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The morning sun rises, and with it the start of what would soon be known as the Adrestian Empire. The musk of a midnight tryst still lingers in the bedroom. Seiros, last of the goddess' true children, lone survivor of the massacre at the Red Canyon, wakes up entangled in bedding too plush and regal for one so entrenched in violence and rage.
Mother would be appalled at who her daughter has become. But this is why Seiros longs to fight—to take back all that Mother had fought for, had died for, and to atone for becoming what Mother would loathe to see. Frankly, Seiros hardly recalls a life when she was not chasing after the ghosts of her loved ones. And this is why this relationship must end.
She moves to get out of bed. Wilhelm von Hresvelg's hands reach out to Seiros', but she pulls away before his fingers could graze hers.
"This would not work out," she says to him, her back turned on him. "You know this."
"I do," Wilhelm says in return. "Were we different people, in a different time, perhaps it could have been."
Seiros nods. As much as she cares for and respected Wilhelm, they were never meant to be lovers. He'd seen too much of her, and her too much of him. Overwhelming. Overbearing. They would only make each other worse. She'd only make him worse.
Eventually, not long after that morning would become a fading memory, Wilhelm finds and marries the woman who would go on to start the Hresvelg dynasty with him, and seeing him happy is more than enough for Seiros.
Decades later, when a middle-aged Wilhelm begins the crusade that will grant him his glory and her her revenge, Seiros realizes that she is with child, and had been for much longer than she should have.
She has not had any carnal relations since that night with Wilhelm.
Her body seems to hold onto the life developing inside of it until the conditions are right—safe enough, or stable, perhaps—for it to grow and be brought out into the world. How convenient. The war campaign can move forward as planned while she figures out what to do with her pregnancy. The choice should be obvious for any woman in her position, and yet…
She had been researching in the years leading up to Wilhelm's crusade. Methods with which she might be able to bring back the Progenitor God, Sothis, Mother. Once she takes Mother’s body back from that damnable thief, she will have Mother's heart, the crest stone. All she needs is a suitable vessel.
Contemplating the life growing within her, Seiros comes to a decision.
Seiros is forty-seven years into her crusade when the child is born.
For a moment, the world stops. Seiros looks at the infant swaddled in her arms, and when the world starts turning again, it turns around this child. Wispy tufts of green hair and little pointed ears—despite its human heritage, the infant is Nabatean through and through.
When Seiros puts a shaky thumb to the child's hand, the child clutches it like a lifeline. For some reason, this makes Seiros' heart flutter wildly. This child has captured her heart. All thought of using the child's body as a vessel for the Progenitor God vanish.
…Almost.
But what cannot be denied is that the Sothis-shaped void within Seiros seems to fill with an adoration for this infant who has never yet done anything to warrant affection from Seiros. Perhaps it could be the sheer novelty of holding a living Nabatean in her arms, where she'd grown far too accustomed to holding their desecrated corpses instead. It is surreal. Seiros should have never known this love ever again, not after what happened at Zanado. But here she is, and here she holds her own flesh and blood after decades of being alone.
"Sitri," Seiros whispers to the infant. Against her better judgment, she names it. The infant's soft mewling is its—no, her only reply to her mother. Seiros' breath hitches. Is this how Mother felt, holding her children close? Is this budding feeling within her, this need to nurture this new life the reason for Mother's boundless love? How wonderful the feeling is, how intoxicating, to give your entire being to something so small. Revenge and conquest seem so inconsequential, so meaningless in the face of the life she cradles in her arms. Seiros is enamored.
"H-hello, Sitri," Seiros starts over. She holds the child—her daughter—closer to her bosom. "How happy I am to meet you."
It is a small but gorgeous stone cabin near the palace at Enbarr. A garden sits at the center, barren as of yet but ready to be filled with flowers and vegetables as desired. This is where Seiros will keep the child, protected by the most powerful wards known to man.
To keep the child safe, Seiros decides to never stay with her for too long. She has accumulated an endless number of enemies—those who would deign to use her and her kin for their nefarious deeds, those who clamor for the political power she had accumulated through the worship of her Mother, those who simply want her head for her savage warfare. No, the child is better off away from her.
(The child deserves a better mother than the wretch that birthed her.)
Those three brothers, who agreed to join her crusade, they judge her greatly for it. They'll come to see the child daily, they said, taking turns to raise her because Seiros herself could not be bothered beyond the barest minimum.
"The war is more important," she'd told Cichol.
"And that is why we will do this," he'd said in return.
Seiros had thought he meant to agree with her, but she would come to realize that he meant otherwise. That, because Seiros deemed the war a more pressing matter over her own child, the brothers would take over as guardians because they knew she would not fulfill her duties as parent.
The revelation strikes her, and will continue to stay with her for decades afterwards.
Ashamed, she eases her wartime responsibilities for the first two years of the child's life, taking advantage of the lull in the conflict to care for the infant when she needs her mother the most.
The first time Seiros decides it is time to leave Sitri at the cottage, the child wails her lungs out. She clings to Seiros as if her life depends on it, as if she knew what her mother's absence would do to her.
"I'm sorry," Seiros says, prying her child's hands off her robes, and wonders if she would ever get used to the guilt.
"Mama! You're back!"
Sitri runs to her mother, arms outstretched. Seiros sets her belongings aside and picks her daughter up. Sitri wraps her arms around Seiros' neck.
"Hello, Sitri," Seiros coos, leaving a gentle kiss on the child's forehead. "How have you been? Did you have fun with Brother Indech today?"
The girl had taken to calling the three brothers as if they were her blood kin. Fondness and sorrow mix in equal measure in Seiros, seeing some of their Nabatean culture pass on to her daughter who will never know the beauty of Zanado and its people.
"Mhm. We made a drawing!" Sitri reaches into her satchel and hands Seiros a piece of parchment, covered with smears of ink.
Seiros examines the picture and smiles. Four vaguely humanoid figures stand side-by-side, their names hastily scrawled over their heads for identification.
"Ah, let's see now," Seiros says, squinting as she tries to decipher the handwriting of a four-year-old. "Macuil, Indech, Cichol, and Sitri. And what a lovely drawing you made."
Sitri beams at the compliment. "And, and, I drew us all together. See?"
"That you did. But where's mama, Sitri?"
Sitri's happy little face falls.
"I can't remember how to draw you. You're always gone, mama."
