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November 7, 1203
"That's it. I'm never helping another human again. None of you are ever satisfied with just one enormous favor." And it wasn't as if anything Ylwa or Deian or any of the rest of them did was technically impossible for a human to do; the lazy wretches just hadn't bothered to try for themselves. Her grandson had taken the smart route when it came to humans, finding one tolerable specimen with a wide sphere of influence and only interacting with the rest of them through her.
Ylwa supposed Dora was tolerable enough. Not much of a character, but therefore unlikely to draw undue attention--and her problems did lean somewhat toward interesting, even if she herself didn't. Of course, 'somewhat' interesting wasn't... well, that interesting.
Not when it got to be this predictable. "Let me guess: you want to be able to freely acknowledge your family, but without... I don't know, being burned at stake or whatever you humans are doing to scare each other into conformity these days."
"Uh... I guess that sums it up."
Perhaps 'somewhat' had become a generous adjective.
"I know I shouldn't get my hopes up. I'm sure it's too much to ask, even with your powers--"
"Let me stop you right there. None of what I do is anything special. The only reason you humans can't do all of the things I've done for you is your baffling tendency to label all of your half-decent ideas as heresy. But never mind any of that. There's one thing I can do for you, and maybe I should have offered this from the start, but I really don't like doing it. That said, if it gets you to leave me in peace for a while, perhaps it will be worth the bother."
"Really?" There it was, genuine shock in the eyes. Dora had already dismissed the possibility of anything more, probably ages ago--and yet, she'd still had to ask. How vexing. "What on earth could be a more drastic option than changing my memories?"
"Oh, I don't know... changing the actual past events of your life?" Ylwa flipped some hair out of her eyes and stared back at the human, who was now even more confused if that gaping jaw was any indication. Was it even worth the bother of explaining? "It's really not such a difficult concept to grasp. Take the folds in space and time, rearrange them in such a way that leads to whatever in-utero event that resulted in your initial misgendering not happening in the first place, then otherwise correct the resulting sequence of events so that your life and those of everyone around you remain unchanged at present, apart from the fact that you were always recognized as a woman."
"Change the past?" Shock, confusion... now skepticism. Of course they didn't like new concepts! New concepts, as far as a human was concerned, couldn't have existed. "You can do that?"
"With almost mind-numbing ease." Ylwa yawned. Simple enough, but with undeniable tedium. Like counting leaves, or regrowing limbs. "And it's nothing new. My ancestors have been doing this for centuries. Do you think the Great Hexagonal Prisms of Egypt would have made for an interesting landscape? We even have a name for these modifications: a retroactive continuity."
"It's common enough that you named it."
"Yes."
"And you say it's easy."
"I daresay a monkey could do it."
"Then why don't you do this constantly?"
"For all you know, perhaps some of us do." Not that she or anyone else would know it. After they were done, she wasn't even privy to her own retroactive continuities. That was, indeed, how they worked. It occurred to her then that this one would likely result in her never having met Dora and that added some degree of pleasantness to the chore. "Me personally, though? I don't see much point in life if it's all tailored to one particular result."
NEXT CHAPTER:
September 21, 1203
"I still can't believe Ceidrid's old enough to be starting at the school next week! They grow up so fast, don't they?" Her mother's eyes sparkled with pride, but as usual, a pang of guilt hit Dora's heart at the sight. Her mother was, of course, her son's grandmother, and she loved him and doted on him like any of her other grandsons.
But only her mother and Severin and Ylwa knew who she really was. From what Dora could see, Ceidrid loved his grandmother as a grandmotherly figure, loved her like he loved his other grandmother--but he didn't know she was his grandmother. That had been a conflict of brain versus heart, and Dora's brain had triumphed, ruling that Ceidrid would be better off not knowing about his mother's secret past. That didn't mean her heart was free of the consequences, of the agony of the boy not knowing her family as family.
And her mother! Even if her mother knew Ceidrid for her grandson, it wasn't fair that she wasn't known in turn as his grandmother.
"Dora? What's wrong, dear?"
Dora bit her lip. She didn't like to lie to her mother. Even if she had the excuse of her altered memories--and she didn't, not when she'd chosen them--she'd done enough of that.
