Love is not what saves you—it's what gives damnation meaning

  Reading the first line confirmed to the older sibling that the letter was her mother's testament, one she had left for her beloved daughters. She continued reading:

  Love, this is your mother... I hope wherever you are right now, both of you are together, safe and happy. I am writing this letter with the help of your Manager-uncle, because as you know I cannot write properly. So, basically I am just drawing up the words that he refined from my earlier, much cruder version of this letter... I know there are many things I did not explain, though I am sure you girls must have understood most of them on your own. My girls are just that smart, I know.

  The older sibling's lips curled upward on their own as she read the first paragraph.

  I hope you live a life better than the one I ever dreamed of, and though I don't have the right to say this, but don't ever settle for anything but the best, because that is what my girls deserve—the very best.

  I took birth as a slaveborn and lived my whole life as such. Never once did I question why. It is a fate I would never wish upon even my worst enemy, and yet, with full knowledge I brought my most precious ones into it. I am sorry, Loves, for being a selfish person. I could not resist wanting to see, touch and love my children.

  And again, when your lives were threatened, I put my desires at front. None of you ever asked to leave this place or me behind. I remember how much you cherished the little time that we had together. And still, I sent you away because I wanted a better life for my children, away from this place and from me. Sorry, Loves. I hope you can forgive your selfish Mum and Maa.

  Reading her mother’s apologies for a crime she was never even accused of, tears welled in the older sibling’s eyes—slowly rolling down her cheeks, they dampened the blanket beneath her.

  For all my selfishness, I don't have anything to offer to you girls, except for my blessings in all that you do, be it good or bad, just don't lose sight of what's important—each other. Also, there's one more thing I would like to give to my Loves, name.

  For my older daughter, I personally wanted to pick a more fun and fabulous name, but your Manager-uncle insisted on helping me name you, and he suggested the name Elsyn for you my love. According to him it means, born of light, tempered by night.

  The older sibling repeated the name a few times in her mind to make it her own:

  Elsyn, Elsyn, Elsyn. I think I can get used to being called Elsyn... on a second thought, I'd love to be called Elsyn.

  She again focused on the letter:

  He also insisted on helping me name your sister, but I firmly said no. Because I have already thought up a brilliant name for my love bundle: Applea. I know, I know, it's a splendid name—you can't even guess how long it took me to think of it. This name means that its owner likes apples and apple-based foods, which your sister, Applea, does.

  The older sibling was left speechless for a second and her tears stopped flowing as she mused, Applea, really, Mum? Couldn't you have named her Crumpella or something—I mean she likes crumpets too... At least now I know from where Pipsqueak inherits her naming skills.

  She focused on the last part of the letter:

  Congratulations, Elsyn, Applea, you are no longer one of the nameless. I wish I could see your happy, confused or even angry faces when you received your names, but unfortunately I cannot. When you reach your destination, I might still not be with you, but my blessing and love forever will be.

  May you forge yourselves a fate that the stars themselves envy, my loves—Elsyn and Applea

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Forever cheering and rooting for you, Your Mother.

  Reading the final words did not make the older sibling sob or feel sad, instead something deep ignited within her. Something that along her journey had gradually chipped away; she had regained hope.

  With a content, beaming face, the older sibling, Elsyn, went to sleep under the flickering light of the bonfire.

  However, her sleep was short-lived, for her sister soon shook her awake: "Sis, sis! Wake up!"

  "What is it 'squeak?"

  "It's Corvus, he has collapsed—come quickly!"

  Elsyn checked on Corvus—he was shivering. The wounds and blood loss he had suffered were partly to blame for his condition; that much she understood.

  What she could not grasp, however, was that his turmoil ran deeper. It was not just physical, but rather it was born of choices and experiences that had shaken something within him, something of a more spiritual kind, his very being itself.

  What is an individual beyond his ideas and beliefs?

  Corvus had rejected and reshaped his very self by questioning the beliefs he had long held and by acting against them when he spared Elsyn. Thus, he now was undergoing a transformation. A fierce battle raged within him: between the old, which sought to persist, and the new, which sought to change.

