday dirty, and which she too will cherish all the more when they do." Smiling at the old woman I nodded at the thought, "I too am a grandmother now; though I know I do not look it. I have a grandson. My son named him after my late husband."

"Yes, yes, I hear of you and your son and his family often." Frowning, I stepped back from her, the joy of motherly conversation fleeing from me. "I wish my child was different," I whispered. "I know I should have raised him better, but it is so hard on one's own. I can only imagine how it must have been for you. Oh, it must have been so much more difficult with —hmmm. How many did you have? Four? Five?"

"Seven," she corrected with a heavy brow. "Indeed, it was difficult, but I put them all to work and they've developed into fine people." I hung my head at this. "Oh, how I wish I could say the same for mine! But at least I—" I bowed my head. "I am sorry for putting myself in your presence. I know it must be simply horrid to talk to the mother of such a person."

"No, no dear," she patted my back softly. "You did your best with what little you had. Your parents, I know, could not help you to raise the child as they themselves were struggling with their health before the accident, and you were but a child! You cannot blame yourself for what has befallen your boy. It was the war! That is the true horrid thing. It takes and takes and what it gives back, you cannot stand to see anymore. I know this as well. Three of my sons and four of my grandsons joined the war. I lost one of my sons and three of my precious grandchildren. The ones that returned were changed men, and they even support your son's campaign and ideals."

Covering my face with my hands, I looked at Mrs. Reylina. "But they themselves did not do what my son has done. They did not change the world for the worst in such a cruel and heartless way! They did not imprison you! Kill your only family, or even tear away the ones you had left!"

With that she slammed her cane to the ground. "Indeed, they did not!" she boomed, "but that does not mean you or I were any less good mothers than we truly were!"

I bowed my head to her, I knew not what else to do.

"I am sorry," I whispered. Her shaking breath calming, she sighed. Her eyebrows lifting in pity, her words were gentle once again, "We can only guide them as mothers to the right way. We cannot protect them from the world and all its awful horrors. If we could, then we would not have all these stupid wars. And death, I believe, would be much rarer. Do not hate or blame yourself for something you could not possibly have prevented."

"Thank you," I whispered. She smiled softly, nodding to me.

"Excuse me," the coachman interrupted awkwardly, "It is time we return."

"Oh, yes!" I gasped, forgetting the place and time. I turned once more to her, "Thank you for your comforting words." I smiled as I touched her hands. "Let me buy you a new cane will you? It is unfit for you to—"

"No, thank you, dear, this was my husband's, and I like to keep it. All I ask is that we may perhaps speak with each other as casually as we did in the carriage not too long ago."

"Madam!" the coachman shouted from the door, annoyed and almost frantic.

"Yes, yes, hold the horses!" I mocked playfully "We will surely do so again someday. Goodbye for now, old friend."

As we drove off, I peered back at the woman, whom I had once known as a child. Smiling at such an encounter, I can only hope her words will give me strength to face the demons that reside within me and those that revel within my son.

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### Chapter 10

I was not allowed to leave the castle.

Someone had seen Mrs. Reylina and me speaking. Thankfully, they did not know her, but of course they knew me. They spread some story about me, which I never really heard about, because as soon as someone would begin to tell me, my son would glare so intensely at them they dared not speak any further. All I know about the matter was that I was made out to be doing something improper of my place, which caused my son to scold me. He surprisingly kept his temper in check when reprimanding me, though his eyes did blaze.

Weeks went by, and then months. The restrictions on where I could go and when I could go there increased more and more. It must have been due to the rumors. At the end of the second month, I could not go to town for any reason, not disguised nor otherwise, which meant I was incapable of attending mass. And so not only was my body trapped in the castle, but my very soul! I longed for the precious sacrament! I longed for it to heal me, to fill me, to give me the graces to live on in this terrible prison! But such a gift, my soul received not.

*****

When the season for political matters came around, I was forced to stay within the private quarters of the palace. As the gossip spread even to the guards outside my own door, Merek forbade me from even leaving my room. Whether his actions were taken to hide his shameful mother or to protect me, which I doubted, this stifling seclusion was all the more excruciating with his silence on the matter. More than the maddening seclusion, I realized through this incident that I truly was powerless against my son. If he told me to go, I went. If he told me to stay, I stayed. If he told me to hide, I hid. When he told me to seclude myself to my quarters, I did. His utter control over my every action made me realize, all the more, that I had neither the strength nor the courage to stand against my own son. And most likely, I never would.

*****

The scenery never changed outside my window. The seasons affected the evergreen trees very little. The only significant event I ever saw through it was the sun's rising, part of which was blocked by a tower across the way. I tried to ease my boredom through books, which had been returned to me upon my imprisonment.

Literacy being one of the skills I was taught when I had first arrived, I quickly found that they too failed to interest me. The stories simply repeated themselves or were on unappealing matters such as war, or painful matters, which both began and ended in tragedy. I had heard from a maid that tragedies were becoming quite popular in the city. I cannot understand why. It is incomprehensible why anyone would enjoy having their heart torn out by such depressing tales. Life is hard enough as it is, why would you want to cause yourself more suffering? Truly the popularity of these tragedies was inconceivable to me. Although they were not satisfying, I was still very grateful for each and every book, for literacy opens up so many doors to the mind.

What a shame that the price for this gift is the closing of one's own self. For as one reads these remarkable works, they are swept away into another world. Dull or exciting, depressing or joyous, it matters not, for the world is still not one's own. When one is swept away by the words of another, entering the pages of wisdom or fantasy, they often leave their own world behind, losing themselves in a false reality. As nasty and beautiful as gift books are, they are both a great privilege and a great curse. They give us so much knowledge yet distract us from the people and world around. When one-

What am I doing?

Thinking of the goods and evils of literature? Blaming it for the world's success and failures? How foolish of me. In truth, literature is an incredible gift to humanity; I am just unable to appreciate it fully. I guard myself against it, afraid to let it enter my heart. I have no more room for it or anything else. Not right now. Right now, I- I am- I am trapped. I am prisoner to this room, to these books, to this chair by this window, to that man. To that terrible violent man!

What useless distractions! I can deny it no longer! This misery is much too close to my heart to be this heavy.

This pain in which I endure cannot fully be described in words. It is the type of pain that exhausts a person without the person having to do anything. It is a pain which stretches you to your limit; but when you reach your breaking point, the pain eases, and for a while you feel nothing. However, that nothingness longs to be filled, and when you try to fill it, the pain rushes back upon you, fiercer and harder. This pain is more than simple boredom; it goes beyond dreadful loneliness and utter seclusion. It is a pain of starvation, of longing to be filled by something greater than oneself! We all have it, we all long for it. But it is only now that I realize that this spiritual starvation could torture me as it does.

Yes, it is as I said before, it is my soul! My soul is thirsty for Love! It hungers for His 'life giving bread and saving cup!' The seclusion is dreadful and the boredom excruciating, but this lack of nutrition for my soul is devastating!

I have heard of many, from peasant to queen, who suffer in persecution from lack of this spiritual nutrition. However, one truly only knows the pain when one experiences it for oneself. How dreadful and depressing it is!

This room, this dreadful, beautiful room appears to me ever smaller the longer I stay here. The single thin window, stretching ever higher upward, gives me the feeling of the bars to a cage.

"Like a bird with good wings, I am trapped in this tiny cage, with only my voice to express my suffering, and even that is not heard," I spoke to my son, who had come to visit me for the second time today.

"You must understand it is your own folly that has caused your suffering," he told me with no sympathy in either his eyes or voice.

I stared out at the courtyard below. The soldiers bellowed, talking joyfully while making their afternoon patrols. Clearly acting against military disciplinary regulations, the soldiers did not always hold the respectable front that all soldiers were expected to possess. This thought almost made me smile, smile at their joy, and even laugh at my own pitifulness. I looked up past the towers at the evergreen trees with their endless pointy hats, so orderly arranged and neat and perfect and wild and, of course, free.

"Yes, I am but a bird in a cage with good wings and an unheard voice. Here, in this little place I am held, with no one to come to me but the maid who brings me food to eat, and my son." I turned to Merek, who now knelt next to me, my hand once again forced to touch my captor's face. "My son is the little boy who has imprisoned the bird, prodding and poking me with a stick from outside the cage." I kissed his forehead.

"Is that how you see me, Mother?" he asked pressing his lips to my hand. Without any expression that could hint to the true emotions which burned in my heart, I stared down at my son. The only sign of my struggle was a blink, which resulted from the strain of forcibly beating down these ravished emotions.

"Did you know, Mother, very few know your face?" his eyes searched mine for something. I tried so hard, but I knew I could not guard against him. I did not know what he searched for, but I was sure by the look in his eyes that he had found whatever it was. "I still find myself incapable of restricting my emotions towards you, Mother, and you seem to be growing thinner and paler the longer you stay in this place." His voice was flat as he said these things, but I found no correlation with his words. "Perhaps," he stood, pacing slowly across the room, "we could come to an agreement of sorts?"

"Are you trying to be diplomatic with me?" I inquired, keeping the walls of my heart up, strong and true, sure of myself, that I could shield my heart to any sword he thrust at me.

What I did not consider, however, was which angle he would throw it from. What an unfortunate mistake that was.

He paused, mulling over some thought; he winced his eyes, fighting back a smile. As I leaned forward to see such a rare event, he snapped it back to an emotionless line. "I am simply trying to promote both our interests. I believe we can connect them both, solving our problems."

"What are you saying?" I stood, wary of his muddling mind and slow dialect, neither of which were ever promising signs. He continued to pace in silence for what seemed like hours, though it was only a few seconds. He reached for a book, his finger gliding across the encyclopedia, it stopped for a moment, along with my heart. He then continued his tracing of the books spines. Pulling a greenish one from the lot, he flipped through its pages.

"I believe we can both benefit from your departure. No one knows your face very well, so I believe you will have few troubles. You will be free, and I will be rid of you and the emotions you instill in me, particularly the one I abhor most of all. The feeling of..." He stopped. Coming to his desired page, he pressed his finger to a word. Peering at me from above the book, he let out a deep sigh, "You know too much of me, you could ruin my reputation." I felt revulsion at his choosing his own prideful image over his mother's happiness and freedom. "That is why I have found a gentleman who excels in this art." He held the book out to me, keeping his finger on the word.

Pulling the book closer, I read it aloud, "H-yp-nosi-s?"

"Hyp-no-sis," he corrected.

"What is that?"

"I shall show you." Without another word, he snapped his fingers. As he did, the doors opened quietly, and a thin little man scuttled in from behind them. He smiled softly at us and bowed. Before he could open his mouth to speak, Merek shot a glare at the door. Nodding with fear in his eyes he closed it softly.

Bowing once more, he smiled broadly, peering over his spectacles with intense gray eyes. "I am Dr. Ernesten Vistmers," he said timidly, inspecting me carefully with his large round eyes. "You must be his highness' mother." He bowed and kissed my hand. "P-Please have a seat." He gestured towards the chair behind me. "It is best you be seated when such a procedure is done."

"What procedure?!" I barked, turning to Merek. "What are you going to do to me?" In silence, he simply nodded to the physician. Grabbing my arms he forced me to sit in the chair.

"No! No! Stop it! What are you going to do? Tell me! Tell me Merek!" Finding him unresponsive, I shot a look of urgency at the doctor who seemed fascinated by me. "Doctor?!" I cried, "Doctor, please tell me!" My son tightened his grip on my arms. His gaze strong, he nodded to the pale man.

"It is called hypnosis. It can be used to get information, to make someone believe something that is not true, and even suppress memory. The process of hypnotizing is not a painful one. However, if you try to break it, it can be painful. Such cases usually occur only when someone has been hypnotized and recalls something awful that was suppressed. Such cases are few and very rare. You should be fine, madam. I am the best hypnotist there is. I can make just about anyone forget, believe, or divulge just about anything. Of course, the patient must be willing. That is the tricky part, to convince them that they really want to believe what I'm telling them. Though of course I have become a master of this art as well. Though I may not appear it, I know how to make you want to forget. Though I do not think you will be a difficult case."

His confusing words spun round in my head. "What are you speaking of? Forget? Believe? What sorcery do you use? Are you a witch of some sort? Some devil's advocate?"

Laughing at my franticness, he shook his head, "Dear God, no, good woman! I am a scientist of sorts. I study the brain. Hypnotism is a way of-" He thought for a moment, "It is a way of making you believe something else, and also a way of suppressing other things. For your case, I will only be using the latter, as I don't believe any more will be required for what his majesty wishes." He bowed to Merek, who stood silent behind me.

"You plan to make me forget?" I whispered. The physician nodded in excitement. "What am I to forget?" He opened his mouth to speak, but I could tell by his expression that Merek had shot him a vicious sneer of some sort.

His hands tight on my wrists, he bent down and whispered into my ear, "I will have him take all that causes you pain away. All the sorrow, all the loss, all the death, I shall destroy them for you. You will no longer have to suffer. I will no longer have to bind you here. You can be free, mother, because you will know nothing. Is that not your wish? To be free?"

I said nothing. How could I? What was I to say? I hated the fact that he was forcing me to run from pain, but I knew he was doing it out of love and that moved me more than anything. My heart was torn between following my son's wishes, to giving into his "kindness" of sorts, and following the path that I knew to be true, that I knew was necessary and right.

"My son, you say you are to take away all my pain and suffering, but I do not wish for such a thing. I would rather suffer with my memories, both the good and the bad, than live on in joy and blissful ignorance knowing nothing of the truth. For I have told you a thousand times, son, the truth-"

"Mother, this is not a matter of choice." His voice was resolute and firm. "You will be happy whether you wish it or not, you will find joy, and you will live out your life with this 'truth' of yours somewhere else! Make some other pitiful and weak soul find hope! I no longer need you! I never needed you! I was simply over emotional, giving into my greed and pain. I needed your comfort, the warmth of your hand, the soothing sound of your voice. That is all I wanted. But as the years passed, I saw that you were the reason I could not fully expel such weaknesses, and so I have decided to satisfy us both. You can live as free as you want, and I can rest assured knowing you are free, and that I am free of you. I thought I needed you because you were at one time my strength, but now you have become my weakness, an unnecessary liability." Pausing for a moment, he grunted in a low voice, "Do your work." The physician nodded, pulling out a strange object that hung from a chain.

"No!" I cried looking up towards Merek who stared down at me, his cold eyes piercing through me. "Merek, you know that your words are not true! You need me! You need me because you are weak, because you are in pain, because you feel! You are human, Merek, and we all need that one person to lean on, to comfort us! You will only experience more pain by casting away the person who brings you comfort and love!" As I struggled to pull away, he tied my arms to the chair. "No! No! Stop it!" The physician began to move the pendulum, chanting some strange ritualistic sounding words I could not make out. He tapped his foot in a rhythmic beat, a peculiar ticking noise came from the strange object which hung from the chain and boomed in my ears. Was it a clock? Again it ticked, and again, and again, the ticking slightly off from the beating of his foot. I could not hear his words. They were unclear and foreign to my ears. I felt my consciousness beginning to fade.

No! I will not go now! I will not! Closing my eyes I turned my head away from the man and his strange clock. With a large firm hand, Merek grasped my chin, forcing my head to face the man. "Look!" he barked, but I did not. I will not! However, I could not shake or scream in my absolute protest, for my arms were bound and my jaw was in his grasp. "Mother, it is all for the future! Both yours and mine! Now, look!"

Releasing my jaw, he forced my eyelids open, stretching them wide with his fingers, it hurt to squirm and shake my head. I fought back the tears, which unwillingly spilled from my eyes. "You know nothing of what is best for the future! You do not know anything of good! All your actions up till now have proven that! All the horrible and awful things you have done!" I cried as my energy began to drain from my struggling, the strange watch's ticking growing louder and louder in my mind. The image of its swaying, pulsing through my head, all the rhythms, images, and words, murmured together in some strange symphony of sorts. They pulled my mind into unconsciousness, but before I drowned in that strange symphony, I whispered to my son the words I thought he needed to hear.

"Even though you have done so many horrible things and feel no need to reflect on such despicable actions, even though you have destroyed so many lives... I want you to know, I still recognize you as my son, and I—I—" My numb body had not the strength to say the rest.

The darkness overwhelmed me, a nothingness began to consume my heart. A thought came to me as all of this occurred. 'Oh, how I love him despite all that he has done!'

But this thought is strange to me now. Now, it has a peculiarity to it. Was it clear before? Was it true before? It must have held some meaning before.

What is before? There is only here and now, right? There is nothing more to that is there? What am I thinking? Who is he? Whom do I love? I love Jobel! Ah, yes, I love Jobel! But Jobel is not here in this place. The thought came to me: Jobel is not here at all. Pushing it aside, all the thoughts pulsed through my very being, taking up everything that I was. Of course Jobel is here! Maybe he is not here with me now, but he will be there. Where is there? Where is here? Where is he? Where could he have gone? Did he leave because of the things he has done, is _he_ the "he" in the thought? No, Jobel is a good man. It must just be a strange thought. Yes, a strange thought is all there is to it, nothing more.

What am I thinking? I forgot Merek! Merek? Oh! Merek is our son! Merek is the son of Jobel and I! Jobel and I will raise Merek and.....

Where is Jobel? Where is Merek? My Father? My Mother? Where are they?

It is so dark. Where are you all? Sister? Nephew? I have a nephew? Oh yes, my sister had her first child last spring, was it a boy or a girl?

'I like the youngest boy best!' a thought from within me cried, but that is peculiar. I thought she only had one. No, she was pregnant with the second. Was she?

"Sister!" I called out into the darkness, "Nephew! Mother! Father!" The darkness became more suffocating, my thoughts more confused, they jumbled around in my head in chaos.

"Jobel!" I called, "Jobel I need you!" With no reply, my loneliness overtook me. Although I knew my cries to my three-year-old child would serve me not, I called out for him anyway.

"Merek!" I shouted. Distressed by his lack of reply, I cried out once more, "Merek, where are you! Please come to me! Come to me, Merek! I am here! Merek!"

If only in this darkness I could shiver and weep, but the feelings of pain and confusion seemed to be the only things I could experience in this strange state. I could not move, I could not see, or hear, or smell, or touch...but I could speak, though I knew not where my voice came from. I could cry out from my pain, but I could shed no tears, nor feel them on my cheeks if I did. What a truly miserable place this is. And so I waited here, and for some odd reason, my little boy's name ceaselessly echoed through my heart and mind. It was so painful that I could not contain it, and so I moaned in silence, for that was all I could do. Lowly and mournfully, in pain and sorrow, my heart gently called out for my little boy.

But in the silence, no answer was heard.

"Oh, my Merek, I pray you are safe, wherever you may be!"

Return to TOC

### Chapter 11

A gentle breeze kissed my cheeks, the sun's beams hailing from above. The birds chirping could be heard not far off, and though it was a common sound, for some reason, I felt as if I had not heard it in a very long time. Reaching my arms to an unfamiliar sky, I sat up. I was in a place of flowers, lying on a strange, weather torn mattress. "A field?" I whispered, combing my fingers through the flowers.

Branches cracked behind me as the soft earth pulsed with the approaching beating of feet. Easing my head back down, my weary eyes opened just enough to see little feet race by from the glimmering darkness of brown and green behind me. Nearly tumbling from the sight of me, the boy stared in awe. His cheeks glowed red; he stiffened while I spoke to him.

"Where am I?" I asked, but he said nothing. His dirty face and, well, just about everything else, simply stood there, paralyzed by me for some strange unknown reason. Sitting up slowly to talk to the boy, a sudden pain shot through my skull. Dazed by it, my hands slipped on the dew covered grass and I fell back onto the mattress.

Without a word, the boy flew back over the little hill, his loud voice crying, "Father! Father!" as his little figure faded into distance.

I decided to let my eyes rest, against all better judgment, for the pain did not seem to be subsiding.

*****

When I opened my eyes once more, a little nose was in my face, big brown eyes bore down on me, and curly blonde locks brushed my cheeks. Behind her was a boy, and then another boy, three other girls moved in closer to investigate me, their eyes curious and probing. It was as if I was a foreign object, new and strange, a rare spectacle to behold.

"Back! Back!" ordered an authoritative voice. The children scurried away as a man wriggled his way through the crowd of children. As soon as I saw him, a big smile lit my face. It was indeed as they had said! A Father! His white collar and black suit illustrated the fact clearly.

"Ah, Father!" I smiled, trying to hold myself up in spite of my trembling arms and weakness. Once again the same pain shot through me. Peering at my wrist, which seemed to be the source of the pain, I intently examined the peculiar marks which were on them. "Wh-what is this?" Turning them around, I stretched them out, wincing at every spark of pain that flew through me. It was as if someone had grasped my arms so tightly as to bruise them. Frowning at the tender, discolored skin, I shook my head in bewilderment.

"Oh my, how did this happen?" the man, whom I was now was sure was a Father, asked, his light green eyes peering over his spectacles.

"I am not sure," I whispered, glancing at the bruises, a new pain overwhelming me, one which puzzled me more than the bruises themselves. It was a pain of the heart.

"Well," he smiled, "We can find that out later. Why don't you come inside for now? It's not good to stay outside in your condition."

I nodded and quietly tried to stand, but the pain shot through me again, greater than before. Catching my arm as I began to fall, the Father helped me to regain my balance, "Thank you, Father."

He smiled timidly, lifting me up from the ground. Again I looked to the sun, its light shining through the leaves of the trees behind me. The same peculiar feeling came over me: this common sight too felt odd to me.

Walking slowly through the thick thickets of flowers, the little children kept their distance, whispering and giggling as we moved farther away from the forest's edge, up out of the valley, and into another. The hills were many and stretched out over the land. The green fields between them were freshly dewed and filled with crops.

The sun shone down upon the Father, his hair glittering in its light. My heart felt warm and at peace with him, that is, until another peculiar thought touched my mind: 'What a joy it is to see a Father!' I do not know why such a thought came to me, but my confusion on its arrival only caused me more distress. And so I smiled to myself, and tried to lift my thoughts away from the unpleasant topic.

"We are in the farmland?" I inquired, peering out over the land as we reached the top of another hill.

"Indeed" the Father said, letting the summer winds twist his dark golden hair. I was surprised when I first saw him, he is quite handsome for a priest, and so young as well. It makes me wonder how he found the priesthood with such striking features. For a young man of his looks, it would not be uncommon for him to marry even earlier than I.

That notion triggered something within me, and before I knew it another thought raced through my mind. 'Where are Jobel and Merek? Why was I on the edge of a forest on an old mattress?'

"Excuse me," I pulled on the young priest's sleeve.

"What is it?" he smiled, turning away from the distant mountain scenery towards me.

"Do you know exactly where we are? I am afraid I am lost." I blushed.

"This is quite clear, madam. You appear to be from some flourishing city. I was wondering what someone such as you were doing in such a little place as this. Especially as to why you would find our old, thrown-out bed a suitable nap place." Puzzled, I tilted my head, "Why, I am but from a little town, nothing magnificent."