"I... I'm so sorry that I chose not to tell him. I think it's in his better interests, but I wish he at least knew who you were. And who Father is, and his aunts and uncles and cousins."
Never mind that her father and all but one of her siblings had no idea.
"No need to be sorry, dear. It's... unfortunate, perhaps, but we both know that we can't have it both ways there. And I did promise you that I'd support whatever decisions you made; Lord knows I have no idea what you've been through, so I won't presume to know better."
"Yes, and thank you for that--and everything." But the acceptance, the understanding... surely it didn't undo the hurt. It certainly didn't for the rest of them, who didn't know, who might never know--who might have benefited from not knowing, but who regardless would never know closure, or what they could have had but never did. Her father. Her sisters, brothers. Her husband.
Her son.
"I just... I wish there was another way."
NEXT CHAPTER:
September 12, 1202
"Mama!" Ceidrid nearly bounced himself out of Dora's arms as she struggled to pick him up. He was so heavy now. It wouldn't be long before she couldn't lift him at all. "You all right? You look sad."
"Oh. Oh, no. No, I'm not sad. Quite the opposite." She'd thought she'd been right to be worried, to dread it. Who would take such a thing well? She hadn't taken it well, when she'd remembered--and it was her!
But... she should have known. She was a mother. And nothing in the world would have made her stop loving her baby, not for a second.
"I'm... actually very happy."
"But you're crying."
Was she? Dora took her hand off her son's back for a second, just long enough to wipe her eyelashes. She had cried earlier, rather a lot. Her mother had too. There might have been a few tears left over. "Oh. Yes, I was. But they were happy tears. There's nothing in the world quite like happy tears."
"Happy tears?"
Dora nodded and stroked at Ceidrid's hair. So soft, so thick. So like her mother's. "You'll understand, one day. Sometimes, happy things happen because sad things have gone away--or, at least, have become less sad. And those happy things are only happy because you were sad before."
Ceidrid's head rolled to the side. He didn't get it. He hadn't lived long enough to get it. To Dora's great relief, he'd never been sad enough to get it. She hoped it would be many years yet before he had been.
Sad things, less sad. Still sad. She'd still left her mother in several years of unknowing purgatory. Her mother would fight with keeping it from the rest of the family, everyone else, even though her heart wanted little more than to burst into joyous song for all the world to hear. She still had to figure out who to tell, how to tell them, who would be better off not knowing, how to pretend for their benefit. How to let Ceidrid and any future siblings he had have their grandmother, how to let her mother have her grandchildren, without acknowledging the relationship.
If Ceidrid need to know. If Adonis needed to know.
Still sad.
But less sad.
And, given that--so happy indeed.
NEXT CHAPTER:
September 12, 1202
"Interesting way of learning that the kids are old enough to come over on their own--all barging in to attack your father before Renalie remembers all of a sudden that she was supposed to tell me to get over here as soon as I could." On a day when she'd thought Severin's clinic was open for business, no less! But the kids hadn't seemed upset, so it couldn't have been an emergency--unless it had been an emergency that they hadn't been told about. Her first thought had been that in spite of everything, Rina had gotten pregnant again, and she and Severin were in a panic over it.
But that couldn't have been the case now, given that Rina was nowhere to be seen and Severin--while somber enough--wasn't in any particular distress.
That said, she spied Dora over his shoulder, seated by the hearth, fingers fidgeting with the fabric of her skirt. "Dora? This is a surprise."
With a distinct twitch, Dora nodded her way, then let her eyes fall to her lap. How odd. Dora was shy, yes, and could be skittish--but she wasn't impolite.
"Well... you see, Mother, it's actually Dora who needs to speak with you. I've just been keeping her company for moral support."
Moral support? For a talk with her? Yes, she liked to think she and Dora were friends--but if Dora wanted a confidante, then surely she would have chosen someone her own age! Come to think of it, Severin likely already knew what she wanted to discuss. Shouldn't he have been sufficient?
"Is everything all right?"
"I think it will be, but I can't blame her for being nervous. Please try to keep an open mind, Mother. I'll be downstairs in the clinic when you're done." He kissed her on the cheek, then cut around her with a swift step and ushered himself out the door.
All as if there was nothing odd about any of this.
Not that she should have been unused to oddness, after all these years of being married to Florian. Thetis made for the empty bench beside Dora's and sighed as she sat down. "You know, he may just be my strangest child."