Seiros bites her tongue. She is not wrong.
"I'm sorry, dear child," she says instead. "I will have to go again soon, too."
Sitri buries her face in her mother's chest.
"Oh… but can you come back tomorrow?"
Seiros pats her child's head. "I will do my best, little one. I promise."
Sitri's face is a mixture of happiness and doubt. Seiros understands. Her own heart twists painfully in her chest, a sensation that has worsened every time she returns to see Sitri.
"Okay. Um… Can you sing the song? The one with the fire and the time?"
Seiros makes herself chuckle. "Of course, little one. Let it be a song that you never forget."
And she sings to her child the song her mother once sang to all her children, both of her flesh and of her spirit, a song that longs for memories incinerated by the flames of time. Seiros sways back and forth to the rhythm, soothing the child in her arms.
Sitri's breathing eases into a steady rhythm. Seiros runs a hand through the girl's hair, and not for the first time does she imagine Sothis running a hand through hers instead.
"So, Sitri," Cichol says, closing his book, "what did we learn from Cat and Bird in the story?"
Story time with Brother Cichol is her second favorite thing in the world, just behind flowers. Sitri loves the feeling of being whisked away to another world whenever she reads a story with him. She's never allowed to go too far away from the house, so every adventure she could get, from books or from anywhere else, she cherishes.
"That, um, we should forgive people, especially if they're sorry and they want to make things better!"
Cichol pats Sitri on the head, smiling down at her. "You are a quick learner. Well done, Sitri."
"Will we read another one, brother? Please?"
He gives her a sad smile. "Well, you'll have to wait until next time, won't you? Look, the sun is starting to set."
She whines. "Aww. There's never enough time."
Sitri frowns. She knows her mother and her brothers are very busy. But why do they always have to be busy? If they're doing important things, can't she come with them?
"Brother," Sitri says, "why can't ma—um, mother—and everyone stay with me longer? Don't they want to be with me?"
"It's not that we don't want to, Sitri," Cichol says. "We simply have responsibilities that are too dangerous for you."
Sitri pouts. "And that's why I'm not allowed to leave the house."
Cichol sighs. "I only hope that it will not be that way for too long. But do not fret, Sitri. We will always come back."
"Always?"
"Always. And besides, Macuil and Indech will be with you next, will they not?"
Sitri's eyes light up. "Yeah! We'll play a lot!"
Just as Cichol is about to pat her on the head to bid his farewells, a knock on the door interrupts them.
"Pardon the interruption," Seiros says, peeking through the doorway. Cichol stands to let her inside.
"Mother, you're here!" Sitri rushes to give her mother a hug.
Seiros smiles at her daughter's enthusiasm. She bends down to fix Sitri's hair and clothes.
"You've gotten bigger, little one. Are you growing up without me, now?"
"Yes," Sitri says, without any sarcasm or snark, and unwittingly makes Seiros' heart ache. Cichol shares a look with Seiros and excuses himself to leave.
"Have a safe trip, brother!" Sitri calls out after him. He waves at her before closing the door.
Seiros sits down at the dining table, and beckons her child to follow.
"Now, what was it you were talking with Brother Cichol about?"
Sitri goes to sit across from her mother, bringing the book Cichol had been reading with her. Sitri takes a deep breath before spitting out the plot of Cichol’s latest fable in the span of ten seconds.
"We were reading a story about a bird and a cat, and the cat had a fight with the bird because the bird wanted to leave home but the cat didn't, and then the bird called the cat names and that hurt him a lot, but the bird felt bad so he said sorry and that he'll be better next time."
Seiros blinks. Sometimes, she wonders if Cichol only ever writes to complain about the people around him.
"I see. That sounds like an interesting story. But what did you do after?"
Sitri flips through the pages of the book idly. "I asked him why you're always busy and gone, and he said you have 'dangerous responsibilities'."
Seiros winces. "And you know of these responsibilities, don't you, little one?"
Sitri nods. "You said you're saving the world and protecting people."
"That's right," Seiros says.
"So how's that dangerous, mother?"
Seiros is momentarily struck by the innocent question.
"Because the people we fight against are evil," Seiros says. "They hurt and kill innocent people. They're scary."
"They need to be stopped!" Sitri gasps.
"Exactly! And that is what your mama and brothers are trying to do."
Sitri hums. "But when will you be done stopping them?"
Seiros purses her lips. "I cannot say for certain. I'm sorry."
"That's okay, mother," Sitri says, although a bit dejected. She's learned to accept the uncertainty of the time her family will spend with her. "You can tell me stories about it at least, right?"
Seiros brings her chair closer to Sitri’s. "I can tell you about happier times instead. Let me tell you of a beautiful place known as Zanado…"
And through the night, Seiros regales her daughter with stories from her own childhood, of dragons and family and Mother most of all, until the moon is high and Sitri's eyelids begin to droop. She puts the child to bed and prepares to leave.
"When will you come back next, mother?" Sitri asks before Seiros goes.
Seiros sighs. "As soon as I could, little one. Be patient."
Sitri flops over with exhaustion. "Okay. Stay safe, mother."
Seiros leaves the cabin, her steps heavy. When she closes the door behind her, she blinks.
When did Sitri start calling her 'mother'—when did she stop calling her 'mama'?
The thought stays with her the whole way back to the war room.
"Brother Macuil? Did I do something wrong?"
Macuil looks up from the magic texts he'd been lecturing Sitri on. She looks troubled; it doesn’t take a genius to know why. He pushes the textbooks and scrolls aside. For Sitri’s sake, Macuil plays dumb, pretends he doesn’t know it’s about that damned woman who calls herself Sitri’s mother, and tries to keep up his playful persona to keep the girl’s spirits up.
"Never, Sittie! Why, you're always on your best behavior. What made you say that?"
He hates to see Sitri so crestfallen, and always has, because he knows what it feels like to be abandoned by the people who were supposed to raise you with love and care.
"I must have done something to make mother upset. She hasn't come back in a long time."
Macuil's heart hurts for his young charge.
"Well, that's her loss," he tells the young girl. "She’s missing out on the kindest and smartest girl I know. Sittie, it's not your fault."
"But Brother Mac—"
Macuil shushes Sitri with a finger. "It's hers, got it? I will have a few words with that mother of yours."
Sitri looks at him, then looks out to the window, where the sun is setting. When she turns back to face Macuil, her eyes are glassy.
