by Marian Unn
Chapter 2
He walked with booming steps. At the thundering of his boots, the remaining soldiers fled from the room. Stern whispering was heard through the door, a quick movement of feet, and BANG! Two more bodies fell to the floor. They were no doubt the two guards that had allowed the other man to enter my chambers, despite his being only a fledgling of a soldier. He was probably a spy of a rebel group who had infiltrated the guard in some futile attempt to cause chaos within Merek’s ranks. I had seen it before. Such attempts never succeeded. Their plans would always abruptly shatter just before fruition.
The large wooden doors creaked open. Sheathing his sword, he walked towards me slowly, but just as they closed, he rushed to me. Bending down at my side, he pulled my hand to his face, and then looked up to me just as he had when he was a child. But this man was no child, and his eyes were not as bright as a child’s. No, they were black. Cold and ruthless, they were constantly observing, trying to perceive some fault in everyone and everything.
I do not believe he is even worthy to be called a man any more, for he has reached levels too low, too inhuman to any longer be called such.
Merek, my child, my son. He is not even old enough by most standards to be considered a man; yet, to many, my child is already considered a monster.
“Mother,” he whispered, pressing my palm tighter to his face, to the face of a creature which had just killed two men not moments before.
“Are you not a little old to be acting in such a way?” I asked, peering down at my murderous child.
He said nothing for a moment, then stood. “Please, not now, Mother,” his voice shook. “I need you to console me. I need your motherly love right now. Please.”
“How can I give love to a killer?” My lips quivered at the word.
His eyes were unphased, he neither smiled nor frowned. “You used to tell me that a mother’s love is forever no matter what. That any mother who loved not her child was no worse than a mother who had killed her child, and you used to always tell me how I was and will be forever your child.”
Pulling away, he let my hand slip from his grasp. Standing tall, I rushed to the hearth in some vain hope that it would warm my trembling shoulders. “Do not sting me with such words! You are my child, and I will forever love you. But I cannot bear the thought of kissing the cheek of one who has taken the life of another!”
“But I have taken the life of not just one other but many others, and I will do so again. And you Mother, do not, will not, fail to kiss me, neither in our greetings nor goodbyes, just as any just mother should.” His hand on my shoulder, I turned to him reluctantly. Having learned to wrestle with the pain and tears as best I could, I embraced him in a hug. Cradling his head in my hands, I kissed his cheek and hung there for a moment. “Oh, Merek, if only one of God’s angels could have raised you, then perhaps my heart would not bear the burden of your sins.”
Without pulling away, his words struck sharp into my chest, “But you are my mother, and you did raise me. You made me who I am. I could not have wished for a better mother.”
Slipping away from him, I returned solemnly to the chair by the window. Placing my hand above my heart, I bowed my head. It truly is my fault. Gripping the cross, I whispered aloud, “If only I truly had been a better mother.”
Disregarding my words, he stared attentively at the hearth, the blazing flames within soaring upwards. “Do you plan to go to your meeting tonight?” Merek asked. Holding my breath I nodded. He must not know the nature of these meetings. If he learns, I fear the words of that soldier--bless he and all the poor souls who fell today--may not be far from reality.
“Well, I hope you and your,” he hesitated for a moment, “gathering of colleagues goes well.” We were both silent for a moment, the seconds passing like hours, the minutes like days. “Well, I really must be going. I have a meeting to attend to.”
In silence, I stood as he came to kiss me goodbye, pulling my hand to his face as he always does. “I know your gatherings are a matter you claim to enjoy, Mother, but I must ask, why then do you return so pale?” Without a hint of mercy on his poor mother, his black eyes of poison bore into me, and I knew that he was not blind to the truth. Yet now I can only wonder why he still allows me to go. Does it make him proud to hold such a thing over his mother, knowing that a single word of it would have me at the guillotine’s head?
“You are a cruel boy,” I said without much thought.
“I am no longer a boy.” He gently returned my trembling hand. “Have a nice time, dear Mother.” The hollow wooden doors muffled not the sharp words that exploded from his lips as he left. Opening them once more, he spoke to me as if his words were the most common of things a child would say to his mother, “Would you wait here a while more before you depart? There seems to be a problem with the disposal of the trash.”
Not looking at his face, I nodded. I had to respond in some way, for I am afraid of what would happen if I did not. I am afraid of my own son. What kind of mother am I? How can I be so in fear of someone whom I myself raised, whom I carried and birthed, whom I love? How can I be afraid of such a person? Moreover, why has my own son given me reason to fear him without ever having raised his hand to threaten me? Why? Why must I fear Merek so?
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