A Spell of Loss

I had always believed that if I’d only been a man, I would have been strong enough to face this cruel and savage world that cost me everything. Surely, if it had been my husband who had survived that horrific night down at the marina, things would have been different. Maur always knew what to do. He was powerful, capable, and filled with a calm reassurance I would have killed for. If only I’d been born a man, he might have not felt the need to protect me when the kidnappers came for our boy. He wouldn’t have fallen to their brutal blows, his ocean eyes warped with fear for me. I would have been at his side until the end, not running with our child for the last boat out of a city in flames at his urgent command.

Even if I had fled and left my husband’s side, if I had been a soldier like my love, I would have been faster on my feet. The twisted, hawk-nosed wraith of a man that wrestled my son from my arms would have met greater resistance. Tabe wouldn’t have slipped from my grasp, his whimper of half-conscious terror the last sound I heard before I was knocked from my feet and left to die beneath the stinking docks. No, I would have been able to keep them both safe. We would still be together, if I had been half the man Maur was...at least that was the thought that carried me through these last few months.

It was this belief that led me to the marsh, seeking the wisdom of things more ancient and terrible than the feud which stole my family, my country, and my soul. For more than a year, I searched and plotted, trying to track the mercenaries who had destroyed my world. I did things I would never have dreamed, suffered in ways that a year ago I never could have imagined, and still I found myself no closer to the truth. Too many doors refuse to open for a noblewoman in rags. And those that did open...oh, how I wish they could be shut again.

Last night, with nothing left to lose and only the whispered warnings of villagers to guide me, I’d found my way to this weathered, mildewy shack in the center of this foetid swamp. The eyeless, three-toothed crone that took my last bit of secreted gold had promised to fulfil my one remaining desire. So I’d taken her bitter, foul brew, and laid beneath the murky sky with only my once-sumptuous rags and the knowledge that I would rise more powerful to warm me.

But when I woke up this morning in unfamiliar skin, and heard my voice foreign and gravely in my ears, I didn’t feel any stronger. This masculine heart that races with adrenaline in my chest is not the stalwart organ I’d been led to believe. Fear still ices my veins at the memory of losing everything. The pain is still too palpable, and any confidence I hoped would come to me as natural as breathing seems to still be missing. There’s still a hole in the deepest part of this new me where Maur was. The memory of my trials still reduces me to trembling.

In the end, nothing has changed. For all the strength in this body, I’m still me, a second daughter of a withered line. I’m still too weak to save my son. And in the end, I’m still too weak to save myself.