A Mother’s Love
Flesh melts from bone—flesh, muscle, bone, intestines. They melt into a terrible soup, and the grass beneath them weeps and shrivels. The scent of death was thick, and Regan breathed it in deep. Her shoulders lift, and her sorrowful posture disintegrates in the air as blood-red ashes filter around her. Her hands are stained with death, sickly red blood charing into a dark stone that flakes from her skin when she brushes against it. The carcass beneath her feet contorts painfully, horrible rattles wheezing from behind blue lips. She watches with a sick delight, as the familiar body changes, veins tearing like ribbons and bending to burn little marks into the ground, searing the sigil into earth like meat on a hot cast iron. Regan can breathe again once any semblance of a human is gone, just a burning, magma-like circle left in its wake. Though the spell does not revive herself, she feels invigorated, wonderfully high, like her body is clouds and light.
She vomits onto the grass.
Resurrection spells, horribly cruel in almost every way, drain her energy unlike anything else. But oh joy – her baby cries again! Regan wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, black flakes peeling from her skin, leaving small festering welts behind. She winces and rubs at the open wounds in disdain. It is nothing some ointment couldn’t fix, so she ceases messing with the reddened skin and steps over the sigil, which has now cooled, smoking pathetically in a circular formation.
She must see her child.
When her daughter was killed, Regan lost part of herself. She wept for days, lashed out in anger and grief, and cursed anyone who would listen. Her little baby, barely alive for a month, lay mangled on the floor, blood no longer oozing from the large wound in her chest because her tiny body only held no more, the rusted knife resting next to her like a threat. Her soft tufts of blonde hair were stained crimson, clots of it dried and stuck to her soft head. Her eyes had been open, glazed and distant, slightly reddened from blood seeping past her tear ducts. Regan remembers with agony, cradling her limp body, her chubby little arms falling weakly at her sides, no life shining in her beautiful eyes. Her rosy face had been drained, and she sat a deathly grey, all of her blood coated the floor and her mother’s arms.
The funeral had been purely for show. Regan already knew what she was going to do. She had been encouraged by the wind, an airy voice like wind chimes.
When she had worked as an Enforcer,, before meeting the love of her life and leaving that life of service behind, she had handled a multitude of cases involving dark magic. No one had been a bigger advocate against it than she had, but as she watched her husband bury their baby girl, she finally understood what drove so many to use it. It was fascinating really, how quickly children can push away your morals.
Resurrection spells were the most taboo. From her decades of research, Regan knew the spells forwards and back; the written descriptions of the spell's effects had haunted her when she was a young, naive woman. But she was older now, though her face did not show it, and she was no longer frightened. She was enraged.
Finding her first victim had been much easier than she expected. She had planned meticulously for several weeks, but she felt rather foolish by how simple it ended up being. Poor drunk travelers passed through the forest regularly en route from the village, bumbling like stupid fools, making a ruckus, stumbling over stones and sticks. All Regan had to do was wait, utilizing her saint-like patience. He had been quite large but terribly drunk, hiccuping and singling mangled drinking songs alone, as if the bar was wherever he went. Attacking him was frighteningly easy, at first. She had never known how easily a blade could pierce the skin, slicing through the tough flesh of his stomach like slicing through butter. Ripping the blade upward proved more difficult, the smaller dagger finding the thick knotting of guts and ribs quite challenging to tear. Regan had received several punches and kicks in retaliation, but the poor man was just far too drunk to launch any meaningful defense. Didn’t mean his strikes were painless.
Luckily, Regan was quite a powerful witch, and using her magic and the twigs nearby proved useful enough to keep his heft limbs chained to the ground. But he did not die quickly. Regan stabbed and stabbed and stabbed, wept and begged him to die, gagged and choked as her knife ripped chunks of yellow fat from his torso and sliced open his intestines, his stomach. The man heaved on his own blood and made such animalistic noises that Regan could not tell if he was even human anymore, or if her blade had turned him into something other. He never looked into her eyes. Instead, he gazed wide-eyed past her, through her, staring up at their god as if she could help him in this moment. He died like that. Eyes toward God.
