CHPT 16: New Kin, Terrible Sin….

Marco's morning at home was coming to a close. He'd worked himself to muscular exhaustion— that'd last about fifteen minutes. He'd thoroughly scared away his neighbor, and showered.

One more task left. The most important in a lot of ways.

He continued down the long hallway of his home. The dark polished wood floors didn't make a sound as he glided across its surface soundlessly. The walls— completely absent of pictures and personality blurred past his vision in shades of beige and brown borders.

His eyes stayed focused on the end of the hallway where a doorway loomed. No door seated in its frame, only the thin beaded fabrics of a braided curtain. The wooden chips and wringlets clicked as the winds from the open windows rattled the rags calmly.

No other sounds accompanied the serene sight. You'd think nobody was behind the authentic drapes.

If you were a human that is.

Marco knew there was someone within. He'd put them there. He'd dragged them across the world in pursuit of things….things better left unsaid at the current moment.

It was his mother.

And he could smell her. He always could. As if it were his curse for what he'd done. He would always be reminded— never allowed to forget. No matter how far or how much he scrubbed himself. The scent clung to his clothings— to his skin, with the might of a thousand shifters claws.

The smell of pain, sickness, and oncoming death. Held back by the medicinal concoction of herbs he'd been crafting for months on end now.

Today was no different in that regard.

Her breaths quickened, now easily heard as she came into a state of partial sentience.

He approached the curtain, stopping only to mentally prepare himself before he pushed it aside and entered the room.

The floor felt colder inside. Absent of all activity and warmth. The smell of herbs heightened, wafting from the clear ball cups lined up at the side of the massive throne-like bed in the center of the room. Rugs bordered the bed, expensive and untouched— unmarked by the soles of feet.

At the front pillar on each side of the beds headboard, two dark wood statues loomed in the shadows.

One, the shape of a woman. Muscles lithe and sensually violent. He'd never known art to convey so many contrasting forces all trapped within the shape of a panther headed warrior woman dressed in jewels and bladed ornaments. So beautiful, so sexual, so sleek, so violent…..so horrifying.

The other statue stood taller. A mass of muscular bulk and wild features wielding a spear in one massive knuckled hand. The man wore the head of a lion, snarling and roaring at the world as golden bands and regal ceremonial armor hugged the delicately carved inserts of his muscle. Again, so many contrasting elements hidden within the wooden artwork.

Beauty….power….discipline….ferocity…royalty.

The two statues held candles in their free hands that burned as bright as the sun in the cold room. Never ending. Almost magical.

Anhur and Bast.

Marco dropped to one knee.

"Sibling gods of war and children of the sun. I come to you as my true self….out of respect and understanding. I ask that your light continues to guide my hand and keep life within those that need it, Bast, Godess of protection and bringer of good health. Anhur, I ask the same as always. Help me slay my enemies. Help me wipe them off the face of anywhere the sun roams this earth." Marco whispered. By the end of it, his words were an unintelligible growl brought on by his shift.

"Who…..who's there? Menes? Is that you?" A faint deep feminine voice called out from behind the transparent curtains surrounding the bed.

Marco flinched at the use of his old name. He hadn't heard it in a long time. She must've really been out of it.

"It's Marco now, Mother. Remember?" He said as he approached the bedside table and began working with the herbs.

"Oh…..yes of course. But your father loved the name…." His mother whispered.

Marco growled under his breath. She must've forgotten much of what had become of the man she called "his father."

Suddenly he felt her eye on him from behind the curtains as he worked with the herbs.

"Oh dear boy….you're growing to look so much like him."

Suddenly the glass cup broke in his hand. A reflex to her words.

"Yes, mother." Marco mumbled before he began cleaning up the spilled herbs.

After a few minutes, he sat with a bowl full of ground up herbs and plants and began pouring it in a larger bowl that he soaked a rag in.

When it was all said and done, he opened the curtain to approach his mother.

She lay in the center of the bed, held up by a mass of pillows with a thick quilt of a blanket covering all the way up to her stomach.

She lay still. Half her face covered in thick wrappings the other facing the sunlight sneaking in through the window. Despite her state of being, her brown skin still glowed under its rays. Cornrow'd braids shimmering as they rolled along her head and snaked down to her shoulders.

Her one visible eye matched his own as she looked at him. Slitted and glowing a bright shade of yellow. Fangs filled her mouth and her muscles tried their best to remain hard beneath her sagged skin.

"How are you these days, boy?"

He froze. For a moment she seemed all there, watching him with curiosity and that motherly inspective gaze.

"I-...I'm tired…"

She laughed, all lucidity faded with each sound that escaped her partially covered lips.

"Find a shoulder to lean on as you rest then. And come back to battle with one more than you left with."