Dora grimaced. "I don't know about that..."
"Yes, I suppose Alyssin would be up there too. Just never tell either of them how like their father they are--and never tell their father that either." She didn't expect uproarious laughter, but all Dora managed was another forced smile. This in spite of now having met Florian. "I'm sorry, dear. You wanted to talk to me about something?"
"Uh... 'want' isn't really the right word." No--not by the way she bit at her lip. "I don't even know where to start..."
NEXT CHAPTER:
May 1, 1202
It took little effort for Dora to rise from the bed and no feverish fog engulfed her. That didn't mean she felt better.
My family. My mother. Oh God. How could I have done that to my family?
And how could she not have? She'd been miserable. She'd had a loving family yes, but what future had there been for someone like her? It was clear to her now that she'd never had a romantic interest in women, not as Teodrin and not now, so any wife Teodrin might have taken would have been doomed to a loveless marriage--and a childless marriage, likely even a sexless marriage. Life as a bachelor wouldn't have been impossible, but with the crippling insecurity and stunted social skills that had resulted, earning a living would have been easier said than done. The best option would have been to work for Hamrick--her brother, Hamrick--as a farmhand, and that was only 'best' in that Hamrick wouldn't have turned down his own brother. Teodrin would not have fancied farming, not to the point where he could have built a life around it and considered himself happy.
And Adonis! She wouldn't have had Adonis's love as Teodrin, she was almost certain of it. Even if Teodrin had come to fancy Adonis consciously, he never would have dared approach him, both for fear of rejection and the emotional torment over what the hell had to be wrong with him to fancy a man so.
And Ceidrid... her baby...
"You saw Ylwa, didn't you?"
A voice she'd known in both her lifetimes. Severin, her and her husband's friend, the man who'd walked her down the aisle for lack of any proper family. Severin, her older brother, clever and aloof and meeting everything he tried with either natural success or such decisive indifference that his failed attempts were almost impressive. To Dora, he was a comfort. To Teodrin, he'd been the distant and terrifying embodiment of everything he dared dream of being.
And he knew about Ylwa. If he knew about Ylwa, he knew all of it. "I--"
"It's all right. You don't have to talk if you don't want to." Severin rose from the bench at the foot of the bed and met her at the side. She didn't know what to expect from him, if he'd greet her as Dora or as Teodrin, if he would have even bothered greeting Teodrin beyond the barest acknowledgment of his existence before returning to whatever more interesting book or puzzle was at hand.
She hadn't expected a firm, fraternal hug--like she might have had she been Alina or Evera. "You have no idea what a relief it is to finally know you're safe."
Her brother. Her cold big brother who on his best of days might have let Teodrin have the larger dinner roll. How torn up inside the rest of the family must have been. "I'm so sorry..."
"Don't--well, I don't know. You don't need to apologize for who you are, and I can't say I've yet thought of any easy way you might have told us. We were worried beyond belief, but I don't blame you for not expecting the best reaction-wise. Not from everyone, at least." He kissed her on the brow, like brothers did their younger sisters, like she'd seen him kiss Holladrin when he'd felt it merited. "I don't think anything could make Mother stop loving you."
"Mother..." Her mother had all the love in the world to give. She'd even given in to Dora despite lack of any obligation, despite all the pain she must have still felt over Teodrin. "I must have hurt her so terribly."
"I suppose there's no sense in denying that. I hope you don't mind my saying that you really should tell her, some day." He stepped back, his hand trailing off her arm as it followed the rest of his body. "Not until you're ready, though."
What did it mean, to be ready to tell a thing like this? She wasn't sure she ever would be--but her mother deserved to know. In truth, the whole family did. "What about everyone else?"
"I... don't know." Severin sighed. Dora might have heard him admit to not knowing before, but Teodrin never had. As far as Teodrin had been concerned, anything Severin didn't know couldn't have been worth knowing anyway. "It's not my call. I can't make a guess at how everyone would react. Plus, if Father and all of our siblings know, then who's to say the in-laws and nieces and nephews shouldn't, then family friends, colleagues..."
"My husband."