Regan stumbled back toward her property, dragging the heavy corpse with her, her own hands sliced and bleeding, blood staining her summer dress and squelching in her shoes. She dug into her child’s grave like a woman possessed, dirt stinging in her wounds but she did not stop. She ripped at roots and stones until she saw her beautiful child, though the earth had started to reclaim her little body. She laid her child down on the grass with a gentle reverence, removed her knife, and slit her own wrist, letting the fresh, hot blood hit her daughter’s face and the earth below.
Nam qui in lapide et luto dormit, hanc vocem attende, surgite, obedite, Iter per portam mortalem, carnem congregate, et iterum ambula.
The man’s flesh bubbled, blood boiling. She chanted again.
Nam qui in lapide et luto dormit, hanc vocem attende, surgite, obedite, Iter per portam mortalem, carnem congregate, et iterum ambula.
His bone cracked, his body contorting, melting into the ground. Her daughter’s little fingers twitched.
Nam qui in lapide et luto dormit, hanc vocem attende, surgite, obedite, Iter per portam mortalem, carnem congregate, et iterum ambula.
His body created a large sigil that burned into the ground, her daughter gasped.
Nam qui in lapide et luto dormit, hanc vocem attende, surgite, obedite, Iter per portam mortalem, carnem congregate, et iterum ambula.
The sigil begins to smoke. The forest stirred with the sound of a baby’s cry.
“What is going on?” Caius demanded, sleep thick and heavy in his voice. He froze when he saw her, standing blood-covered in the doorway, cradling their baby in her arms.
“I’ve done it,” Regan cheered to the melodic sound of her baby’s cry. “I’ve done it, my love.”
Her husband stood frozen, eyes wide like the man she had just killed, expression indecipherable. Their baby, who should be rotting underground, screamed like a newborn, her face red with life.
“How did…” he gasped, legs twitching, like he was unsure whether he should go to her or retreat. Regan smiled brightly, though it did not seem to comfort him.
“I’ve brought our sweet Ophelia back,” she said.
“I can see that, but I–” he stumbled, gripping the table to keep himself upright. He looked as if he might faint, his dark complexion growing pale. “I buried her, Regan,” he clarified as if Regan hadn’t been there to witness it. Her lovely husband had always been a bit slow. Ophelia screamed as if she was reliving her death, and Regan attempted to soothe her.
“Do not fret the details, love,” she eased, deciding to close the distance herself. Her pale hand was like the moon in the sky against his skin. He flinched at her touch. “We can be a family again.”
“We–” he swallowed, hesitating for a moment. He always was a thoughtful man, never one to speak without thinking. “We were still a family, even if–”
“Are you not happy?”
“I am–you are covered in blood!” He deflected, grabbing the wrist that held the hand on his face. “And you are holding our daughter who was killed, I am feeling many things!”
“Is joy not one of them?” Regan asked, her smile faltering but not falling. She must look insane, she thought, because the love of her life took a step back from her, but she could not help it.
“I,” he inhaled, his dark skin looking ghostly against the moonlight that shone through the window. “I do not know.”
“Here–” Regan insisted, cradling their daughter’s head as she held her toward her father. “Hold her.”
Caius stared with trepidation like she might shatter, as he once gazed upon her after her birth, which had taken place in this cottage a mere month and a half prior – when life seemed so beautiful. He reached to hold her, and she sank into his arms like nothing had ever happened. Her cries ceased, she always was a daddy’s girl, and even death could not take that from her.
Their daughter opened her beautiful eyes, her golden irises shining in the moonlight. Death did not take her beauty, either. Regan sighed and stepped backward, watching wistfully as her husband cradled her daughter, her two greatest loves.
