59. Not Broken

Not Broken

Rose

I dream. I dream of Tristan’s first kisses, soft and hungry, surrounded by blooms and bustle and hope. I dream of his brother, his nickname beaten from me so now his real name is bruised on my insides. I dream of thorns wrapped in my fist, blood trickling down my forearm. The scent of roses and blood permeates, the sharp metallic scent so mingled with pain that I don’t know if I’m feeling it fill my mouth or breathing it in.

I dream of my face, morphing like the statue I’d collapsed in front of, my features moving through a kaleidoscope of physicality. I dream of the golden haired man who turned into a vengeful god, and I dream of how he ordered me to say thank you. I dream of his rage and fire and blood, and soon I don’t know which is mine and which is his.

Finally there’s a resonant voice, calling my name.

“Are you ready for a new beginning?”

I open my eyes, urgency gripping the back of my neck as I take in the unfamiliar sanctuary. The temple.

I remember.

The suns are mid sky, casting dual shadows throughout the temple, the columns slicing their darkness across the pond.

I might think it all a nightmare if I wasn’t still in a pool of my own blood, the liquid dark and sticky now. Cooled and tempered. My back screams but my lungs no longer protest, no longer swim in their own fluid. I take in a greedy breath. My stomach still burns where Tristan branded me. “You’re mine now, Mater,” he’d said. Mater.

Images flash, his voice an echo in my mind. “My mater favored him…” My memory is a deluge of horrible words spilling from Tristan’s wrathful lips. “Did he punish you?” He’d asked about my pater.

I shake my head. The thought takes hold, though, and I turn and vomit off the side of the altar, choking when the movement brings pain so intense that I cough on it as I scream.

I should be dead. I knew it last night, but now my lungs are functioning and somehow… I’m alive. I look to the statue of Janus and decide I’ll bring them as many goats as they want, but first I need to find Daisy.

I look down at the blood and dirt crusted onto my skin. Then I look to the small pond. I can’t travel through town with the suns up this way. Less blood, more clothes.

Stepping into the cool water, I slowly and painstakingly wipe the blood off my skin. The water clouds but I don’t worry about that. A little blood and dirt won’t hurt the plants; rather, they’ll probably relish it, blooming anew with the nutrients that were scoured from my flesh.

Naked and shivering, I search the temple for something to use as clothing. I find a sack that likely held an offering or grain at one time, and rip it into something resembling a shift to cover my breasts, stomach, and hips. And then, I stumble from the temple.

I am black and blue and bruised, but I am no longer broken.