"Right. Your husband." Her brother bit his lip. Adonis was a good man, but he had no concept of such things--almost nobody, good or not, did! The unfamiliar was often frightening, especially coming from a loved one, a person with whom there should have been no secrets. "Again, that's... up to you. I'm sorry I can't be of more help."
"It's fine." At least, the extent of his ability to help was fine. "I don't think I could expect any more of anyone here."
"You're probably right. Anyway, I don't know if you're up to seeing anyone else yet, but can I at least tell them that you're all right? You as Dora, I mean--with your illness."
Dora nodded. Everyone had spent enough time worrying over her, and it wouldn't be the last of it--not until she figured things out. The least she could do was let Severin assure them of her health. "Please do."
NEXT CHAPTER:
April 30, 1202
What an odd dream this was.
Dora both knew the pond and didn't. She'd never cared for marshlands, and the only pond of note in the kingdom was one she had no interest in visiting. Neither did Adonis, for that matter; thanks to his bachelor years of moving from inn to inn and tent to tent while his projects came to life at the expense of consistent baths and laundry, her husband was a hygiene-conscious man for whom a filthy pond would have been among the worst venues for love-making.
But, somehow, she knew this was that pond--and, in spite of her unease about the place, she didn't mind. She was alone. The waters were clean and clear enough, lilies of many colors abundant, a number of ducks and geese floating in content. The earth beneath her was dry in spite of the pond's proximity, even as the grass receded and the dirt prevailed. It might have been how she knew it was a dream, the peace and cleanliness of such a place.
That, and it just... felt it. Not even like a normal dream, really, but certainly not reality. And what other possibility was there? That she was dead? She thought she'd know if she was dead.
But if it was a dream, then it was odd that she was aware of it. She'd believed far stranger dreams to be reality while in the process of dreaming them, dreams of impossible creatures and characters from stories and scenes that defied physics. If she spent a dream sitting by a pond, she didn't expect to know it for a dream until she woke.
She wasn't awake. She'd have known why she was here if she was awake--she hoped.
"Hello, Teodora. It's been a while."
She turned her head to see the naked figure of a green-skinned woman standing behind her. That was a sight more typical of a dream.
Or was it? Somehow, she couldn't quite be sure this was her first time seeing this woman. "Who are you?"
"I'm the one responsible for your memory issues, though I'll remind you that you did ask. Now that they're causing you some grief, I've come to your subconscious to sort them out. Try to keep calm while I'm here, but I'm fully expecting that you won't." The woman rolled her cloudy eyes as she flipped two hanging braids behind her back. "The truth isn't always the easiest thing to grasp."
NEXT CHAPTER:
April 30, 1202
"How's she doing?" Thetis's son asked as he shut the door behind him, little more than whispered as he noticed Dora's sleeping form. Florian had given the side-eye when Severin had settled on a career in medicine, insistent that the boy simply didn't like people enough to enjoy it--not that that was a bad thing, of course, but there was only so much satisfaction a puzzle could give if part of solving it required a good bedside manner.
Thetis had disagreed from the start. The proof of it had shown its face when he'd met Rina; he may have been grouchy and socially-averse, but it wasn't for lack of caring. It may have even been for an excess of caring. Working as a physician gave him an outlet for pent-up concern that he was otherwise ill-equipped to express.
"Mmm... not much different from when you were here yesterday, unfortunately. She was awake for a while this morning, but she had to rest again."
Poor girl. The inexplicable illness was one thing, but even more troubling was her panic over her lost memories. Whenever Dora woke, those around her would take care to keep conversation to the present--or to the future, even, thanks to young Ceidrid's creative variety of (mostly) harmless amusement attempts.
But, inevitably, something would remind her that before arrival in Naroni... well, there was nothing to be reminded of.
"I wish there was more we could do. If parents' background was anything like mine or your father's, I don't know if any church would have records of them, but she needs... I don't know. A starting point, at least. Some hint as to who she is and where she came from. Do you suppose trying to trace our own lines back far enough might yield something? She does look so much like--"
"Alyssin." From the foot of the bed, Severin squinted down at her. It might have been two seconds, it might have been a whole minute; there was a fog about the room that both stretched and squeezed time, made any guessed measurement impossible.
But, however long he'd studied her, the day-wide haze broke with a sudden clear-eyed gasp. "...Mother, you don't have anywhere else you need to be today, do you?"