"Pardon me, madam, but the fine material you wear would vouch otherwise." Looking down, I gasped. "Wh-what is this?" I pulled at the fine silk, its bright rich tone of red shining brilliantly in the sun, "This is not something I could ever afford!" I spun around in shock, practically forgetting the pain of my bruises. "Not even a strand of this could I ever hope to afford! My husband is just a feeble cobbler in a little town, and he has to feed not only himself but both my son and I! There is no way we could ever raise enough to buy anything this extravagant! We live in a two room little house, well, we have a washroom as well, but that is too small to count." I examined the fine jewelry and rings that decorated my hands and neck. They were pearls and silver and gold! The only familiar thing on me was Jobel's ring, and even that appeared to me an oddity.

I felt even more faint upon this discovery. Nearly falling in place, the Father caught me once more, "You seem to have quite a story to tell. Come, you can stay with me and the children for a while." He directed my attention towards a small little cottage that lay just at the top of the next little hill.

"Thank you for your kindness."

"That is what we do," he beamed at me. As we walked up to the little house he told me about it. It was an orphanage, and he and all the children lived there. They grew their own food, and because this land was cheap, they only had to sell half their crops to keep it. This meant they had a lot more money and food than most orphanages. Still, life was tough in the country with so many mouths to feed.

"So what do you do with all the extra money?" I asked him, "Well, we spend it on medicine. You see even though we make so much extra money, most of it is spent calling in doctors and buying medicine from the town. Many of the children come to this orphanage because their parents cannot afford to pay for their medicine themselves."

"I see." I stared at the ground and thanked God that Merek had not been born with any such illness. Entering the little house, I was amazed at how much larger it was on the inside. It had two floors, as well as an attic and a cellar that were both small, although the Father said he still considered them floors. Boasting that the orphanage was more of a mansion than the little house it really was.

"Do you not have a chapel?" I asked him. He shook his head as the little children crawled over to him and ran about. One little girl even came and snuggled close to me. I placed my arm around her and smiled. "Why, you do have mass, do you not?"

He nodded but was hesitant as he did. "We do, but we cannot have a chapel. Not many come out to the farmland, so they do not see me in my robes and garments. However, there is a road at the bottom of the other side of the hill, and a giant cross would not go unnoticed. I can't let the King's dogs come to this place. Where would the children go?"

I looked at him queerly. "What do you mean? The King has never persecuted any religion that I have ever heard of. Is he not religious himself?"

He and all the children became silent, an air of seriousness lingering about the room. "You don't know?" the little girl next me whispered, her big brown eyes peering at me with fear.

I stared at her in confusion, "King Lertzen has always been a decent ruler I thought."

All the children gasped at this, a few of the elder one's began to cry, and the younger one's looked to their elders with distress and bewilderment.

The boy who I first saw when I awoke stood, "Are you stupid lady?" he rudely blurted.

"Mitch!" the Father barked at him. The little boy bowed his head. "But how can she not know about him? Doesn't everybody know King Lertzen is dead?"

My heart stopped for a moment. "What do you mean? He was not sick was he?"

"No," the Father whispered harshly, glaring at Mitch who seemed to be holding back a scream, his face flushed in anger. "He was dethroned and killed," the priest said, keeping an eye of warning on Mitch.

Shaking my head at all of this-this madness, I barely found the words to speak. "Wh-When? Was it recent? I have not heard of this at all!"

"Just where are you from?" the Father inquired in his gentle manner, patting my arm as he did, his eyes progressively growing more concerned.

"Vertensburg," I said, wincing as all the children, and even Father, stared at me dumbfounded.

"You must have some type of memory lapse," he whispered, a grave look on his face.

"Why is that?"

"Vertensburg was made the capital about nine years ago."

"Nine years!" I shouted, running towards a water closet we had passed upon entering the house. Hopping over the children, I stumbled and fell, but I did not stop, I refused to! I pulled my shaking body up from the cold wood floor. I had to see if it was true, I must know! Finally, I made it to the door. Opening it with more force than necessary, I opened it to meet my eyes, frail and carved with worry lines. The sight of myself in the mirror shocked me enough to allow a scream to rip through me. How could I not cry out? How could I do nothing when one day I thought myself to be a young girl, and another an old woman? I did not look awfully aged, but I was so very aged, nonetheless!

Rushing back through the door to the room filled with children, I stopped before I ran into any of them again and stood in shock. Where was I running? What good would it do?

The Father came to me and held my shoulder tight in an attempt to comfort me. The children who had rushed after him peered warily around the corner; they were frightened by my fearfulness. "Why, I look to be nearly forty! Was it only nine years? I was just turning nineteen not long ago! What has happened to me? Is this some curse or evil spell?" I nearly fell to my knees, but the Father held me up. Taking me back into the room, he laid me down on one of the children's cots. My feet dangled off its edge.

"Just what has happened?" I sobbed into my arm like a child. Patting me gently, I could see through his motion the Father's sympathy for me.

The children gathered round the cot as I started to question myself, my thoughts twisted and frightening, I felt in my heart that I was distant from everything and everyone I knew. "Where is my husband? Where is my son? Is he now a grown man? Does he have a family? Is my Jobel doing well? Is he worried about me? Where are my parents? Do they still run the bakery or have they long retired? What of my sister? Has she had her second child? A third? Or maybe even an eighth by now? She always wished for a big family." The tears flowed steadily down my cheeks. I was incapable of holding them back any longer.

Continuing to pat my hand, the Father breathed calmly. He spoke with confidence "Do you remember your name at least."

I nodded to him, "My name is Rosetta."

"Anything more, Rosetta?" he whispered kindly.

"I married four years ago, well longer than that I suppose. My husband was a cobbler named Jobel. We had a little boy with the most beautiful smile, his eyes were a rich dark brown." This thought stabbed my heart for some reason, but I continued. "His hair was also brown, and I remember how tiny his little hands were. He laughed and smiled all the time. He was a brilliant little boy as well. He was only three, but he never failed to excel past the other children his age, whether in religious studies or children's games, he was always the best." I held my hand to my heart. "How I miss my little Merek."

"Merek?" the same boy, Mitch, I think it was, spat out the name. "Why would you name him that?"

"Mitch!" the Father snapped. Kicking his shoe against the old wooden floor, Mitch grumbled something garbled under his breath.

"Go on," the priest smiled.

"Yes, well, I lived with them in a little two room house with one water closet. My parents were bakers. My sister was married and had a child. She was about to have her second, I believe. I suppose you heard most of my life during that episode earlier, I am terribly sorry for the trouble." The priest shook his head, "It is fine, what is the last thing you remember?"

"Well," I smiled. "I remember Jobel was," I paused, a pain struck through me as I spoke. "I think he was out," a tear rolled down my cheek. "I am sorry. I do not know why I am crying. I just cannot seem to stop the tears from flowing."

"If it is too painful, than you don't have to tell us." Father smiled, the patting of his hand to mine was increasing in force and pace as I continued. "N-No, I do not remember anything painful at all. My life was not perfect. I was not rich, but I was not destitute. I survived, getting by with my husband. I had many friends in the town. There was the flower shop owner, and Mrs. Reylina, and all the other customers I met at the shops and the bakery and the church. Ah, Father Bart as well! The tears flowed even more rapidly. "I-I am sorry. I just cannot stop them, but I do not understand why. I do not remember any of my memories being anything other than joyous, and yet-"

I gritted my teeth. "It is all right, Rosetta. May I call you that?" I nodded to him. "Your memories must have been suppressed by some strange means. My name is Father Quetell, and I know Father Bart."

"You do?" I shot up, wiping my tears. "Yes, he is still practicing, but in secret. He works underground in a little flower shop. He suffered some serious burns a few years back, but he is doing well even so."

"How did he receive the burns?" I gasped, "Are they bad?"

"Oh, don't worry. Don't worry. He's fine as I said. You know him. He's a strong soul." Chuckling softly at a distant thought, his countenance changed. Lowering his head, his smile weakened, and his eyes took a mournful look upon them. "It happened in this way: The King, the new one, that is, was destroying all the holy objects. A cruel man, he forced the followers to watch. Anyone who tried to save anything was thrown into the fire, many people died. They were all trying to get one thing in particular, the tabernacle. In the turmoil, Father Bart somehow managed to sneak past the soldiers and save it. Even more remarkable than that, the tabernacle suffered no damage from the flames!"

"Amazing!" I shouted in awe, a sense of déjà vu overcoming me.

"Indeed," he smiled. "I would like to visit him again someday, but that little town of yours has become a very dangerous place, and so I believe I will wait a while before going to see him."

I nodded unaware of what he was talking about. "I wonder how it is today."

Shaking his head he frowned, "I'm afraid I only know a little from the few letters I receive from Father Bart, but they are cryptic and not very detailed. Sorry I cannot be of more help."

"You have helped me enough by taking me in like this, Father," I smiled

Blushing, the young priest coughed, "Yes, well, we have an extra cot in the attic. It's big enough to be a room, and could look quite nice with a good sweeping. How about you stay here until I can send someone to escort you back to your town? It will take a while, months, possibly a year. I'm sorry for the inconvenience, but all the religious are suffering from the new King's persecution. You can stay here and help me care for the children. That is, if you wish to. I can guide you to the next town tomorrow to stay at another place if-"

"This will be fine," I smiled. His bright eyes sparkling, the priest helped me up from the little cot, guiding me slowly up the stairs, with one or two of the children following close behind. Reaching the second floor, I was stunned to see all the tiny bodies in the beds, coughing and feeble. There truly were many sick children here!

One covered completely in bandages moaned as we passed by, his little hand reaching out to me. I gasped at the sight of him. "Mitch!" the Father yelled. The boy came racing up with a cup of water and tilted the wounded child's head up to drink. The bandaged child coughed in a fit, struggling to get the water down his throat. I could not bear to watch the scene! The priest scurried us past them when he thought all was well, and led me up the second flight of stairs.

The attic was dusty and small, but indeed it could function as a room. The tiny round window it had could also shed some light if cleaned.

"I hope this will suffice?" he asked, a bit embarrassed by its untidiness. I nodded, "Thank you, Father."

He turned to leave, but I called out to him once more. Turning around he tilted his head, "What is it Rosetta?"

"What is the name of the new King?" I had felt the question probing my mind from the minute he was mentioned.

Bowing his head, Father Quetell frowned. "Well," he sighed, "I know it sounds peculiar, but-"

I felt my heart racing and my breaths shorten as he said the name that cried out from within the depths of my soul.

"His name is the same as your son's. His name is Merek."

Return to TOC

### Chapter 12

I lay down on the cot. It was old and worn, not much different from the one I had at home, but I wonder why I cannot seem to find it adequate. Wait, these clothes that I am in are from someone of great wealth, perhaps I am now rich? But how? Did Jobel find a new career? Did Merek marry a rich woman?

Did Merek become the King?

The thought continually prickles my mind, toying with me, laughing at my ignorance of these lost years. It was as if my inner most being was laughing at me. "How could you forget something so awful?!" it cried, but I turned from it. Folding my hands, I looked up towards the low dark ceiling. "My son is not such a horrible man, is he, Lord?" I listened with all my heart, but the answer was only the throbbing within my soul. "I must find the truth for myself." Curling under the thin sheets, I shivered from the chilly night air that blew right through the old creaky window of the house.

This house is so very rickety and cold. The children here need someone besides the Father. They need a mother, someone to cook and clean and teach. They need me, probably more than my own family needs me. Though I know, or at least I hope, they miss me just as much as I them. But for now, I believe, this is my place. Yet, I miss them so much...

No. No, I must find my way home. But, yes. Yes, these children are in dire need of me at the moment. The image of the bandaged boy who had reached out to me flashed above all the thoughts and images in my mind, and so I know what I must do. As a Christian, I must not turn from those who need me, for thus is the duty of a Christian, the duty of a mother.

The next morning, I awoke with the shaking of the house, the sound of little feet and voices crashing together below.

When I saw the chaos of the room, below I nearly screamed. The children were running about, stepping on everything from food to each other. In anarchy, the young one's cried as the older one's tried to sleep longer by covering their ears with their tattered pillows. The sick ones were all laughing as the healthy ran about causing mischief, but the strain was too great on their little souls, and their laughs were repeatedly followed by harsh coughing fits or low moaning.

"What a sight! What a sight!" I cried out, clapping my hands together. All the children quickly grew silent. Turning my way, their big eyes looked to me for some profound words of guidance. My face flushing at such attention, I was astonished at their ability to focus on an adult without being told themselves. "Well," I said quietly, "Do any of you know where Father Quetell is?"

*****

"He went to town," said an older boy. It was Mitch, his eyes icy as he spoke to me. He wiped his dripping nose on his arm. "He went to talk to someone about getting you outta here as quick as possible. For the better, as I see it."

Holding my head high, I spoke "Thank you, Mich." I nodded, and his face turned beet red as I did. "Now, everyone, I would like to tell you something very important, so gather round." Scooting close together around my knees the children stared up in wonder. All their little dirty noses and bright eyes brought a smile to my face. It was a true smile. From deep within the very bottom of my heart, it came, from a place I knew well, yet it felt strange to me now. It was as if the feeling had been lost a long time ago. Oh, what joy they brought me, what true, blissful joy!

Truly I see why God loves his children so.

"What is it, Miss Rosetta?" the little curly head girl asked, her big brown eyes sparkling in curiosity, the entirety of her attention focused solely on me. What a tremendous feat for a child! She could not impress me more than with this advanced will to listen attentively!

"Well, you see children if you do not keep tidy than you will not get better. I know cleaning is difficult and tiresome, but a healthy environment is the first step necessary in the healing process. After all, what good is medicine when you are in a place that is, at the moment, a fine host for disease?"

"None too well, I suppose," the little girl said, her senses soaking up every word I said, every expression I fixed upon my face.

"Indeed you are right!" I patted her head, a warm smile lighting her rosy cheeks. "What is your name?" I asked, leaning down so that our eyes were level.

"Mary," she whispered cheerfully.

"And a fine name it is indeed," I said.

"Father named me! He raised me since I was this big!" She cupped her hands together to form about the size of an apple. I chuckled lowly and smiled, "He said that Mary was the mother of Jesus, and he said Jesus was _the bestest_ person ever!" She puffed up her chest and extended her arms wide to emphasize her point.

"This is true, this is true. He taught you well."

Nodding rapidly, she continued, "He said that because Mary was the mother of Jesus, she was the bestest mother ever, and that because I was named after her I gotta work to someday become the bestest momma I can be!"

"Do you not think yourself a little too young to be a mother?"

"No! No! I already got a baby!" she spun around, waving her hands around, "Everyone one here is my baby! Cause I take care of them!" Placing her hands firmly on her hips, she smiled with the smile only a child could master. Like a star on a moonless night, it shone brightly in this little place.

"You can't be my momma! I'm older than you by one whole year!" a little boy squeaked. Soon enough they were all arguing on who was older than whom and who was in charge of what. Laughing at their little tiffs, I was a poor example of an authoritative figure. Nonetheless, they all listened to me well enough.

"Now, Now! Calm down. How about we compromise? How about you all become my children, and no matter the age, we all look after each other?" With tiny little cheers, they ran into my open arms, toppling me over. A joy raced through my heart as all the children smiled and laughed as children often do. However, there were two that concerned me. The first was Mitch, who scowled in the corner, with his back to me. He said nothing, as he already begun to attempt to clean up after his many siblings. The second child was the bandaged boy who for some reason shed a tear at the sight of my smile.

Wrestling free from the children, I made my way to the bandaged boy. "We will care for you, too." I leaned over him, gently kissing his head.

Still for some odd reason he only cried more. "He is burnt!" Mitch scolded me. "Even though they are from years ago and have long since scarred over, if you touch the delicate burns, you will cause him great pain!"

"I-I am terribly sorry." I reached for him once more, but he drew away. "Can you please forgive me?" The single part of his pink little lips that were exposed quivered.

"He cannot speak, his vocal chords were damaged," said Mitch. "He may look small, but he is almost my age, I think. He looked under five when he came here. We came about the same time. He, like me, is a victim of the evil King." Looking down at his meek little friend, he frowned. "His family was burned in a fire by the King's soldiers, at least that was the story when he came here. Although he comes from the far west, not far from the capital, in fact, your home town as you claim, he somehow made it here to the central-southern lands," he scowled.

"We are that far!?" I gasped in awe. How did I get over 200 miles away from my home? What could have happened to me over these years?

"Yes," Mitch growled in annoyance, "His burns were so severe he got tossed around orphanages, none willing to pay for the cost of burn ointments and none willing to be the ones who would see him die. Father however did not only have the ointments but the heart to keep him." His eyes looked past me as he whispered, "He even put up with me." A little smile came to his face as he remembered some distant time. "Never mind that," he blushed. "Father is actually really smart! He learned how to use herbs and other natural medicines from the forest, so we don't have to always call the doctors. Somehow he supports us all." All the little children nodded in agreement.

"Well, I am sorry," I apologized once more to the child. "What do you call him?" I asked.

"Well, we don't know his name, and he can't tell us. But his hair is dark and-" he paused, "You don't mind if I tell her do you?" the bandaged boy shook his head slowly, the bottom of his eyes wincing in slight pain as he did. "Okay, if it's okay with you, it's good by me." Looking back to me with a scowl, Mitch crossed his arms. "I don't think you should know, but as I was saying, his hair is dark and his skin, the parts that aren't burned, were a tan color. He wears the bandages to hide his scars, only a few actually hurt when you touch them. Those that hurt are on his forehead, all of his left leg, and the bottom of his right foot, which is why he doesn't walk. The other burns somehow were not as severe. Right. So, based off all that we call him Jelb, for Just e-live barely."

"Correctly speaking, you would say, "'Just barely alive.' Alive is one word and starts with an A, not an E," I said.

"Yeah, well, 'Jba' just didn't make any sense. So, Father and I, who named him, fixed it up a bit. Before, we were gonna add vowels to 'GCHC,' which means God Carries His Children, to make that his name. We thought that suited him better, but we couldn't think of anything, so we thought Jelb was good."

I smiled, "Yes, well, I suppose it is." What an interesting little child Mitch is. He reminds me a lot of someone. Yet I cannot recall who. It was not Merek or a child from the town. So who I wonder?

My nephew?

I did not think he was old enough to have much personality yet. Was he?

As my head pulsed as it had yesterday, I pushed the thought aside. I do not wish for another painful distraction in this already confusing situation I am in. No, right now, I must teach and help these children.

Looking to their eager faces, I nodded to myself. Yes, I must make the best of this situation and be a good mother to them.

I must love, I must be patient, and above all else, I must have faith.

*****

"Have you all had breakfast?" I asked, turning to the kids who had gathered around. They all shook their heads to the side and cried out "No!" "Excellent! I shall make some. Now, what ingredients do you have?" I asked, as we walked gleefully down the stairs.

"We got a barn with hens!" said one of the children, hiding as he did. It was the first time he had spoken to me. "Could you please go gather me some eggs then?" He nodded. "I even know how to tell which ones got babies and which ones don't, so I'll be extra good at pickin' them!"

"That is marvelous! You must show me sometime so that I can be sure to pick the right ones when at the market." He nodded with apple cheeks and a giggling voice, as he raced out the door. Shooting her hand up, Mary strained her arm to get my attention, and when she finally did she shouted, "I will go help Augustus!" and without another word she dashed out giggling after the little boy.

Looking through the kitchen and the cellar I found the supplies to be low. There were only three loaves of bread in the cupboard and a few salted meats in the cellar. "Do we not have anything else?" I asked myself, not expecting a response or that one would come so quickly.

"We got corn in the field, but Father says that's only for dinner," a little boy said sweetly. Clearly a loving and respectful child, his eyes were pleading to me for attention as he spoke. "We also have strawberries, grapes, apples, potatoes, and some other stuff, but I don't know what it is. Father says some of it we aren't supposed to eat."

"Why, how did you get such a wonderful assortment of food?" I asked in astonishment. Even my market at home was lacking in such delicacies as those that this boy claimed to reside here.

"Father said he went to some great big place across the ocean, which is a lot of water he says." The boy held up his head with a smile, proud that he knew such valuable information. "He said he brought them here so that we could all eat healthy and good tasting foods, and they are really good! But I don't like potatoes!"

Laughing at the little boy, I patted his head gently. You should just be grateful that there is even food to eat; others out there have nothing and are starving as we speak. Why, I remember poor Merek and I were once poor and hungry, and how I would sometimes not eat because we were so-" I paused. Shaking my head, I began to stutter, "N-No, th-that is no-not right... It may have been only a lit-little, but the tw-three of us have always had enough t-to eat, we all..." My words had trailed off. What in the world am I thinking? Saying Merek and I, Jobel is always there, is he not?

"Miss Rosetta, are you okay?" the little boy's fingers shook as they tugged my dress. "Y-yes, I am sorry, my head had began to hurt a bit for some reason."

"What can we do to make it better," he voiced the question that all their little eyes mused. Forcing a painful smile, I mumbled softly, "You can go pick me a few of your strawberries." As he ran off, the other children filed in, taking his place around me. "What can we do? What can we do?" they all asked resoundingly.

Their big bright eyes helped to swell up the confidence within me. With an authoritative voice, I ordered them each to their own tasks, which they took on with joy and confidence, determined to accomplish whatever they were assigned.

Two were to pick up the trash on the first floor, and three were to do the same on the second. I assigned more to the second since it was much dirtier than the first. Three of them gathered all the clothes and sheets they could find, and it was clear by their curious little faces that they had no idea of my intention to wash them later. I sent four pairs out, one with a damp rag and another with a dry one to do their best to scrub any stains they found in the house. And if it could not be cleaned, they were to remember the spot and point it out to me later. I would be sure to get it! Two were also sent to gather all the dishes and cups, while a set of three stood by to wash and dry, and wash and dry. The final task was the collecting of the handmade toys that littered the floors and placing them all in a chest I had conveniently found at the foot of the bed in the attic. I told the children that this was necessary so that all the toys could be organized and have a place of their own, other than the floor where people could step on and break them. I showed each person how to do their job once, and before I repeated it, they all grinned and showed me that they needed no repetition.

When the little boy came back with a bucket full of strawberries, I patted his head. Each child brimmed as I did this to every single one as they each completed their tasks. The attention that these children so deserved was awarded: upon this boy, the children who brought the eggs, those that gathered the sheets, those that picked up the toys, and all the others who had worked so hard. Cleary God sent me here for this reason. It has not yet been a full day, but I can already see my purpose here unfolding according to His plan.

An older girl, older than most here at least, pointed out all the tools and ingredients for the kitchen. Before long, each child had two slices of bread, with some strawberry jam slathered on for flavor, and a side of half an egg, a quarter for the littlest ones. Like a large family, we crowded around three little round tables that had been stacked in the corner. Each child smiled brightly, even the burned child, who made it down the stairs after a while, with the help of a few friends, of course. He too shared in the radiance and joy of this little group of blissful children.

There was one, however, who stood out from the group. Mitch had not come to me to ask if I needed help, though he had been tending to those who were sick upstairs, so I did not need to give him a job. I was bothered by how he continued to act standoffish to me, cold and unwilling to participate in the activities with the other children. However, he did stick closely to Jelb.