Regan smiles at the memory, as she stumbles back toward their home.
She opens the door quietly, though she does not hear the snoring of her husband, as she usually would at this hour. He sits instead at the dining table, absentmindedly rocking Ophelia in her cradle.
“Why are you still up, love?” Regan asks, letting out a relieved breath as she slips off her shoes, her bare soles sore as they hit the ground.
“I could ask you the same,” he answers, though his eyes remain on their daughter.
“Do you need me to answer that?” She laughs, walking toward them with a smile on her face. “How is she?
“Better,” he nods. “I… do not know how to act.”
“I don’t expect you to understand,” she says, gazing down at the face of their sleeping child. Her hair has grown since she was revived, soft blonde bangs curling above her eyes. She looks like a doll, soft and rosy and beautiful. She reaches down to caress her cheek.
“Don’t,” Caius interrupts, blocking her hand from Ophelia’s face. “You have blood on your hands.”
“Oh,” Regan says, holding her hands up to check for herself. She had completely forgotten. “Apologies, love.”
“Just… go rinse off.”
The cool air outside feels harsh as she reemerges, walking barefoot in the grass toward the well across their property. Regan, with a concentrated effort, cranks the metal lever until a steady stream of water erupts onto the ground. Regan sticks her hands beneath the stream, rubbing the dried blood from her skin. She winces as the cold water stings at her knife wounds, and black flakes peel back.
Perhaps she should invest in some gloves, she thinks idly, as she observes the amount of open wounds the black flakes have created. She supposed it was quite foolish of her to believe that this path of hers would not come with some consequences.
Resurrection is quite a deceptive spell. There is no equal to a human soul, one sacrifice is not enough. Regan knew this before she started down this path. And still, she somehow hoped that God would smile favorably upon her and her family, that her sins would be forgiven because her daughter was sinless. But magic favors not the sinful or the sinless, it is strict in its rules and its consequences. Regan must continue to kill because her daughter needs blood to remain herself. Without the continued sacrifices her daughter would become a monster. She’d had to claim another life that night because her daughter had started to grow sharp teeth during her feeding, though she was not even close to teething age yet.
She pushes the lever down until the water flow ceases, giving her hands another once-over, and turns to go back to her family.
“Do you think you can do enough here?” A voice whispers, blowing through Regan like the wind.
Regan looks around and nearly spins in a circle, looking for whoever spoke to her. There is no one she can see, the world silent in the night, save for the soft song of the birds.
“I want to live.”
Regan freezes with the sudden realization that there is someone directly behind her. She looks before she can think.
“Who–”
“Mama.”
The figure moves like a reflection on water, white ripples that warp the world behind them. Regan thinks she must really be losing it now, but she cannot fight the pull of a mother’s intuition. Her daughter speaks to her like an angel. The voice she had heard before any of this had started.
“I want to live, Mama. Please keep me alive.”
“I’ll keep you alive, love,” she promises, nodding wildly. “I will, my darling. I promise you on my life.”
She burst back into the home, rummaging through her things to see what she could bring. Caius stood, following her with urgency.
“What’s gotten into you now?” He asks, grabbing at her shoulder.
“Ophelia spoke to me.”
“What?”
“I have to leave. Ophelia needs me to keep her alive.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Don’t stop me,” she says, pulling a dark cloak around her shoulders. “I’ll be back, I promise, but I have to do what she asked of me.”
“Dammit, woman,” he curses, grabbing her wrist. “You can’t just leave me like this–“
“I’m not leaving you, I’m saving our daughter!”
“And how much longer will saving her?” Caius demands, his expression a mix of hurt and confusion.
“I’d do this for the rest of my life if that’s what it took,” she answers, firm in her resolution. “I’d sacrifice the whole world for her if I had to. Would you not?”