"No, I think Esela and Hamrick can handle anything that comes up at home." Perhaps her soft spots had grown too broad, but she didn't think she could leave Dora for long without any concrete news for anything short of an emergency. But, if that enlightened, end-tying stare toward the window meant anything, concrete news may not have been so distant a thing. "What is it? Do you know why she's sick? What she has? Why she can't remember?"
"No. Not quite." Or--as she knew innately, as the woman who raised him--not with enough certainty for him to say. Yet. "But I know someone who does."
NEXT CHAPTER:
April 29, 1202
"I... I just..." Dora broke up her own sob with a cough. She'd been ill the past few days, to the point where Thetis Tumekrin had taken it on herself to make bowl after bowl of soup, to keep an eye on Ceidrid when Adonis had to work, to fight for sleep on the uncomfortable spare bed just in case she was needed in the morning. She was with Ceidrid now, downstairs, greeting Adonis as if she'd half-expected him to return as early as he had. The walls weren't thick. She'd probably heard more than Dora thought she had.
The sickness wasn't the half of it. "I can't remember anything, Adonis! I don't know, maybe it's the fever, but I can't! It used to be that everything seemed wrong, or that pieces were missing, but now it's all--just--gone!"
Adonis wiped his wife's brow with the cuff of his sleeve before lacing his arm around her back. The fever was as strong as ever. He wished she'd lie back down, but then again it had been long enough that bedsores may have been a concern. Still, her brow... "Darling, let me get you a cold cloth, for your head. It might be easier to talk about this if you're a little more comfortable."
"I don't--I don't know." He couldn't quite be sure she'd spoken in answer. "I don't feel like I'm here, even. I don't feel real any more. I don't know if I ever did."
"You're very real. And you're here. I know because the world's been better, since you've been here." And how unbearable a thought it was, that she might not recover--that she might cease to be here, and the world would return to what it had been before. "I wish I could help you with your memories. Perhaps Orrick, or Severin--"
Dora shook her head. "Orrick is my boss; I can't tell him about this. And Severin wouldn't understand. He's not like me. He's never been like me. Even when we were kids..."
Her words collapsed into sniffles as Adonis fumbled with the last of them. "What do you mean? You didn't know Severin when you were kids."
"I--I don't know who I knew when I was a kid. At this point, how can I know I even was a kid?"
She'd forgotten, he knew from the earnest shudders, just what she had said. It might not have meant anything. It might have been a patchwork of words collected from scattered thoughts, in the form of a complete but nonsensical sentence. If it meant anything, Adonis couldn't say he cared what.
She was the love of his life. He just wanted her to get better. "Dora..."
He took her in his arms and she clung to him tightly, fist balled around the fabric of his tunic. The tension of her grip was a wildfire he could not contain.
But her sudden release was a pinch to a candle.
"Dora!"
NEXT CHAPTER:
June 7, 1200
"That cat seems to like you," Thetis's voice sounded from the couch, her having apparently returned from putting the tea set away. "She doesn't usually like new people. Or even most familiar people, really."
This sweet animal? Thetis may have been the one who lived with her--but Dora didn't quite believe it. Thetis must not have seen the way she'd allowed Ceidrid to grab at her tail, swat at her nose. An ill-tempered cat wouldn't have had much patience for a toddler's antics. "She must like you."
"She tolerates me. She and Florian are the bane of each other's existence." The older woman chuckled to herself as Dora returned to her own seat, Roux trailing after her skirts all the while. "Maybe she'd be happier living with you and Ceidrid and Adonis."
Dora glanced down at the cat, now perched by her ankles, starting up at her with love in her eyes. "Are... are you seriously offering?"
"Why not? She obviously adores you, and she seems to find Ceidrid much more agreeable than the other children around here." Thetis shot one of those warm, motherly smiles down to where Ceidrid played on the floor, but a sudden melancholy sigh eased the curve of her lips. "Really, I don't doubt that Florian would have given her away years ago if she hadn't been Teodrin's cat."
"Oh." Dora stiffened. She'd been an acquaintance of the Tumekrins long enough to know who Teodrin was, but she'd never asked about the details. She wasn't sure she wanted to know, for all the family must have ached for any hint of closure. The circumstances of such an event couldn't have possibly been pleasant. "I'm sorry."