"Oh. It's already time to go, isn't it?"
Macuil hugs her, tightly as her mother should, securely like his never did.
"I'm sorry, Sittie. I'll knock some sense into that woman. You don't deserve this."
"I don't?"
Macuil's voice is soft.
"You don't. You deserve the world."
The heaviness in his heart turns into unbridled fury as he storms into the palace at Enbarr, throws the doors to the war council room open, and points a damning finger at the woman at the center of it all. The strategy meeting had long been adjourned for the day since he left to check on Sitri, and yet he still found Seiros obsessing over the warpath she'd traced over the map of Fódlan. Macuil is the campaign's chief tactician—what Seiros is doing is nothing more than playing at busyness.
"Seiros!"
She whips her head around, startled. Seiros looks tired and drained of color.
"Macuil! What is the meaning of this?"
Macuil snarls, jabbing his finger at her. "She's crying, you witch."
"What?"
"Your daughter. Whom you seem to have forgotten in the past four months."
Seiros closes her eyes and heaves a sigh. "Tell her that I apologize, Macuil. Make her understand that the war effort is ramping up—"
"—You chose to keep her and the responsibility of raising her despite the war. You wanted this. How about you do that right now? It's not fair to her."
"Macuil—"
"What are you fighting for, Seiros?"
Seiros grows quiet. Macuil presses on.
"Answer me."
"We fight for the liberation of Fódlan and the death of Nemesis," she replies, but it comes out sounding rehearsed. "We fight to avenge our people and our goddess. Is that not reason enough? To wish for a peaceful world for Sitri to grow up in?"
Macuil clenches his fist and turns to leave the room.
"Go visit her and answer that question yourself."
There is no joyous greeting waiting for Seiros when she comes into Sitri's quarters. Sitri's voice, usually cheerful and soft like windchimes on a spring morning, hiccups and sputters like hard, driving summer rain. Seiros finds her daughter hidden underneath her bedsheets, not wanting to burden anyone with her feelings. A lump forms in Seiros' throat.
"Sitri? Is everything alright?"
Sitri digs herself deeper into her blanket. "Yes, mother. I'm fine."
"Sitri, if you are crying, then you are not fine," Seiros says, sitting next to Sitri on her bed. "Tell me what worries you, dear child."
Seiros tries to pry the blanket away from Sitri's face, only to be met with resistance. Frowning, she tugs a bit more forcefully, trying not to let her exhaustion and irritation get the better of her. Sitri relents. The blanket falls to reveal her eyes, reddened and puffy. Perhaps feeling too exposed, she puts her knees up to her chin and shuffles herself into a corner next to the wall. Sitri shakes her head.
"Nothing's wrong, mother. I'll be good from now on. I won't burden you with myself."
Seiros puts a hand to her forehead, massaging at her temple. "Sitri, you made me come all the way here, and yet when I try to help you refuse to cooperate—"
Sitri whines. "See, you're upset! I did do something wrong!"
Seiros reaches her hand out, hoping her touch would comfort her daughter, but Sitri shrinks away. Seiros' heart cracks. What did you do, Seiros? Why do you hurt your own flesh and blood?
"I am not angry, Sitri. You did nothing to upset me. Please, my child, speak. I will listen. I'm here now."
Sitri sniffles. Her mother's presence is not as comforting as she thought it would be.
"I won't… I won't get in your way anymore, mother. I promise."
Sitri's lip trembles, and Seiros keenly feels her inadequacy as a mother. Sitri just wants her mother's love, her warmth, something every child should have, and yet Seiros struggles to give her something as simple as that. Macuil's words echo like thunder after lightning in Seiros' mind.
What are you fighting for, Seiros?
Who are you fighting for?
She takes a deep breath.
"My dear child. You are never in the way. Everything I do, I do for you."
Liar. You lie so easily to a child, Seiros, one who thinks the world of you. Pathetic. You spare no one your vileness. Not even your own daughter.
Look at her. Look at the way she turns away from you and flinches at your touch. She knows you lie to her. Disgusting wretch of a woman. Mother Sothis never let any of her children feel abandoned, and she had dozens to her name—nay, thousands, for she treated her children of her spirit the same as she would her blood kin. You only have this one child, Seiros, and you could not even try.
Sitri opens her mouth to reply but closes it just as soon, for it quivers with her hurt.
"…Brother Macuil said you're doing the war for revenge because of what happened to the other people like us."
Seiros stiffens.
"He told me," Sitri continues, "that it's the most important thing in the world to you. So I… I don't want to get in the way of important things. I'm sorry, mother."
Seiros grits her teeth, anger building inside her, though it is not directed towards the person before her. By your own mother's name, Seiros, how could you let your child feel so insignificant?
"Sitri… the war is important, but never for a moment should you think that you are any less important to me for it."
"But—"
"Sitri."
Seiros pulls her daughter into a hug. Sitri cries, but does not reject the gesture.
"One day, little one, you will know what we have lost, and what we must do to reclaim it," Seiros says, and kisses Sitri on her temple. "Do you understand?"
Sitri sniffles, burying her head into the crook of her mother's shoulder. Her frown deepens. "Mother, I… I just want to be with you."
(And oh, how you have failed to fulfill that wish, that need, Seiros.)
Seiros’ breath hitches. She tries to recall the things that Mother would tell her to comfort her, because at the end of the day Seiros will always be a cheap imitation of Sothis.
"As do I, my sweet child," Seiros says, pulling her daughter into her arms. By the way Sitri pushes away ever so slightly from her embrace, Seiros knows that the girl doesn't believe her. Not one bit.
Desperate to break the tension, Seiros tilts Sitri's face upwards and looks her in the eye.
"Cichol tells me you've been growing your own garden of flowers. May I see it?"
Sitri pulls away to wipe her tears away with her sleeve. "…Okay."
She shuffles out of bed and reaches for Seiros' hand. She clutches it like a lifeline, and Seiros' heart putters, knowing that this child still yearns for her mother despite all her shortcomings.
Sitri brings her mother to the garden at the center of her cottage, where flowers of every imaginable shape, size and hue blossom. They're small and frail and delicate, yet bloom with such vigor, reminding Seiros all too much of the girl who tends to them. It is impressive work done by one so young as her daughter.