He and Jelb seemed to have some type of connection, a very deep one that was difficult for the other children and even me, to understand. Whatever they had gone through must have been painful, and although Mitch showed no outward signs of wounds as Jelb did, I suspected there were just as many scars within him. Their pains may be different, but I think it is each of their pains that connects the two of them. I believe there is an intimate understanding between them for which no words are necessary to communicate. Nevertheless, this does not give them, or more specifically Mitch, the right to ignore his fellows and disregard anyone else besides Jelb. He does respect Father Quetell, that is clear, and he does help the other children as well. So, perhaps it is just me whom Mitch does not like.

I hope one day we can get along. I wish I could see that boy truly smile from the bottom of his heart, and for Jelb it would be nice to simply see him cured, without his bandages and burns. Though the latter is more a miracle than a wish, I would still like to see it someday.

After breakfast I taught the children how to properly wash their clothes and how dishes should be put away and organized. Father clearly had no sense of organization as the non-edible thing mentioned by the boy earlier as growing in the fields was cotton! And it was mixed in with the strawberries and grapes instead of having its own plot. Although it was difficult to harvest between the foods, I somehow acquired some of the cotton. Before long, I would teach them how to sew clothes and dolls. They would struggle, but each would make it through with their own bold will to succeed.

"Now, how about we all take a break? Go play and do what children do," I said as supper was ending and the day coming to a close. The house was clean, the clothes and dishes washed, the trash thrown away, and all the other miscellaneous objects were stowed. With resounding cheers, they all ran to different places, some outside, others upstairs, and some simply around me! Though they put up hard faces while working, they are children, and children will do what children will do.

Suddenly little cheers came from the door. "Papa! Papa!" one cried, as another shouted "Father! Father!" running to the door to meet the priest. His jaw dropped when he saw the tidy room.

"Well! Well! You have all been busy while I was away!" his big grin welcomed all the children to come and embrace him in hugs and kisses, their tiny arms stretching as wide as they could to grasp the priest. Although he smiled, his eyes were weary and showed that his travel was not an easy or a short one.

Looking him over from a few steps away, I saw he was not dressed as a priest but as a common peasant. "May you not even wear an outer rosary or your collar?" I asked. He looked at me with a heavy stare, "No, it is a dangerous country now, not the same as when you last remember it."

He trudged over to a large green chair. Slouching in it, he sighed, "I've talked to someone. They can take you to your hometown; however, they must contact many others before that journey. I am afraid to say that I will have to hand you to strangers that even I have not met. I hear they are good people, though, so wait a few weeks, and we shall see how it goes." Sliding his hand across his face, he shook his head and laughed, "I say a few weeks but it could take months. The King's guards have for some reason increased their numbers in this region. The rate of priests' arrests and the discovery of hidden religious factions have also increased. I just don't know how we are going to get through these times."

"Why, I have never heard such a depressing thing, Father! Are you not a man of God? What have you to fear when He is always with you?"

The priest laughed, "I suppose you are right, but a priest is still a mortal man, and even he fears death. Such is the fate that befalls any of the King's opposers who are caught."

"Why does the King hate religion so much?" I asked.

He shook his head in a hopeless motion. Rubbing his temples he sighed, "I do not know. Perhaps he blames God for something painful in his life. That would be the simple answer. Some say the man is just evil, hateful; they say he takes pleasure in the crushing of dreams and the destruction of all forms of hope. However, I still pray that these things are not true, that there is some superficial reason why he does the things he does. If it is for such a reason, than there is hope for the future, hope that he will change." He sighed once more. "But I know such prayers are for naught. The King appears to be truly hateful. His laws are precise and unflawed. The government has never been so well organized than under his rule! He is a clear thinker, if only he hadn't such a clouded mind."

I mulled on the Father's words. His name was Merek, just as my son, and it has been years since my last memory of him, most likely over a decade. I traced the lines on my face. Could he be my son? No, Merek was a name of more children than just mine. There are probably a few hundred of them out there.

And yet...

Sitting on a blanket at the foot of the chair I leaned back on a propped up pillow, "I know there is probably very little likelihood of the King being my son, for we were poor people as I said before, but my heart still hurts when you speak of him. I mourn for the mother who must have watched her son become such a hateful person as you tell me he is, and in the end, I mourn for myself." The children gathered round, resting their heads around me. They were silent, but their big weary eyes looked up at me in pity, consoling me with their tight little hugs.

I smiled at them, "Go, children, go and play now." I held back my tears.

"But-" a boy named Verdan quickly mumbled. "Verdan," I said gently, combing my fingers through his hair, "Please allow me to speak to Father Quetell alone." I tried my best to appear calm. Reluctantly, the children detached their little arms from me and ran out the door to play in the fields.

Father Quetell grinned, "You are much better with the children than I," he said. Lifting himself from the chair, he walked over to the kitchen, inspecting it for some scrap of food to hold him over for a while.

"Oh, no, they love you much better!" I shook my head. Lifting myself up, I walked towards the kitchen area. Slathering some strawberry jam on a piece of bread, I handed it to him. A gentle grin crossed his face, "But _I_ cannot do this." He shook the piece of bread and jam. "It is very simple. I can show you if you like." I began to reach for the leftover strawberries, but the Father laughed, and so I stopped.

"That is not what I mean." He sat back down in the chair. Chewing the bread slowly, he muttered something which I thought to be a compliment. "You yourself are a mother. You not only know the skills of how to raise a family, but you have the love to do so."

"W-Well, I-I know of no more loving people than priests!" I quickly stuttered. Blushing at the compliment, his honest eyes peered at me in wonder. They shined with wisdom beyond the young man's years.

"And I know of no more loving a person than a mother. A mother's love is the greatest gift a child can receive. And as you can see here, these sweet children, they have no mother, which they all so deserve. I cannot give them the love of a mother, and a substitute father's love cannot even come close to a mother's." He paused for a moment. With a look of conviction, he set his jaw tight. "Please," he whispered, hesitant to speak his mind. Reaching out for me, he held my hands with his, "Please, tell me you will stay."

I smiled softly, "Oh, Father, I wish I could, but I must eventually find what has become of my husband and boy. How did I come out here? Who am I now to be having such fine garments? I fear that perhaps I may not wish to know these answers, and that it would be a good and right thing to stay here forever. But, I really don't know." I smiled softly, looking out the window at the laughing children running about in the grass, the bright sun beaming down on them.

"I understand," he whispered under his breath, "It is only right that you be with your family, just as it is only right for them to someday have families of their own." He sighed with defeat, "But promise me, please, while you are here, will you please care for them as if they were your own? Would you, if only for a short while, teach them the love of a mother?"

"It is only just that I do so. As a woman, a Christian, a mother, and as one who has been saved by these children, I have a duty to do just that. I will give to them what my mother gave to me, and my grandmother to her. I will give them love, patience, and of course faith in a way that only a mother can give to her child. Although I am sure you are more capable than I in teaching them the last."

He nodded reassuringly to me, and we smiled at each other then. "Thank you" was all he said, and he retired to his room. It was on the first floor.

Return to TOC

### Chapter 13

Weeks would pass, and still no word would come from the person who was to take me home.

I saw a doctor come a few times though. I would wait downstairs with the other children as the doctor and Father went up to treat one of the sick children. Yelling would often be heard between the two; however, when they came down, they would be exchanging smiles and low laughs. He was a curious fellow, Father Quetell. Though a somewhat serious man, he was gentle and very kind, humble as well, despite his forwardness. Still, it was impossible to see his humility and not smile at him. He was such a man.

We had Mass occasionally; it was on the second floor so that we could hear if someone was coming to the door and pack up quickly if they did. It was also easier for the sick children to receive communion, the one thing Father could cook. He showed me how to make it, but always insisted on doing it himself, saying it was something he had always done and would forever do. Oh, how I must say he looked very fitting in his priestly garments, and though only two or three of the children were old enough to receive communion, he presented it so grandly in that room! I was appalled he had allowed them to have such a ceremony in the room as it was before. He told me they cleaned it when they could, but when they could not, God was forgiving. I could only agree with him on this matter. Indeed, God will be just in such circumstances, I suppose. Still we could try our best to make it somewhat chapel like, if only for a short while.

On the third Sunday night since I had arrived, I called all the children together. "Now, although it is disagreeable, the extra chest should not be the holy table. But seeing as there is little we can do about that matter for now, I propose we try our best to decorate the room next Sunday."

"How do we do that?" one of the boys asked. It was Verdan. I told him and the others about my hometown chapel. "It was not much bigger than this room, but oh how grand it was to me!" I told them of its simpleness, of the little wooden statues of the stations, and of the old wooden benches and Father Bart.

"We know Father Bart!" said Meryl, a little girl not much older than four. "He used to come here every two months, but we haven't seen him in a really, really, really, long time."

"Well, I hope he comes again that I may meet him."

"Actually," Quetell said, walking in, an opened letter in his hand, "He should be arriving sooner than we all think." As the children gathered round him, he handed me the letter.

"I cannot read, I am-" I began to hand the paper back to him but paused, examining the strange symbols. They came out in perfect words in my mind as I _read_ them? "Actually, it appears I have discovered a new skill. Apparently, I have learned to read. I suppose it is one of those many things I have forgotten."

Not in the least bit surprised, he nodded. "Read it," he gestured toward the paper. "Ah! But, before you do, I think it is only fair to inform you that I wrote to him about your being here. We both thought it would be better for him to guide you home than strangers. Our names are different and the letter coded—No, perhaps that is not the right word." He mulled over it for a moment, "Never mind, you are a bright woman, you shall figure it out easily I am sure."

I smiled with appreciation and continued to read the letter.

Dear Mr. Alerstone,

I am so pleased to hear that you have procured one of those red flowers! I myself seem to be lacking lately in that particular color of flower in my garden. I used to have one, you know, but I wasn't able to ever really identify its type. It looked to be a lily, but there was something peculiar about it, for it smelled like a rose but had the stem and leaves of something like a daisy. A very confusing and dainty flower it was. Twas a shame that the flower was gone before I could even identify it! But tis the nature of flowers to bloom, be picked, and then wither. However, sometimes the flower will wither before it is picked. I can only wonder which occurred first, for I have many visitors and there are many different plants and creatures in my garden. I can only wonder if it was picked or eaten by some animal. But what I fear the most is if it had withered without its gift being given to anyone. Well, it did give to something. A little mushroom grew next to it, and I was wondering if it could have taken the flower's nutrients. I suppose it probably did, for the bigger the mushroom grew, the more the little red flower bent on its stem. I suppose that would be a worse ending to such a beautiful little flower than anything else. I know, I should've probably picked the mushroom, but I think it best to let nature take its role as it does. For it is more beautiful, I think, for the world to move naturally with a little bit of help every now and then. In this case, my role is the watering of the flowers, though I know I will subsequently help the mushroom that feeds off them.

In any case, as a lover of flowers, I would love to come see this red flower of yours that sounds so similar to the one I've lost. I shall be arriving in about a week, if that is fine and good. Oh! And do not worry, I have left a splendid gardener to watch over my precious garden while I am away! Please look forward to my visit, and be sure to care of that flower till I get there! I do wish to see it at its prime, just after it blooms.

Your dearest friend and eternal gardener,

Mr. Zben

Reading it once more, I turned to Father Quetell, "You overestimate my cleverness." I spoke softly to the Father. "All I truly understood from this was that he is coming in about two days from now, according to the date on this letter at least."

"Read it once more," he said. For a third time I read the letter, but it made no real difference, "I only understand that I am supposedly this little strange red flower?" I looked to see his reaction and he nodded, a patient man he was indeed.

"Anything else?" he asked.

"This mushroom is supposedly killing me or harming me in some way or form? But I do not understand the withering or the animal eating it, or-"

"That is simply to build the story. It is unnecessary. You spotted the major point right away without even realizing it."

"The mushroom," I whispered, with a quizzical expression. "The mushroom is, or—" I frowned, "was a person whom I have forgotten. And this person was supposedly trying to kill me? Or was that person simply killing me by living, as the mushroom can only live by killing the flower."

Father Quetell sighed, the little children gathered at our knees, and before the Father could speak, a little boy pulled at my skirt, "I'll rip up that mushroom for you good and quick! The stupid thing won't see me comin'!" Verdan swung his little fist through the air. "Me, too! Too! Too!" they all echoed after each other, swinging and pretending to pluck the invisible mushrooms around them.

"Thank you all," I hugged them. "I will truly miss you all." Their hugs growing tighter, one whispered, "Don't go, Momma." With those little words, my heart strings were stretched to their limits. It took all my strength to hold back the tears that threatened to overflow from my eyes.

"I must," I moaned, "I must. For if I do not, how will I ever find out who I am? Or about what has happened to my family?"

"We can be your family!" the little girl, Isabella, said. "We can be family!" "Yeah family!" "Family!" they each said their own thoughts which all amounted to the same argument for me to stay.

"You already are." I pulled back from them for a moment, looking into each of their eyes, I smiled. "You already are my family, but imagine my other family. How worried they _should be_ about me?" I wondered why I had said 'should be' instead of 'are.' But just as I had time and time again when this feeling came over me, I pushed it away, frightened of how true it may or may not be. "Imagine how they must feel. Understand that I must go to them. Who knows," I blushed, "I may have as many children as there are here! I may have forgotten each one, and they might need my love right now, just as you need my love. Do you understand?" My voice trembled along with my fingers as I spoke and gently combed back Isabella's hair from her face.

"I understand," Isabella whispered, bobbing her head to emphasize that she did. "So do we," the others echoed after her.

"Then let us have a splendid few more days together. I shall even bake a cake!" I smiled softly. "How about that?"

Their little heads and solemn eyes bobbed slowly in agreement with our deal. But they are children and are not prone to keeping solemn little faces, and so with shining tears still on their cheeks, they began to cheer and lick their lips. The promise of cake, a rare delicacy for these children, brought smiles to their faces where frowns had been only a moment before.

Return to TOC

### Chapter 14

It was the day before Father Bart was supposed to come and everyone was filled with smiles and cheers. I had baked a cake and all were taking part in it, joyous smiles on their faces, when a rapping suddenly came from the door.

"Father Bart must have come early." I smiled at the children who for some reason had all grown quiet. It must be Father Bart! I wonder why the children are so paralyzed. They spoke of him so fondly before. Unlocking the door quickly, I smiled as the wind practically yanked it open.

Stumbling back, I pulled my hair out of my face, "Fall must be coming-" I held my breath as I looked to see who was standing on the other side of the door. "-early." My heart sank at the sight of a couple standing behind it.

"Yes, it must be," the woman smiled, her hand resting on her protruding stomach. She was clearly a woman late in her pregnancy.

"Please come in!" Father Quetell said cheerfully, walking from his room, dressed in the garments of a peasant. He moved me aside and led the couple through.

Seating them in two chairs that had been tucked away in some hidden closet unknown to me, Father Quetell talked very cheerfully with them. The children with quiet and solemn faces lined up in two columns. The boys were on the left, the girls on the right, each in order of height.

It was only when they had done this that the couple's reason for coming here, and Father Quetell's peculiar over cheerfulness, began to make sense to me. I had nearly forgotten that this was an orphanage. These people must be her to adopt a child!

"Yes, yes," said the woman, her tall husband blushing at the stares of all the little children who eyed his bushy moustache. "We want a sibling for our child, an elder one who can teach our child and, more importantly, be their friend." The woman glanced thoughtfully over all the little children. All still wearing their solemn faces, all but Verdan that is, his eyes sparkled with delight as he stared at the belly of the pregnant woman. He was clearly in awe of her.

Not oblivious, the woman could clearly see his eyes boring into her, "Would you like to come and listen?" she asked, her eyes looking back into his. Upon being recognized, Verdan bit his lip and snapped upon himself the same solemn face as all the others. "I-I don't know, ma'am. Is that okay?" She nodded to him. "It is."

Still hesitant, I came up quietly behind Verdan. "Go on now." I nudged him forward. "You have every right to be in awe of such a great gift." Nodding reassuringly to him, he smiled brightly. Placing his small hand on her stomach, he laid his ear to it. His cheeks flushing red, he turned to me. "I felt it! I felt it!" he cried. All the other children broke their neat little rows, and their serious little demeanors began to vanish one by one. Smiles and eyes of amazement and wonder illuminated their little faces. Although it was slow at first, they all eventually gathered around the woman, little eyes staring in amazement as they each placed their head to her belly and listened.

"I-I'm sorry, ma'am, I can get them in order, if you'd like. I-" Father Quetell was short for words. "It is fine," she said, a warm smile glowing beneath her bright cheeks. "I love children. I would take them all if we could afford it, but we have not the rooms nor the food nor the money." With a look of understanding, the husband gently patted the hand of his wife, comforting her as her eyes glistened with tears. Wiping them away, she looked at Verdan. Extending her hand, she smiled. "Will you come home with me?" she asked, her hand still extended towards him.

"But Ma- I mean, Ms. Rosetta is here, and I wanna stay with her forever!" He ran to me. Clinging to my dress, he dug his head snuggly into it. I patted his head gently. "Verdan, you know that you must go with these people. I will not be here forever. In fact, I am to leave very soon. You know that well." I brushed his hair aside from his face. "And so, go with these people. I am sure you will be greatly loved by them."

Tightening his grasp on my dress, he chewed his lips, his big eyes looking into mine. Scrunching his little fingers together, he motioned for me to come closer. Lowering my head to his, he kissed me on the cheek! "Thanks for everything, Momma." He smiled brightly, red cheeks and all! And I smiled back at him, embracing him once more before he ran off to the couple. The tall husband looked to Father Quetell who had gone out of the room and was returning with a few papers.

"Are these them?" asked the man. It was the first time he had spoken. It was a low and deep voice, but a kind one. "Yes!" Father Quetell said cheerfully, exchanging pens and papers with the man. I turned my attention back to Verdan who was saying his goodbyes to the other children, who looked upon him with fearful eyes, but spoke only good willed words. They were scared of losing their friend. They were terrified of what would become of him, of themselves, when they too would one day be whisked away by some stranger. When they would be expected to call these strangers names they had never spoken before, or had forgotten. Mother? Father? Such strongly worded titles to be placed upon strangers. It must be an awfully difficult thing.

"Would you like to call me Momma or Mother?" the woman asked, her hands interlocking with his. With red cheeks Verdan nodded, tucking his head into his chest as he did, as if he could hide his embarrassment and discomfort by doing so.

It was only a few minutes later that the man had finished talking and signing papers with Father Quetell. Each giving a firm hand shake, they locked eyes, and at that moment one could tell that there was something exchanged between the two. It was a promise, a promise of trust, of fathers.

Walking out the door, one hand in his new mother's, Verdan waved goodbye with the other. He was smiling, smiling like child with a family, smiling like all children should.

"This was good," I patted the other children who had held back their sobs until he had left. "B-But Verdan and I were gonna be together forever and be best friends, and get married and have lots and lots of babies, all from Father's orphanage!" Mary cried, fluids seeping from her eyes, mouth, and nose. I laughed at her. "Ha! Well, if he made such a promise, then I am sure he will keep it," I told her reassuringly.

A child's promise is small, but however foolish it may seem to most, it is as foolish as it is strong. As are the words of all children. For they do not yet know how to lie, they only know their innocent truths. It is when they are grown that promises are broken, and lies are told to mask the truth. That is why, at the moment, he has all intentions of keeping that promise. I know it.

"Hic! R-really? Hic, Momma?" Nodding calmly, I reassured her. "Most definitely. It is good that he goes now, for when he comes back, you will be a lady and he a man, and all will be right for you to wed! You are much too young now. Wait and he will one day return for his little bride and all their children!"

She nodded wearily, shedding a few more tears with the other's till they all fell asleep.

"Such children," I whispered, carrying them each to their own little beds. I tucked them in warmly, kissing each of their heads.

"You shouldn't lie," Mitch spoke, still awake. He had run upstairs before everyone else and shed his fair share of tears. "No one comes back. They never have. They never will." He looked up from his little bed of blankets, a sharpness lighting his eyes.

"Mitch, why have you not any faith in your friends?"

He shook his head, "They are all just little kids, and they won't remember such stupid promises. When they leave, they don't come back. That's just how it is. I personally feel bad for Verdan. That woman was pregnant with her own child. He will never be as loved as the real child will be, never!" I hushed him, stepping quickly over to him. He sank as I came, crouching as if I was going to hit him. Breathing heavily, I let out a deep sigh. Touching his arm, I slowly hugged him "What are you doing, you crazy old-"

"I love you all just as I love my own son. And no matter how many horrible things you all do, I will only remember you for all of the good things you have done. The bad memories will hurt, but you can only have the really good memories when you have accepted the bad ones."

"How would you know anything?" he let his arms hang, no longer struggling to push me off as he did before. "How would you know?" Tears rolled down his cheeks. "How? How when you don't even remember who you are?" His arms touching mine pulled away. Bowing his head, he glanced quickly over to his sleeping friend Jelb, still covered in bandages. "I lied to you," he said softly. "Jelb may not be able to yell, but he can whisper occasionally. Nobody knows it but me. He said it will be a pain if everyone tries to force him to talk. It is really uncomfortable for him to speak, painful even, but he still does every now and again."

I did not know what to say to him, and so I simply nodded. "The day you arrived, he whispered to me, 'It is her! It is her! Mitch!' He had strained his voice as much as he could. When I asked him what was the matter, he simply cried saying, 'happy alive, she is, alive.' He used up all his energy and then began to cough uncontrollably. He damaged his throat and has not said anymore since then."

I stared at Mitch and then at the bandaged boy. "S-So he knows me?" I reached for him, but he pulled away. "He is not my son, is he?" Mitch shook his head.

"No, but I think he has something to do with your past." He looked at me. "I know his real name, maybe it might—" He shook his head. "It is a long shot but maybe it will unlock a piece of your memory."

"He told me his name was Robert. He said he couldn't remember how many, since he was very young, but he said he had quite a few brothers and sisters. Remember, everything he has told me, he has said over a number of years. It took him a while to trust me, and then a very long time to tell me all that I know now." He continued, "He told me he grew up on a farm, in a place a lot like around here, but at the same time, a lot different. He said he doesn't remember much, because he was a child when he got burned. I even had to teach him how to speak properly, which was a pain since he could only speak about seven words at a time and had to rest his voice for a few days after." Shaking his head at the memory, he smiled at his friend, "Jelb, I mean Robert, told me that he sometimes went to what I think was a town or village of some sort. Maybe it was yours? He also said there was a nice lady at his house, who was not his mother, but that she looked like his mother and was kinder to him than anyone else. That lady was his best friend."

"Th-that is very," I stopped, my head pulsing. I laid my head down next to Robert's for a moment. "Robert," I whispered. His eyes were still closed, so I spoke to Mitch while studying the bits and pieces of the child's face that showed through the bandages. "That is a good English name. My sister loved English names, you know. She used to tell me when we were little that all her children would have English names. She told me all the ones she knew and read about, but she said she liked the French as well, and some other countries I can not quite remember. She said they all were so fascinating, those countries so far away from here." I clutched my chest. Feeling something, I reached into my bosom. I had not noticed for all these weeks, but there was a secret little pocket sewn on the inside my dress. Pulling the thread gently, I raised the little chain with a tiny cross up to my eyes. I wonder why this was hidden there. I had washed it several times. Why had I not noticed it until now?

