Nepenthe – Croe’s past life – had known all the originals’ epithets. It had been important to her study of the ancient language, and important to her role as an intelligence operative for the alliance…and even if it hadn’t been important, she might have collected them anyway. Aura and Mallos had the most, she recalled; the latter’s had always entertained her, with their undercurrent of snark (had Allianah come up with them, she wondered?). Aura’s were more reverent, more appropriate for the one who had come first. Before, Croe might have opted for Semesu (neutral) or Weret-hekau (inspiring). But “life-giver” had sprung to her lips by instinct, perhaps because she had finally begun to understand it.
Aura was a mother. The mother. It was a staggering thing to imagine, the weight of so many destinies, the expectations, the fear.
Staggering, and very difficult to imagine, as the Original shed her reaper’s trappings and assumed the raiment of a…teenaged beach goer? Croe lifted an eyebrow, appraising. Aura’s near total lack of color was unsettling, but it was the agelessness that really jarred her. Strange, that the mother of all, now the arbiter of death, would look so childlike, herself.
“If the King has his way, we’ll have eternity for visiting,” she quipped, resuming her place on the arm of the sofa, with her hands clasped and resting on her knees. Her eyes lingered on the scythe a moment longer, before settling on the woman in the armchair. “And…yes. “Croe” is…fine.” It would have been too hard to explain that “Croe” was a name with many layers of meaning, of intimacy, and that she had almost as many monikers as the goddess. Albeit, less flattering ones.
Spy. Assassin. Murderer. Pirate Lord. Warbird.
Nepenthe.
Whatever she was named, she did not look like a pirate, or a warlord, or a soldier. An assassin, maybe, with her nimble, lean body and her sharp, efficient movements. Maybe a spy, with her carefully tailored clothes and her calculating eye. Croe wasn’t sure if that meant that who she was before was her true self. But she imagined it must have been strange to those meeting her, if they were aware of her reputation, or the stories that verged on urban legend. It was strange enough looking in a mirror.
If anyone would have understood what it meant to be remade, to no longer recognize yourself, it would be Aura. But Croe merely watched her, unsure what was expected…totally unused to casual conversations, herself. It was Aura who broke the silence, with a list of her roles as they pertained to Mallos. They were close, she remembered now. She’d known that, academically, in her past life – she hadn’t had time or opportunity to give it much thought, in this one. What had he endured, losing her to the creature? Getting her back?
She smiled faintly, “Did you come to give him a concussion?” then rearranged her hands on her lap. “I tried, once…to provide some consequences, ward him off. Fired an arrow at his face, actually. He’s remarkably difficult to discourage.”
|
 |