"It is a very beautiful garden, Sitri. You have a gift for growing such lovely flowers. Which ones are your favorite?"
Sitri pauses to look at her garden, and her fingers trace the myriad petals of a pink flower. "These ones."
Seiros kneels down to her daughter's level and gently touches a finger to the flower. "They do look very nice. Could you tell me about them?"
"They're valerians. I like how there's lots of tiny flowers and they make one big flower."
Seiros offers a tentative smile. "I see. Do you want to know what your mother's favorite flowers are?"
Sitri looks up at Seiros, but her face is carefully made blank.
"White lilies. You always wear them when you go fight."
Something in Seiros' chest tightens. "I… Of course. You're very observant, Sitri. What do you think of them?"
Sitri looks away, fiddling with a stray leaf that had fallen out of her flower bushes.
"I think they're pretty, I guess."
Seiros, you fool. Of course she would associate them with your fighting in the war. A permanent reminder of her mother leaving her behind.
"Well, would you like to know why they're your mother's favorite?"
Sitri looks up from her leaf and nods shyly. Seiros tries to keep her smile up.
"They were very important to my own mother. They remind me of her. When I wear them, it is as though I bring her with me, wherever I must go."
"Oh."
The look on Sitri's face is dejected. She looks away.
"That's why you want revenge, right, mother? For your mother most of all?"
"Sitri…"
Seiros' heart breaks at her daughter's tone, a mixture of resignation and weariness. Sitri goes to her lilies and starts gathering some from their bush, stems and all. When Seiros looks at her daughter with a questioning look, Sitri looks down at her feet.
"Um, Brother Indech taught me how to make something nice with the flowers."
Seiros tries to draw a smile back on her face, patting her lap.
"I'd love to see what you make with them. Come here, dear."
Sitri hesitates for a moment, before she nods and climbs into Seiros' lap with her flowers in hand. Seiros puts her arms around Sitri as the girl begins to weave the flowers together into a ring. The concentration on the little girl's face is captivating, her tongue sticking out slightly while she ties the stems together. Seiros hums a little tune to pass the time, occasionally reaching to smoothen out Sitri's hair.
"It's done," Sitri says plainly, perhaps a bit shy. She holds up the final product: a beautiful crown of lilies, white petals still bright and fresh, weaved so expertly together that it would be near impossible to take apart. Seiros feels her throat closing up as Sitri reaches to nestle it in her mother's hair.
"There. For good luck, mother. So that you have more of your mother with you."
Sitri's eyes are downcast, and it pains Seiros to see her so sad, so resigned. The little girl's hand reaches up to put finishing touches on the crown.
(You will never have all of Mother with you ever again, Seiros. Not if you do not act. Not if—)
Who are you fighting for, Seiros? For Mother, or for Sitri?
(Who do you love more?)
Sitri looks up at Seiros expectantly. She had not smiled the whole time they were in her garden.
(Sitri might know the answer. Pathetic. Mother never made you feel any less loved when she loved everyone. Failure.)
Seiros holds Sitri tightly and buries her nose in her daughter's hair.
"Thank you, Sitri. Your gift will give me great strength."
Seiros feels wetness in her eyes. Sitri squirms a little in her arms.
"Sitri? I…"
(I love you?)
Sitri's face lights up, perhaps hoping that she would finally hear those three important words from the most important person in the world to her.
Seiros turns away, afraid of the look she would find on her daughter's face when she fails to follow through.
"I'm sorry. I'll do my best to come by more often."
(You are just another disappointment, Seiros.)
But though Seiros finds herself too much of a coward to say those sacred words, she lets them ring true when she replaces her two lilies with a full crown of them come the next battle.
Seiros is fifty-eight years into her crusade when she sits at a table, leisurely enjoying a breakfast with the three brothers, and nearly without any tension. It is a miracle of the goddess. For all the difficulties they’d been having recently with the war campaign, victory approaches them on the horizon, should the cards play out as planned.
For now, however, Seiros revels in the chance to just… be.
Indech is the one who first brings the subject up, a casual comment that comes between a bite of smoked fish. "Ah, I haven't seen Sitri in a while. How has she been?"
"I've nearly run out of things to teach her in the ways of magic," Macuil says, picking at his meal. "She may very well be on track to be certified as a bishop, and she's hardly on the cusp of adolescence. I think her talents have potential beyond faith, if she'd like."
Cichol is the next to speak, wiping his lips with a cloth. "She has been reading the tomes on military history and tactics that I lend her, and she's taken to it quite well. Her understanding of logistics is impressive, especially for someone of her age."
The room grows quiet when the men realize that the fourth person at the table had not spoken a word since the topic arose. The atmosphere becomes stifling.
Seiros sighs.
"I… do not see her as often as I would like. While I have improved in that regard… it is still not quite enough. I fear that I may one day miss out on her most important milestones."
She breathes in.
"At the very least, I would like to be there for her when she has her first shift. I owe her that much."
Cichol bites his lip. Indech backs away, ready to recede into himself as he is wont to do. Macuil lets out a disbelieving chuckle that breaks out into hysterical laughter.
"Oh, you wretched excuse for a mother! If only you knew!"
"Macuil!" Cichol scolds. "Please. It has already been a trying few weeks, both in the campaign and outside of it."
"Yes, Macuil," Indech echoes. "Do not make things harder for her than it already is. She has been doing her best. Would you fault her for that?"
Macuil's face darkens, but he relents. Seiros flits her eyes back and forth between the brothers, confusion and what appears to be dread evident on her face. Indech clears his throat as Cichol tries to hold Macuil back from lashing out any further.
"Seiros… she has already had her first shift.”
Seiros stops.
“…What?”
Indech has the courtesy to offer her a sympathetic frown.
“I believe this was when we were tracking down Lamine's forces, and Cichol was the one left to watch over her."
Seiros pushes aside her rations, suddenly without an appetite, and says nothing for the rest of the meal.
When they arrive back in Enbarr, Seiros heads straight for Sitri's cottage, eschewing their meeting with Emperor Lycaon at the palace. She arrives at her daughter's abode to find Sitri perched by the window ledge, looking out at the scenery, her one leg swinging back and forth lazily. The girl's ears twitch when Seiros comes in, but she makes no move to turn her attention towards the woman.
"Oh, mother. Hello. Welcome back," she says. Seiros walks in with trepidation.
"Sitri, is it true? Have you had your first shift?"
