In the cold evening light, her arms outstretched like a child as harsh reality kissed her cheek: this is where she recognized her qualm. Every mistake was written on her face, pressed in by a hard heavy truth with lips that fall apart in a delicate, yet sharp, work of art. Her tongue clung to the roof of her mouth, words surpassing verbal expression at the threshold, now only able to whirl around her mind. Such dangerous storms are a thing to be careful and cautious around. One wrong move and your whole temple could come crumbling down. As the crumbling continued, such words riddled with maladies rang in her ears, only causing an internal conflicting battle to ensue further than it had been for the past three centuries. “I am not a part of your family anymore.” Mirabella sat in her study in the earliest hours of the morning dawn, alone in an obscure room which was sullen and humid. The environment was balmy, hot and sweaty to keep the exotic plants around her alive, but she liked it that way. Most find it odd: a tropical library, water-damaged books, vines littering the shelves… But she liked it that way. However, when she wrote, her paper wilted -- much in comparison to her. She looked at the damp parchment in her hands, nodding once as it sat soggy as if the two had some sort of mutual agreement. And down she slumped in her chair, hair sticking to her face haphazardly, the result being partial vision. Careful etchings of blue ink spilt onto the paper in front of her as she attempted to write her peace. Paper was her only friend. Family, oh what a curious word, a word with so many meanings and yet so little exceptions. What makes one a part of a family? If I deem one to be family, are they truly? Or do they simply hold the title? Titles are meaningless- blood is eternal. And life is not worth living without blood. Is that what I am missing? Truth be told, I did not know Kirke as I thought I did. She brought this to my attention, that never once did I ask her how she came to be, her family, her past, how she ended up here in Regalia, why she was the way she was, how she suffered through it all, and how she ended up loving me for as long as she did after all I had done to her. A question amidst all these statements stands: Did she love me? If she did, I am a wicked woman. This I already knew, but I thought I had at least one redeemable quality left in my eternally damned soul. I take in the children of the Undercity, those of Newblood, the weak, even the ignorant. I train them, protect them, give them what they need and then some. By doing this, am I not a righteous woman compared to most of my kin? And if she did not love me, was it all for nothing but a shallow attempt to… make myself feel better about my very soul? Amorous love is strong, true, but love between a mother and daughter is the strongest above all -- it is unassailable. That leaves me questioning, did I break such love, or did such love never exist, to begin with? Whether she ever loved me is now unknown, and I doubt it will ever change from that state. But did I truly love her as a mother should properly love her offspring? Did I treat her well, did I care for her, did I educate her, did I fulfil the quests of a devoted maternal figure? Kirke was not of my blood, this I know. I was born many generations before her time. Yet my blood ran through her veins the moment I properly gave her the Blood-Kissed Gift. Does it still reside there now, even as she was purged from such enlightenment? Whether she is physically my own or not now holds little to no significance- she was not mine, to begin with. She was never mine to inherit, not mine to take. At the time, I thought I was taking in a poor child who knew not what she needed. I thought I was doing good for her. From the moment I met her I saw she was unique -- a Kathar, tainted with an Exist-affiliated affliction. Oh the heresy, to be born under the influence of the Void and yet accept such a horrid illness. I felt pity for her, truly I did. Were my actions so wrong, my wish to purge her of this curse? To transform her to what she was destined to become? I realize now that perhaps essence does not correlate with love. Shall I love her as she is, no matter what curse lay upon her soul, and what lay upon mine? Is it too late to redeem myself to her now? I’ve never felt this way before -- No, that is a lie. But only once has such guilt-ridden fear struck my being to the point where I can feel it fluttering in my abdomen. How did I let such a seemingly insignificant child have this hold over me? I am ashamed to admit she had my heartstrings wrapped around her pinky finger, and she snapped them all, one by one. My amour propre has been shattered by the fact that I am unfortunately able to love insignificance. How do I fix this, you may ask? This I do not know. Do I attempt to improve on my mothering tactics, or do I rid myself of all such responsibilities altogether? I am an evil individual, this I know and this I remind myself daily with peace. But what lies underneath the sickly sweet of my rotting skin, underneath the milkweed veins running along the rusted moral compass at the centre? Just that, and that is all, hollow and nearly empty. At least, this is what I have perceived thus far. Unless otherwise is proved to my existence, here is where my farce heart resides and I am at peace with this. I will not redeem myself. I am incapable of such a thing -- I thought I was incapable of nothing, but I have found the one exception, and that is to be pure of heart. To be good, this is something I can’t achieve. I rest with this fact in absolute quietude, and may I never stand to correct it. Truly truly I say, I am regretful of what I did- I am sorry to have hurt the one I loved. But I am who I am, and I am blessed with what I am blessed with, in turn having superiority and power over those who are mundane, for they do not understand our exalted ways. The conclusion I have come to is acceptance, and acceptance of oneself is a true rarity -- a beautiful rarity nonetheless.