Staring in wonder, Mitch's eyes twinkled. "Will you?" I asked, lifting my hair for him to fasten the latch on the chain. Without a word, he hooked the little cross on. "Thank you." I looked down at its simple glimmer; the darkness of the room holding no defense against the light which seemed to stretch from it, as if in some vain attempt to light the whole of the dark room. Yes, this was a special cross. A special memory...Memory...Yes...Yes, that's it!

"I remember now. My sister had already had her first child when Merek was born. His name was John. She was going to have a second, but I do not know what happened." Studying the child's face once more, I tried to pick out some detail that would indicate that he was perhaps my nephew.

"Um, Robert told me something else," his voice was serious, grave almost. I rolled to face Mitch, who had grown pale. "He told me that someone had burnt their house down with him and his family inside. He said his mother protected him, wrapping him in a blanket and shielding him with her body."

I gasped. Oh, I fear if it was my sister! And if not, bless her soul just as well! "But he said that before that happened, strange people had come into his home and had taken away his best friend. That is, they had taken the kind lady who was like a mother but not his mother. He said there was a man who was very scary, who the lady and his mother knew. But he himself did not recognize the fellow." He stopped. "Oh, Ms. Rosetta!" he looked up to me, his jaw shaking and fists tightening. "The way he described the scene, I thought of soldiers, the same soldiers that came to my house, and the man, the man sounded the same. The same man!" he pounded his fists, the child Robert stirring as he did.

As I hugged Mitch close for his and my own comfort, he grasped my arm tight, "That man is evil. He came and he—"

The door to the stairs creaked open. Father Quetell came up with a boy about the same age as Mitch in his arms. Laying him down where Verdan used to sleep, he frowned.

"Who?" I mouthed to the Father. Shaking his head, he stepped carefully over the children. Upon reaching me, he helped me to my feet. I looked back at Mitch, but he was pretending to doze. "They come as soon as they leave. I found him out in the garden about an hour ago. He has a horrible wound, I believe it was from a sword." He walked me over to the child. At the site of him, I nearly shrieked!

"Th-this is Merek!" I squealed. Quickly covering my mouth, the preacher hushed me. Nodding, I looked once more at the boy, carefully this time. "No," I sighed, "This is not him, but he looks very much like him."

Motioning me to come down the stairs with him, I nodded.

Sitting by the fire, he strained his eyes to read something that clearly did not interest him, a ploy to not meet my eyes as he spoke. "That boy is very like you, only much worse off. He wears nice clothes, but they are covered in dirt and torn. No one would have known they were of the same value as yours unless they looked carefully. The boy also has a memory lapse, but it is awful. He seems to have forgotten everything, even down to the basics of human communication. He cannot even speak. He simply stared at me when I saw him, unable to answer the simplest of questions. He then fainted from utter exhaustion."

"Do you think he could somehow be related to me?"

Pressing his chin to his fist, his eyes wandered the room, resting on me for an instant, fury blazing in his eyes. A deep hate glowed from them, like an immeasurable ravaging fire.

I held the cross around my neck, a familiar action to me for some reason. It seemed to comfort me. Finding my voice through the strength the cross gave me, I spoke. "Well, Father, what do you think?" His eyes melted into that softer gleam he usually wore. With a smile, he raised himself from his chair. "I believe he was given to me. He did not come here by accident." Peering out the window, he tried to hide some type of emotion. The heaviness of his thoughts portrayed only by the intensity of his eyes as they scanned the fields. He pulled the curtains shut.

"A woman was running to the road. I spied her carriage around the corner of it. I believe it was that boy's mother. She had a handkerchief in her hands, and was dressed very finely in rich garments. She was young and could not have been much older than twenty, if even that." Again, he frowned, his smile flashed back just as quickly. "She must have loved the boy very much. Usually rich woman like that leave their children because they are in danger of some sort. However, it puts us in a difficult position, because they could be endangering the other children."

He clenched his fist, snapping his eyes shut tight, he shook his head and folded his hands as if to pray. "I don't want them to be in danger. Such children have their memories understandably suppressed for that very reason, so that they are no danger to themselves or others around them. However, whatever danger that child is in could follow him, and still cause the child harm. Sometimes there are assassins sent to kill the children because they are some heir to a large estate or noble's title. The pursuers will often not rest till they achieve their mission. I have seen it many times before. It puts the rest of the children in grave danger." Pausing, he looked to me with solemn eyes. "I sadly believe that this boy may be in danger of such an assailant. How else could we explain such wounds?"

"I know Father, but what you have said is so—so striking! What a horrible burden for such a small child!" I shook my head, my heart throbbing as I remembered those wounds on the boy. How awful they were! They must be so painful. Would such things ever heal? Who would inflict such horrible things on a child? Why? And who is this perilous boy who so resembles my son?

"Father," I said aloud, ignoring his trembling. I spoke out an idea that suddenly came to me, a foolish one at that. "How about I take the boy with Father Bart and I? We can go to Vertensburg. It is so much farther from here. He may be safe in that little town."

"Rosetta," his eyes were kind and compassionate, "You have a kind and beautiful heart. One of a true mother." But suddenly his tone grew intense, almost harsh, "However, Rosetta, such a thing is dangerous! You would be placing yourself in eminent danger!"

"But think of the children!" I cried, all their faces flashed before me. I could picture their terrified eyes staring into some horrid merciless fiend. "No! I refuse to let such a thing happen! Let the boy come with me! He will be safe. Jobel and I can adopt him." When I spoke his name, I nearly choked on my words. "We-We can take care of him, he will have a brother in Merek. Nothing will happen, we-"

"Vertensburg is not as it was! It is the capital, a dangerous place with-" he paused, his fury draining rapidly from his face as he glanced around at the splinters in the wooden floor below, searching his thoughts. When he found what he had sought, his eyes lit up, a grin creeping up his face. "That is why it is perfect!" Grasping my shoulders, he laughed. "Ingenious! Ingenious! Without even knowing it, you have solved our dilemma! Your answer is fanatical but a great one!"

I looked at him quizzically. What had caused him to change his mind? "I do not understand, Father."

"Such a dangerous and heavily guarded place, no one would even dare to cause such a disturbance as a murder or kidnapping of a child in that city! They would fear the King much more than their aristocrat employer."

"So it could work?" I smiled.

"Yes, yes. Ironically enough, you and he would be safe in that devils' den."

Nodding in agreement, we headed downstairs to share a short glee-filled conversation as we sipped quietly some cold tea I had made earlier that day. Father sat in his chair reading some letters and documents, the seriousness of his eyes changing depending on where he was in his reading. He would hold his breath at the top but laugh softly to himself at the end, nearly spilling his tea every time.

"Thank you for everything," I told him softly. He smiled that smile I had seen the first time I met him, and nodded quietly. I had found this to be his favorite and most frequent response.

Upon walking up the stairs, I stopped. Passing the bandaged and injured boys, I ran my eyes over each. _Could they be my family_? Could God have directed me to them and they to me?

These thoughts played round in my mind, my heart aching as I mulled over such ideas.

In my room, I touched the damp wooden nails. "I have grown so old. Those children could be my grandchildren. Or, I thought of Jelb's - Robert's - story. He could be my nephew."

Suddenly a knock came at the door. I held my breath. I had not heard any footsteps come up the steps. I peeked out the door, little dirty feet kicked the wood. Opening the door wide, I saw that it was the injured boy.

"Yes?" I smiled, welcoming him in. His big blue eyes dug deeply into my heart, empty though they were, they still pulled at something within me.

He smiled very lightly at me, his eyes staring at the cross around my neck. I took his little hand and slowly pulled it to the cross. Grasping it, he frowned with the deepest sadness and emotion I had ever seen within any person, and how much more painful it was to witness coming from such a small and beaten child! "Oh! Oh, how you are so like him! But I know you are not him. I know it and yet-" I hugged him tightly. With his arms dangling at his sides, I held him there, and we both sobbed.

I do not know why, but neither of us could cease our ever flowing tears. So strong was this unknown emotion that plagued us, we could only cry in our ignorance.

We could not stop. We had not the strength to do so.

Return to TOC

### Chapter 15

All the little children were forcing their smiles upon me, even Mitch tried his best to smile. It was a sad little joy to see such a sight. His smile was beautiful, bright, and good and true. I knew it would be. I only wish I had seen it sooner.

"When is Father Bart coming?" a little girl, her name was Anna, asked me, as pieces of strawberry jam dripped from her lips. I laughed softly, "I do not know, but the longer I can spend here the better right?" I wiped the jam from her face with a handkerchief. Anna along with the other children put their heads down as I said this, their big sad eyes glancing round at the small little feast that sat sprawled about the tiny tables. We had chicken, jam, cake, and bread. There was some type of squash as well. I had cooked it to see how it would taste, and it was wonderful!

The day went by ever so slowly. The children were afraid to go play in the yard for fear that they would miss my leaving; and so they all played inside. They were too sad to truly laugh and run about, but too young to just sit there still and quiet.

They hummed lowly, flicking their powdered fingers in some child's game on cheap fabric. Some children colored the fabric with smashed berries and rolled rocks and leaves, a primitive art of sorts. I smiled as they brought their little masterpieces to me, though they too were painted in their own art works colors. I made sure they washed their hands outside thoroughly.

The silent boy did not leave my side in all the time. He stared quietly at everyone and everything, a consistently blank stare in his eyes. The poor child, he knew few other expressions! The other children tried to talk and play with him, but it was as if he was in a different world. He would draw with them and smile as they did, but they were afraid of him. This was clear as they ran to me with their fear filled faces every time he approached one of them. They would not speak a word against him but scrunched their foreheads when around him, their big eyes telling me what their words did not. The presence of the boy perturbed them

The only children who seemed unafraid and even made an effort to reach out to him were Jelb and Mitch. Although Mitch was the only one speaking, there seemed to be a friendship brewing between them. This was true even for the boy who seemed to know and feel very little. When he was with Jelb and Mitch, he seemed calmer than he was with the others. This was visible even with the little reaction he gave. I knew he liked them, for the boy only strayed from my side to sit with Jelb and Mitch. He did not speak; he just sat there with them. I wondered if Jelb - Robert - was speaking. Was he whispering something? Was the boy listening? I do not know. Whatever the case, I was glad someone other than me could bring the, oh so rare, slight changes in his visage.

The boy showed little reaction when I hugged and kissed him, as I did with all the children, but those little reactions he _did_ have meant the world to me. They were blushes, smiles, a closing of the eyes for a moment. They were such simple and little changes that few could probably perceive them. But it was these simple and little changes in his features that, to me at least, held such a colossal significance.

When a knock came at the door, Father Quetell curled his lips in a smile. Making his way through the hordes of children, he opened the door to the bright eyed Father Bart. Both their arms flew out like the wings from a great bird. Swinging themselves around one another, they laughed and smiled, greeting each other as grand old friends.

Father Bart was not in his priestly vestments, and neither was he dressed as a peasant as Father Quetell. No, he looked to be no poor man, but a nobleman! Besides the dress I had arrived in, I had never seen such nice clothing!

"Father?!" I gasped at the sight of him, and with a twisted smile he walked slowly to me. "Ah, I thought it was you." His voice was calm, but his eyes wary. I had never known him to be so cautious and guarded. He took the same attitude as Quetell had the other day. There was a wariness about him as he peered into my eyes, locking them into a tight and unwavering grasp.

"I have not seen your _eyes_ in so long." The Father kissed my hand, his charming smile gliding up to the corners of his cheeks. _My eyes?_ Well that is strange, though what should it matter at this moment? "To see someone I knew from my past, what a great gift it is to see you!"

Nodding with still wary eyes, he spied the boy clinging to my dress. "Well, well, who is this?" he peered at the boy. Suddenly, a strong passion swept over him. He reached for the hilt of his sword, but froze. Witnessing the boy's lack of reaction, he breathed a sigh of relief.

"Excuse me a moment, Rosetta. Although I am so happy you have been found, I must speak with Quetell alone for a moment." As the priests stepped outside together, I sat with the children in silence. Sharp whispering came through the hollow wooden door. It was harsh and cold. A cry of anger erupted every now and then. The children and I waited in silence as they continued on for nearly half an hour. When the Fathers finally returned, their faces were beat red. Whether it be from their yelling or the bitter cold, I knew not which, but whichever it was, they still smiled their gentle smiles upon their return.

"Well, I would usually stay for a while longer, but my garden needs me," Father Bart said, his words clearly directed to the children who moaned and groaned.

At last, the dreaded moment had arrived.

Although they were brief, the goodbyes were painful, especially with Jelb, with Robert. In tears and blubbering, Mitch had to hold him down to keep him from hurting himself. I asked Father if I could take him, but he said it would be difficult enough to take the silent child, another would simply be too much. Understanding, I sighed, "I hope I will one day be able to return. Once I have found my family that is." Father Bart smiled tightly, "Are you sure you do not wish to stay here?" His words were rushed, nervous, almost demanding.

"I cannot. I must find out the truth about my family." Father Quetell moaned as I said this. "Do you know something I do not?" I asked, curious to his reaction. Bowing his head to me like a stranger, he then shooed the children away from the entry, not replying or even bothering to look at me. His eyes wandered off, reflecting nothing but pity and a strange displaced anger.

"Goodbye all!" I waved with the most motherly smile I could muster.

Although the pain of leaving and the fear of the future were very great ones, I knew a smile was something I had to at least give them. And so I did. It is best to leave this way. A smile is so much stronger and more beautiful a memory to hold than the shedding of tears and the awful struggling for the words to say farewell. Though perhaps it makes it all the more painful than the tears and wailing combined.

A carriage waited for us down by the road. Bowing to us, the coachman stared curiously at the young boy and me. In silence, we walked to it. His back to us, Father Bart stood tall and walked with a sense of pride that I had never seen in him before. Without a word to the coachman, he stepped inside the carriage. The coachman bowed to me as he helped the boy and I into it. Not exactly sure of what to do, I nodded to him. "Thank you very much, sir." But he only blushed in astonishment and shut the door quickly behind us.

Heaving a heavy sigh, Father Bart smiled. "Our words are safe inside here; no sound will penetrate these walls." He banged on the steel frame of the carriage, a resonating clang echoing through it as he did. "I had it especially made for such occasions as this. But enough of that, I must turn to the matter at hand. Firstly I must, Madam Rosetta, express my thankfulness to you." He gestured his hand as if to bow.

"Oh, no, Father, I must thank you! You are taking me back to my home, and you are helping to protect not only this boy but those children as well." He nodded slowly, "I suppose this is so, but still, I am thankful to you for what you have done for those children." Although he spoke to me with a broad smile which lightened his visage, his eyes refused to meet mine.

"I did what any Christian, and any mother for that matter, should be obliged to do. I did nothing too great or beyond what I am expected to do. So please do not shower me in your praise, good Father."

"Humble as ever I see," he mumbled, shaking his head. As if remembering something, his face twisted, his eyes glancing quickly back and forth around the carriage. It was like he was searching for something, yet already knew its location, and simply refused to look at it. His eyes lingered on one point of the carriage for a while and then glanced frantically around only to come back to the same point. Finally, after dizzying himself, he shook his head as if defeated.

"Oh, Rosetta, there is something I must tell you!" he said quickly, running his fingers impatiently through his hair. Squinting his eyes a few times, he finally met mine. "Rosetta, what I am about to tell you will be painful. It will be awful. It will be devastating."

I silently stared at the Father, an uncomfortable but familiar feeling beginning to creep back into me as I did. Working up the strength to speak, I stuttered a response, but I think...I think I do not wish to hear his reply.

"W-What do you mean, Father? Has something happened to Jobel or Merek in my time away? What has happened over all these? Oh I do not even know how many years it-"

"Twenty-five."

"What?" my lips quivered in shock.

"Your memory seems to be missing about twenty-five or so years of your life. Your son is nearly thirty, and you are nearly half a century old."

I turned my hand over, scanning it, "But I do not look that-"

"Neither did your mother ever look old. Your skin has always been fine enough for you not to need anything to look young. But you still wear a bit of age. No doubt from the constant stress you are under."

"What is that Father? What has become of my new life, that I wear such fine clothes? That I am under such stress that you speak of? What has become of me?" I motioned towards myself and the dress I wore. Before we left Father Bart had told me it would be best if I took the dress I had been found in, out of the drawer and wear it. He said it would blend in better with the city and with him. He also, for some odd reason, had the boy wear a hat which hid his face.

Father Bart sighed, "Well firstly your family has obviously found wealth. As such, you have been educated by the best, in all forms of education you could think of. The only thing forbidden to you is the art of war. This is because you are a woman and because your-" he paused, mulling over the word, "well for lack of a better word to describe him, we shall call him your 'benefactor.' Your 'benefactor' does not wish for you to learn any form of fighting."

"What, this makes no sense. Riches? Education? Who is this 'benefactor' that he would do such things for my family and for me?" I swallowed the lump in my throat. I already knew the answer, what I had so long feared was true. It was all true.

Father Bart looked to the boy next to me, "He looks just like him does he not? But he has his mother's eyes."

"Why do you avoid the topic?" I stuttered. "Why do you not just simply tell me who this boy here is? Why my son-" I could not finish the sentence.

"You appear to have already heard," he quietly said. His hard eyes would not soften as they spoke over my sobbing, "It is true. All you fear is true. Your son has become the ruler of this land. He has killed many innocents and persecuted many people. As you have witnessed, religion is one of the things he persecutes and despises most. It is unclear why he is so against it but-" He stopped to let me compose myself.

"I-I know this is no way for a lady to act yet- I-I feel myself crying every day, sev-several times a day. I-It feels a-as if I have been holding my tears b-back for years, as if my emotions have been trapped within me and I-I cannot take it! My family m- my-"

I felt my head began to pulse. "No! No! Father! Why do such thoughts pain me?" Grasping both my head and heart I cried once more, cringing in my seat because the overwhelming pain took from me the light. The sharp whispers of the Father's voice faded ever quickly into silence.

Return to TOC

### Chapter 16

The warm fire, the dew dripped ceiling, the ugly lime green walls. It was the flower shop. A cot had been pulled out for me. Father Bart was patting my hand when I opened my eyes, "Do you remember now?"

I looked to my grandson and nodded, "The boy is my grandson." The need for composure was on my mind. I knew how to act. I knew what I had to do. "I thought just as much," Father Bart whispered smugly under his breath.

"I do not know what happened to him, or me for that matter, but Merek will most definitely find us in this city."

"You would think, but he has not come to us once. Although we are so close and harbor someone so precious to him, it is just as before. He either has not found us yet, or simply ignores us. I cannot figure which, but it is hard to believe such a man could not sniff us out in his own home."

"So, all is well then?"

"For now," he sighed.

"For now," I tasted his words. I did not like to think how true they were.

"How long have I been unconscious?" I scratched my head, pushing away the soup the Father nudged towards me.

"About a week." He blew kindly on the steaming spoon. "Now eat, you need your nutrition. You'll kill yourself if this goes on, and you will kill him as well." He stuck his thumb at the boy whose cheeks seemed to glow when he saw me. "He refuses to eat if you will not. He still appears to have no memory. It is as if his mind has locked them up. I don't quite understand why yet, but I imagine he must have seen something truly horrendous."

Unable to respond, I could not even nod to him. My lips began to tremble at the sight of my grandson staggering towards me. Weak from hunger, his cool blue eyes were dulled, still just as empty and lost as before. He smiled weakly at me, though not really seeing me. It was as if he was blind.

Then suddenly running over to me blankly, he smiled, his hands grasping mine. I slid my hand from his and pressed it to his face. Nuzzling his head into my hand, an innocent little laugh escaped his lips.

"Oh, Jobel."

All of a sudden he froze. A light came to his eyes. The dull color that lit them faded fast, but what replaced them was far worse. Darkness overtook them, and I grew ever so more fearful by the second. His brow furrowed, his features twisted in pain. He wiggled away from me, his chest moving steadily back and forth as his limbs began to tremble. Looking at his hands, his eyes grew wide. He let loose a cry that shook the walls. It echoed loud and harsh. Banging his fists against the wall, he crumbled to the floor, shuttering violently.

"Jobel! Jobel!" I held him in my arms. Scratching and flailing about, he was nearly uncontrollable. Tearing open my skin in his rage, he froze as my blood touched his fingertips. Collapsing in my arms, my little grandson's clenched eyes stared to open, tears pouring from them. "Oh, my child, oh, my poor child." I rocked him in my arms. "What has happened to you?"

Father Bart silently came from behind me. "He must have gone through a terrible experience."

I spoke to the Father, without removing my eyes from the little boy in my arms, "Merek sent him away because he saw him to be a weakness. I hear his mother is alive, but I do not know why... I do not understand why he is in such a terrible condition as this." Feeling something wet stain my hands, I gasped, "His wounds have opened!" Glancing frantically around, I nervously searched for something that would suffice as bandages. "Where? Where? Where could they be?"

"Rosetta," Father Bart calmly placed his hand on my shoulder, a patient smile on his face. "We've got some bandages in the other room. Don't fret. His wounds may have been serious, but they are not as bad as they were. The wound has reopened, but it is not by a major artery. He will be perfectly fine."

His confident smile that usually washed all my worries away had little effect on me at this time. For his look was as it was before, wary and contemplative, a hint of fear and a pinch of doubt slipping themselves under the brim of his eyes. Without exchanging any more words with me, he left to retrieve the bandages.

*****

Jobel was quiet again. The blank stare remained in his eyes, but he did not smile weakly as he once did. In fact, he showed even less signs of emotion. He was eating now, though, and that was good at least. However, my great fear was quickly coming to be. His light blue eyes were not only fading but darkening, darkening into a grayish blue, and growing closer to black by the day. I nearly fell to the floor each time I looked at him. What was becoming of my grandson? He had been so pure and innocent. Not that long ago he was running about with a smile. He was so curious and adventurous about the world. But now what was he? Covered in wounds and scars that would most likely never have any hope of healing, his eyes were becoming just as dark as Merek's. He seemed to have lost the capability to be a child, of even smiling that smile of children, the smile of children which always brings a little of a child's own special light into the dimness of the world. Such a simple and natural thing that smile was, yet he could not even do this.

"Father," I said. Sipping from the steaming mug in his hands, he peered over its rim and smiled, a natural response for him as I have now come to discover. "Yes, Rosetta?"

"Did you know it was me all this time? Did you realize I was suffering so very greatly as I watched my son turn into what he is? And do you know that I now suffer again for being unable to do anything as my nephew thrives in pain, living poorly without his family? And though I know he has a new one, I still... Just knowing how he lives now is..." I trailed off but began soon again. "Do you know how seeing my grandson transform into his father haunts me? Terrifies me! Do you know what it is like, Father, to watch your children slowly stray away from the light, from themselves, from love and God and everything that is true? Do you know what it is to see the person you care about give up everything for absolutely nothing?!"