The girl's gaze flickers to her mother's face.
"…Yes, mother. I have."
The admission sends a pang through Seiros' chest, and she finds it difficult to swallow.
"That… That is wonderful. We could have your naming ceremony soon, then."
Sitri keeps her eyes to the window.
"…I already have a name, mother. My dragon epithet. Brother Cichol granted it to me."
The room grows quiet. Sitri traces circles upon the ledge of her windowsill.
A Nabatean child's parents are supposed to accompany them on the day of their naming.
Seiros does not blame Sitri for her bitterness. Sothis was there when Seiros had her naming. If Indech is to be believed, then the brothers' parents were there for theirs, too, even when those parents failed them in every other regard.
But not Sitri. No, not for Sitri. How many more wrongs can you pile upon her, Seiros? How can you make it up to her?
"Sitri."
"Yes, mother?"
"Do you have wings?"
Sitri looks at Seiros, daring to let a little hope spark within her.
"Yes, mother. I do."
Seiros' face lights up. Flying. She could share the skies she so adores with her daughter. She offers a smile.
"Would you like to fly with me, then?"
Sitri pauses for a moment, weighing the offer in her mind.
"I want to, mother, but I don't know how yet. What if I fall?"
Seiros chuckles. "Of course I'll teach you. That is why I am here, my dear: to guide you."
(I will keep your wings aloft on mine, and I will soar through the air by your side; when you fall I will pick you up, and when you are tired I will carry you home.)
Seiros takes Sitri's hand. Sitri does not reject the touch, but her shoulders are taut, her back ridgid, as though bracing herself. She remains unsure.
(Always remember that your Mother will be with you, my love, even when I am no longer there.)
"Do not be afraid, my dear child. I will always look out for you."
Seiros looks at Sitri with all the sincerity in her heart, and squeezes her daughter's hand gently, willing her to know her truth.
With a nod, Sitri slinks away from her perch and squeezes Seiros' hand back, holding it like a lifeline. She finally smiles, tentative but hopeful, and it is radiant.
"Okay, mother. I trust you. Let's go."
And Seiros whisks her daughter away with pure, infectious elation, and the girl lets out a small squeak in surprise. Unsure eagerness becomes great exhilaration–this is all that Sitri ever wanted. Sitri looks up into her mother's eyes, the excitement and glee radiating off her so clearly and unashamedly, that Seiros wonders why she never shared more moments like this with her daughter any sooner.
Seiros pulls Sitri along to an open field where the wind whistles through the blades of grass. When the girl takes a step, and the light takes her body and reforms it anew, she wobbles a little, unused to her newfound agility. Her tail swishes, and she laughs when her wings flap a little in their excitement. Seiros finds her beautiful. Sitri seems to glow verdant, almost leafy in appearance, with little antlers just starting to bud on her head. Still a little clumsy in her unfamiliar dragon form, Sitri stumbles and ends up rolling in the grass. Her giggling like windchimes on a spring morning lifts every burden off of Seiros' chest.
"Look, mama!" Sitri squeals, as if she were no more than six years old again. "Look how big my wings are!"
Her wings are massive for her size, nearly her whole body length from tip to tip. Sitri flaps them wildly, as a child without the skill to fly would. Seiros remembers a time when she did the very same. Her heart melts.
"My darling Sitri. You are beautiful. When was the last time you called me 'mama'? You've grown so much since then."
Sitri preens at the attention. "Guess my name, mama! Guess my name!"
Seiros laughs. "Oh? We'll make a game out of it, then?"
Sitri bounces up and down in the grass, the childish joy evident on her face even as a divine beast.
"Yes! Three guesses, but if you don't get it I'll eat you! Raaaaah!"
Seiros shakes her head, but a smile graces her face.
"And how terrifying a prospect that would be. Hm…"
She looks at Sitri, contemplating who she is as a person and what her powers as a dragon might be. Sitri's tail swishes eagerly.
"You remind me of the flowers you so adore, my dear child. Growing, sprouting, blossoming every day. Your name may very well be 'The Flourishing One'. Am I correct?"
Sitri gasps with awe.
"How did you know? Mama, you're amazing!"
Seiros smirks, feeling smug.
"It sounds like something Cichol would come up with. His gift for words has allowed you such an apt epithet. We should thank him later. But now…"
Seiros backs away from Sitri, and lets the light of transformation take her over. In her place stands the Immaculate One, towering above the Flourishing One beneath her, her raw and terrifying power tempered by the maternal gentleness she nudges her child with.
"NOW, MY DEAR CHILD, WE SHALL FLY."
Seiros spends the afternoon teaching Sitri how to fly—maintaining lift, using the wind to conserve energy, using one's tail like a rudder to steer. Sitri is a natural, her wingspan more than sufficient to keep her afloat and her tail helping her steer with a gracefulness that surprises Seiros.
“Mama, look what I can do!”
Sitri laughs and plays in the clouds, swooping and circling her mother, and Seiros follows suit, keeping a close eye on her. The sheer joy in Sitri’s face is something Seiros will never forget.
When Sitri finally tires, Seiros picks her daughter up by the scruff with her maw, gently, careful not to nick her with her teeth, and lets her ride on her back as she flies them back to her cottage. Sitri is fast asleep by the time they land.
"SITRI?"
The girl is unmoving, the rise and fall of her chest the only indicator that she is still alive. She had since turned back to her human form. Seiros herself shifts back, quick to catch Sitri before she falls. She sighs, content to hold her daughter close to her.
"Well, didn’t you have much fun today?” she says, bringing her precious child into the house.
Seiros lays Sitri in her bed, the girl's vibrant green hair splayed out in a mess. She reaches a hand out to smooth it.
"I hope that was enough," Seiros whispers, "to make up for all the other times I have failed to be there for you."
Sitri, fast asleep, does not answer.
"You remind me of the flowers you so adore," Seiros continues, "growing, blossoming, flourishing every day. When this war is over, I promise to always be here. I will be there for you so much that you will grow sick of me, when you are older and tired of your mother. But I will always wait for you to come back, just as you have always waited for me."
Seiros tucks the blanket in around her sleeping child.
"Give me more time. I will end this war and be the mother you have always deserved."
Seiros brushes a few stray strands of hair off her daughter's face and kisses her on the forehead. She comes to the war council the following day with such renewed vigor and determination that they manage to whittle Nemesis' and the Agarthan's forces down to their absolute limits. The final battle draws near.