"It's quite all right. Roux misses Teodrin too; maybe it will be easier for both her and us if we can miss him separately."
Dora turned to her own son, busy by the hearth with Thetis's children's old toys and his own imagination. If--God forbid--Ceidrid ever vanished, she failed to see how any cat or lack of cat would have done a thing to console her. "Maybe..."
"And she'll never really know, the poor thing--not being able to read or speak or understand language. At least we can hold out hope for a letter, some story somewhere, anything.
"Though, it's been long enough that I suppose it's foolish to really believe it's coming."
Dora swallowed. None of the Tumekrins liked to talk about Teodrin much, though Alina had once described him with loving exasperation as a 'mama's boy', and Severin had muttered something about his little brother being scarcely able to walk to the market alone, never mind run away. How had such a gentle, timid young man suddenly up and left? And without so much as a note for his poor, worried mother?
Or what if he was like her? What if something had happened to him, something had made him forget his own mother? For him to remember bits and pieces of some other mother, some woman who didn't exist, just enough inconsistent details to know his own mind was lying?
And what if--somewhere--her own mother ached for her too?
"I... uh, we can talk about something else, if you'd like."
NEXT CHAPTER:
January 10, 1199
"You know, we invited you and Rina for lunch--not for a house-call," Dora teased Severin as she lifted her now-awake infant son from his crib. "You could have just stayed downstairs with Adonis and Rina and your children, rather than coming up here for me."
"I could have." He shrugged--just as he could have, Dora supposed, not bothered coming at all. "But I know you didn't have the easiest pregnancy. If you have anything to talk about, I figured it might be easier for you if you didn't have to ask in front of Adonis."
"Why? Adonis is proving himself a fine father, and you know how he doted on me when I was expecting."
"I didn't mean to imply the opposite of either; just that husbands and fathers tend not to look at their own wives' pregnancies most rationally. Just ask Rina how on-edge I was when she was pregnant."
"You're always on-edge." Perhaps she didn't spend enough time with Severin to fairly make that call, but she knew it was the right one. Her baby boy beamed up at her from his place in her arms, nothing but love in his blue eyes. Other than the expected fatigue of taking care of infant, he hadn't given her any trouble at all. "Ceidrid is a very good baby--and it wasn't as if I was dreadfully ill when I was pregnant."
"No, but you were... out of sorts, I figured." Severin sighed. "Adonis mentioned that you woke often throughout the night--usually in something of a state."
Dora shook her head as she wiped a bit of drool from Ceidrid's mouth. "Oh, that wasn't anything. Just... well, not even nightmares, really. Vivid dreams."
"Dreams." He frowned. Severin was a physician, and a man of science. 'Dreams' weren't his realm, nor were they likely a thing he considered to be of much importance to anyone. "How were they vivid? Bright images?"
"No, as if... as if I'd actually been there. Like they were memories, sort of--but they weren't." At least, she didn't think they were. But, the most troubling thing about the dreams had been the realization of just how little of her life she could clearly recall. "Or if they were, they weren't quite clear enough to ring any bells. Flashes, mostly. I couldn't even make out any faces."
"Hmm. You might have more luck mentioning that to Orrick than to me--though, I suppose his being your boss might complicate that." Severin shifted his gaze down to Ceidrid. He didn't much like children as a rule, but the look was more of inquiry than contempt. "You and Adonis both have blue eyes, but I don't think his are either of yours."
"They're not. We're not sure where they came from, really. My father had my eyes, and my mother's were green." She remembered their eyes. But they'd named the baby for Ceidrid's father. She couldn't remember the name of her own.
"You know, they look a bit like a few of my siblings' eyes," Severin muttered, squinting.
"Well, given how much you all keep talking about how much I look like Alyssin, maybe we really are distant relations."
"Maybe--but my mother says Holladrin and Octavius got her mother's eyes. Alyssin definitely takes more after our father."
"Oh." So that wasn't an answer, then. And Severin kept staring at the baby, frown curling. Surely she didn't suspect her of being unfaithful to Adonis--did he? "I wouldn't--"
"I know."
Still, his own eyes--green, teal green, like his mother's, like the eyes she kept seeing in her dreams--never left the baby's.
NEXT CHAPTER:
