Chapter 16: Chapter 16 – Marks of Mourning

 

 

“Oh, come now. You’re alright”

Through the interference of her own piercing cries, Mika caught an edge of exasperation to Eshge’s tone. It made her feel even worse.

Of course they don’t understand.

“Really, princess, they look good on you!” soothed Ume, still kneeling before her. “And now we’ll all be able to read you better. Isn’t it for the—”

Mika cried louder and harder, cutting off all attempts at consolation. Through her tears, she saw that almost all of the orcs of the thrall were gathered around her now, markings orange with alarm.

Then Retga and Uthur emerged, the others stepping readily aside for them.

“What’s going on?” snapped Retga, crimson eyes narrowed. “Who hurt—oh. What the…”

“She’s hysterical,” hissed Eshge.

“You don’t think the markings could be…hurting her, do you?” wondered Ume, rising to back out of the way. The iron-haired prince took her place, both enormous hands coming up to rest upon Mika’s heaving shoulders. 

“What’s wrong, princess? Do they hurt?”

Mika tried to take a deep breath but hiccuped instead. She shook her head.

“What is it? What can I do?”

“I d-don’t…” another hiccup, another wracking sob.

“Take your time. Deep breaths.”

She attempted another and managed it this time.

“I don’t want to t-turn into an orc!” she wailed, eyes squeezing shut.

The chamber filled at once with laughter.

“Stop that,” snapped Ume. Everyone quieted.

When she opened her eyes again, it was to find that Uthur’s markings had shifted from orange to yellow-green. His expression was serious, brows drawn together.

“I don’t think that’s possible, Princess Mikanasha.”

“B-but…I have markings. And I can see yours…without goggles!”

Uthur frowned. “I see no more changes coming on. And with that much orcin blood…if you were going to transform entirely, don’t you think it’d be happening right now?”

“I…” she sniffed. “I don’t…”

“Do you feel as though you’re still changing?”

Doing her best to calm herself, to focus only on the sensations in her body, she considered.

“No,” she said at last. “But…but I’m not truly Ulvari anymore! I’m…I’m…”

Uthur’s brows slammed together. Mika decided not to say what she’d been about to say.

“I’m not me anymore.”

For a moment, he just looked at her, gaze seeming to pierce straight through to her deepest self.

“Do you feel like a different person? Truly?”

Again, she thought about it.

“Not—not on the inside, but…”

“If you were cut and no one could heal you quickly, and you got a scar…would you no longer be you? No longer your kind?”

“Of course not. But that’s different.”

“You’re right,” said Uthur. “Beautiful though they may be, scars are marks of damage taken…and these are not.” He rose to his feet. “I promise you, I didn’t know this would happen. I will do what I can to learn the meaning of it, and if it can be undone…if that’s what you wish. But until then, I think you must consider the possibility that these changes are permanent, and reconcile with them.”

He looked to the scholas.

“Ume, please accompany the princess back to her chambers.” He glanced once more to Mika. “Unless she objects?”

Again, Mika shook her head, and again Uthur offered a hand to help her up. She ignored it, of course, and struggled to her feet. Outside, the leggy green beast still awaited her—having availed himself of half the tree’s foliage. Clambering up onto his back, she clung to his fur and cried fitfully on and off all the way to the wing of Thrall Uthur. And when finally she and Ume reached her perfectly-scaled chamber, she stopped short. A mound of treasure awaited…lit in the flickering sapphire of glowworms.

Mika wiped at her eyes with a fist, and her hand came away smeared in blood. Ume smiled down at her.

“Your blooding gifts, and a little of what’s already yours,” she said, gesturing for Mika to take a look. Her eyes caught at once on Ixos, lying dormant to the fore of the heap, and her tears renewed. This time, with relief.

“I’m afraid most aren’t terribly personal, as we had little time, but they’re all still very nice.”

“Thank the DeepMother,” breathed Mika, going up to Ixos and checking him over.  She’d been certain the orcs would hold him hostage indefinitely.

“You should thank Uthur,” advised the schola. “Retga wanted to hold him hostage indefinitely.”

Mika hissed, but Ume just chuckled and shook her head.

“Shall I leave you to yourself to rest?”

“Yes,” said Mika at once. “But would you please stay at the door—outside—until a guard is sent?

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“Certainly,” replied the orc, dipping elegantly at the waist. “A good rest to you, princess. Safe paths in the Dream.” She showed herself out, the door clicking quietly shut between them.

Sparing hardly another glance to the gift pile, Mika made straight for the water room.

Maybe, if I just wash off all of the blood, the changes will go away.

There was a little waterfall that cascaded from one walled off corner of the room and drained through the grate beneath it, and it called to her. Stripping down and tossing her bloodied clothes aside, she stood under the water and closed her eyes. Did her best to steady her breath, her mind, her emotions. To let her distress wash away along with all the blood and dirt of the day. She imagined the markings washing off too, imagined her eyes tingling and returning to normal.