"The war is almost over, is it, mother?"
Sitri enjoys a rare spot of tea with her mother. Seiros nods. It has been a year since Sitri's first shift, and all of the Adrestian Empire's plans have been brought into motion so that Nemesis' decades-long reign of terror could finally end. It has been a long time since Seiros or the three brothers could visit Sitri. At twelve years of age, at least, she is old enough to fend for herself. Still, she yearns for her family's company, and so they take what they could get in these turbulent times. Seiros sips on her tea and shakes her head.
"Not quite. War does not simply end the moment the enemy commander is slain. But once we have secured our victory at Tailtean, we should be seeing the last of the conflict soon."
Sitri tilts her head, biting into a biscuit. "And then what? What will happen, once this is all over?"
Seiros hums. "Should everything turn out favorably, then I intend to step down from my leadership roles. I will arrange for someone to take over the Church for me, perhaps; I will be plenty happy just to see you grow into a young woman."
Sitri nods, though her eyebrows are scrunched up in thought.
"Would the war end faster if you had more help?"
Seiros puts down her cup to shoot a look of warning at Sitri.
"You are still a child, Sitri. A very bright child, but still a child nonetheless. You are not yet ready for the horrors of war."
"I could be!" Sitri protests, putting her cup down with a loud clatter. "Mother, let me join the war effort! If it's tactics or magic, I can help!"
"Absolutely not."
Sitri looks at Seiros with a challenging look. "Why not? Every last soldier counts, right? I can heal a lot of people at once when I'm shifted. I've mastered physic and fortify—don't you need more healers?"
Seiros stands up, putting her hands on Sitri's shoulders. "You could get hurt, Sitri! This is not a game where you could run home after being bruised a little. We risk our lives every day—"
"—And I'm tired of worrying if you have!"
Seiros freezes. Sitri's voice breaks a little, and she is trembling beneath Seiros' grasp. She bites her lip.
"Did you think I wouldn't notice? For the past few months, you and the brothers have come to me looking beaten, wounded, exhausted. When I was younger, it was only about being left alone—but now I worry that you'll all die out there! You never tell me how badly you were hurt, or where. I don't want to lose you, mother! I can't lose any of you. You're all I have…"
Sitri sniffles and wipes her tears with her sleeve.
"So let me join you. If I'm there, I can make sure you all come home safe…"
Of course, Seiros' gut reaction is a resounding 'no', because what kind of mother brings her child into her own war, but…
Sitri has a point.
Seiros does not like it, and she does not have to like it, but she has to acknowledge that Sitri has a point. Their healers have been spread thin since the enemy decided to ambush their medical tents. The frontlines have taken heavier casualties as the war drags on. Seiros and the brothers are no exception, having to tolerate worse and worse injuries that their men can take priority with the healers. It may very well spell the end of them if this keeps up.
So, begrudgingly, Seiros agrees. She has to acknowledge Sitri's sheer talent—just as Macuil predicted, she has already become a licensed bishop in her young age. Despite every fiber in her body telling her not to go through with this, she nods.
"Very well, but on one condition," she says, and Sitri immediately perks up. "Stay as far back from the front lines as you can, and do not engage with the military commanders or their accursed demonic beasts. I will have you under our medic brigade. Do not fight unless you have to defend yourself. Do I make myself clear?"
"Of course, mother!" Sitri nods eagerly. "Thank you! I will not let you down!"
The guilt creeps up to Seiros. She knows exactly what the brothers will think of this decision, and she would have to side with them on thinking this an incredibly dangerous idea. But they are desperate to bolster the ranks of their healers, and the alternative might be to lose their lives, leaving Sitri alone and distraught.
And perhaps she could keep a better eye on Sitri this way. It would be good for her to experience the outside world. She would be safe, as long as Seiros watched out for her. It started to seem more of a sound idea the more she tried to justify it in her mind.
Seiros, however, had forgotten that she is Seiros, whose single-minded dedication to revenge erases all other matters of importance.
This is the side that Seiros never shows Sitri; when she is in the heat of battle, bloodlust for the ones who had painted the canyons of Zanado red overrides all her senses. She sees nothing else but the enemy in front of her. Tailtean is a slaughter under Seiros' command. Even as the enemy grows desperate, and they unleash those abominations made from the desecrated remains of her people, Seiros makes sure that no quarter will be granted to them, as they have granted no quarter to the innocent Nabateans they murdered in their lust for power.
Nothing else crosses her mind but vengeance, sweet vengeance, as she pummels the hulking mountain of a man who murdered her mother, murdered her siblings and her people to rob them of their identities, their power. She takes out her dagger and begins to cut and stab, slash and tear at the man. Die, die, die, DIE. Disgusting animal. Nothing more than a brigand playing at kingliness. Nothing more than rotting meat.
When Nemesis is sufficiently mutilated to Seiros' tastes, she takes back that damnable sword, MOTHER'S BODY, all that remains of it, and clutches it like a lifeline.
"He's gone now, mother," she whispers to the mangled corpse of the goddess.
Nothing else matters. She is at peace.
And then she hears a scream.
She ignores it, at first. There is much screaming on the battlefield. The commander may be dead, but his forces may continue to hold out a while longer. It is nothing out of the ordinary.
It takes a while for her to parse that the scream was calling for her.
"MAMA!"
Vengeance slips away from her when she remembers that she is a mother and she had brought her child who is not even of age to war.
"Sitri."
Her daughter's name escapes her lips like dissipating mist. Her eyes widen.
For a moment, the world stops. Seiros drops the Sword of the Creator and bolts to where that voice, which usually sings like windchimes on a spring morning, had been screaming for her in agony. When the world starts turning again, it spins infinitely, dizzying, a million revolutions per minute around the child Seiros used to fuel her war.
"SITRI!" She yells. Her daughter. She has a daughter, Seiros is not only a daughter, but a mother to one, and she had let it slip her mind, her daughter's name is Sitri and she has the most beautiful viridian hair that flows like the wind through the trees and she has brilliant emerald eyes just like her grandmother before her and she adores flowers, her favorites are valerians but she has a soft spot for white lilies, perhaps because they remind her of her wretched excuse for a mother who only deigns to be a mother when it suits her to do so and she is everything to Seiros but she has treated her child like she is nothing to Seiros' selfish desires of conquest and revenge and war.