"I do," he responded quickly in a confident, yet sensitive, tone.

"How?" My lips remained open, pleading for him to tell me something real, something true, to tell me anything, before I burst out crying that he knew nothing of the pain, of the hurt, of the love of one's children and the hate of their actions and the sorrow that comes from it all. As these emotions swirl together into an unstoppable typhoon, how it soon becomes difficult to distinguish any of them for what they are. So mixed together and muddled as they become. How? How could he know such a thing? Such a deep pain that only a mother could feel!

With a gentle smile he, turned his head toward Jobel. "My brother," he spoke softly, his smile twitching on his face. "My brother was my dearest friend, and I was his role model. He watched me grow to adulthood. He witnessed my journey through life to become a priest, a short one admittedly, due to my family's influence. However, he still saw the importance and value of the world through me, or at least I thought he did. But I suppose in truth he did not. I suppose he saw what I was doing, how I was living, and I think he knew... I think he knew everything I ever taught him, and I believe he willingly threw it all away." Staring at his hands as he played with the splinters on the table, he scooted himself from it and paced back and forth between the window.

"My brother was a gentle, kind boy, a smiling one who brought more laughs and joy to more people than I could ever hope to." Bowing his head, he ceased to pace. "It is hard to believe that such a beautiful, idealistic soul was just a front. But I guess that is why God is the judge and not us." He began to pace again. "He was very much filled with hope and life, filled so much that it appeared to overflow from him. So much so that whomever this hope touched was dramatically and undoubtedly influenced by him. I admit I was a tad jealous of his natural charisma," Father Bart laughed painfully to himself. "But he was a good kid, and I felt so blessed to have him as my brother. Even when he joined the army, he was filled with more life and hope than all the sorrowful saps combined!" Once again he laughed in a low and mournfully toned voice.

"My brother. He was the man who betrayed them." His eyes met mine and that is when I realized it. "He betrayed the 315th?"

He was _that_ man. That _friend_. The man that Merek...

"My brother was not threatened, nor was he tortured, but he was greedy. Horribly greedy. It was something that no one had recognized before. It was hidden deep inside, and it was nearly impossible to see from the outside. Even I, as close as I was, could not have seen him selling away all his beloved friends as he did." He shivered from the memory. "When I learned what he had done, I was ashamed. And when I learned that he was killed, I felt pity. Pity was all I could feel for my own brother. He had done such an awful thing, and I don't even know if he ever repented for it. I pray every day for his soul, and that by some chance he did. But I know, I know there is a strong possibility that he never repented for the horrible thing that he did. It pains me to think in such awful ways, but I feel that in such cases it is almost impossible not to."

"When I hear about all the things that happened to those soldiers, I can only see my brother."

I struggled to swallow the lump that had formed in my throat. "You know that my son was good friends with him," I spoke softly, gently and as calmly as my quivering voice could manage.

"No!" he gazed at me, astonished by the fact.

"Yes. Yes, he was," I laughed. "They were good friends, like brothers he told me, very close indeed. And he died-"

"I know that much," Father said. "I know he was killed by the enemy. They turned back on their deal with him and slit his throat."

Such harsh and false words shook me. I opened my mouth to speak, but no words would come to me. I looked at the Father with big solemn eyes, then I shook my head. I have not the strength to reveal such a cruel truth, to acknowledge that my son is a murderer, was _his_ murderer.

"I guess," Father blurted, his words rushing past my own thoughts, "I guess it is partially my brother's fault the King is the way he is." He stared at the floor. Although his lips twisted upwards in a weak smile, his eyes screamed in a terribly deep pain. "Yes, I suppose it was partially his fault."

"No!" my voice shook.

"No?" His quizzical and anxious expression reached out to me. "Well," I started, "Well, yes, but no. No, because you _cannot_ \- no that is not right- you _should not_ blame yourself or your brother for what has become of my son. That is my own responsibility." I trembled as I spoke. "You should care for your own, not mine, because my...mine...mine is the one who became a suppressive King, who lowered himself to deluding himself that people and emotions and attachments make him weak. It is mine who has done twice as many awful things, and it is mine who k¬" I choked on the word, "It was mine who killed your brother. Not the enemy, but my son."

Before he could respond, words slipped from my lips faster than I could think of them. They were my emotions pouring out without need for thought because I had felt them for so long. They had already formed their own words in my heart very long ago. "He was so vengeful, so filled with hate. I did not know how he died. Merek never told me. But I-I am responsible for Merek, so do not blame yourself for what both he and Merek have done. It is true Merek returned from war a different man than when he went, but his change was seen before it. He would tell me every single day that it was my words that made him who he is today. It is my words and no one else's. The war, your brother, they were simply the last step before the inevitable, and I-"

"You are not to blame either," Father interrupted, his cool voice shaking the walls. "You should listen to your own words for once. You are not to blame either. It is as I told you before. Do you remember? We can only guide them. How they live and what choices they make are theirs and theirs alone. We cannot blame ourselves for what happens. And let me tell you..." His bright teeth sparkled with the sunlight which shined through the window. "God always has his own plans for them; we are only His servants. We serve as we do, but it is the Master who knows best, who knows what is good and what is right and what will be done with all in the end. We've no control over life, and so we cannot blame ourselves for its blunders."

"I know, Father, I know." Turning back to my grandson, I frowned at his blank stare, those cold blue eyes shaking when I whispered his name. "I know what you say is true, and yet I still cannot seem to forgive myself." I draped my arms over Jobel, embracing him in the warm kind hug that only a mother can give. And though I knew it made no difference in his state, I like to think it warmed the heart of the little boy, who was curled up and lost inside of him.

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### Chapter 17

At the end of Mass that Sunday, we dawdled round the door, our hoods pulled tight over our heads. Jobel and I have to hide our identities whenever we go anywhere, especially to church. Our faces may be known. It was dangerous to let others see us. They could spread rumors, and all rumors eventually touched Merek's ears. I knew this well and was fearful each time we crept out of the flower shop's back room and down into the little underground sanctuary. Although more was at risk than ever, I felt somewhat lighter. Mass was very different than it had been before. I talked to the others, speaking of casual things, things I would never have dreamed I would speak of again. They were simple things, like how to wash clothes, or which ingredients to use or not to use for cooking, which materials were more durable and cheaper than the less durable, expensive ones. We even spoke gossip! It was so much fun! So much simple talk of petty things made me feel as if I was in another life, an eternity away from the troubles of my present.

"And you know," Bernadette whispered, the wrinkles around her eyes twisting her face as she spoke, "I hear that Mr. Garter is going to have a sale this Wednesday on hats, the ones from France!"

"Really?" a younger woman placed her thin hands to her round rosy cheeks. "I just knew he was going to have one soon. I just knew it! Those prices were just too much! He was bound to place them on sale. I just can't wait to go and pick one out! All of those lovely feathers and colors! Oh! They are simply the light of this dull little town!"

"Well, I wouldn't say it's dull," Bernadette nodded to me, "Some of us have quite an exciting life in this little ol' town." She winked at me, her great green eyes twinkling.

"Oh, yes." The young women nodded to me in agreement with Bernadette.

I waved her off. "Oh no, it is not as extravagantly exiting as you believe." I covered my lips, "Well, perhaps that is not true."

"Oh, don't tell lies here, young madam!" Father Bart came behind me, laughing for no particular reason as he often did. His strong hands resting on Jobel's shoulders, he squeezed them like a father does to one's son. Jobel reacted in his usual manner now. Lifting his head up slowly, Jobel stared at the Father for a moment then bowed his head back down, his lower lip sagging a bit as if he were dumb.

"Your grandchild is as quiet as ever I see, poor thing." Bernadette leaned down to pinch his cheeks, a rotten habit of old women. "It is hard to believe, so young as you are, you are already a grandmother!"

"I am not as young as I appear," I laughed with her and the young woman.

"Oh stop it! You modest little thing," Bernadette tapped my shoulder. I blushed, squeezing Jobel's limp hand a bit tighter as Bernadette leaned down once more to pinch his cheeks and comment something about his behavior again.

With a sigh, I peered down at Jobel. "It would be nice if he would show some sign of something. However, I know he will not. Something happened to him, something traumatic, and ever since then he has been like a doll."

Bernadette pursed her dry lips. "Yes, well, I suppose there are painful things that can do that to a child, my dear. But at least he's not tearing through the house. They are at that age you know." She smiled playfully.

With a kind gesture towards the narrow stairs, Father Bart graciously brought up another topic, letting me compose myself as we walked up them. Grasping the rickety pipe, I stepped up the steps slowly, tugging at Jobel to keep up. He was trudging behind today.

Reaching the top, the women met their husbands who were waiting impatiently. Their coats on their arms and hats on their heads, each man suppressed the urge to shout out at their gossiping wives.

"Ah, Miss Rosetta, how have you been?" one young man called out to me, waiting for his elderly mother. It was Bernadette's son. "Why, hello, Owen, I have been well."

"That's good, Madam." He smiled, holding his eyes on me while he flipped the bangs from his face. "I was wondering if you would be so kind as to finally take up my offer for dinner tonight." He held out his hand to me.

"Oh, Owen, you know I am much too old for your foolishness, now go on to your mother, talk with the girls your age." I tried to shoo him away. This young man has been flattering me from the moment I came to this little church. Only recently did he begin to become more aggressive in his advances, asking me to dinner and other such foolish things!

"Age is of no matter to me Ma'am. As long as two people care for each other very deeply, what does age matter?"

"Owen, you silly fool, I cannot marry a boy!"

He blushed, placing his hand to his heart he pulled out a gold watch. "I got this from my father. It is an heirloom passed down in my family when we reach twenty one. It is a sign of becoming a man. If this is not proof that I am no longer a boy, then I don't know what is," he stubbornly replied, holding up the little watch for all to see, a prideful grin on his face.

I laughed. "You silly little boy, no little trinket can make you a man, and if you believe it does, well that makes you all the more a boy!" I do not mean to be so harsh with him, so please do not think me badly. I simply cannot allow this boy to grow so confident about such things, especially in the serious matters of the heart! It is best to let his love die now, while the heart is still young and like clay, able to be molded and changed with presses against or touches on it. Yes, it is best now to mold it to a different shape before it hardens and dries, and where trying to reshape it will only shatter it to pieces.

"Well, then, how can I prove my love for you is real?"

"I need no love as you offer, thank you," I told him as kindly as I could. "I have my grandson and Father Bart, and all of the people here as my friends. Anymore love will be too much of a burden on my heavy old heart." He pursed his lips to speak, but I shushed him. "Besides, you have never seen my face fully. How do you know that I am not hideous and old? Did you not think I may hide my face because I am an ugly or evil person? You should not be so trusting of me. I am not whom you think I am."

"Why does that matter? How does any of that matter? You could be the wife of the King himself and I would not care! I love you!"

My body shook. Such strong passion. It is so like the young to be bold and blind in their speech, not knowing how close to the truth they really are.

"Now, Owen-" Father Bart came to my rescue, but a loud voice thundered over even his.

"Not my wife, I assure you."

All heads turned to the broad shouldered man standing in the door way, his black eyes scanning the faces of the men and women in the room, but they did not touch me. He stared at the crowd with a glare that could kill a thousand cattle if they had the unfortunate chance of meeting his harsh, scrutinizing eyes.

"However," he directed himself towards Owen, who trembled as soon as he had heard the voice. With shaking knees he knelt before him. Merek lifted his chin high, grasping the boy's head he pulled it back, digging his fingers into his skull. Owen cried out in agony, "Please your Highness, I-"

"Who are you?" he asked coldly, ignoring Owen's cries for pity.

"I-I am the son of Sir-"

"That is not what I asked you." He clenched his fist tighter. "You should not interrupt people while they are talking; it is very rude." He threw him to the ground. Digging his heel into Owen's neck, he kept his head raised high as he spoke, "At least, that is what my _Mother_ taught me." He did not look at me but leaned closer to Owen, his eyes unchanging, their darkness burrowing into the boy. Tears flowed down his bruised cheeks.

"And so I must ask again." He grasped my arm. Tearing off my hood, he pulled me up for all to see. "Who are you that you insist on pestering my poor, foolish old Mother? The Mother of your King!"

As their eyes fell upon me, I attempted to hide my face. But what was the use? What would it matter? And so I stood tall, my head turned from Merek as he waved his finger, signaling the guards who rushed in and proceeded to catch the screaming and cursing people.

"You traitor!" they cried. "You snake! You weed!" "How dare you! How dare you come here and destroy our peace!" "Why! Why have you done this to us? We were your friends!"

No words or profession of my innocence would change their opinions of me. So I silently stood. I had shooed Jobel to Father Bart. I only hoped they made it out in time.

When all had been caught, and most likely sentenced to death or already dead, we were left there alone. Merek's heel was still digging into the neck of Owen. Although he trembled, his pleading had ceased. Had he given up? Had his will already been bent to Merek's?

"Have you any last words? I shall give you that much worth," Merek said to him, his voice still bearing that ever constant harshness.

"Merek! Merek, I beg of you please! Please do not kill him! Merek!" He ignored me; his only reaction was his tightening on my wrist. "Merek!" I cried, "Merek, stop it! Please, Merek! Merek, it hurts! Merek!" I tried uselessly to wriggle away, forgetting how merciless he was. His grip only grew tighter the more I struggled.

"Merek!" I sobbed, as I could no longer hold myself up. I had to lean against my monstrous son for support, since he would not even release me to fall to the ground.

"Let the man speak. He is a man after all, Mother. Give him the credit of it."

"Merek," I coughed through my tears, pulling at his shirt, "Oh, my Merek!"

"I-I," Owen began. I chocked on the sobs as they rolled down my cheeks with every word he spoke. "I am g-glad I got to see y-you." He breathed heavily as Merek's boot seemed to drive more fiercely into his throat. "I am glad I got to see you in the light before the end. You truly are just as beautiful as I thought."

Merek was silent. Pulling his sword from his sheath he held it above Owen's heart.

"No!" With the rest of the little strength I had left, I tugged at his hand, trying to move it away from Owen. It was then that for the first time since he had come to this place that he finally looked into my eyes. It was this look that truly caused my heart to crumble. His eyes were ever so much colder, so much harsher than I remembered. Truly everything I knew of my son, everything that he was—it was all lost now, all of it. Nothing remained of my little boy. Nothing.

He threw me aside and a guard caught me. "I want her to see this," he ordered. The guard then forced my head towards him. I shook and fought.

"No!" I struggled. "No, Merek! Do not do this! Do not kill him! Merek! Merek, please! Please Merek!" The tears clouded my eyes. I only wish they could have blurred my vision more than they did, for I could see it all!

It happened so quickly, but the seconds it took were like hours.

I thrashed about in the grasp of the guard, while right in front my very eyes Merek raised his sword high. Somehow breaking free from the guard I ran towards Merek who swung down his sword, my hand reaching that of Owen's who smiled bravely at the face of his slayer's mother. His blood sprayed forth from his heart as the sword sliced through his flesh. It washed over me. His shaking hand already stopped when my fingers touched his. And Merek, splattered just as I in his blood, looked down at me. The shock and terror froze on my face, as he, the blood drenched predator, loomed over me, his prey. And in that same voice with those same downcast eyes he spoke smooth and cool words which smashed the shattered pieces of my heart into lifeless sand.

"How weak you have become, Mother." He turned back to me as the soldier lifted my limp body. "It must have been those children at that orphanage. They made you soft. Don't worry. I will take care of them and my treacherous wife who dared to steal my son from his training. I suppose he is rather unfit to fight now. I will have to break that little hypnosis he is under. A clever trick she pulled, but that is to be expected of my wife." He coughed. "Well, my soon to be _late_ wife."

Wiping his bloodied sword, he marched from the room. Without hesitation, without remorse, without even a glance towards me, he simply walked away. The air of a murderer was about him as he stood tall, holding his head high. He was a King fresh from conquering...from suppressing...from massacring.

What a thought, my son, the King with a tyrannical rule.

What a memory, my son, a murderer in the house of God.

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### Chapter 18

You would think that this room would feel large to me, having been in a room less than a quarter of this size for a month, and another one not much bigger than the last for two months. However, it feels oh so much more suffocating than those two small rooms. Those two little rooms which brought me so much joy and so many, better-left-unanswered, questions.

The little faces of all those children flashed before my eyes. "Oh, how I miss them so," I whispered to myself. Who knows what has become of them? For all I know, Merek could have...I shook my head in defiance of such a thought. No, as cold as he is, even Merek would have mercy on children. Would he not?

When the answer came to me, I nearly burst forth in tears.

No. No, he would not. Grasping my chest, I bowed my head. No, he would indeed not, not now. The proof is his own child. So lost and empty. So wounded and beaten. No father--no, no person who has any heart--could do that to a boy so young, much less to his own son.

As if my thoughts had called out to him, the door opened, and a little boy peered through it. Stepping in slowly, his figure stood erect, but his head bowed low. Bangs hid his dark blue eyes, the same eyes that once shined ever so brightly.

"Grandmother," he said, sitting down next to me. He stared off as he often had these past few months. However, there was a different color to him now, and he spoke, though with little emotion.

"Grandmother, I have done something very bad. That book you showed me, one of those 'Rules of God' as you said, I-I have broken one." His stuttering voice did not match his emotionless eyes.

"Jobel," I spoke quietly, reaching for his shoulder, but he slapped it away growling lowly at me.

"Y-You don't understand," his little hands shook, "there was blood, red and..." I hugged him close. "Do not speak anymore, please, my child, please do not speak anymore."

He smiled, "But it's okay, Papa said it was. He said that it is okay because I didn't mean to. He said it was because I had to. He said people have to die sometimes. He said it is necessary to-"

"No!" I squeezed him tighter in my arms. "No, that is not true! You do not have to do that! You do not have to kill! You do not have to do such horrible things!"

"But how am I to survive?" His dark blue eyes bore into me, begging for an answer. "You can't, you can't survive without doing that! I-I know that and I've gotta do it. I've gotta do what Papa says! I gotta!"

"J-Jobel," was all I could stutter. My little grandson, he was not even ten! Not even old enough to be an apprentice boy! He is practically just learning to walk, just learning to speak, and he has killed a man?! How? How can he do something so awful when he is only a boy! H-How did he even survive? Where did he learn the act of murder?!

"Jobel, what are you doing here?" Merek marched through the door. He looked to my tear stained face and his shaking little boy, and with not a hint of emotion he raised his head high and cast his eyes down to us. Looking at us as if we were mud that had soiled his new boots, he grunted, "What is this?" He walked to us with low and heavy steps, his jaw set tight as he began to speak. "A king does not shake nor run to someone when he needs help," he glowered "Have I not told you this a thousand times?"

"Y-Yes, your Highness," Jobel mumbled, standing in salute to his father.

Suddenly his hand swung, striking his son ferociously. Jobel flew across the room.

"Jobel!" I reached for him. Merek held up his hand to stop me. He kept his other hand raised as he stared down at his son.

Biting his lips, Jobel stood, trying his best to cease his quivering. With blood running down his cheek, the result of the brutish slap his father had administered to him, Jobel saluted him once more. When Merek saw he was at attention, his eyes met his son's, widening to reveal ever more their deep consuming darkness. Entranced by his father's gaze, Jobel's eyes hardened. It was as if he was trying to mimic the coldness that hung in them.

"A king does not stutter," Merek spoke bitterly. "You would also do well in the future to do one of three things when an attack comes at you. Your first choice is to avoid the attack all together, but in some situations such as punishment, you were right in not evading it. However, as a king you should learn to reduce damage to yourself, so as a second choice, you should move with the hand in order to cause less damage. People do not admire scars. They are ugly, and any great warrior should be trained enough not to receive such unnecessary damage. Kings especially need to keep a public image. Injuries cause questions. Also, when looking for a possible suitor they are unappealing. Understand?"

"Yes, Sir!" He bowed.

"And the last option you could have taken was to not avoid the attack but to prevent it! This is acceptable for a King to do, even if the attack is coming as a punishment. You could have caught my hand and told me how it would deface your image. That would be an acceptable response as well. Remember, however, if you break a law and that law's punishment is to cut off your own hand, you have an obligation to abide by the law. You are not exempt simply because you are the King. You will be thought a coward and a hypocrite if you do not administer all laws fully, even unto yourself. You must even suffer death if such occasion calls for it. The Queen," he began, giving me a sharp glance of warning before he continued. It was clear what he was about to say was going to affect me deeply, and again, the proof that my son was gone became evident. He spoke of Jobel's mother and did not care if I was present. When similar brutal conversations had arisen previously, he would always leave the room, or ask me to go, but he did neither of these things. He simply continued, not caring what pain would befall me at his words.

"She did her duty. For she broke the law and she died for it. For you must die, if you ever break a law for which punishment is death. However, there is one condition that this is not so. If you have not an heir, you may not administer the punishment until you have made one, and have trained him properly. Is this understood?"

"Yes," Jobel said. Emotion had returned to his eyes at the mention of his mother. The trembling returned to his body as his tears began to swell.

Merek's hand raised again, and I knew what was coming. Snatching Merek's arm before he had the chance to harm Jobel once more, I pushed him back and clung as tight as I could to him. He shook me viciously, trying to get at the boy. He pulled and swung his arm until I could hold no more. My grasp slipped; my body flew back. A terrible pain shot through me then. I had been thrown into the arm of the wooden chair.

"Gah!" I cried out in pain, my one hand reaching for Merek, while the other clung to my aching head.

His lip trembling, he shouted rapidly at his son, "You are to always, always, always address me with a title of honor! Is that clear? Is that clear?!" he repeated in furious confusion, his anger boiling over he shoved his head back and forth between me and his son.

Astonished by his father's loss of control, Jobel could only think to respond with an unsteady salute.

"Get out!" he pointed a shaking finger to the door. With a puzzled face, Jobel opened his mouth, but Merek roared at him, "I SAID GET OUT!" A red glint lit his eyes as he reached for his son with flaring nostrils. Quivering and confused, Jobel raced out the door, slamming it shut behind him.

Hunched in the place where his son had stood, Merek's body shook. He grasped his broad shoulders, the low cry of a broken man escaping him.

"Merek?" I touched his shoulder.

What is wrong with him? Has he finally gone mad? Has his insanity finally torn him to pieces? What has caused him so much pain? Was it-

No.

No it could not be that. He would never—

He would never...

Would he?

Could this be... Is this— Is this because of me?

His shuttering breaths echoed through the chambers of my room. His large hands rested on my shoulders, with his chest heaving up and down, he laughed, as his face moved to form a rare sight. A smile? From him?

"It seems I have not yet lost my need of you. I must find another means of silencing this ever beating heart that longs for my mother's love. This childish desire I kindled in myself to keep my will strong and alive during that terrible time," he laughed lowly. "I must get rid of such useless things and yet I-"

Lifting his head slowly to me, I held my breath in shock. His eyes, his eyes were brown! For years, they had embraced the sinister appearance of a dark black, in which the spheres were endless voids of utter darkness. For years, they seethed absolute nothingness that kindled a deep fear in anyone who had the unfortunate fate of holding their gaze for too long. But look, look at him!

