40. Chapter 40
THEN
There were many discoveries to be had during my time in Sorrel.
As time went on and I discovered more about Yllsora and how the Mother Blessed's powers could work with her, the Mother Blessed only became more powerful, our connection with Yllsora deeper, our abilities growing more complex.
Soon, we could heal and help, grow and create.
We brought about new varieties of fruits and vegetables, discovered new medicinal properties, and new crops all together, all with how we could coax Yllsora.
The growth of the Mother Blessed's power was celebrated and revered, most people taking to what our connection had to offer them.
But still, there were those few who envied our connection, who realized that no matter how much they helped us, the roots and trees and all natural things would always work in our favor, not theirs.
With Yllsora so young, our ways as a people on her soil still being established, it should not have been a surprise that anyone would reach for power when and where they could.
Such a thing hadn't happened yet, until that night.
It happened one evening between summer and fall, right when the world starts to become more golden, the crops just right for harvesting.
Us Mother Blessed had found a new discovery that would push us forward, which was a cause for celebration, the people of Sorrel looking for any excuse to host a feast.
We opened the temples on these nights, sending messengers to any nearby village, inviting them to the celebration of our discovery, letting the townspeople in to observe the engravings and the story of the Mother, to look upon the Astaros tree themselves and give offerings they saw fit.
We would reveal our new discovery, relishing in the advancement with one another, grateful that the Mother had bestowed such a thing upon us.
We had these celebrations many times before, the people of Sorrel knowing the decorum of the temple and the Astaros tree, knowing that they could come close, but that they would have to keep their distance out of honor—but also respect—for the tree and the Mother.
Our Astaros tree was used to these celebrations, used to having many eyes and offerings laid at its trunk, but this time, something changed.
Even now, I don't know what it was or exactly what happened, only that one moment, we all were celebrating, Malik and I dancing with glasses full of nimid wine, when a deep scream echoed from the center of the temple, the crunch of the branches of the Astaros tree following closely behind.
All us Mother Blessed ran towards the tree to find a sight that, to this day, I will never forget.
In the tangle of the Astaros' branches was a young man, no more than twenty, his once strong limbs now as languid as branches on the wind. Bright red blood painted the Astaros and the floor of the temple underneath it, the roots soaking it up as fast as it dripped from the boy's body.
That is the thing about the Astaros trees if you are not a Mother Blessed—they will defend themselves to no end if you get too close, whether you threaten them or not.
We tried to heal him, pushing all the power that we could into him, hopeful that we could coax life back into him.
But that night we learned that even too much of that can kill someone.
His heart went out as we pulled too hard from Yllsora and poured too much into him, overwhelming his system with a power he wasn't made to hold.
And before we knew it, his body had gone cold, his hands slack in my own.
I had never seen a dead body before then. The sight of him limp yet frozen, his eyes open but unseeing, forever etched in my mind.
We did what we thought was right, setting his body alight and casting his ashes off to the wind, letting him enter the Caelium with the Divine, or wherever souls went. In those days, Yllsora had not seen a death yet, so we did not know any different.
We never told anyone of the death that day, did not want common men and women to know that such a thing was possible—that our power, which so often brought life could also bring death.
We only said he vanished into the Alesi, the nimids taking him, spinning a tale that he so badly wanted to be a part of Yllsora he willingly sacrificed himself to it.
It was true, in a way.
The Mother Blessed of Sorrel never spoke of it again, for the Shroud happened so quickly, overwhelming the tragedy in everyone's minds that we didn't need to, but I had carried that night with me all these years. I still do, even now, for even those who are holy are not pure.
I always thought of the boy whenever I saw death before me, his lifeless eyes haunting me every time I closed my own.
I went back to Malik that night, the shock apparent on my face as Malik took me in his arms without a word, clutching me to his chest, slowly coaxing the tears out of my body.
He held me, not questioning me or my tears, and I was glad for it, as nothing could have made me utter the words of what I had seen.
I had not known that night would be my last with Malik, yet there was something different about it.
I could feel the shift in the air, the feel of the turn of seasons I usually loved now heavy and suffocating, any semblance of celebration evaporated.
I clung to Malik, so much so that we eventually became one, all my grief pouring from my lips to his.
It was desperate, frantic, fueled by the panic of what I had seen of the Mother Blessed's true depth of power, and how much it had scared me.
Even then, I knew life would never be the same, no matter how much I wanted it to be.
Tears rolled down my cheeks as Malik kissed me that night, my hands gripping him tighter than they ever had before.
He had no idea of what I had just witnessed, what I had just gone through, but he never questioned me, calming me as best he could, running his hands through my hair, down my arms, across my stomach, mapping me so he would never forget every dip and curve.
I did the same—running my hands over his face, memorizing the planes of his cheeks and the hard bone of his jaw.
I did not know what was in store for us following that night, but some part of me knew nothing would ever be the same.
And in the moment, underneath him, as the grief and fear found a home in every part of my being, I swore I would never forget anything about him.
Not the way moles littered his tanned skin, or the way his brows creased when he was focused, or the way his hair fell into his eyes as he hovered above me.
Those images continued to flash in my mind, even years later, when Therian and I lay together.
The guilt of it always haunted me, yet I could not make myself stop.
I always longed to return to that night before it all went wrong, to that version of Malik and I who were still so innocent and hopeful for the future that lay ahead.
Because, that next morning when we awoke, the Black Shroud happened only hours later.