Soldiers swarm the Flourishing One like ants over carrion, stabbing into its hide and toppling it down that they could grab it by the horns and end its misery. The dragon whimpers with the voice of a little girl, its pleas falling to deaf ears.
Soldiers swarm her baby like ants over carrion and they will pay with their lives.
Seiros shifts form so quickly it nauseates her. The Immaculate One roars its rage and makes swift work of the soldiers cornering its offspring.
"LAY ANOTHER FINGER ON HER AND THERE WILL BE NOTHING LEFT OF YOUR CORPSES BUT ASHES! STAND DOWN AND ACCEPT MY WRATH, THAT YOUR MISERABLE KIN MAY HAVE SOMETHING OF YOU TO BURY!"
Divine fire rains down upon those who hurt her baby they hurt her baby you will all PAY FOR HURTING MY BABY
(Who let your baby get hurt to begin with, Seiros? You only have yourself to blame. What kind of mother brings her child into her own war, Seiros? A whore who could hardly be called one. You.)
Men scream in terror as the Immaculate One falls upon them, its terrible claws ripping at their flesh, its vicious fangs sinking into their feeble bodies, its imposing wings blowing them off of their feet that they may burn in its holy fire.
Nothing remains around the perimeter of the Flourishing One, whose shallow breathing as it struggles to stand pains its mother. The Immaculate One swats away a band of soldiers scrambling to escape, sending them flying to their deaths. It nudges its offspring with its snout, gently.
"WAKE UP. SITRI, WAKE UP, PLEASE."
The Flourishing One does not respond. Instead, its form shatters into dust, leaving a little girl in its place, who floats to the ground from the residual magic leaving her body. Seiros shifts back as quickly as humanly possible to catch the falling child. Sitri lands safely in her mother's arms. The damage to her body is all the more obvious in her human form, cracked ribs and lacerations marring her delicate skin.
Seiros carefully moves to sit on the ground, that Sitri can lean on her chest, that both her hands could be freed to soothe and heal her child.
"Mother… I… I'm sorry… I was useless…"
"No. No, you were not useless, Sitri. You did very well. I promise you that."
"T-the enemy, they went for us first… He—"
Sitri breathes sharply as Seiros' magic slowly mends the bones of her broken body.
"Shh. Don't talk. It's okay, Sitri. You will be alright."
Sitri winces, too tired to yelp in pain. "M-mother…!"
"It's okay. Mother's here. She'll fix everything. You'll be good as new in no time. Only a few more moments, Sitri. Be still."
Then Sitri's eyes well up with tears, and Seiros can't help but see her little one, a mere toddler again, crying from a scraped knee, begging for her to make the pain go away.
"M-mama… it… hurts…"
Seiros panics, stroking Sitri's face obsessively with one hand and shakily casting her faith magic with the other. "I know, little one. I know. You'll be alright now. Mama's here, darling. No one will hurt you anymore. It's okay. It's okay, Sitri. Mama will make everything better. I'm sorry, Sitri. I am so sorry."
Sitri's eyes flutter closed. Her breathing slows. That lifeline grasp she had always reached out to Seiros for loosens and falls away. The restorative sleep has taken Sitri.
Sitri may not be dead, but she may as well be for the next few hundred years.
And Seiros weeps.
Seiros does not know how long she sits there, cradling Sitri in her arms. The battle ends at some point. What remains of the enemy's forces have finally surrendered. The sound of wings beating down on the ground and the earth shaking beneath her as the three brothers rush over to her and her child do not register until the Immovable's gravely voice snaps her back into the waking world.
"SEIROS?"
Seiros pulls Sitri closer to herself. "She merely sleeps, Indech. By the grace of the goddess, she is not lost to us forever."
Macuil's disgust echoes further across the plains as the Wind Caller.
"PAH. YOUR OBSESSION WITH THE GRACE OF THE GODDESS HAS DONE THIS TO HER IN THE FIRST PLACE."
Cichol speaks the most plainly.
"You have my deepest sympathies, Seiros."
The rest of their army celebrates in the distance, their closest allies leaving them to commiserate in private. Silence reigns for what seems an eternity when Seiros bothers to look up at the three brothers who have done nothing but try to guide her to a better path when she has refused their guidance at nearly every turn.
The Immovable retracts into its shell. The Wind Caller glares at her, all the disdain it had harbored over the years of watching her neglect her daughter concentrated into this one chance to make its hatred known.
Cichol comes forward, bearing the desecrated remains of the goddess wrapped in a white cloth, and lays them down beside Seiros while she mourns both her mother and her child.
It is here where Seiros learns the emptiness of vengeance, of seeking retribution blindly without quarter.
Seiros is fifty-nine years into her crusade when her daughter falls into an unending sleep.
"WHAT WILL YOU DO NOW, SEIROS?" The Immovable says through its shell.
"I want this child to wake up to a mother worth having," Seiros whispers, "and not the one she has now."
She stands up, cradling the unconscious Sitri close to her heart.
"I rescind the name Seiros. I refuse to be the harbinger of war I have molded myself to be. I will take back my old name. I am Rhea, and I will be the woman my Mother believed I could be."
So she tells herself, but the final years of the war ask otherwise of her. Where Seiros was brutal yet exacting with her justice, Rhea is ruthless. Historians would someday speak of Seiros with reverence where Rhea is remembered as a monster. She had relinquished her claim to the Church of Seiros, now the Church of Sothis—she has no drive to do what she wanted there, to shepherd Fódlan into the image Mother meant for it. Those she appointed as cardinals and archbishop of the Church can do whatever they wish with the religion. As a mother, she is an abject failure—and what more were she to have the power to shape the continent? She had also since stepped down as a general, preferring to mow through the last of their foes mindlessly. Those around her keep quiet, knowing that she is driven nearly mad by the grief no parent should ever feel.
And then it ends. It just ends.
Rhea is sixty-six years into her crusade when it ends, and there is no sign of Sitri waking up any time soon. Indech and Macuil have already gone off on their own to goddess knows where, and Cichol remains the sole support that holds the crumbling structure that is Rhea's sanity together.
There are no more foes to slay. There are no more battles to wage. There is nothing left to help her forget her gravest mistake. Cichol follows Rhea to a hidden crypt in the ruins of Zanado, where Sitri had been sleeping undisturbed since the Battle of Tailtean.
Rhea collapses to the floor by her daughter's side. She takes one of Sitri's hands, warmed only by the streaming sunlight in the room, clutches it like a lifeline, and weeps.
"When will I get to see you smile again, little flower?"
Cichol speaks up, leaving a gentle hand on Rhea's shoulder. "Do not give up hope yet, Rhea. She is still breathing. It is only a matter of time before her body recovers enough to awaken."
Rhea sniffles, but steels herself before she drowns herself further in her grief.
"She should never have fallen asleep to begin with."
She turns to face Cichol, her expression blank and empty. Without her Mother, without her daughter, Rhea has little else to live for. She has made her choice.
"Tell the children of man this: that should they require the power of the goddess, they need only rouse me from my sleep. War is all I am good for, after all."
She takes off her regalia. First her headpiece, then her bracers, her armor, her sword and shield—she casts them aside. She removes her shoes, unties her hair from its braid, and gathers her sleeping daughter in her arms, leaving a kiss on her forehead. Sitri's unending sleep is proof of Rhea's uselessness as anything beyond a weapon of conflict.
"Now, let me slumber with my precious child in peace."
She lays both herself and Sitri down. Sitri is huddled the way she was when she was in Rhea's womb. Rhea curls herself around Sitri, arms pulling the unconscious girl close to her chest, that she may protect her daughter for centuries untold where she once failed.
"Please, Sitri," she whispers, a stray tear falling from her eyes, "let me see you blossom again someday."
Then darkness bids her to join her child in rest.
This is the fourth time she has been awoken to be used as someone's weapon. It is meaningless, violent work, but there could be no other meaning found in the life of someone like her.
"I am the Immaculate One, last of the goddess' children, she who ends all wars. Who dares wake me from my slumber?"
The poor soldiers tasked with collecting her from the tomb shake in their boots.
"W-we are the sons of Faerghus, Our Lady of Liberation! Men who only desire the freedom our people deserve!"
Our Lady of Liberation? What drivel are they calling her these days? They have given her many names over the years of being used as a divine weapon, but this newest one being too close to the title that thief took infuriates her.
"Hmph. And for what ends do you require my power?"
Their leader, a general perhaps, swallows his fear. "We seek freedom from the oppressive reign of the Adrestian Empire, m-ma'am. We will not rest until we see Faerghus liberated!"
Rhea scoffs and narrows her eyes at the fools who have woken her, but nods.
"The Adrestian Empire. In my day they were the liberators. I tire of politics. My power is yours, on the condition that your finest soldiers keep watch over my daughter in my absence."
"O-of course, Our Lady! Only the best of our men to protect your daughter!"
Rhea snarls and pulls out her dagger, pointing it at the leader's neck.
"I will know if anything has happened to her, and I will raze your country flat if anything does. Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes, m-ma'am! Our Lady!"
She gets up and dons her armor and weaponry once more, ready to slay hundreds she has no quarrel with, but not without leaving a somber kiss upon Sitri's forehead.
Her days as a weapon are rote. Arrive, fight, transform, destroy, repeat. She eats little and speaks little beyond her role as divine deliverer of justice—for whomever claims so, anyway. Every night, no matter where her commander's campaign goes, she returns to Sitri's resting place without fail, to watch over her and sing to her.
"I'm back, Sitri. Mother's home," she'd say, desperately trying to recall how windchimes on a spring morning would call to her with glee.
Of course, Sitri would say nothing back. Rhea dreads the day she will wholly forget the joyous sound of her Sitri's voice. Soldiers on guard would watch as Rhea, despondent, would do nothing but stare at the shallow rise and fall of Sitri's breathing until morning.
Legends would someday tell of a warrior woman who holds her unmoving child jealously, delirious enough to believe that the child is merely asleep and not dead by her own hand.
Rhea never sleeps during these times. Why would she, when her time is better spent committing every facet of her daughter's face to memory? When she tries so hard to remember what Sitri looked like with open eyes, a gentle smile, her innocent laughter filling her mother's heart with fondness?
(She looks so much like Mother.)
Come morning, the cycle continues: arrive, fight, transform, destroy, repeat. As useless and meaningless as Rhea's existence after Zanado, before Sitri, and after Tailtean, when Sitri was silenced.
"Hello, Sitri," Rhea coos when this latest war is over. "Your mother is tired. Come, let us slumber together once more."
Rhea removes her regalia and slides into place with her daughter. As always, she curls around her perpetually youthful child, falling asleep in the hopes that she will wake up and bloom again someday.
"Rest well, my sweet child. I love you."
As always, no response. She will never get used to it. She should have said those words all those years ago, when Sitri was still hers to love freely. Tears fall when she presses her lips onto her daughter's cheek. Rhea holds her close, and bids her soul to sleep once more…
"Mother?"
…Until the sound of windchimes on a spring morning graces her ears once more.
Movement. There is movement. Sitri moves and cuddles closer to her mother. For the first time in centuries, Rhea sees Sitri's lips upturned in a smile.
"Five more minutes, mother… You're so warm…"
And for a moment, the world starts moving once more. Rhea prays that it will never have to stop ever again.
"S-Sitri…? Have you truly come back to me?"
Sitri's eyes flutter open. She nuzzles herself closer to Rhea and balls her hands into the cloth of Rhea's dress, letting out a long yawn.
"Mm. Maybe later. I'm still sleepy, mama…"
Before her eyes could close again, Sitri is jolted awake by her mother's bone-crushing embrace, clutching her like a lifeline. Rhea's laughter and sobbing mix together like the white and red valerians Sitri loved to breed to make pink.
"My sweet girl. You're here. I'll never fail you again. I swear it upon the goddess, I won't lose you ever again or so help me."
Rhea is so relieved, so ecstatic, that she barely registers her daughter's words.
"Mother, why are you crying?"
Rhea's only response is to clutch her daughter ever tighter, a mother who had just been reunited with her child after centuries of loss.
"My dearest Sitri, my baby, my little flower. I love you. I love you so much. I am so sorry."
Sitri's hands wrap around her mother's waist and squeeze. Her lips press gently onto Rhea's cheek, and her soft, sweet laughter is the only song Rhea would ever want to hear in an endless loop.
"I love you too, mama. Thank you for taking care of me."
And the world—Rhea’s world, all that she lives for—starts turning again.