Marco was barely listening as he got back to fiddling with the herbs.

"There are very few shoulders left for us to rest our heads on, mother. Thankfully that's a fact you can forget from time to time…" Marco whispered in reply.

With nothing left to do with the herbs and soaked rag, he moved to her bandaged face. Nerves on fire as he reached out and grabbed it, pulling it from her face with a faint wet ripping sound.

The smell of death and rot exploded.

In a flash, the entirety of her face fell under the suns rays. Claw marks running down to the bone rippled across the left half of her face. Grave wounds open and left to fester by the poisonous burn of silver that lined her wounds and scalded eye. The damage caused the eye to glow a cold silvery white. It looked through him as if that eye saw a world entirely different from the one he existed within.

She mumbled something unintelligible suddenly, causing her lips to move. One half, plump and full— natural. The other half, gone. Leaving only bone and deadly fangs lined by the damaging trails of silver that fused with her bone in a grotesque and unnatural union of monster and metal.

A single tear ran from the glowing silver eye. Within the liquid orb, flecks of silver fluttered and spun like a shaken snow globe.

She was in pain. She was remembering. It always happened when that silver eye fell on him— as if the damage done to that eye was forever ingrained in her vision— bound by the infectious amounts of silver clouding her eye.

"I'm sorry…" Marco whispered as he began patting the rag over her injuries.

She flinched at the pain.

"Akila!….No!" She screamed suddenly, eyes now glossed over by the oncoming wave of traumatic delirium.

"Hasani!!!! Run! Please! Nailah— Vennesa! My daughters! Please! HELP THEM!" She cried. Her silver and gold eyes burned like the Full Moon and the Midday sun. Intense and ablaze.

He held her down. No tears falling from his stoney expression as he got to cleaning her injuries, trying to ignore how she vividly replayed a genocide through her own chaotic mind.

"YOU! You're killing them! Stop! We've done nothing! We've guarded these lands for centuries! PLEASE!....ILL KILL YOU—" As her voice rose it slowly transformed into a deadly snarl. Her muscles bubbled with a force he'd rarely seen— and for a moment he thought she throw him off as deep tawny brown fur began to cloak her skin and a muzzle pushed her jaws outward.

It happened so fast. And ended even faster. Once again. She was her old damaged and partially transformed self. Barely awake. Barely asleep.

He continued patching her up after, heartbeat loud in his ears. Mind on the fresh with the memories of a time he'd never forget.

After a few minutes, he tossed the rag, absent of partially absorbed herbs and full of blood.

Her face rewrapped and sound asleep.

He reached out to touch her face— stopping part way out of guilt.

One last step.

He took in a deep breath, "Mother."

"Hm…" she moaned a reply.

"Tell me about the sun killer once more…" He whispered.

A story he listened to every morning. A story he studied endlessly. A retelling of what they'd encountered on the day the Moon swallowed the sun and everything ended.

This was the reason he kept her here— never letting her drift to the soundless and peaceful afterlife with the rest of his people.

Within her mind, behind the countless layers of pain, delirium and silver burn. She knew of things he needed. Information he desired.

She had it. He just needed to ask the right questions. To awaken her from within.

Only then. Would endless sleep welcome her. That was his sin.

And this was his curse.

She shifted in her seat.

"Wings— like a bat. Dark and cold…..each sweep sending ice gusts of air toward the floor to suck the heat from the soil. Deep purple eyes…..they hurt— THEY BURNED….when the Moon swallowed the sun, it remained, controlling the dark like a composer manipulating song….help us….." Afterward she drifted to sleep.

Not fully.

He had time for one question. A question he'd gained from hearing two inexperienced WereWolves and their ramblings that may not have been entirely off.

"Did this sun killer look like a dragon, mother?"

***

Another dreadful morning endured. Another failed attempt at answers….maybe not though.

He had time to think it over while in school.

His home that laid miles upon miles outside the town of Beacon Hills had faded out of existence behind him as he ran to school, a blur in the forested lands that engulfed the town.

He was never known for having stamina. Not like the WereWolves of the North. But his speed was like few others.

He made it to school late anyway.

"Fuck." He groaned as he pushed through the metal double doors.

The smell of poorly cooked food slithered into his nose like snakes.

Accompanied by a million types of perfume, cologne and intense body odor. Highschool was hell on earth. There was no way around it.

He pushed onward anyway, heading towards the cafeteria at a rushed pace.

Before he could hit the doors though, soundless footsteps fell into step behind him.

Followed by an electrifying smell. A smell reminiscent of someone like him.

Others smelled it as well. A fact made clear as Scott and Stiles burst out of the cafeteria to face whoever had just soundlessly appeared behind him.

The two looked stunned.

Stiles looked about ready to drool.

"Erica!? What the fu—"