"My boy! Oh, my little - no - my big boy! You have returned to me!" I could not manage a smile due to the pain in my heart. My knowledge of all the sins he has committed would not allow me to gift him with the warm smile of a mother. I simply could not find it within me, no matter how hard I searched for it.

Seeing my thoughts in my wet eyes, he bowed his head. Holding his hand to it for a moment, a shiver ran through his body. The muscles on his back rippled under my fingertips as tremors pulsed through him. Raising his head back to me, it was clear this tremor was to restore himself to his viciously emotionless state. "It seems I will have to take drastic measures to rid myself of you. I find it difficult to comprehend how it is that my frail old mother is my greatest weakness."

Stumbling away, I stared up at him as he rose above me. It was as if every vile word spoken of him was manifesting itself at this moment. I used to listen to what people would say. They said he laughed and smiled wickedly as he slaughtered innocents. But I knew he hid all such expressions, that such rumors could not possibly be true because I knew he would never show emotion to them. And if he did, it would not be joy, for he had discarded such a "useless" thing. And I, I could not accept that he would find joy in the killing of innocents. I refused to believe it! However, those rumors echoed in my ears at this moment. That cruel, monstrous man, as the underground world knew him by, that thing was quickly revealing itself to me as he rose to tower above me.

A darkness covered his face. His hair shrouded his black eyes. "Mother." He spoke with bared teeth, like some rabid animal about to strike. A low growl lined his deep voice. "Do you not find it queer as well? Why is it that you are my weakness? What is so special about you? Why can I not silence this retched voice in my heart that cries out when you are in pain, which tears at my soul when you are gone? Why? Why!" His questions were thrown at me like knives, vicious and lusting for murder.

Pressing his hand to his forehead, he chuckled lowly once more, but it was different, it was twisted and cracked. Like a mad man, his wide eyes danced over me, observing every move I made, every breath I took. His glimmering teeth looked frightening beneath his twisting lips as he suppressed his laughing, shaking his head repeatedly to himself as he did.

"Yes, yes! That is perfect!" his wild eyes pressed themselves into me. Deeper and deeper they bore, mad and crazed, and then, as if it had occurred to him that he was losing himself, he frowned. His eyes directed their attention down to his feet. Pacing back and forth, he shook his head, muttering odd things to himself.

Truly the rumors were true! He is mad! Well, I knew he was mad to do such awful things with no remorse, but to this extent! I never knew man could fall to such a state!

His composure somewhat regained, he held out a hand to me. His eyes emotionless once more, he replaced the thin line that he so often wore, which was neither a frown nor a smile. Helping me up from the floor, he took my place. Kneeling down, he tilted his head up to me as he pressed my hand to his cheek. "Please do not hate me for what I am so selfishly about to do, Mother. Know that it is for my dream, and you always told me to believe in my dreams. As a child you ensured me that you would support me in them and follow me to the ends of the earth to achieve them. And Mother, I am about to achieve my dream, and I need you to help me to accomplish the final part of it."

I, too, had taken a moment to compose myself. Remembering how I once was, how I needed to be in order to face such a clearly deranged man who I must never forget is my very own child, I asked, "Merek, why do you hold the promises of a child? You are no longer a little boy but a man. Act as one. Do not cling to childish fantasies."

These words, I feel as though I have spoken them before.

He frowned, "Oh, but Mother, I thought you would remember how very serious a child I was. Even if you do not remember, then you must at least remember how you would cry out to me every time you saw my face. No matter my age you always say the same thing. 'Oh, my child! My child! My boy!' Surely, you recall this? You did it not so long ago."

"Merek, stop playing me the fool! I know very well that you are my own, and you know very well that this fact does not change my answer. I object! I refuse to help my son destroy himself!"

Yes, when he first came back to me, I spoke something similar to him that day. Didn't I? I suppose this story is repeating itself. However, for some reason, I do not think I will be so lucky in this ending. A shame, since the last ending was so very terrible. Though perhaps this time, I can give a better answer.

Without him forcing me to do so, I placed my other hand on his opposite cheek. Rubbing it tenderly I held up the head of my son. "Merek, you were not always so serious as you believe yourself to have been. You were kind and joyful. You always smiled and brought happiness wherever you went. This darkness that has emerged within you is something that has grown, grown from something terribly unfortunate, a pain that I am sure even you have recognized. And you know in your heart that this pain is the reason you claim to despise all emotions. Your fear of pain is what causes you to cast yourself off, to build a barrier so that no one, not even me, can break it down to enter your heart's chambers. All your actions, all you have done, do you think you could fool me? I am your mother, and I can see right through you. You act the way you do because of your fear. So, yes, you are child, a frightened little boy, who is in need of someone to comfort him, to guide him back to the road of light and protect him from all the fear and pain! But, Merek, how can I help you when you have built up this barrier of nothingness? How can I comfort you, love you, care for you, when you hide your pain and suffering by inflicting it upon those around you? By selfishly keeping your mother by your side, your frail old mother, who grows weary watching her son slowly eat away at his own heart and soul. You know I love you. And you will always be my beloved child. But I cannot give you what you desire. I cannot help you destroy yourself. For that is all that will come out of your dream's fulfillment."

Oh, my answer was not that different from my first.

Without a word, he stood over me. I took the courage I had gathered up inside of me and met his eyes. And though he showed nothing on his face, not fear, or anger, not even sadness, I knew that inside of him they were all twisting together into an impossible knot. And that this confusion within him is why he did not speak.

Finally, after what seemed like hours, he pursed his lips and spoke. "You have helped fugitives and attended banned ceremonies. For years I knew about it, but seeing as you were my mother, I excused you. I broke my own code. The punishment I must receive is incarceration for the period of time I knew of this. That is two years. Surprising how long it took me to figure it out. Well, I had my suspicions the other three years, but it was not until I snuck in myself that I was aware of your crime. And that, Mother, is just what it is, a crime. As such, you are a criminal, as am I. Luckily, I am the King, and the law states that when the King is imprisoned, he is imprisoned in his home. My home is what I own, and I own a country. Sure diplomatic affairs may be difficult, but I will manage. You, however, Mother, have only what I give you, and I give you this room. But I believe that is too light a punishment. For you have two punishments. You must receive one for attending forbidden ceremonies and another for helping fugitives."

His reference to the Fathers as fugitives appalled me and how he spoke terrified me, but I must not falter. I cannot lose face at this moment!

"The punishment for helping fugitives can vary depending on court and judge. Usually it can range from simple imprisonment to the removal of limbs." He dangled a few of my fingers in the air. My jaw shook, but I snapped it shut quickly. As he slid his hand to my neck, I placed my hand carefully on his arm as he touched the veins on my throat. "To torture," he whispered, "and even..." He drew back. Pulling a knife from his pocket, he twirled it in his hands, and said "to death." Throwing it between my feet, he turned from me, frozen as I was.

"I will call a trial for you tomorrow. I believe it will be most favorable for it to be a personal, quiet matter, no need for any public statements." He calmly took a sip of water from a glass on the table, "That is unless your punishment is the latter." His eyes moved to me, cool and mercilessly black, they fell to the glass at his lips. Placing it gently back on the table, he walked towards the door.

"It would be best to wear your finest and most comfortable clothes for the occasion," he talked as if it were some ball I would be attending. "You do not want to be uncomfortable if the judges choose to have mercy and incarcerate you in less," he held out the 's' in less, "comfortable quarters than this."

When the doors finally shut, I cradled myself, and the tears would not cease to flow down my cheeks. "Oh, God," I grasped for the place where the golden cross once hung around my neck. It had been burned earlier that week, right in front of my very eyes.

"Oh, my dear God, please save my soul. Forgive me for my sins and please bless the children, the Fathers, and please, oh, God, please forgive my son whom is so unlike you! Where you die for us, he kills for himself. Where you were God and human, sharing in our feelings of love and pain and embracing your humanity; Merek is only a human, forcing himself to act like some other being, rejecting love and hiding pain. He denies his true self and raises himself above others as if to prove that the loss of his heart has made him above those around him. Oh, God, where you are always right and good, Merek is lost and has done so much wrong. Please forgive him for his crimes. And please forgive me for my inability to change him! For my inability to help your children! For instead of helping them, I always cause them pain through my relationship to my son, who is so hateful of you. I am not like your mother. Where Mary was brave and strong in the face of adversity, I am weak and cowardly! Oh, God! Oh, God, we are but feeble humans existing in a life where we know not what to do, where some turn to you for help and others turn to the devil! I know that whatever happens tomorrow you have allowed it to happen for a reason. I can only pray that you have mercy on my soul, and on my son, who has lost his way in life and can no longer seem to recognize himself. Please. Please, God, help my child. When he passes from this world, let him realize and repent for his evils so that he may come to you."

Crossing myself repeatedly I prayed the rosary, losing count of the decades several times, and when I finally had prayed and cried my eyes out till they refused to tear any longer, I slept.

It was quiet, or at least I thought it must be. For all I could hear was my exhausted breath and the heavy beating heart within my chest.

How I wish my son would change. How I wish I could change him or at least be there to see him change, but I know that he does not change because it is not God's will. He has a plan; he has a plan for him and me. I tell myself that he has a plan, and I pray so hard because I believe it to be true. But now, with my fate truly in his hands... I am fearful... I am so very afraid, and yet I know I must be strong. I must be true and loving to my persecutor, even if my persecutor is to be my son! Even then I must still love him. I must be a proper mother. I must love, be patient, and always keep my faith, even though my son seems to have become the living embodiment of the devil himself!

Return to TOC

### Chapter 19

It really was a private trial. I did not even leave my quarters. I dressed and was told to eat my breakfast, well before it was even given to me. I was wary of it when it came. How did I know there was not some foreign drug in it that would make me act strangely? But I told myself not to accuse or judge my son's intentions, and so I ate it, but not all of it, for I did not feel a great desire to eat the morning that could possibly be my last.

A knock came from my door. The maid, who was just about to take out my breakfast, opened it to four men who immediately came in. They were followed by two soldiers dragging in a man, a sack covering his head. I dare not see whose battered face lay behind it. It would surely be a gruesome and painful thing, seeing as the rest of his body was covered in horrific wounds.

Leading the group was my son, who looked strange as he frowned, standing among the other three men who smiled and chatted, laughing about politics and some other mundane matters.

They greeted me individually and courteously, as if we were at a party! I found them ridiculous and insulting. How could their manners be so light and carefree during such a serious event as a trial?! Whose verdict, I add, could possibly result in my death! What sort of men has my son trusted my fate to?

Although they all looked eager to speak to me, they did not dare to. That is, they would not recognize me until Merek did, as was proper, out of respect to the King.

I rose when Merek approached me. Kissing me on the hand like a stranger, he spoke aloud in a monotone voice, "Good morning, Mother."

Now even I knew better than to call him Merek in front of others, even if there were only a few. "Good morning, my King." That was all I would call him. Not his majesty nor highness, for he was neither majestic nor high. However, he was the King of the land in which I lived, and so I called him that. All other titles would be a lie, and I do not wish to add to my sins with a lie.

Seeing as he had greeted me, the others started their progressions towards me.

"Ah! This must be his royal Highness's mother, Madam Rosetta, I presume?" an elder gentleman with a crooked grin bowed to kiss my hand, his bald head shining as the small rays of the sun reached through the thin window. The next man made the same motions as the previous, but he was much younger and more quiet, saying nothing as he grinned in a most curious manner. The third man was just as chattery as the first. Though he was not nearly as bald as the first, he did not have as much hair as the second.

"Hello! Hello, Madam! It is so good to have finally met you! My name is Daniel Huverstein. If I may be so bold as to proclaim, I am his Highness's royal advisor." Bowing and kissing my hand, he stood awkwardly next to the sofa. A third person on it would simply be over crowded, and Merek had already taken the second chair.

"Ah, how rude of me, Madam! How rude of me!" the first man shouted, shaking his stout little body on the couch. "I forgot to introduce myself! Please forgive me, your Highness," he smiled broadly, quickly bowing twice to Merek. Clearly the apology was not directed towards me.

Before the first man could speak, Merek waved his hand and the man snapped his jaw shut, suppressing all the words he so desperately wanted to speak. "No," Merek said without raising his voice, "Let Huverstein do it. You take too long and are too extravagant in your explanations. Huverstein will move much more quickly through the introductions. Now, Huverstein, begin."

The first man sneered with his eyes but smiled at Huverstein who held his head high for the King's minor praise, his eyes laughing at his companions in victory.

"Of course, your Highness," he bowed. Turning to me, his eyes never touched mine as he spoke, quickly and simply, without stuttering or hesitation. He was clearly a confident and intelligent man. "As I previously informed you, my name is Daniel Huverstein and I am his Highness' royal advisor. Granted I do more administrative work than advising since our brilliant King has no real need for anyone's advice; and so I find any work given to me a great gift from his majesty." He bowed several times to Merek. Whether he did so out of fear, stupidity, or real respect, was unclear to me. What is clear, however, is that he seemed to me to be somewhat like a pet of sorts, searching for praise and admiration from Merek in every word. Though Merek's expression never changed, Huverstein seemed to become more and more excited the more he spoke. "Next is General Xavier Culeth. As you have probably guessed, he is the highest ranking general of the militia. Of course, his Highness is the absolute head of our great forces, but just _below_ him is the General." He emphasized the 'below' which caused the General's cheeks to burn. "And finally, the young man here is Paulen Laurence. He may be young, but he is quite the intelligent young man. He holds the great title of the royal scientist, but he is also the royal librarian, lawyer, judge, and a very good poet as well! A brilliant young fellow really."

Laurence bowed with courtesy once more, his cheeks flushing bright as he sunk down into his seat. So this young man would probably be the one who determines my fate. After all, he appears to be the only one, besides Merek, who would have most likely memorized the law. His smile was oddly sweet and kind. I wonder how such a gentle child came to know Merek.

It was remarkable how different the two were. I could list pages of differences, just by looking at them. Merek's eyes were cold and dark. He does not smile or frown. Merek gives off a confident and superior aura where as Laurence is shy and appears humble. Laurence does not have an overpowering aura, but a welcoming and kind one.

He appears to be a gentle fellow, though I know better than to let a sweet smile fool me. Still, he does look awfully kind.

"Lastly," Huverstein raised his head high, a tone of seriousness taking hold of his voice, "I suppose you already know him, but we shall introduce him as well." Following his hand, I directed my eyes towards the man who up till this point had remained silent. I held my breath while they pulled the bag from his head, "This is Bartholomew Ygrate."

I nearly fainted at the sight of him! His face bruised purple, deep wounds became clearer as they pulled him into the light. The man was hardly recognizable! Though my heart shuttered at this sight, I kept my composure. I must not let them realize that I know him. I must not give away that I am aware of my circumstances and his.

"We had the man known as Joshua Quetell in custody as well, but he was such a frail man. I am afraid he did not make it in the dungeon. Sorry to say he died last night." Huverstein shook his head as if ashamed, his bright smile flickering back on his face not a moment later.

Gripping my hands together at the mention of Quetell's death, I could not help but shoot up as well. Squeezing my jaw shut tight, I sat back down quietly, the men's eyes glancing curiously at me. What a foolish mistake! I must remember that I must not show emotion. I must not show sadness, nor fear, nor anger, or anything of any sort whatsoever! Though it was true that such emotions had been building themselves up inside of me, I did not show it on my face. I had cried so long last night and had hoped I would not be able to produce a tear today. However, with such news, I do not think it would take much more for me to break.

'What of the children?' Was the immediate thought that came to mind when they spoke of his death, but I said nothing. I just sat there quietly, trying my best not to cry out or scream as all the horrible thoughts of what could have become of them rushed to mind. And so I stared at the three men, refusing to look at Father Bart. The lock on my heart began to break, and I knew I would not be able to hold back my tears for long.

"Begin with the questioning," Merek ordered calmly. Leaning back in the chair, his eyes watched me carefully, observing me like some specimen, like some unpredictable creature in the bush. He looked at me as if I were a little creature of prey and he the predator, but he was wary to strike at me. For he knew I had teeth and claws just as sharp as his. So like a predator studying his prey, his sharp eyes studied me, trying to make me divulge something before a single question could be asked. Although I knew this insufferable test was occurring over a span of a second, I still found myself suffocating under his perturbing gaze.

"Yes, your Highness, I shall begin." Laurence pulled some papers from his coat pocket, along with a case which held a thin pair of glasses, which he placed precariously at the end of his nose. Licking his thumb, he flipped through the papers, mumbling something to himself as he did. Peering over his spectacles he spoke to me in a quiet voice, but was it strong! Powerful and direct were his words, clean and precise, as he spoke the questions that would test and determine my innocence or guilt.

"Did you or did you not go to town every Sunday evening?"

Slamming down a mixture of feelings, I nodded, and in that instant realized that my response was improper and quickly corrected myself. "Why, yes, I used to go out often. I love this town. Although the castle is very grand and magnificent, it lacks one thing. Do you know what that is, Sirs?" I asked, but answered my own question before any one of them had a chance to respond, "People."

*****

I twisted my words carefully so as not to lie, but even by twisting the words, I still felt the truth behind them exposed before these men. "Please do not misinterpret me. There are many persons here, but there is something about the townsfolk that is simply lacking in the people here. Townsfolk live so simply and kindly. They thrive off what they themselves have earned and slaved the day away to create. Such people, excuse me for saying so Sirs, make for much more delightful company."

Smiling softly back at me, the displeasure in their eyes burned through their fake smiles. I chose to look past them, into some dark corner far off behind them, avoiding their molesting gaze. I was telling the truth. God and the other church people are such delightful company. Or at least they were...I do not imagine many, if any of them, have survived whatever my son has done to them or plans to do with them.

"You speak honestly, I can tell, madam," the General held his head up high, combing his white tangled beard. "However, your eyes are mourning, as if you have lost something." His old eyes were clearly not weak from age. I was no fool to him.

I bowed to him, "Well, sir, I am no longer there, but here once more."

"Indeed," his sharp green eyes slowly cut through me, his words easing out with confidence and undeniable factuality. "Madam, you were found in a flower shop which held an underground meeting place for people who worshipped. It was a fugitives' den of lawbreakers and heretics. You do realize that your fraternizing with such people, who perform the illegal action of worship, is not an incident in which we can easily ignore in factoring the final outcome of our judgment for your case."

With heavy lungs, I smiled as I struggled for a breath, "Of course, sir."

Eyeing me suspiciously, he nodded, gesturing for Laurence to continue as he pulled out a piece of tobacco to chew on. Clearing his throat, Laurence peered shyly over his glasses, his strong voice so very foreign to his timid eyes. "You were in the care of the man known as Joshua Quetell. This could be excusable since you had no memory; however, it is unclear when it did return, and when it did, it was inexcusable for you not to report his or Bartholomew's treachery to the King. What have you to say of this?"

"You are trying to get me to admit to something. What is it, I wonder?" I glanced quickly to my son, "I have little recollection of many of my adventures. I only know that I was happy as I was when my son was still a child, and my husband still breathing at my side." Balling up my fists, I clenched my dress. I kept my head raised high. I must not let it be known to these vultures that such talk brings such painful recollections to the surface of my tender heart.

Those days I spent with the children are so hazy to me now. The more the days pass, the faster the memories of them fade. I cannot even seem to recall half of their names or faces. The joy, along with the pain, I experienced then, moves me to immeasurable bounds. My thoughts become so entangled in these emotions that my soul is beaten by their thrashing inside of me. Joy, Sadness, Anger. They have all become so contorted lately. I sometimes begin to see why my son does what he does, and it becomes clear as to why he is as mad as he is.

"Madam?" Laurence's words brought me back to the world. "Pardon?" I looked up to the young man who had called to me, that shy look still on his face. "I seem to be quite weary for some reason," I whispered, touching my head.

"Are you sick, Madam, because if so, we may postpone this trial till you are well. It is better after all to be in good health when you are-"

"No," Merek spoke above him before he could finish, "Pardon me, I am also as weary and anxious as my mother. However, she and I both know that this hearing must be done today. We can postpone it no longer. Please go on, and be more direct in your interrogations. She is my mother, after all, and clever when it comes to negating the answers you seek." He did not look at me, but through me. Like some ghost, he saw through my being, labeling me as some insignificant entity, just as meaningless and helpless and dead as the ghost I already seemed to be.

Without a word of objection or disagreement, Laurence flipped his paper. Upon reading the question to himself, he glanced up at me and then back at whatever words were on the page. "You have been going to town on Sunday nights as previously mentioned, Madam, and it was evident that you were going to the flower shop at the times in which our intelligence has made known to us that Mass was held in the underground chambers. It was at a late time that these ceremonies took place, the same time you claimed that you were going out to see a certain group of people. However, there are no people out so late at night, especially at a flower shop. No one that is, but those who attend those forbidden services late at night in that little cave. The witness will now be brought forward."

Tugging at him harshly, the guards forced Father Bart to his knees. Nearly falling over as they did, the guards were forced to hold him up, for he was too weak to do so by his own strength. "It is surprising really," the General said, examining the poor half dead man. "Indeed!" Huverstein, who had been taking notes most of the time, agreed with him.

"To think our own Minister of Foreign Affairs was in fact an actual minister! To think he snuck his way so high into the system is simply remarkable! How do you suppose he did it?" The General's twisted smile nearly made me sneer. I knew the answer to his question, how he got where he was. He told me, but I dared not speak it aloud.

"I hear he was born into a noble family but fled from them to be a priest!" Huverstein commented. "But when the law was enacted he went back to his family who were highly influential in the political world. Joining the family business, he simply glided his way to his position. He probably faced little opposition. After all, the Ygrates are a great family you know, rich and powerful. They were highly influential during the previous reign."

"Enough!" Merek waved at them, exhausted with their rambling, as was to be frequently expected in old men such as these two. "Get on with the questions. You are dragging this on longer than I would have liked."

"We beg your deepest pardon, your Highness," They both bowed, fresh beads of sweat dripping nervously down their cheeks. They both gave their attention to Laurence who had been waiting patiently for them to cease their chattering.

A frail man, he struggled to look at Father Bart. Still he racked up his courage and addressed the man with just as much respect as he had the other gentlemen who were not chained, beaten, and seen as heretical tyrants, enemies to the King.

"Sir Bartholomew Ygrate," he began strongly, "The Court here finds you guilty on the charge of being a priest. Do you deny this?"

Father Bart said nothing. He spun his head dizzily and opened his mouth as if to speak, but no words were able to come from his cut and swollen lips.

"Bring him water," Merek ordered. One of the soldiers stepped out quickly for a moment to yell at a startled maid who had the misfortune of meeting the soldier. Through the doorway, we could see the terrified thing. Used to soldiers' harassments, she pulled away from him, but upon hearing that it was an order of the King, she obediently handed a half full glass of water to the dying man. As it was pressed to his parched lips, his neck bobbled back and forth. The water must be fresh and reviving to him. A wonderful sensation, I imagine. Slapping his lips together, he spoke in his lovely voice. Even though it was cracked and strained with every syllable he spoke, it was still his own. Confident and proud, it was truly a defining trait of his which even at such drastic and dreadful times could not leave him.