  If Corvus could accept these new tenets and integrate them into his being, only then could he awaken. Otherwise, even death was possible.

  This inner tug of war was Corvus's to fight alone; the siblings could offer solace only to his body. Covering him with a blanket, they lay on either side of him, sharing their warmth and easing his shivering.

  The three of them lay side by side in the cave and peacefully drifted to sleep.

  Meanwhile, in Caldraveth, the first light of daybreak bleakly illuminated its palatial buildings and orderly roads, where only a sparse crowd of pedestrians stirred at this time.

  Two such pedestrians standing in front of a wide tavern, were idly gossiping:

  "The party yesterday was so magnificent. I'm still lightly wobbling from the lingering hangover," the female pedestrian let out a small giggle.

  "True. Did you taste the hazel wine? I personally tried it five times. It had such an aromatic flavour that just transfixes the mind, you know."

  "But of course I did. From what I've gathered, it was made from a venomous snake's glands found somewhere deep within Cinderglaze."

  "Yes, I've heard that too. Apparently, dozens of slaves died while perfecting that wine."

  "Good riddance, I say."

  "True, I couldn't have put it better myself—it's the only thing those space-fillers are good for."

  "Speaking of which, isn't the city square pleasantly quiet today?"

  "Ah, the wench has finally died. Her incessant moaning was enough to make one's ears bleed. Why they ever displayed it in the city square, among decent folk, I'll never understand. They should have left it to rot on the outskirts, among its own kind."

  "It's not official, but there are rumors it murdered a member of House Qathir in some alley on the outskirts. The elders were livid over the ignominious affair... so, they made an example of the culprit. Its family, however, has yet to be found."

  "They must've taken their own lives out of fear, seeing what happened to this one," the female pedestrian laughed, her tone derisive.

  From behind them, a middle-aged man of skinny build stepped out of the tavern, carrying several boxes of liquor. Turning back, he humbly nodded at the man behind the counter and said, "Thank you sir, for the supplies—do visit King's Delight whenever you can."

  As the middle-aged man passed the gossiping pair, he heard their scornful remarks, and lowered his head and quickened his pace. After a dozen brisk steps, he noticed two children speaking:

  "Brother, why's that lady up there?" The smaller boy asked.

  "That's not a lady, Harry. It's a slave from the outskirts," the other boy replied.

  "What happened to it? Why's it up there?"

  "The crime of motherhood," the middle-aged man answered in a meek, sorrowful voice from behind them.

  He lifted his head and gazed ahead.

  Several meters away, a long pointed wooden pole rose from a metal pedestal. The ground beneath it was strewn with small pebbles to heavy bricks, along with random waste and debris.

  Atop the pole, a sickly thin figure—clad in tattered and filthy fabrics—was impaled through her back. The figure appeared to be a woman, though it was now difficult to ascertain.

  Her cheeks, sunken and starved, were deathly pale. Her flesh was marred by innumerable lash marks and wounds. From the joints of her limbs, bones jutted outward—her perpetrators had ensured she could not shield herself from the pelting.

  Her face, veiled by strands of hair, was barely visible. But occasional gusts of dry wind revealed her countenance. On her forehead, bold letters had been carved with a blade: For Qathir's.

  Below the inscription, one of her eyes was missing, replaced by a gaping black socket filled with nothing but darkness—hollow and ominous.

  In stark contrast, her remaining eye shone brightly, catching and reflecting the rising sun. Yet, beneath that blazing reflection, it held no glimmer, no light, no vigor. It evoked an even deeper dread than the empty socket beside it.

  A stray fly buzzed around her eye before settling upon it. The woman did not blink. She could not. Her eyes, bereft of life, remained fixed and unmoving—staring at nothing, though wide open.

  And yet, her face bore a small but unwavering smile as she beheld the new dawn—a dawn boding great promises for her beloved daughters.

  Gift for Loves]