“You cannot ask me something like that,” he says, voice distant, like the wind had been knocked from his lungs. “I love her, but I–”
“That’s alright, my love,” Regan soothes, sliding her arm from his grip, squeezing his knuckles. “I will take care of it. Just keep our daughter safe. One day we can be a normal family, I promise you.”
Caius nods, solemnly, after a moment. “I will,” he says. “I love you.”
Though leaving home had felt impossible at the time, she had become renewed by an incredible sense of purpose. This is what she was meant to do. God would forgive her, for her mission was righteous. Could her actions be called evil if they were out of love?
Killing became easy. She began to lose track of how many she had killed, they all blended together after a while. There was the drunk man who started it. Then a younger man who had verbally accosted her — that kill had felt good. There had been countless drunkards, assholes, and criminals, people that Regan could justifiably say deserved to die. Especially when their deaths would keep her daughter alive. No sacrifice felt too big, or too evil for her.
Regan feels the ground crunch beneath her feet, her dress dragging like dead weight behind her. The night seemed everlasting, the moon high in the sky and shining on her resolve. She was tired. Her stomach growled. Her quest for blood had not dampened her appetite it seemed.
From a distance she could see the orange glow of a nearby bar, could hear the joyous bustling of night owls, the clinking of glasses, and the pungent smell of beer. Regan didn't much care for it, but the promise of a warm meal was promising enough to have her feet moving despite herself, feeling the strong brush of warm air as she pushes the heavy wooden door open.
No one pays her any mind. After all, Regan was average in almost everything appearance-wise. She portrayed herself as an average traveler, wearing no expensive jewelry (aside from the silver ring on her finger) or bright gown, her hair was short and trimmed, combed neatly against her skull. She wasn’t freakishly tall or a dwarf. No one spared her a second glance, and she preferred it that way.
“What can I do for you, missy?” The bar clerk asks when Regan approaches, hardly sparing her a look as he cleans a large glass. “Awfully strange for a woman to be out so late.”
”Whatever food you recommend I’ll take,” she answers, pulling her dark cloak closer to her body, shielding the old blood stains near her bosom. “I’m not picky.”
The bartender does not ask his second question again, just yells toward the bustling kitchen behind him. Shortly, Regan is handed a clay bowl with a steaming stew of meat and potatoes, and she takes it gratefully.
“Thank you, sir,” she says, because she might be a killer but she does not forget her manners, and drops a few gold coins onto the carved wooden counter. The man grunts in acceptance and goes back to what he was doing previously.
Regan takes her meal and heads towards the doors. She could not eat peacefully in a setting like this. Too many loud and drunk men for her liking, especially when they were the main demographic of her killings. She might not be able to contain herself, she thinks with an amused smile. Perhaps she had become a bit too eager, oh well.
Though outside is not quiet, it is cooler, calming, and tranquil as the breeze rustles the tall trees, loosening some leaves and sending them gently cascading down to the greenish-brown grass beneath her feet. A cobblestone path twists back into the darkness of the woods, and Regan plots her next moves in her mind as she rests upon a rock near the entrance, stabbing at the stewed meat with her silver fork.
So, she does not notice at first, when another woman sits beside her, wearing a mournful smile.
“I haven’t seen your face here before,” she says, almost startling Regan out of her skin. The woman laughs softly at her reaction, shaking her hand apologetically. “Apologies, I did not mean to startle you.”
“It’s alright,” Regan breathes, taking the woman’s features in quickly. She looks older than herself, with dark bags under her eyes that match her tired gaze, her long hair curling sadly around her face. She looks miserable, though Regan finds it rude to comment on it. “Are you traveling too?”
”Not quite,” she says, shaking her head. Her movements carry with them an almost enchanting sadness. “My husband is inside. He wanted to drink, and I’m waiting to help him back home. We live in the little village down the road, most of the men come here every night to get drunk.”
”That’s unfortunate,” Regan hums. “My husband does not care for alcohol.” She cannot help but brag — her Caius was truly perfect in every way. She hoped he and their child were alright, though she often cast spells to check on them. They had both been asleep only an hour before, so she’s sure they’re still fine now.