"I-" he coughed, "I, am whom I am." Breathing heavily from the strain which speaking seemed to have on him, he heaved his chest back and forth, as if speaking was suffocating to him. But he smiled at his words, repeating those of our great Lord, not that these worldly men would know of such things. "I," he breathed once more, "I am the man who has seen this town transform. I have witnessed it in its prime, full of life and love, and I have seen it fall, the war taking a deathly toll on these people." As he smiled his proud, irresistible smile, the men drew back from him in shock. As he drew from some unseen power, some hidden strength pushed him to speak louder and more clearly. "I have seen it rise with the coming of the King. But, as his wealth and influence rose, the people's spirits dropped. They have become lost in this new strange town that still bears the name of their homes. I helped them to find the heart of the town, to find themselves amidst the chaos that one of their own had brewed." He raised his battered head high for all to see. Clenching his teeth to subdue the pain, he growled his words, "I have seen that boy grow up from a poor loving family, rightly questioning the world around him! I have seen him grasp hold of the wrong answers building a kingdom on weightless values! And I have seen him build himself up, crushing down his own heart. How sad I thought, how sad it is that he does not realize he murders not just himself but his mother whom he has now put on trial!" He raised his voice high, a fire burning strong in his eyes, "His mother, for whom, though he now tries her, I know in his heart, there burns a love for her that he knows he will never be able to extinguish! Not by her or anyone else's death!"

With a pale face, Merek stood. Turning to the gentlemen, he spoke quickly in a grave and heavy voice, "Clearly this man has been beaten so severely he can no longer be of any use to us. Do you agree my fellows?"

The General, with his red face, nodded. Huverstein gave a light gesture of agreement as well, but Laurence said nothing. He stared at Father Bart, just as pale as Merek.

Saying nothing more to them, Merek's eyes lingered on Laurence for a moment and then swung past mine as he pulled a dagger from his belt.

No. No, he would not do this in front of me again. No, Merek, not again! "Please, do not do this to me again! Merek!" I reached for him. This time he did not resist my desperate tugging at his sleeve. "Please, Merek, not again! I cannot bear to see the blood of those around me spilt! I cannot bear to see you kill, please!" I touched his cold face.

"Mother, do not interfere with such business. It is not your place."

"But, Merek!"

"Silence, woman!" His raised knife changed directions, its point directed towards me. I fell back paralyzed in shock, not by the sudden danger, but by his eyes. Their darkness, that void of black that was so enchantingly deathly, clung to me, capturing my very soul in their depths. I felt my eyes begin to water. I cannot bear it! I cannot bear to look into his eyes and witness with my own that he truly has transformed into some other creature. I cannot look at this man and accept that he is my child. I cannot! I simply cannot bear it! I cannot!

Shuttering at his rough touch on my hand, I mindlessly let him guide me to my seat. Tucking the knife away, he crouched next to me. Not seeming to care anymore about the company or the manners necessary to practice in their presence, he peered up at me, staring deeply into my eyes.

"You truly fear me, Mother," he whispered, his expression unchanging. "You are truly terrified by your very own son. What kind of mother are you?" Standing tall, he turned to the guards. "Draw your sword, soldier! This man is of no use to us! Slay him now!"

"Sir, if I may," Laurence spoke quickly, his voice rapid, quivering as he spoke. "The Ygrates may pay a good price for his life. Perhaps it may be worth keeping him alive?"

"You make a valid point. However, they will pay just as fine for his body."

With that, the sword came down, but before it could pierce his flesh, he cried out in a language unfamiliar to them, "Deus est donantes!" And, as he fell, so did I.

Yes, it is weak of me to fall at such an hour, but I could not bear the pain any longer. As I slept, Father Bart's last words rang in my ears. "Yes. Yes, God is forgiving," I whispered the words of my undoing.

Return to TOC

### Chapter 20

I did not speak to Merek. There was nothing to be said. Looking out the barred window, I folded my hands as if in prayer, not that it mattered anymore if I chose to do so or not. After all, my sentence had already been set.

"Even in here, you search for that light of yours."

He must think me a fool, basking in the single ray of light which sneaks its way through the thickly barred window. Yes, it was indeed barred, for it was indeed a prison. But was not my previous room a prison as well? True, this place plays more the part, as it is lit only by the light that comes through the tiny window, or a candle if I am given a match. However, neither my previous room nor this one is much of a prison. Although it is a bit chilly and dark and small, it is still furnished nicely. It has a separate room for washing, and I have the privacy of a door. Neither the furniture cramped together nor the smallness of the room bother me. I am not shy of small spaces. I was, after all, not always an aristocrat.

"Mother, you failed," he whispered through the door. He spoke through a small sliding panel; it was designed for guards to look through and required a key to unlock. The door was far enough up off the ground that my meals were slid under it; therefore, no one needed to come inside, and so no one needed the key. I am sure Merek is the sole possessor of the key.

"Mother, are you listening to me?" he spoke childishly. "You know you failed, Mother. You are falling into my plan just as I knew you would."

I did not look at him. I continued to stare up at the tiny window that was ever so much smaller than the one in my previous dwelling. Oh, so much smaller.

"I knew your foolish truth which you cared for so deeply would be your downfall. Your obeying of your precious God's law was your fault. And you know that it was your obedience to Him instead of your fear of me which led you to this."

Breathing a sigh, I spoke without turning to him, "If we live simply by our fear than we will not live long at all. God is there as our strength, to combat fear and the devils out there in the world, devils who reside within the darkness of people's hearts, in your heart Merek."

"Do not mistake me for one of your silly, fairy tale creatures, Mother. I am not interested in your fruitless stories of your foolish God."

No longer able to take his heresies, I turned to him with burning cheeks. "I assure you, my son, that these so called 'fairy tales' have very much a meaning to them. And you, Merek, were raised loving and knowing of my God, whom you repeatedly insist to be foolish and false! Oh, my son, you are subjected to His laws whether you acknowledge them or not!" I found myself staring at him through the open panel in the door, our faces close, separated only by the space between them. His eyes hinted at anger then they subsided into their nothingness. "I would tell you to repent, but I know you have killed all of those who could save you. And even if there were some who still lived, I know you would not seek their help, for the devil is in you. He has burrowed his way deep inside you and fed your pride and your fear. And you, being as you are, stubborn and unpleasantly clever, have climbed your way up to the very top of our system just so that you can plant the devil's poisonous seeds in the hearts of all this land's citizens, to breed his heinous flock of demons."

"You were always so adamant about religion, Mother; even when I was a child, I could see your obsession with it. For everything that was or is, God was your excuse. And even now, you blame God's enemies on how your son has come to be where he is today."

Reaching his hand through the little slot, he slowly moved it through my hair. "Tell me, Mother, how does it feel to be condemned by the son you yourself carried, bore, and nurtured? Tell me, Mother, how does it feel to be condemned by your obedience to the thing you cherish most in the world? By the God whom never once showed His care for you in this life, as he took away all your loved ones and dreams. No, you would blame this 'devil' character, would you not? You would say he is in me. But if this is so, then why does your God not save me from his _wicked clutches_ as you would say. Why was He not there when I needed love and hope and strength? Why was it, Mother, that when I was surrounded by evil, I saw you, not God, but you. You were my God, you were my-"

"Enough, Merek!" I pulled back, but he tugged at my hair, pulling me close enough to feel his breath on my face. "No, Mother, I am not done. You were the person, the God I looked to in that place, and it was you, your words that helped to feed this demon within me. You, Mother. What irony it is that you, who love God so much, to death even, would yourself build a demon inside the heart of your only son." Releasing me, I did not move. I could not move.

"Your execution will be public. And you should be happy." There was a low sense of pleasure in his voice, though his face did not reflect it. "It is on your most blessed and revered Sunday." Slipping his hand from the little window, he slid the wooden panel shut. With a final lock, his footsteps boomed down the hallway. Silence came as the door at the end of the chamber slammed shut.

Falling back on the bed that had been touching my heels all that while, I crashed down to it and cried. His words struck so true to me. So frightfully accurate were they that I could not help but cringe at the memory. His words were so harsh that I could not help but once again wonder—

How did this happen to my son? How did he change to be so...

*****

"Mother! Mother!" He ran to me, a big smile on his rosy face. His hands behind his back, he scrunched away from me as I moved closer.

"What is it?" I asked, peering over his shoulder. Falling backwards to try to hide his secret, he cried as he fell.

"Oh, Merek!" I reached for him, "Are you all right?"

"Yeah," he sighed, pulling the scrunched roses from behind his back, his big eyes nearly overflowing with tears. "I-I worked so hard to pick them for you, but I crushed them!" He bit his quivering lip.

"Oh, Merek, they are beautiful! It is okay. It is okay. They are fine the way they are. It is your love that I am grateful for," I said, accepting them from his little hand. Cuts and blood covered his little arms. Seeing this, I threw the roses at once without a thought. "Merek, you are bleeding!" I looked around for some ointment. Running to Jobel's dresser I rummaged through the drawers.

After several minutes of rummaging, I had found it! Taking the wooden cover off the bowl I smiled with satisfaction at the medicine, brown and creamy. I sighed in relief, "Your Father thought it was a waste of money to buy this, but I told him one day we are going to need some ointment, and we are not going to have any because you did not want t-" I stopped. Merek's eyes were entranced, staring intently at the crushed roses. He seemed paralyzed.

"Merek, what is wrong?" I bent down to him, but his eyes saw me not. "Merek?" I looked to him and then to the flowers. That is when I understood. "Oh, honey, I am so sorry!" Placing the ointment by his feet, I rushed to the roses. Careful to avoid their thorns, I pulled out a jug from the cupboard. "This will have to do for now, Merek. We do not have a vase to put them in." Arranging them in what I perceived as nice enough for our humble little home, I returned to Merek who stared at the spot where the roses had once laid.

"Merek," I whispered in the most motherly tone a girl of my young age could manage, "You know I did not mean to disregard your precious gift." Rubbing the ointment onto his cuts, I was surprised he did not complain of any burning or stinging. "I am just more concerned about you rather than the silly flowers. That is not to say they are not important, but I would rather they be crushed than you, my son. For you are my most precious gift of all!"

Turning his head up from his pouting state, he wiped his dripping nose while squinting his eyes to hold back his tears, though they only poured out all the faster. "I- _hic_ , I'm sorry- _hic_ -I just wanted- _sniff_ \- t-to give you flowers, and I _\- sniff-_ ended up making you- _hic_ \- worry!" His tiny arms closed around me, and I smiled. Patting his head softly as the fluids from his face excreted themselves onto my dress, I continued to pat his dark hair. It was so much like Jobel's. I could not help but play with it every now and again. Such dark and fine hair. Such a beautiful face. What I would not give to be able to stay like this forever, comforting my child, as is the duty of all mothers. However, I cannot bear to see him in such dismay, such is the pain of all mothers.

It was a new concept to me, motherhood. I was so young after all. My own mother was always telling me how motherhood was the most complicated of the natural tendencies of woman. She told me it took simple things such as love, patience, and above all else faith to raise a child well. Although such things are indeed simple, they were by no means always a given.

Jobel returned later that day and gave Merek the - "you gotta be a man and protect your family and not let them see ya cry" - speech. Granted he probably understood little of what that meant at the time, though it seemed to cheer him up. And together we admired the crushed little roses which bloomed into God's beautiful masterpieces.

Truly flowers are God's tears unfolded, and His majesty is undoubtedly revealed by their very nature.

*****

"Oh, how I miss those days with such simple thoughts and worries. How I wish they could have lasted longer than they did. If only we all had one more year together, one more month even. What I would not give to have had that. I wonder, if we had been given just a little more time, would things have turned out differently. Would I have known better than to say those words I did? I should have married him earlier; then we could have had Merek all the sooner. Although I would be younger and stupider, at least we would have had more time together. And perhaps in that time I could have learned more than I did and have spoken better, wiser words."

I chuckled, "What am I doing, saying these things to myself when it makes no difference now? What is done is done. I cannot change the past." Rolling on my side, I listened to the night's sounds as they came through my window. The chirping of crickets, the rustling of creatures in the bush, the clanging of guards about on duty making their patrols: all the noises hummed together in some disorganized symphony.

Again, I remembered my own mother's words, "Love, patience, and above all else faith." If only I had thought as deeply on them back then as I did now.

Then again, I only think so deeply of them now due to my failure back then. "Yes," I spoke softly aloud to myself, "Truly they are essential to the most complicated of the naturally simplistic inclinations of women. Motherhood, what a beautifully complicated simplicity."

The first aspect is love. It is something you always have in your heart. It is something you cannot push away. It can grow weaker and stronger, but it cannot truly disappear.

I know it is my duty, as his mother, to love Merek, but it is so difficult when he can be so horribly cruel. And though I think I shall always love him, I do not think the presence of love can hide the hate in my heart. "What a horrible, ghastly thought!" I shivered at my own horridness. "I want to love him, but I despise the very thought of loving such a man!"

I suppose that leads to the second natural tendency, patience.

Patience. I like to think I had this with Merek, but I wonder if perhaps I confused it with tolerance. I tolerate his evil works. I am not patient of them. No, that is not quite right. I had patience. I still have it, but perhaps I have too much. I keep waiting and praying, with all my patience, for him to change. I spoke kind words to change him, but they all failed. I then spoke harshly, but those words too were to no avail. And when I do not speak at all— well, here I am, in a prison waiting to be executed. I am condemned by my own son. "What a joke of a mother I am. My patience has given me nothing but despair and death!" Quieting myself as voices passed under me, I folded my hands together. When the voices faded, I looked to the darkness where my hands should be. Feeling them tremble, I nodded, "Yes, this is where I failed most."

Prayer is what should bind people together, and even more so a family, but I failed at those things. I preached at him to seek God and forgiveness, to have the virtues of patience and love, to be kind and understand that there is someone out there who will care for him no matter how bleak the circumstances may be. I had hoped that when he went to war, he would pray, just as I had taught him. I hoped he would pray. I hoped he would see God and all His glory while in the horrors of war and by God's strength make it through. But, though he did make it through, his intentions got lost on the way home. Looking to me, instead of what he really should have been focusing on. And then, after everything, he now only looks to himself. He fell into becoming a selfish man, as he somehow picked out from my words that being so would make him strong. I do not see how he came to such radical conclusions about life, but I suppose it is my fault for not having been clearer with him.

I myself was not completely sure of all things at the time. I am still not quite sure of what is right or wrong. I was even less sure then. I was young and inexperienced. I know I cannot use that excuse forever, but it is the truth. I myself was and still am on a journey through life. All I wanted was for him to see that he too must begin a journey to find his own way to happiness. But I guess I was a fool... I should have just told him outright what was good and bad, righteous and unjust. I should have taught him more of the meaning of love and God. And I should have...

Sighing deeply to myself, the moon, which must have been previously hidden by the clouds, shone through the little window to light the tiny room. "How I wish I knew the words to say." But I did not, I do not. And if I ever find them, it will have been too late for their meaning to have any effect on him.

At the end of these sad thoughts, I slowly begin to drift off into the oblivion of sleep, but before I can— a rapping came at my door.

The hurried knocking was matched with a quick lisped voice, "If you want to live, tell me the whereabouts of the key."

"Who are you?" I leaned in close to the door, trying to recognize the familiar shaking voice.

"That doesn't matter! Just tell me quickly! Hurry! We've not much time!"

"Merek is the only one I know to have it," I replied sleepily.

Cursing, I heard him kick the side of the stone walls. "I figured as much. Still there has to be another key, an emergency one which only he would know about. But where?" moving about in the hallway, strange tappings and grunts and kicks came from the man in the corridor. As I leaned in closer to try and figure to whom exactly the voice belonged, the thickness of the wooden door and the solid blocks of stone, hindered my efforts. They muffled his voice too much for me to tell.

With his fists banging against the door, he spoke quickly, "I will come back two nights from now. It is the last night before _that_ day. I will definitely have a key by then."

"How? And why are you helping me?"

I have no friends in the palace. Who could be helping me?

"All will be revealed in time, my lady, and you will have your just freedom."

"Yes, but please, why are you helping me?" I pressed my head desperately against the wooden door. I know this voice. I know that I do, but who, who is he?

"Soon, soon, my lady! I have no time at the moment. Goodbye until then. Do not fret, I will save you." His feet shuffled quickly down the hall, and the door at the end shut ever so quietly.

"Goodbye, my mysterious savior, whoever you may be. Though I know you do not hear me, I must still speak. Please, do not try to save me for-" Turning to the window as shouts and cries came from it, I breathed solemnly, "-you will undoubtedly fail." The voice of the man who had stood moments ago outside my little cage rang through the air. "Oh, why do so many suffer for me? Me, who has done nothing of consequence in this life but bring a monster into the world."

When the voices and shouting ceased, I pulled the single chair up to the window. It was a useless effort, I could only see straight ahead. Even with the chair, the window was so high up and small that I could only peer straight out, and there was nothing to see.

In defeat, I crawled back into the bed, folding my hands in hope that perhaps my prayers might reach the man who was most likely already long departed. I tried my best to keep my hope though. "He will come again. He will. He will. He must!"

Trembling at the horrible thoughts that soon began to plague my mind, I used all my strength to push their overbearing reality away.

"He must come tomorrow, lest I know the truth of his fate."

Return to TOC

### Chapter 21

"So how did you rest, Mother?" Merek asked through the panel.

"I am afraid the sounds of the night were quite stirring to me." I said quietly, not touching his eyes with my own.

Grunting lowly, he nodded. "That is a shame."

"Yes, perhaps so, it was to be one of my last nights after all." I spoke bravely, the words like venom in my mouth. I wanted to spit them out as quickly as I could, yet I knew I must swallow this bitter tasting poison. To spit it out would be just what he wanted.

Without warning, a startling clicking noise came into the room. It took me a moment to realize that it was the door. Opening it wide, he held out his hand, "Actually, due to unforeseen circumstances, last night was indeed your very _last_ night."

"Merek?" I stood, backing away from him as far as I could in that little room. Glancing to the door behind him and the water closet to my left, I thought I might leap to one of them and buy myself some time. But he drew so close so quickly, that I found myself in his merciless grasp before I could even think to move to initiate any of my plans.

"I am most sorry, Mother, but you have been relieved of your final days. You can thank your secret little admirer for that." I did not look up at him. I did not want to face the wrath of his eyes, but I needed to, I had to! "Who was he?" the words slipped breathlessly from my lips as I locked eyes with him. But he just as quickly turned his head from mine, right before I was able grasp the strange emotion that lit his eyes.

"He was-" he whispered meekly, the strange emotion in his eyes wiggled its way into his speech, and no matter how hard he tried to suppress it, he could not withhold it from his voice. "He was of no consequence." There was sadness in his tone, an emotion I thought beasts did not possess. And since he was undoubtedly the most wild and vicious beast I knew, I thought he was no exception to the rules of beasts, but apparently I was wrong. Even he must give in to the emotions of man. Who was it I wonder, who brought more emotion and sadness to him than even his own wife's death had? Than even my own imminent death can?

"Now, ask no more useless questions." His voice returned to its usual iciness, though he still refused to meet my eyes. "It is time for..." he did not finish his sentence. His hand grasped my shoulder, ever so slightly, tighter, and he forcibly guided me from my little cage.

We walked in silence down the dark hall. I could not see where we were going as we journeyed deeper down the hall. This maze of a castle was so vast, that I do not think I had ever been to this part of it before. Walking down nearly black corridors lit only by candles that we found about every thirty paces, I could not comprehend the sudden turns and descending and ascending of strange stairs which led to even stranger and longer passages.

After walking for what seemed like hours, though I knew it had only really been a few minutes, I found that we were in the hallway where my old room had been. But we passed it just as quickly as we had the other doors. Again, the twists and turns resumed. My head began to spin, and though I was tempted to, I did not smile at the memory of my walking down these halls in the same daze that I was presently experiencing. I remember I would have to ask the guards and servants which way it was to the dining hall. Although I had not been summoned in years, when I was, it was a challenge to make it there without getting lost. I almost never arrived on time.

"Hmmm," I hummed aloud as a strange thought occurred to me.

"What is it?" Merek asked, his quick pace becoming sluggish as we trudged down the spindly stairs, his face taking on a paler visage the slower we walked.

"It is of no-" I was about to repeat the words he always told me. But for once, since I see it as my last, I would tell him wholly what was on my mind. "I just thought," I somehow found a weary smile at the peculiar little thought I was to voice, "I just thought that it was strange that even in this prison I found joy. It was in such a trivial matter as well. The more I contemplate this, the more joyous I become as I think of all the other minor and insignificant events that I carried on in my everyday life here. I find a strange joy in their memory."

Now at the bottom of the stairs, he stopped. Staring off into some distance, he moved his lips to speak, but no words came out.

And so I decided it was best to finish my tale, if only to fill the silence. "It was amusing because I did not recognize the simple joys I experienced every day. Though little ones they were, they were none the less joyous. It was those joys that kept me going in this place. I believe without them I would have definitely and utterly crumbled." Knowing what I must say now, I found it difficult for my lips to shape the necessary words. But as a Christian to her enemy and as a mother to her son, I know I must indeed speak these words, even if they will reluctantly express a hint of gratitude and love.

"Thank you, Merek, for allowing me to experience the little joys of life. Thank you for teaching me to read and write so that I could read wondrous works I had never dreamed could exist. It was a great pleasure to read and learn. Thank you for the food I ate while here, so rich and fine. I do not think I have ever had a bad meal here, and every day, for every meal, I received a delight from just partaking of it. That is more than we could say before." I smiled, laughing at my own words that stung me so. "Ha, I never thought a grandchild and daughter-in-law could give me such joy as their company did, but you once again proved me wrong. The girl was a dear, loving and beautiful, a good mother and wife. And her child! Oh, how I love him so!"

Still frozen in place at the bottom of the stairs, he continued to express his opinion by his silence.

"And most of all," I whispered as the doors to our right opened, "Most of all, I loved to look outside the window."

Rushing in with his red face, General Culeth breathed heavily as he marched across the room to us. Bowing hurriedly, he glanced to me and then to Merek, "Your Majesty, I must discuss with you about a grave matter. Please tell me what-"

Holding his hand up, the General silenced himself for Merek to speak. However, his foot tapped impatiently as Merek spoke, "General Culeth, why do you always yell? Can you not speak without shouting?"

Bowing twice quickly as he had before, his agitated eyes glanced to me and then to his King once more. "I beg your pardon, my most gracious Majesty, I simply got too ahead of myself and I could not contain my excitement over this matter. Please punish me as you will for this disregard of your royal Highness's ears as I was not thinking at the moment. For you see, there is something I must speak to you in private about, as it is a grave matter, and I know you are very busy at the moment, but I seek your Majesty's-"

"Enough of your ceaseless chattering! Just speak!" Merek scrunched his brow at the General's own agitation.

Glancing quickly to me, he frowned deeply, "Yes, well, it is a private matter and-"

Waving his hand once more, Merek raised his head high, "She will not be here long enough to tell anyone, just spit it out."

