Unveiling Grief: A Desperate Quest for Answers...

He had explicitly instructed me to keep the dream to myself, yet now he remains as uncommunicative as he was yesterday, even this time he looks more determined. No i cannot endure that again, especially now when I have so much to express and numerous questions to pose. I just want him to say something. "It would be more engaging if you uttered a word or something," I whisper, the words barely audible. "What?" he inquires. "I said, it would be less tedious if you shared something, something about yourself maybe, like tell me something other than the silence we've been keeping all this while," I reply.

"No, that's unnecessary at the moment. We will be at the palace shortly," he retorts.

"But I yearn to hear your story. I know next to nothing about you—where you come from, how you've observed me throughout my life. I've only just seen you up close a few days ago, and yet I've already entrusted you with my life. You must tell me something," I plead, desperately awaiting his response.

"Well, I hail from a lineage of powerful mages. My clan is arguably the largest in the kingdom, and my father holds its leadership. I have two elder brothers who have also embraced the path of magic. As for my younger sister, it has been over a decade since I last laid eyes on her," he shares.

"Oh, do you know her whereabouts?" I inquire.

"No, I don't, I can't even remember her too well. It's been such a long time, and my recollection of her appearance is quite faint. I was probably too young to have a clear understanding of what she might have looked like. Furthermore, I have been forbidden from seeking her out. I can only hope that she is safe wherever she may be," he replies, bowing his head and averting his gaze.

I perceive his compassion as he struggles to suppress tears, but they begin to trickle down his cheek nonetheless. I must do something, divert his thoughts, shift the conversation to a different topic, perhaps that would help.

But what do I talk about?

"I believe we should discuss something else," I suggest. He pauses, fixing me with a momentary glare. "Such as?" he questions. "Well, perhaps we could talk about how you became a warrior. Was it your desired path, considering you could have followed your brothers' footsteps and become a mage as well?" He starts to speak but hesitates, his gaze fixed on a small cottage nearby.

We are almost home, and it seems he is unwilling to answer that question or delve into the topic at all. That's alright; I respect his choice.

But then he looks at me once more and says, "I could have chosen a different path you know, perhaps even a more esteemed one. However, destiny has a way of guiding us to where we are meant to be, doesn't it? This things that you encounter and endure in your daily life are merely the building blocks that's propelling, and driving you toward a greater purpose.

I cannot explain why I have chosen to be here with you instead of elsewhere; that is something you must discover on your own. All I can say is that destiny has us where it wants us to be, this is where I'm destined to be. you will find your answers when you find yours," he concludes. In this moment, I can only gaze at him, at a loss for words.

I've been grappling with the frustrating reality that I've been unable to share my past encounter with anyone. And now, to compound my misery, he has introduced something else that exacerbates my distress.

"Very well, you may proceed without me. I have something to attend to nearby," he states. I nod my understanding and make my way back to the palace.

As I tread upon the palace yard, my heart feels burdened by an inexplicable sense of foreboding, like a heavy stone weighing me down, it feels like an intangible unease hangs in the air, clinging to my being like a ghostly specter.

"What's going on?" I whisper, both maids and guards running here and there, the palace Inhabitants lost in their own turmoil, remains oblivious to my return.

Without pause, my instincts surge forth, pushing and propelling me onward like a relentless gust of wind, seeking answers from any who cross my path. My beseeching voice trembling with urgency, for I am afraid something bad might have happened to my mother or her baby. Just a few days ago, I can vividly remember thinking of her giving birth in a week's time or less. "could it be?" I whisper.

Desperate to uncover the secrets that weighs heavily on their hearts, I cry out in anguish. However, the palace inhabitants remain oblivious to my every pleas, as if they are deaf to the echoes of my pain. With each unanswered inquiry, my anxiety tightens its grip, wrapping around my heart like a vice of despair, squeezing out any every single bit of hope in my heart.

It forces me to believe that the tragedy has unfolded within the sacred confines of my mother's quarters. I can still vividly recall the time when the younger Queen was in labor; there was no trace of this ominous atmosphere. Why is it that anything related to me carries such overwhelming...? The realization dawns upon me like a brooding storm cloud, causing my heart to plummet into an abyss of immeasurable sorrow, like an unfathomable void.

And so it begins to wrestle within me, terrible thoughts entangled like a tempestuous whirlwind, clouding my mind with uncertainty, obscuring my path.

The safety of my beloved mother and her child becomes a primal instinct, a guiding beacon illuminating my footsteps as I race with unyielding determination toward the quarters that holds the elusive answers I so desperately crave for. The urgency within my pulse like a relentless drumbeat, urging me onward.

The passage before me stretches dimly lit, an intricate labyrinth of shadows and hushed whispers, resembling a maze brimming with untold secrets yearning to be unraveled. As I approach my mother's room, once a revered sanctuary now tainted by sorrow, eyes and faces fixate upon me, their gazes filled with a mixture of grief and concern. Iya Abiyẹ and Iya Ọba emerge, their visages etched with lines of sorrow, as they strive to shield me from the anguish that dwells within those walls. Yet, in that very moment, a sliver of truth pierces my heart like a jagged shard of glass—my mother, my guiding light, the only person who has truly perceived my essence, has departed from this world. The one who cherished and called me treasure is gone.

Tears cascade down my cheeks, carrying with them every ounce of strength and vitality within me, while my heart burns with an indescribable fervor, like a raging fire seeking release. Overwhelmed and uncertain, I find myself sinking to my knees beside her lifeless form, surrendering to the weight of my grief. Iya Ọba, her own knees worn and damaged, kneels beside me, offering solace that can never truly mend the void left by my mother's absence.

"Look, my child," she whispers gently, her voice a tender reassurance amidst the tempest of emotions. "No matter how fervently you weep now, it cannot alter what has transpired. Instead, wipe away your tears, for she remains with you."

Hope flickers within me as I meet her gaze, longing for her to impart some profound truth. She rises and turns, a faint cry reaching my ears. It had been a constant presence since my arrival, but its significance eluded me until now. I yearn to see.

"As I said before, your mother is not truly gone, for she lives on within you," she declares, passing the newborn child into my trembling arms. Fate, relentless and merciless, has severed my mother from me, leaving behind only the fragile cries of this infant, I look into the child's eyes and what I see is me becoming a mother, my life speeding up before me, life has given me wings before I could even walk on my own. what I want is a mother not a daughter, the weight of grief threatens to shatter my spirit, my mind becomes a battleground for emotions, clashing and colliding like thunderbolts in a storm.

This feelings I can no longer withstand, pain and loss overwhelm reason, leaving me with one purpose—to gaze upon my mother's face once more, to etch her beloved image into the tapestry of my memory, forever imprinted.

But no matter how I try, tears keeps streaming down my face, tracing rivers of sorrow like cascading waterfalls born of my anguish.

"I can't bear this," I whisper, voice faint and frail,

"Yes, my child?" Iya Ọba's concern prevails.

"I can't," I confess, my voice trembling, handing the child to Iya Abiyẹ, "she's not my mother! I want my mother not a baby" In anguish, I cry out and flee in haste. The maids' driven by duty attempts to follow, but their pursuit well-intentioned though it may be, collides with the rage burning inside of me. The anger I've been trying so hard to keep hidden, in the grip of sorrow, I lash out, my pain unfolding, a tempest's whip, it's power unyielding.