“You must be lucky,” the woman agrees. “He has been drinking almost every night now, ever since our son died.”
Regan hums in acknowledgment. She had heard murmurings of a plague ravaging nearby town while on her travels. Perhaps she had stumbled upon it. She ought to make sure she’s healthy before sneaking to see her daughter.
“I want to live, Mama.”
Regan looks toward the voice, where the rippling figure stands again, bright as the moon. She wonders what her daughter is meant to look like, the form too warped to make out any clear features.
“There’s so many people here… it scares me, Mama.”
Regan nods. Her Ophelia should never be scared. She will make sure she fixes that.
“I wish he would notice my feelings as well,” the woman says, as though she is mid-thought. Or perhaps Regan had simply missed the first part of the conversation. “All he does is drink. Though, everyone in this town has lost someone. Pretty much everyone has started to drink as a way to cope.”
“Right.”
“We’ve started to recover, though it seems slow. But diseases will do that to you. Our little town just wasn’t ready for a disaster like this.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I think we can rebuild, though. We’re always stronger after–”
“I sincerely apologize,” Regan interjects, rising to her feet. The bowl of stew drops to the ground, but she pays it no mind. “I have to kill you.”
“Excuse me–”
Regan had never strangled someone before, but it came easy to her, her hands fitting perfectly around the woman’s throat, squeezing like second nature. The woman gasps and claws at her scarred hands, but Regan does not relent. This is perhaps the easiest kill she has had yet, or perhaps she’s just gotten better at it.
Stabbing would be too loud, surely she would scream. She seemed like a screamer. But strangling was efficient, it was clean and simple. Squeeze, squeeze, and squeeze until the life leaves her eyes. It takes longer than Regan thought it would, and with credit due to the poor woman, she does put up a decent effort. In the end, they both are on the grass, Regan straddling her chest, staring lovingly into her eyes, soothing her.
“Shhhh, it’s alright,” she whispers, watching as her face turns purple, her eyes bloodshot and open again, up to God. “You’re like me. My daughter died too, but I changed it, I will do what you couldn’t for your son.”
Regan does not let go until the woman is still and silent. And even then she squeezes her throat for just a little longer. Just to be safe.
Her stomach turns with the realization that now, surely, the rest of the people inside cannot live. Any of them could exit at any moment, could see the body and attack her, or god forbid interrupt her in the middle of the ritual. She could not let that happen, her Ophelia needed her.
So she casts a spell to seal the door shut, the only exit for the foolish drunkards inside. She unsheathes her knife and says a silent prayer for the woman who lies limp at her feet. It really was a shame, but Regan said she would do anything for her daughter, and she never broke a promise.
Regan has always been fascinated by the amount of blood the body contains. There was enough in this one woman for Regan to slice her open and spread her blood in a circle around the bar, and even more to paint a red signal onto the wooden door, held shut by knotted branches.
Nam qui in lapide et luto dormit, hanc vocem attende, surgite, obedite, Iter per portam mortalem, carnem congregate, et iterum ambula.
The ruckus inside starts to dwindle.
Nam qui in lapide et luto dormit, hanc vocem attende, surgite, obedite, Iter per portam mortalem, carnem congregate, et iterum ambula.
The door begins to rattle, the drunks begin to scream.
Nam qui in lapide et luto dormit, hanc vocem attende, surgite, obedite, Iter per portam mortalem, carnem congregate, et iterum ambula.
The woman crackles and melts, contorting into a circle of her own blood. The bar is loud with commotion, the smell of burning flesh wafts.
Nam qui in lapide et luto dormit, hanc vocem attende, surgite, obedite, Iter per portam mortalem, carnem congregate, et iterum ambula.
There is silence.
Regan exhales. Her daughter should be safe for a while now.
But there is always work to be done.