Pursing his lips, he balled his fist and nodded, "M-my son, you see, he is dead."

"I know." Merek replied sharply.

"Your Majesty?" the General looked up in bewilderment.

"He was killed yesterday night for attempting to steal something of mine." Grasping my hand tighter, he spoke of this news lightly. "Next time, you should teach your children to obey their commanders and, more importantly, not to give into useless insubordination."

"H-He was my only son."

"You've yourself a wife. She can bear another, or perhaps not, since she is quite old." Leaving behind the old General, who had bowed over in his tears, we walked towards the door from which he had entered.

Without warning, Merek's hand threw me back. Spinning round quickly, he drew his sword. In a flash, before one even had the time to blink, General Culeth's blood oozed into the cracks of the velvet covered tiles. Wiping the blood from his sword onto his cloak, Merek threw the cloak over the nearly decapitated general. Yes, nearly decapitated. He had only cut far enough to slice that ever so vital vein and then—

I can no longer contemplate the physical mechanics of his death. I can no longer bear to look anymore, but I cannot turn away either. Merek's black cloak moistened with the General's blood, which ran through the cracks to touch my feet. It flowed around them. The instinctive urge to run in terror rippled through my body. But I know I cannot, I cannot because if I did run then I would be running away from my own fate. A fate that is oh too similar. But unlike the general, I will not have the luxury of still having my head attached to my body.

My trembling fingers touched the vein on my neck, bold and pulsing. It flows to my heart. I know it does. And when it is cut...

"I will die." Slipping from my lips, I tasted the foul words thoroughly. Their truth and the clarity of their deep meaning sunk into my very core.

I will die. And when I die, I will be no more of this world. No more smiles or tears, no more family or strangers, no more of my physical life. No, it will all be gone. Gone the burdensome luxury and joyous poorness of my life! Gone the sorrows and love of my son!

All will simply be gone.

No! No! No! I shook my head feverishly. I must not think this way! For not all will be gone. I will be with HIM, our all mighty savoir, and I will rest in HIM, and there will be no more worries, because there will be only HIM, because I will need only HIM...If HE finds me worthy of HIS greatness that is...

Oh, God, I beseech thee this prayer! Please watch over the souls of this General and his son, who found themselves at your doors by reason of me...Please let their lives be judged as just, as well as all the others whom have died on my behalf or otherwise. And let me, oh sovereign Lord, though I have been the cause for so much sin and though I know I am unworthy, I beg of thee to let me at least bask in your presence for a single moment before I am cast down among the heathens, among whom I so deserve to rest. And above all else...have mercy on my son as I know you Yourself, Holy Father, Spirit, and Son, are so merciful in and of Yourself!

Praying my final selfish intentions, even at the guillotine's head, I rushed them out, pouring my heart and soul over them as I shook my folded hands violently. They were more like wishes than prayers, things that I had no control of. But as I wished upon those prayers, as children do on stars in the sky, I felt in my heart at least one must come true, as it was the duty of falling stars to grant at least one wish from the thousands of wishes that people make upon them in their lives.

"You are remarkable, Mother. Even when you witness death and even though your heart has been eaten away by your fear, you still seem to find a sliver of hope to beg your God for your life." Though his words were sharp and harsh, his voice was gentle and his eyes solemn.

Droplets plopped upon the floor, thick and loud. They beat like a drum. The sound one might hear of one's own heart as it beats to its final moments. This was not mine, though. In fact, it was no heart at all. Grasping his bleeding arm, Merek showed no sign of the searing pain he no doubt felt. It had been wrenched open from the sword the General, too, had drawn in the split second of that last moment. The General had missed his true mark, and defeat cost him most dearly.

"Merek!" I drew towards him. Tearing the end of my cloak with my teeth, I preformed the quickest and roughest care I had ever done. "Under other circumstances, I would apply ointment or run water over it, but I think it is best to first stop the bleeding." Wrapping it securely around his arm, I touched his back. Standing up straight, Merek, stared at me, a questioning look in his eyes. I think a smile was trying to flutter its way upon his lips, but he, of course, snapped it back.

"How is it that you can help the man who leads you to, and is even responsible for, your death?" It was clear by the expression on his face that he wanted to say more, but he restrained himself. His pride overcame his own emotions, whatever they might have been.

I replied to him with a gentle smile, "What mother could not help her son when he is so badly injured?"

"It would be understandable if the mother of a son who was going to kill her were not to treat him as a son, but as what she truly in her heart believes him to be." He was testing me, observing my expressions and motions carefully. He kept his hand on the hilt of his sword.

Not jumping round the fact of the matter, I announced the thought that was on both our minds, "And what do you think my heart believes you to be?"

"I don't know." He bowed his head. Searching somewhere for an answer, he turned from me to the door. "It must be the same as that idiotic guard," he mumbled.

"What are you talking about?"

His hands on the door handles, he turned his head to me, "I was just thinking of how the General's son perceived your heart to be."

He was the guard outside your door, and he was in love with you. Not in the sense of marriage, but in the sense of the love that admiration births. What made him think of you as admirable I used to not know. But perhaps that quality of yours that he admired most comes from that part of your heart that somehow finds it obligatory to continue to love me. Your composure and temperament make me unable to discern if the words of love you spoke had become empty or not. I know at first they were full of love, but I became unsure. I was forcing you to accept and love me as I implanted the idea of the importance of a mother's love for her child into your mind. I came to believe that this feeling that you invoked in me had been a result of my twisting your emotions, that it was—that it was artificial...," his voice trailed off.

Bowing his head, he turned towards the door, firmly grasping the handles. Listening closely, I held my breath, for even a tiny noise would overpower the nearly silent little words he whispered, "But now I see...you really do...love as a mother should."

When the doors finally swung open, he stood tall. His head high, he strode with arms raised to the sky. The cheers of the hundreds. No, it must be thousands, of people, resounded together to hail him. Guards rushed to us from outside the doors, dressed in the finest wear I have ever seen. The enchanting white color and the fine black silk embroidery of the uniform caused me to question Merek's intentions. Was he mocking me? Such a pure and bright color did not belong at a funeral such as this, but at a wedding or other joyous celebration!

Although, perhaps these uniforms were fitting in a sense. To the common people here, who cheered for a man they scarcely know, their innocence is like this, white. They are pure and ignorant of what they praise. The black is a fitting representation of the truth. The truth of what Merek and his regime truly represent. It sews the uniform together, boldly standing out from the blazing white. It shows how this apparent prosperous and peaceful nation is actually held together by destruction and violence.

From a distance, I believe the black would look as a well ordered stain on a perfectly prestigious uniform, just as a sin willed by ourselves purposely stains the soul of a pure heart. I met the empty eyes of my grandson, who looked down from a balcony, a nursemaid pulling at him to come back inside. Such a terrible stain for one so young.

As I looked at him and the nursemaid, I knew not what to do. If the nurse was not strong enough, he would again witness something terrible! Yet, I could do nothing to stop it.

Should I smile? No. Should I cry out to him? No. But then what should I do? And so the moment passed before I could decide upon the action to take.

As the crowds cleared a path for their King and me, it became clear that they found me despicable. The cheers heard only seconds before turned to curses and spits when I came towards the crowd.

"You cursed mother!" they cried. "A disgrace to mothers!" shouted another. The shouts and cries soon mobbed together, and the people reached for me, scratching, and trampling the guards. Their fists found me and beat down viciously.

They do not even know what I have done and yet they hate me. They beat me without end without even questioning the reason why. Why? Why do they hurt me? What have I done but give birth to a child? Please tell me. Tell me!

A single unidentifiable sound rung through the air and the masses moved away from me. His arms were around me; his shouts and curses were distant and fading.

"Mother...go!...Mother!...don't...go...Mother...ve...I...love...uo...Mother, I love you!" His words, like the fountain of life, restored me! An energy and joy raced through me, and I smiled as I raised my hand to wipe the tears from his face. Such emotion, such anguish and anger and raw passion! He was a man, a human again! And though I do not know how long it will last I am glad that it is here, that right now he is here. My son is here!

"Finally...my little boy has returned." The energy drained from me faster and faster. I could not hold my hand to his cheek any longer, but I so desperately wanted to. I wanted to touch my boy who had been away from me for so long. Realizing this, he held my hand to his cheek, his shaking jaw moved up and down as if speaking words—

But no sound came.

"I cannot hear you." My voice came out as a breath, so faint and dim. I felt as if the world around me were spinning as my vision faded in and out. The darkness began to overtake my eyes just as I saw the light return to his. They were a beautiful brown, so bright and brilliant.

Shaking his head, he pulled me up. It was only then that I felt the blood trickle down my arm. Suddenly, a sharp pain struck my chest. "Ah, I see," I mumbled. Someone must have been unable to wait for the execution.

My fingers twisted in the blood as it seeped from me. I think I should write a dying message, but would he find it? Would it matter? Will my death just not cause him to become crueler? Would a simple 'I love you' from his mother change anything?

Yes.

Yes, words are important, but I do not think those are the right words to say. My hand sticky from the hot red liquid, I felt my own body growing colder as this heat escaped me.

As his head was swinging back and forth, I smiled up at him. He is so worried about me, so emotional, more than I have ever seen. But why, why, when for all these years he sought my attention only to throw it back and mock me, why does he—

Ah! That is it. Mockery. He is still a child! A silly little child who does not know the right from the wrong, who has not yet distinguished these important things. If only there was someone wise to guide him, to teach him. I know we cannot tell them the answer, but we can teach and we can pray. We can teach and pray that they find it on their own.

Yes, it is time for my final lesson. If I teach him anything, I hope it will be this.

Trying to shape my lips to form the words, I opened my eyes as wide as I could. Fighting the darkness which crept round, I raised my bloody hands with all my might so that both my hands touched his face, both the dirty and the clean. I found the irony in even this last act of mine, though it is such a simple one.

"What makes a good person, a good mother-" I felt my breath shorten, the air escaping from my lungs ever so quickly. But I could not—I could not give in yet! I had not yet told him!

"What makes a mother is Love, Patience, and above all else-"

That was all I could muster.

I could not finish the rest. How important that last part was though! That one syllable word, so simple, so real. How crucial it is! It summed up all of life's meanings into a single word. Without it, the other two virtues are incomplete. Can he understand my message without the last word?

Probably not.

He will probably not understand at all...But perhaps...perhaps, just this one time...nothing more will be needed.

Let that be my final prayer...

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### Chapter 22

"There is something magical about this place," he thought aloud, admiring the fine craftsmanship of the wooden statues that hung on the walls of the church. Crossing himself he kissed the rosary in his hand and kneeled at the front of the altar. "A beautiful and magical place indeed."

"Papa, why are we here? And why did we come to this church?" a little girl asked, looking up to her father who beamed a smile. It was a beautifully long smile, one which the little girl had seen _many_ times. So many, in fact, that she knew not the true beauty of this man's smile. "You must always pay your respects to the Lord when first arriving at a new place."

"Yes, Papa!" she blushed at her folly, staring long and hard at the altar and the cross that hung above it. Focusing as hard as she could, she tried to tell the Lord how sorry she was for not realizing something so obvious. But little children often find themselves unable to keep focus when attempting such serious matters as prayer, so it was no wonder her eyes wandered off. She then spied something peculiar that only the wandering eyes of a child would spy. "Papa!" she shouted, pointing at the foot that stuck out from behind the altar. Running around it, her father yelled after her to walk and bow and be more respectful and do all the things a little girl at her age did not yet consider.

"Papa! It is a man! I think he might be a priest!" The little girl looked to her Papa with big brown eyes, the same eyes as her father's own grandmother had.

Upon seeing the priest, her father pulled him up. "Father, are you alright?" The man led the priest to the pew. Nodding slowly, the priest held up his head, which caused the girl to gasp. Standing meekly behind her father, she stared in awe at the deformed man.

The priest's features were distorted and covered in twisted scars that spread across his face. "Ah! It is you!" her father smiled, "Long time no see, Father Robert." Her father gently patted the priest, who nodded to him in appreciation. The priest's eyes fell upon the little girl who stood behind her father clinging to his cloak.

"I do believe we met once before in-" he stopped, noticing the priest's eyes on his daughter. "Oh, my, I forgot to introduce you. This is my daughter. I named her after _her_. Rosetta, say hello. This priest is your cousin." The man softly pushed the girl towards the priest, but she retreated behind her father as quickly as she could. Paying no attention to his wary little daughter, the man continued to speak.

"You were about three, four years older? I don't quite recall that time very well, I'm afraid, but then again..." he paused, a frown overtaking his face as he patted his daughter's shoulder, "I don't think I totally wish to recall either."

Kneeling next to Robert, the man held the preacher's hands. "I am sorry for not visiting, but me being who I am, it was difficult to- No. That's not right. It was fear. Yes, it was very often the fear of the past that kept me from returning to this town."

Tapping him gently, Robert shook his head and pointed to the cross. "Right you are, Robert, right you are." The man smiled at him. "If only your Aunt were here, she would have loved to see you as you are now."

The priest heard these words and nodded slowly, tears flowing down to touch his dark moustache. He nodded again, but did not speak. His voice was kind and angelic, beautiful even. In fact, it was so beautiful that people came from miles around to hear it, because it was not just a beautiful voice, but a miracle. His vocal chords had been damaged, and it had been nearly impossible for him to speak. But when he came to this town, he touched the remains of a deceased priest, a priest now known as Blessed Bartholomew of Vertensburg. It is said that when he touched the bones, he let out a soft moan, and then a word, and the boy who could not utter a sound without a cry, could speak! And not only that, but he was given 'the voice of an angel' as people called it. It was beautiful and serene! Though it is a shame the boy had grown to be such a quiet fellow.

"What she would have given to have been able see all the wonderful things that occurred so quickly and so rapidly after her death, especially with my father." The man, Jobel, looked around at the little church, "She would have loved to have seen all of this, the way it once was, or so I am told."

As the two men smiled at one another at the memories of the remarkable woman of their childhood, the little girl tugged at her father's sleeve, "Papa, is the lady you are talking about your granny?"

"Yes, and besides meeting your cousin, Father Robert, we are also going to meet someone else very special today, too; your grandfather, that remarkable woman's son. He is here, and I think it is time you meet him." He kissed his daughter whose scrunched eyebrows helped to express the quizzical expression on her face, "But Papa, did you not say that Grandpa was a bad man?"

Tightening his jaw, Jobel nodded. "He did many terrible things in his youth and was indeed a bad man. But look at me and you. We are happy, and we are very much better than well off. It was by his doing that we are so. And it is by his doing that I inherited such a happy and prosperous nation. And although the methods by which he procured it, as well as his reasons, were all of the wrong sorts, he set it right. He recognized his mistakes. He then not only returned the nation to how it once was, but he transformed it for the better, establishing laws of equality and tolerance. He recognized rights ignored even by the government before him!"

"I do not understand," Rosetta mumbled, blushing from her ignorance again. "That is fine, dear, you will one day see," Jobel said. The little princess nodded to her father, as her little fingers wrapped round his.

The King nodded to his cousin, "I shall visit you again sometime. Goodbye, and be careful not to fall over. We are both getting too old now." With a smile, the father and daughter left the little white church, which had so perfectly been restored to its finer glory.

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### Chapter 23

The people did not cheer when they walked outside, though it was not surprising. It had been years since the royal family had moved from the town. They had not returned to the original capital, either. A new one was once again erected in an even stranger place than the little town.

It was across from a beautiful valley where orphans played and lived, the huge castle sat towering across from the little orphanage's cottage. All who lived round in the neighboring towns often saw the King himself playing with the orphans! He even invited them to stay in the castle, and so they did, but the cottage remained a home to the director of the orphanage who did not wish to move from it. His name was Mitch, a stubborn fellow. Most would call him unfriendly, but the children loved him all the more when they did. He and King Jobel were said to have become friends by a chance meeting during their childhoods, or so they say.

The royal family had also reestablished the senate and created judges. Though the King had offered to create a republic and denounce his position, the people refused to let this happen. And so the royal family held its place, but it had little to do with politics now, a nice and sweet little life for them really.

Through the streets, the little princess and the King walked, not a soul recognizing their beloved royals walking among them in commoners' clothes. But they were indeed the talk of the town! The townsfolk had heard the King and his daughter had left their country home to come and visit their old home town. So, the people of the little town were keeping their eyes peeled for them, but who would have guessed such a casual looking man and his daughter could be the King and princess! Some had said to look for strangers because they were sure they would not make a large entrance. They were very humble, they said. But so many strangers had come to catch a glimpse that the crowded town had little luck picking them out from among the rest of the visitors.

Coming to the open gate of the castle, Jobel nodded at two guards who stood outside it. Old veterans, they were no fools. They saluted their King and allowed him entrance. Walking up the long spindling stairs, he looked down at his nervous little daughter. "I used to love to run up and down these as a child. Father would get very angry, but it was just so much fun to run up these unending steps. One could run and run and it was as fun as...Well, I suppose there were many things funnier than that, but I still loved it." He smiled at his daughter who was beginning to think her father a very strange man for having such a peculiar childhood, and for knowing such peculiar people like the deformed priest with the angelic voice.

Reaching the top of the stairs, Jobel began an intense search for the room. Turning down the hallways one after the other, he wandered through the dizzying maze of doors. Finally, he found what he was looking for. "Ah-ha! This was my Grandmother's old room." His smile faded as he grasped the handle. Growing a serious expression, he looked down to his daughter, "Be aware, your Grandfather is not a friendly man, especially to children." Nodding, the little girl held her father's hand tight. Raising her head, she puffed out her chest, attempting to appear broad and brave like her father.

Having knocked quietly on the door, Jobel waited, but no reply came. Without anymore hesitation, Jobel resolutely opened the door to his father's room. Merek sat in the chair by the window, staring out at the courtyard just as his mother once had.

Although one would think someone of his age would be fully gray in the head by then, the old King still had plenty of his dark hair left. Granted, that is not to say it was not faded a bit, for it was; nor that silver hairs did not indeed glitter among the dark strands, but it was to say that just as his mother, age was tender towards his features.

When Jobel entered, he saw that his father's most striking features had not changed. The old man's frown was solemn as always, and his eyes contemplative as usual.

"We are here, Father." Jobel stood tall, looking around the unchanged room. The same books filled the shelves, the same furniture sat in its place, and the same air of solitude lingered about the room. The only thing missing was her.

"I saw you coming from here." He spoke softly, his voice having lost its authoritative tone, though not its pride. Turning his hardened features upon them, his eyes met the little princess's.

"Eek!" she cried, hiding behind her father. "It is a monster, Papa! A monster!"

"Rosetta!" Jobel blushed at her name as he lectured her, "Do not be so rude to your Grandfather." Shaking her head she clung tighter to him.

"I-I'm sorry, Father," Jobel went on without her. "She is not usually like this, I don't know what-"

"It is fine," he said. "She is right. I am a monster." He stared at the little trembling girl.

"Father..."

"She is very much like her. I can see why you named her after _her_." He was captivated by the little girl. This old man, who had done so much wrong, found it difficult to stare into the eyes of his granddaughter. When he looked at her, young and innocent as she was, he found it hard not to remember how terrible he had been to his own mother. How terrible he had been to his family and others. And yet for most, besides his mother, he found it hard to feel anything, even for his own wife.

It is a terrible thing to try and destroy one's own emotions, because one may just succeed, and for a few of them he did. It was ironic really, because the ones he could not destroy were the ones he had been trying to rid himself of all of his youth. "She is indeed very much like her."

"That was just a pleasant surprise," Jobel whispered, petting his daughter's head. "I loved Grandmother so much that I could not help but name my daughter after her, no matter what she looked like. This child was named after her to honor my Grandmother, whose memory I know neither you nor I nor anyone else who has ever met her, will ever forget."

The old king mused for a moment, his eyes growing oh the more painful the longer he stared at the little girl. He did not care to respond to his son. It took all the old king had not to overflow with sorrow, and finally, he even gave way to that.

Shocked by his father's tears, Jobel did not know how to respond. It had been years since he had seen his father. And although his father had established many new policies and went about his whole life differently after Rosetta had died, the way he acted toward Jobel had changed very little. He was no longer abusive, but he struggled to be kind. Because of this, he acted very standoffish towards him, and Jobel could not react properly when his father acted out of the rhythm he had known for so long.

Rosetta, the second, hesitantly walked up to the tearing man, who had turned his head back towards the window.

"Grandpa?" she asked meekly. Although still terrified of him, she knew that she could not just let him cry. The sweet darling, she could not bear the sight of tears, and this strange old man was no exception to that.

"Grandpa, why are you crying?"

Not smiling to comfort his granddaughter, who had so trustingly crawled into his lap, he lifted his hand slowly to her face in the same motion his mother had once done to him, "I cry because in seeing you I see my mother whom I loved very much."

"I think everyone loved her very much. I only wish I got to meet her, she sounds like a really great person." She was so innocent and lighthearted in her speech and way of thinking. The little girl had no idea how strong her words were, or how they struck both the men's hearts.

A low laugh, kind and gentle, eased from Merek's lips, "You are right. She was a great woman, and an even greater mother." The little girl peered up at her grandfather with growing curiosity and wondrously beautiful eyes. "My mother was a great woman, too! She died giving birth to me, but I am sure she must have been very like your mother, Grandpa!"

He hinted at a smile and gently squeezed the little girl's hand, "I bet you she was." He no longer held his smile back, and it lit his now apparent, handsome old face. "And do you know, my dear, what makes a mother?" The little girl shook her head. Kicking her little feet in the air, she smiled back at Merek who took in her little smile for a moment.

Then he saw it.

On top of her gown and around her neck, there lay a little golden necklace, and at the end of it, a little golden cross.

She played with it, wrapping the chain around her fingers for a moment then setting it back in its place.

He had seen it.

He saw her rosy cheeks. He saw her caring eyes. He remembered those same cheeks, those same eyes, turned from him. They were in pain. Her hand grasped at her chest. She begged to leave, she begged and begged and suffered. But no matter what she went through, she still loved, she was still patient. But both of those things were only because she had-

Yes, he now understood what that was, what his mother had meant by her last words. For years, he had tried to find the answer. He did good works and helped others. He loved. He searched within himself and tried to be kinder and gentler. He was patient. He changed his ways and everything about himself, simply to find what it was his mother had tried to tell him. But he had never found it. Not until just now. Here in his little granddaughter who looked so like his mother, who surely had a heart just as big. Here in this little girl's sweet little voice and caring little actions he had found it. He was experiencing it now. This is what he had been searching for, here in this little girl, it was there. This beautiful and wonderful thing was finally revealed to him. This is what she had meant. This is what she had wanted him to have all along!

This was-

"Well?" she whispered, "What makes a mother, Grandpa?"

Smiling broadly and prouder than ever before, he hugged the little girl tight. Staring deeply into her sparkling eyes, he saw the same light of faith that his mother had once held. And in a soft, yet proud voice, he said to her, "What makes a mother?" He coughed, almost unable to speak the words. He smiled with all he had left into the eyes of his little granddaughter, as one last tear rolled down his old worn cheeks, "What makes a mother is love, patience, and above all else, faith."

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