After what felt like a very long time, she pried them back open and blinked about. There were little shelves carved into the stone, well stocked with stone and crystal jars of varying shapes and sizes. Sniffing her way through them, she selected a few of what she supposed were soaps. Glopping them onto a hunk of sponge torn from the large terrestrial specimen growing beneath the waterfall, she set to scrubbing herself harder than she’d ever scrubbed before.

When that was done and she’d rinsed her hair three times, she stepped out at last. There was a towel hanging nearby, and a robe too. Slipping into the robe, she wrapped the towel about her hair and darted out into the main chamber, careful not to look in the mirror. It might take some time for the changes to fade away after the washing. Best not to work myself up just yet.

Taking her time, she made her way through the gifts. There was jewelry, perfume, bolts of silk, featherhides and scaled leathers, a few gem-studded daggers and even what looked like a crown…just her size. There was also a small pile of clothes with a note pinned to the topmost garment. Peering down at it, it took a moment for Mika to decipher the looping scrawl.

“More children’s hand-me-downs to hold you over for now, but we’re having new things made for you this very instant, I promise!

-Ume”

Digging through the selection, Mika came upon a basic underdress and dragged it on. None-too-easy a feat, for though it was crafted of a soft and somewhat stretchy material, it was most certainly not made for someone with her proportions.

When she’d dressed and dried completely, Mika allowed herself at last to step back into the water room. Keeping her eyes downcast, she positioned herself before the mirror.

Then she looked up.

And there, even brighter than before, were the markings. At once they flared from yellow to pinkish-orange, forming a shape strikingly similar to that of a moth.

Mika’s hands flew up to tangle in her hair. She wanted to scream, shriek, stamp at the floor, beat at the walls—but she forced it all back. Slumping forward, her brow and hands pressed against the mirror as she stared down through her hair.

I smell like snack food to everyone around me, and now I have snack food tattooed on my forehead.

DeepMother, why?

But she’d cried and wailed enough, and finally the shame had begun to set in, sour and sharp in her belly. After what had happened to her people—who I left behind, oh Deepmother I left them behind—she’d no right to fall completely apart over some glowy marks and slightly different eyesight.

“I hate you,” she whispered to her reflection before turning her back on it.

Stumbling out of the water room, Mika dropped into bed and tried not to think about anything.

She dreamt of holding a hand. It was warm and big and strong, and covered hers entirely. But just as her pleasure reached its culmination, she looked up—longing to see the face of her lover.

But it had many faces, and many, many eyes. It opened its enormous maw, and the thousands of mouths inside screamed her name. She woke drenched in a cold sweat, and dared not fall asleep again.

 

~*~

 

Breakfast the next day was a communal and annoyingly festive affair, out on the largest of the wing’s overgrown balconies.  It was a little after midday, and Mika sat alone, save for Ixos, in the shade of a cluster of fat blue palm trees. Of necessity, her goggles were down. She’d been both relieved and disappointed to find that the sun still stung her eyes, at least on the higher levels where the mists were thin.

“Don’t you think you should eat more than that?” Threl emerged from the trees behind her, leaning over her shoulder and frowning as he peered down into her koanut shell. “Big day ahead.”

She glared up at him, squinting.“What do you mean?”

His ears turned down.

“Oh…no one’s asked you yet?”

She rubbed her forehead, still frustrated she couldn’t cover it. At least not without appearing untrustworthy to every orc she met, apparently.

“Asked me what?”

“Oh, er, I’m not sure I’m the right person to—”

“Asked. Me. What?”

“Well, um. The princes were sort of planning, er—hoping—to take you back down to the lower levels with them today.”

Mika nearly spat out the sip of ofke she’d just taken.

“Why?”

Threl took a bite of his toast, stalling.

“Well, for some Stonesong training. And also…it’s just, the villages down there are really suffering. With the blight beasts, you know. And you can cure them. They want to help as many people as they can.”

As she stared up at him, he edged ever-so-slightly backwards, as though afraid if he moved too quickly, she might pounce.

“Oh,” said Mika. “Alright.”

Threl blinked.

“So you’re just…fine with that?”

“Yes.”

“Oh. Well, uh…ok then.”

As the elf wandered away, looking dazed, Mika got up and made her way back to the enormous buffet table. The orcs had been considerate enough to put out a stool for her, and she used it as she refilled her bowl. She would need her energy. She was about to make herself useful.

For perhaps the second time in my entire life.

And once she’d rid the lower levels of their blight beasts and cured the orcs they’d cursed, perhaps they’d all be grateful. Perhaps even enough that they’d be willing to help her and her people too, even if Thrall Uthur didn’t win the Rite of Gold.

Perhaps.

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